The multiverse is filled with fascinating tales of mystery, science fiction, horror, fantasy, comedy, drama, and suspense. They are all brought together in "Ant Colony," an anthology of original stories that will make you think, make you laugh, make...
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Tony Hiller hadn't stepped into the ring yet, and he already worked up quite a sweat. Before every match, he always practiced by boxing with his shadow. It was an unorthodox method of training, but it was more than his actual trainer – Mike – ever made him do. While Tony shadow-boxed, Mike just sat plumped on a chair (two sizes too small for his wide, gelatinous frame), eating the fattest sub sandwich.
"Do you have to eat that shit right here, right now?" Tony belittled him, not missing a step.
"Hey," Mike said with a mouthful of sub. "You just focus on the fight."
Tony shook his head in disgust. Not once in the last eight years had he won a single match. His was currently at 20 losses and 0 wins, an embarrassing streak that he blamed on poor training and poor management.
And speaking of management, with only a few minutes before the next (and presumably last) match of his disastrous career, his manager Sal Guido waltzed into the locker room, wearing yet another of his flashy, colorful suits. The one he wore for the evening's event was bright orange with a lime green shirt and a cherry-red necktie. To Tony, he looked like a walking bottle of Sunny Delight.
"Do you have to eat that shit in here?" Sal belittled Mike on his sandwich in the same vein as Tony, only seconds prior.
"Why's everybody on my ass tonight?!" Mike griped, bits of meat and lettuce decorated around his shirt collar.
"Because it's big enough for us all to be on," Sal quipped. Turning his attention to Tony, he said with an air of exuberance, "How's my prizefighter doin' tonight? You're lookin' hot, kid." He noticed how drenched Tony was. "A little too hot, if ya ask me. Are you feelin' alright, kid?"
Truthfully, Tony did feel sluggish. He felt like Mike should've, after consuming that disgusting sub sandwich. But he couldn't allow a little flu bug stand in the way of his reputation or whatever's left of it. "I'm fine," he lied to his flashy manager. "Since when have you given a damn about my health?"
"Ouch," Sal clutched his chest, feigning sadness. "That hurts, kid."
"Stop callin' me 'kid'!" Tony retorted, finally breaking from his shadowboxing. "I'm thirty-friggin'-six! I'm an old man compared to the youngblood I'm fightin' out there tonight!"
"Who? Striker?" Sal scoffed. "He's a snot-nosed pushover. Rumor has it that tonight is his first-ever match, which makes him easy pickings. You'll mop the floor with his lil' ass."
Now it was Tony's turn to scoff. "Yeah, that's what you said about Eddie the Mangler, Butch Tyson, and that twig with the glass jaw that ended up breakin' mine!"
"Pushovers!" Sal underlined.
"The only pushover here is me, Sal," Tony huffed. "After this, I'm done."
