Tacky

Here's what's tacky.

To write a book about a fierce gladiator, build it up to a point where it narrows down to a murderous death-match against a hated enemy, sprawling and clawing in the dirt and the sand of the arena before a screaming crowd of thousands of blood-thirsty spectators, each warrior scarred, bleeding, gasping for air, vision blurring, limbs drained of energy, yet still reaching blindly to kill, destroy, devastate their mortal foe --

and then - the match is over. Done. The arena is virtually silent.

And they both live.

I read all the way to the end for that?