Carlos the Centaur stretched his arms back until he heard a crack. It was fight time. Again.
Life as a centaur wasn't the fuck around you'd imagine. Half man, half horse; it attracted plenty of attention, and none of it particularly sexy. "Go back to Madrid, you Spanish shit," and "your mother rides horses" were just a sample of the daily abuse he endured. Like an elephant making love to a pig, it was hard to fit in.
Discovered on the doorstep of a travelling circus, Carlos had spent much of youth seeking the truth of his parentage. From what mysterious race of noble horsemen did he originate? Why did his family abandon him to human society? Had some catastrophe befallen his race? Was he the last of his kind? Where was his place in the scheme? And other such question galloped through his youthful mind.
Later when he discovered that he father was a Spanish merchant, who had been possessed by the spirits of ten thousand equine rape demons, he was little pleased. Slimey Carlos senior had left his seed in the birth canal of pretty much every horse from Barcelona to Rome, where he met an unfortunate end when he drunkenly mistook an Imperial guards mouth for sweet horse ass. Carlos searched long and hard but he never found his mother. Which was tragic until you remember that she was just a dumb horse.
And now he stood in the arena awaiting the next challenger. Hell of a place to end up he thought as he scanned the area. He remembered his first fight. Head the Urinator had thrown a handful of piss at his eyes in an effort to blind Carlos. Heads aim however was a little shy hitting Carlos between his upper and lower lip. The apocalyptic explosion of vomit from the mouth of a man, powered by the body of a horse had been a disturbing sight. And it had forced a forfeit in favour of Head who later pretentiously referred to the match as his "masterpiss." Thus a new combination of words was viciously beaten into existence. "Dickhead."
Carlos had fought often since then and spilled much blood. He was still alive and that pleased him. It was one thing to be an abomination that’s very visage induced miscarriages in women, but it was a whole other show being dead.
"Hey Carlos, you shit, if someone jumps on your back, would you beat them off," yelled one of the bloodthirsty spectators. "Yes," replied Carlos. "What if it was my son?" Said the screaming spectator nodding to a young boy at his side, "would you beat my son off?" "Yes," replied Carlos. The spectator shook his head at his boy, "I'm sorry, I tried," he said sadly.
And though he was happy that his heart still hammered, sometimes Carlos wondered why he was. Looking at the snivelling kid he was sure that it wasn't to carry people on his back, and it certainly wasn't his place to be carried. Maybe there wasn't a point, maybe it was all for nothing and in his final moments of life he would regret every last shred of his meaningless shitty existence. He raised his shield to block the first volley of attacks from his new opponent, and smiled. At least if that’s the case he thought then, at that moment, he would finally be like everyone else.