An eye for an eye was never so literal. You should have seen the two of them, newly-made cyclops, eye-gulping, face-eating creatures made of the stuff of nightmares, licking at their blood-stained teeth, in a dance of agony and bliss.

A hand for a hand, yes, a wry symmetry the driving force of their mutual demise. You should have heard the cheers of the crowd of spectators: horrified, galvanised, bloodthirsty as the two mutilated bodies rolled in a pool of gore, tarmac, and mud. Nobody knew what had started it, and it didn’t matter, the show was on.

But not a peep came from their gnawing jaws. A medieval-grade extravaganza that was all the more sinister with the methodical silence of these writhing men. Or what was left of them. Not much by the end of it.