Shorts: TKO to the Core

 Part of the shorts series. Shorts are short one off stories done by request of the person generally in the story. Meaning, they will be self contained even if they have characters from other stories. Good for when you are looking for a quick fight that won't hurt your eyes reading for a long time. 

The gym reeked of sweat, rubber, and something older, something like... memory and grudges? Not just any grudges mind you, the kind that was settled the old fashion way, with gloving up. Being men. The air was thick with anticipation, the kind that made men shift in their boots and hold their breath without knowing why. Fluorescent lights buzzed above, casting a sickly glow over the old, battered ring, a relic held together more by tradition than wood and steel. It should’ve been replaced decades ago, but no one dared touch it. No one would even dare suggest it be replaced. After all, men got sentimental over the damnedest things, even more so when blood had been spilled on it. All around, the roar of the gym crowd pulsed like a heartbeat. Trainers, fighters, the curious and the excited, they leaned on ropes and railings, eyes fixed on the square stage like it was holy ground. To them, and really any man of worth, it was. But inside that ring, the world narrowed down to just two men. Everything else, the noise, the heat, the sweat, faded into background static.

Jack stood tall in his corner, bare chest rising and falling. His wiry frame was coiled tight, tension rippling through each breath. Lean muscle clung to his bones like it had grown there for this exact moment. Sweat already gathered along his collarbones, trickling down the shallow valley of his sternum. His eyes were wild with something half cockiness, half thrill. He looked like a man who couldn’t help but smile on the edge of a cliff. Across from him stood Kevin. Like always, he was solid, unmoved, a statue waiting to come to life. The green streaks in his hair caught the overhead lights, glowing like war paint. But it was his eyes that did it. Not the color, but the stillness. Calm. Cold. Focused like a storm before the first crack of lightning. Something dangerous simmered behind that quiet stare, the kind of rage that didn’t shout, it waited.

Dark World: Wrong Place, Wrong time....

Part of the dark world series. Dark world is the collection of stories that are far more violent then the other stories and often have brutal beat downs, sadistic fights and unforgiving knock outs. Great for your looking for a fight with more gritty tones. All stories take place in the same world.

 

Rain pelted the cracked concrete like it was trying to scrub away the rot, to wash the blood, piss, and pain down the storm drains. But it failed, it always did. The rain wasn’t strong enough to cleanse this city, let alone the alley behind the Rust Nail. It just pushed the filth around, moved it from one corner of hell to another. It was Dark City after all, and this part of Dark City wasn’t just forgotten. No, It had been exiled. Hope didn’t come here. Neither did mercy, or luck, or light. The alley was a graveyard of broken things, crushed bottles, twisted needles, rusted metal, and darker, softer piles you didn’t want to look at too long. Even the rats, veterans of survival, steered clear. Whatever was in this place was worse than hunger. Worse than death. The brick walls leaned inward like they were trying to crush the alley shut, tired of witnessing what happened here. Black water ran down them in long streaks, leaking from cracked drain pipes and unknown holes above. The graffiti on the walls, once full of fury and youth, was now faded, chipped, bleeding into the grime like memories too painful to hold on to.

Overhead, one flickering neon sign clung to the last of its life, buzzing in and out like a dying insect. It sputtered in dull red bursts, casting warped shadows across the walls and bodies below. The letters were half gone, the words meaningless now, just ghost syllables in a forgotten language of liquor and failure.

A single dented dumpster, tagged and burned, hunched like a silent witness. Its lid hung off one hinge, reeking of rot and old sins. Broken glass glittered in a puddle nearby, catching the weak light like teeth. The water was slick with motor oil, blood, or maybe something darker... it was stinking like a mixture of iron, gasoline, and old sweat. No one ever asked what those puddles were. They just stepped around them if they could. Or over them. Or through them, as if they didn’t care anymore. And truly? They didn't care anymore. This alley was a wound in the city, one of far to many, and one that was still festering. Open. Pulsing. You didn’t come here unless you wanted to disappear.

It was for the insane.
The dumb.
The desperate.
And those with a death wish.

Shorts: Lazy Sundays...

Part of the shorts series. Shorts are short one off stories done by request of the person generally in the story. Meaning, they will be self contained even if they have characters from other stories. Good for when you are looking for a quick fight that won't hurt your eyes reading for a long time. 

 

 

 

The scene was really so basic American, that it could have taken place in any small city or old town. Kevin was middle-aged, solidly built but really unremarkable and never really standing out personality wise. His hair clung thick to his chest and arms, with his nature themed tattoos covering most of his upper body. He worked, he slept and he did nonsense on the weekends, pretty much like any other single American male. The guy that was next to him on the sofa, watching TV like it meant something, was James. James, also single and not caring, was slightly younger (not that it mattered much in your 40's), taller, and have a build that even a baggy shirt couldn't hide. Lady killer the boys at work called him. James, paid such nicknames no mind. During the day on weekdays, they worked at the local factory. They traded their labor, sweat, blood and youth for pennies on the dollar, and making some stuck up fat cat rich idiot even richer. During the weekends, they hung out a lot, mostly at James’s apartment. Beer, cheap takeout, the TV always on in the background. Not saying much, because they really didn't need to. When one got up for another drink, they grabbed another, for the other. When it was time for a new show, they changed the channel. They knew each other, and what clicked well. It was the kind of friendship and understanding that felt needed after dealing with everything and everyone else during the week.

Shorts: A friendly Holmgang

Part of the shorts series. Shorts are short one off stories done by request of the person generally in the story. Meaning, they will be self contained even if they have characters from other stories. Good for when you are looking for a quick fight that won't hurt your eyes reading for a long time. 

The two had known each other for years. They trained side by side through countless sessions, pushing each other on the heavy bags, spotting each other in the weight room, trading jabs during sparring rounds, and offering quiet encouragement before real fights. No matter what happened, they had each others back in and outside the ring. Brothers you could call them. Not by blood, but by choice. In the world of boxing, or any fighting sport really, where rivalry could turn bitter, their bond was different. It was built on trust, sweat, and a shared respect for the grind. So when the idea of facing off finally came up, it wasn’t born from ego or any need to prove who was better. It was more like checking in with an old friend, seeing how far they’d both come, testing themselves the way only two people who truly knew each other could. The day it happened, there was no big announcement, no flyers, no hype. Just a mutual nod, it was of quiet understanding. They each laced up their gloves without a word, stepped into the ring, and met in the center, calm, focused, and smiling just a little.

The "official" bell was a timer app running on someone’s cracked phone, resting on a bench outside the ropes. The crowd was whoever happened to be in the gym that day. Some guys mid-set on the bench press, a couple trainers on break shooting the shit over water, a handful of regulars who knew this wasn’t something to miss. No one yelled, they didn't have too. No one called out odds, it wasn't that kind of fight anyways. There was just a low hum of anticipation, knowing it would be a good male time. More importantly, there was no bad blood in the air. Just the heat of the gym, the sound of gloves tightening, and the quiet kind of energy that comes from two men about to share a fight, not to hurt each other, but to honor each other.

Series: Gut Punch Journal - Entry 5

These stories started off as a standalone short, meant to be a one off tale that sparked unexpected interest. Got a few comments and request about wanting more, and so here we are! "Series" with feature recurring characters, themes, and an expanding world that continues to unfold, one story at a time. Also yes, this series does feature the actual meetfighters site.

Journal Entry #5 – June 20, 2024

It’s been a couple months since the last entry. Took a while to bounce back after what happened with Ademir, not just physically, but mentally too. I needed the space. I needed to remind myself that this isn’t about pain or pride, it’s about control, clarity, whatever I’m still trying to name. It was a painful lesson but one I obviously needed. I don't hate Ademir either, don't get me wrong. He gave me what I wanted and asked for. Thankfully, while he still pushed hard, he saw me, and gave me what I needed too. But yeah, I wasn’t even planning on setting up another match yet. I think I was still a little iffy about everything, and I wanted to be sure. Like sure sure, you know? But then I got a message from a guy named Eli. Username was something simple, “NiceBoyFighterNextDoor.” His profile was honest. Nothing flashy, nothing aggressive. Just: “Lean build, into gut punching and long friendly matches. Respectful, chill. Just want to test limits, together.”

He attached a couple photos, like most of the guys did with their profiles. But unlike the others he wasn't trying to show off. They were him, real, every day. Kinda cute.... shut up I didn't just admit that. Maybe that's what changed my mind. Eli, did I mention I like his name, well he's close to my age. He's got a nice body too, it's slim, but toned. It reminds me of a swimmer who stopped competing but never stopped moving. He may have moved into other things, but the drive was still there. He also has a bit of a dusting of chest and stomach hair, like someone pressed a brush across him lightly. He's pale but with the kind of flush that hinted he sweated easily. Definitely Irish, and it worked for him. And finally, something about his eyes made him look like he smiled often, even when he wasn’t.

We chatted for some time, starting with the usual casual back and forth. It came so easy, he wasn’t trying to impress me or show off. It was normal, grounded, even for people who liked fighting. It was almost like we been chatting forever, like we been friends since grade school. He would ask what kind of hits I liked, how long I’d been doing it, if I was okay with slow builds instead of hard slams. I was honest, I told him I’d had all kinds, fast, brutal, drawn-out. Said I was still figuring out what I liked best.

He replied, with absolutely zero judgment, “Sounds like you’re getting closer. I'd be happy to help if I can man!"

Series: Gut Punch Journal - Entry 4

These stories started off as a standalone short, meant to be a one off tale that sparked unexpected interest. Got a few comments and request about wanting more, and so here we are! "Series" with feature recurring characters, themes, and an expanding world that continues to unfold, one story at a time. Also yes, this series does feature the actual meetfighters site.

Journal Entry #4 – April 28, 2024

I told myself I’d write this the same night it happened, but I.... I just couldn’t. My hands were shaking to much. Way tooooo much. My head was fuzzy, confused maybe, trying to process everything that happened all at once and way to fast. My stomach, my sides, my whole freaking everything, it still feels like the muscles are vibrating under my skin. They should be fully healed soon, well soonish, but the high of it all? The pure emotional power of it all? That will take a couple more days to come down from. To finally relax and think clearly again. Like actual me again. Ugh, yeah so it was crazy, in case you couldn't get that. Even now, a week later is it, sitting here with an ice pack balanced across my stomach, I’m still not totally sure how to make sense of it.  But I know I need to try. I need to write. I can't just document the good parts, I can't honestly explore this otherwise. Can't be honest with myself otherwise. And, if you are reading this, please understand this. I don't hate the guy, not one bit. When I say red flags, I mean flags I should have seen in me. Experience that I should have put a stop to right away. But I didn't, and that's on me. You see with him, I honestly got lucky. It was a painful lesson to be sure, but one I needed. 

So onto the story? 

 

It was, because of course,  another match from the fight site where you meet fighters. 

 

With two good experiences already, I had nothing to worry about! Right? The first red flag that I should have saw, was his screen name. Dói Tão Bom. I thought it was just some reference to his nationality, I should have looked a bit deeper. But I didn't, I was too preoccupied with his great looking profile. Ademir, as I would learn his real name is, was Brazilian, mid-30s, living on the other side of town. His profile was short and blunt: “Hard body puncher. I don’t hold back. Don’t ask unless you’re serious.”

I was serious or at least I thought I was. 

We messaged, a lot of back and forth, for a couple of days. He was respectful, but clear, direct and to the point on what he wanted and expected. Ademir liked to push people past their limits. Really dig deep and test a man. He didn't handhold or engage non-manly crap. You faced him, you faced him for real. It also wasn't some cruelty fetish thing, it was a test, a real test of strength, power and manhood. 

“If you want to know yourself,” he wrote once, “you have to go to the edge and beyond.”

That line stuck with me. Maybe too much. I really should have thought about this more, better... 

Series: Gut Punch Journal - Entry 3

These stories started off as a standalone short, meant to be a one off tale that sparked unexpected interest. Got a few comments and request about wanting more, and so here we are! "Series" with feature recurring characters, themes, and an expanding world that continues to unfold, one story at a time. Also yes, this series does feature the actual meetfighters site. 

Journal Entry #3 – March 23, 2024

I’ve also been thinking a lot about that meetup with Rick. The power of his hits, how he kept such control, and made it such a amazing experience. That moment stuck with me, with such force, force that I wanted. When he caught me when I stumbled, doubled over, when I fell but didn't want to stay down. When he finally broke me. I’ve caught myself walking around work some days, stomach tightening when I remember the impact. Not in fear. Not even in anticipation. Just remembering the feeling of my body absorbing something like that. And yeah how I wanted it again. I mean if I'm going to do this right, explore it and find out what it means to me, and if I really want it...im going to have to do it a few times at least. So I went back on the site, thought I have a single message at most. Probably addressed to someone else. Someone better than me, better looking, better built, better able to take a hits and be a man. Yeah I'm working on self confidence thing too, bare with me. Anyways, imagine my surprise when I saw a lot more than just one message. Like a lot more. I read them all, thanked each and every one for messaging me, reaching out to make me feel wanted for once. I wanted to meet them all, even the odder ones, but one really really stood out.