King of the Fighting Street: Megamix Alpha Zero XIII
Copyright© 2026 by FozzieBare
Five Minutes to Broadway
Five minutes.
Three hundred seconds.
Not a particularly long time, all things considered.
Unless, of course, you were one of fifty hired toughs standing inside an abandoned warehouse, wondering why someone had offered you five thousand dollars just to be there.
Ten thousand, actually, if you walked out under your own power after five minutes had elapsed.
The men had discussed this at some length.
Most figured it was an underground fighting tournament. Fifty men, one enormous brawl, and the survivors got paid.
A couple wondered if it was some kind of elaborate television stunt.
One particularly imaginative fellow suggested that perhaps they were being recruited into a secret government organization.
His friends laughed at him.
A secret government organization would never pay five thousand dollars just to stand around in a warehouse.
They’d pay considerably less.
Still, nobody was particularly worried. All fifty men were experienced fighters of one sort or another. Street fighters, bouncers, former wrestlers, and gentlemen whose primary occupation consisted of persuading other people to reconsider their financial decisions.
The largest was a man known as Brick, who stood six feet eight inches tall and had once lifted a motorcycle over his head.
The smallest was a wiry little man called Razor, who was very proud of his ability to break someone’s nose with an elbow.
They were confident.
They were tough.
They were also about to discover that the person who had written their contracts had been very careful about the wording.
Nowhere did it specify that they would be fighting each other.
At precisely seven o’clock, the warehouse doors slammed shut.
A digital clock mounted above the main entrance lit up.
05:00
A spotlight appeared in the center of the warehouse floor.
Then another.
Then six more.
Someone had spent a considerable amount of money installing theatrical lighting in an otherwise unremarkable industrial building.
A curtain dropped from the ceiling.
An orchestra began playing over the loudspeakers.
“What the hell?” asked Brick.
The curtain rose.
Behind it was a large, green, gelatinous ball.
It was roughly five feet across, had two enormous eyes, and was smiling.
It wore a top hat.
Or rather, part of its body had formed itself into something vaguely resembling a top hat.
The ball bowed.
“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN!”
Its voice was magnificent. A rich baritone that would have made a professional opera singer consider a change of profession.
“Welcome! Welcome! Welcome! I am Gra’z’k’al! And YOU are my audience!”
Someone snickered.
Someone else asked where the real opponent was.
Gra’z’k’al’s smile widened.
“Oh, my dear fellow! You misunderstand!”
The green ball rose into the air, stretched, and transformed into a vaguely humanoid figure wearing a military uniform.
Complete with a sword, medals, and an absurdly large feathered hat.
“YOU ARE ALSO THE CAST!”
The clock started counting down.
04:59
And Gra’z’k’al began to sing.
“I am the very model of a modern Major-General!
I’ve information vegetable, animal, and mineral!”
At the word vegetable, his right arm became an enormous green cabbage and smacked the nearest thug across the face.
At animal, his left arm turned into a rhinoceros head and sent another man flying backward into a stack of cardboard boxes.
At mineral, his torso became a gigantic marble column.
Brick punched it.
Brick regretted this.
Gra’z’k’al continued singing without missing a beat.
“I know the ways of combat, both the actual and theatrical!
My repertoire of weaponry is quite extraterrestrial!”
A pair of tentacles shot from his shoulders, wrapped themselves around two men, and began using them as drumsticks against a third.
The men screamed.
Gra’z’k’al frowned.
“Please, gentlemen! You’re drowning out the orchestra!”
He tossed the three into an enormous pile of packing peanuts.
Then he resumed his song.
04:00
Twelve men were down.
Another seven were reconsidering their career choices.
Brick had decided that discretion was the better part of valor, which was something his high school English teacher would have been surprised to hear him express.
Unfortunately, the doors were locked.
And the green thing was between him and the exit.
A man with a baseball bat charged Gra’z’k’al.
The bat sank into his gelatinous body.
The man pulled.
Nothing happened.
He pulled harder.
Gra’z’k’al looked down.
“Oh! A prop!”
The bat vanished into the goo.
Then reappeared as a gigantic green version of itself.
“Wonderful! I do so appreciate audience participation!”
The man began backing away.
Gra’z’k’al swung.
The giant goo bat flattened the man against a stack of mattresses.
“HOME RUN!”
Gra’z’k’al paused.
“No, no, no. Wrong production. That was baseball. Terribly sorry.”
He tipped his hat.
Then he noticed the men massing behind him.
“Oh! An ensemble number!”
His body began bubbling.
One Gra’z’k’al became two.
Two became four.
Four became eight.
All eight smiled.
All eight began dancing.
“Now, gentlemen, I must insist upon proper choreography!”
The eight green figures linked arms and swept across the warehouse in a perfectly synchronized kick line.
The men did not appreciate the choreography.
Several attempted to flee.
Others attempted to fight.
One managed to grab a goo dancer by the leg.
The leg stretched approximately twelve feet before snapping back into its owner’s body.
The man followed it.
His landing was not graceful.
Gra’z’k’al shook his head.
“Terrible timing! Absolutely terrible! We shall have to rehearse that!”
03:00
Twenty-six men were down.
Razor had spent the previous thirty seconds hiding behind a forklift.
He had decided that five thousand dollars was a perfectly respectable amount of money, and the extra five thousand was not worth being beaten to death by a singing dessert.
Unfortunately, Gra’z’k’al noticed him.
“Aha! A soloist!”
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