"I beg your pardon?"

The bookie quivered like a featherless chicken in the wind. A fist built like a sledgehammer thumped into the ornate table, denting the specially-picked out walnut finish.

"You must be new here," Betsy growled, dumping a sack of gold on the terrified man's lap. "I bet the house."

"All of it...on... on yourself?" He stammered, counting each glittering piece with sweaty fingers. "You... you do realise who the opponent is, right?"


"Well, it's the mighty-"

"...asked?" Betsy interrupted, bathing the now-weeping bookie in the shadow of her towering frame.

"Very... ahem... very well, ma'am." He croaked hoarsely. "Good luck, may the best fighter win."

She flashed the bookie a toothy grin, a sight that very nearly coaxed his soul out of his body.

"I plan to."