A man with flowing midnight-black hair and rock-hard abs revealed by a parted white silk shirt enters a moonlight-lit space beneath the stars. His suave leather boots crunch softly in the sandy ground inside of the Arena. All above and around, gawkers and watchers stare at him in silence; the women gazing at him with adoring eyes and the men with envy burning deep inside them. The blood-stained sands of the Arena lie in stark contrast with the man's sexy and soothing physical presence. He stops in the middle of the space, and clears his throat after he farts a little. Then, he speaks, in a basso, luxuriously smoooooooth voice.
"For long years, Xillix, Queen of Fools, hath professed his powerful abiliity with the art of poetry. He preaches that he is a true master of the written lyric. But I, bloodedIrishman, refute his claims by my right to challenge him in open poetic-combat. For his incessant boasting has pricked me more annoying than the bothersome gnat. Now you know the cause for this challenge, for which you all gathered here, today, to spectate. I await Xillix Queen of Fools to enter the Arena and face me. Should he not, let it be known I am the true Master of Poetry."
