Shorts: Split Decision

 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.

 

Under the hot lights of a roaring arena in Las Vegas, two warriors stood across the ring, each a symbol of national pride and personal fury. Each at the peak of their game. Each ready for the absolute time of their lives. Sure, there was still the shit talk and playing it up, that was just part of the fanfare. But these two respected each other, and would not dare insult the other by holding back.

The ring would be covered in blood, sweat, and exuberance before it was over.

First came CelticFire, carrying the pride of Dublin on his shoulders. A green haired hurricane with fists of granite and the fire of centuries in his blood. He looked like a drunk at Christmas, joyous and dangerous. His trunks where dark red with black trim, his gloves were stained by past victories. Then came El Yaguareté, moving like his namesake. The look in his eye was fierce, more predator than man. He came from the barrios of Buenos Aires, clawing his way to the top. Like Celtic, he chose a simple form for his ring clothing. No need for unnecessary pampas fluff. They were here to fight, not win a beauty contest.

The bell rang.

Shorts: Hot Day at Work

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 red hot sun blistered the jobsite like a furnace, worse then the dick head Sun from Super Mario Brothers 3. Metal gleamed like white-hot wire. Not even their extremely thick insulation could protect them right now. The dust clung to sweat-soaked skin, and tempers were already at a low boil. Most of the crew had already discarded most of their upper body clothing, deciding to instead just wear the mandatory safety vest.

Jack strutted along the scaffolding, bare chest gleaming under the open safety vest, cocky as hell. Twenty-four and chiseled like a Greek statue, full of mouth and muscle. With the power of youth, came the absence of common sense. This was especially true with Jack.

“Yo, Celtic! That beam’s off by half an inch. You sure your ancient arms didn’t measure it in cubits?” he yelled, laughing at his own joke.

Celticfire, matching the other men here with a a vest open over a thick scarred hairy chest, kept working. No words, no actions, not even the rolling of his eyes. He just didn't care. Jack tried saying something else, but he tuned out immediately when he heard that nickname again. The nickname was a joke nobody liked, especially not him. But it stuck. Kind of like him. All grit and gravel. He hated it, but in the end, it was what ever. 

Jack hopped down from the scaffolding, boots thudding in the dirt. He was clearly upset his bait wasn't being taken.

“You hear me, old man?”

“I hear you,” Celticfire said without looking. “I just don’t give a damn what you have to say".

Jack stepped up, close. “Maybe your ears are going, too. Maybe it’s time someone showed you how to retire.”

Celticfire looked up, and bore a calm expression that seemed carved from stone. His voice was just as cold....

“That right kid?”

Dark World: Collections 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.

The alley stank of rust, oil, and rain-soaked trash. It was the type of alley people forget about, mostly on purpose. Like much in this city, one so perfect in "law and order", darkness swallowed most of it, save for the dim flicker of a busted streetlamp casting jerky shadows across the brick walls. Somewhere distant, sirens howled (when didn't they in this shit hole city?), but here, in this forgotten corridor of the city, there was only two sounds. The first was that of a crashing window, very messy, very expensive. The next, the slow crunch of footsteps on wet concrete. James stood with his back to the wall, having just been thrown threw a window into some long since abandoned factory. His chest was heaving, showing little sign of being able to recover. His nose was already broken, blood poured like thick ropes down his chin. One eye was nearly swollen shut, possibly even damaged beyond healing. But he, James,  still clenched his fists, knuckles white and raw, jaw tight in defiance. The fight would never go his way, but he be damned if he go quietly. Across from him, having now entered the building, Comhraic and Ben Nightfall approached with the patience of executioners. It was after all, their "sacred" calling.

“You had a chance to walk away,” Comhraic said, voice like the unforgiving deadly cold, so contrast to his code name... "To simply pay up and be done with it..."

Ben cracked his knuckles. “Too late for that now little bro, we have to collect!!” He didn't sound upset at all..

James spat a wad of blood at their feet. “Come on then.”

Shorts: Hooked on the Sport.

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.

 

When men stepped into the ring, a certain understanding that normal socially unusual (and sometimes batshit insane) mentalities were accepted here. You understood pain was weakness leaving the body, you understood bruises were badges of honor, broken bones were temporary inconveniences, blood came as easily as sweat, and you never half assed anything. Here boys became men. That's why CelticFire didn't question the man on the other side of the ring. His smaller (muscle) size didn't manner, his lack of experience didn't matter. He manned up and entered the ring, so no matter what, he earned some respect.

Now it was time to earn some more. 

With the lights above the ring blazing hot, two ants stood below ready to dance the violence dance. Many of the men in the gym had stopped their workouts to watch the fight, enjoying the social experience of it all. The crowd swelled in dozens of voices, but all of it, every sound, every face, every emotion on display, blurred into a dull hum for Dante. They, and all of it, was just background noise. He stood in his corner, shoulders twitching with nervous energy, he tried to calm himself. Gloved fists tapping against each other like he was trying to coax the courage out of them, he still tried to calm himself. He was far to excited for this fight, far to nervous, far to everywhere.

“Keep your hands up!” his friend turned corner man barked, tugging at his mouth-guard. “He’s not here to dance with you.”

“I dunno?” Dante quipped, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “I brought my best two-step. Think he likes salsa?”

Across the ring stood CelticFire, or Celtic for short. He was a wall of muscle and menace. His skin, haired not smooth like Dante, was leathered with age and lined with ink. Previous battle scares danced around Gaelic knots coiled across his arms, chest and ribs, telling tales only fists could read. He didn’t bounce. He didn’t blink. He just waited, still and terrifying, like the moment before a wave crushes you. This was a man who enjoyed the fight, but did not let it control him.

The bell rang, the battle was joined.

Dante surged forward, light on his feet, ducking low, testing with a jab. Celticfire swatted it aside like it was an insult. Dante grinned, circling. “What do you call a boxer who makes pancakes?” he called out. Celticfire narrowed his eyes.

“A whisk-taker.”

 

Shorts: Ashes and Iron

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 city was quiet in that eerie, just-past-midnight kind of way. It was just after midnight when the drunks were going home, but morning life hadn't started yet. It was the perfect time to have a rather personal meeting without being bothered with social niceties. 

And so they did. 

Down some piss filled, no name, no one cared about side alley, two men faced each other. No rules. No audience. No need for flare or show. Just years of bad blood and a final reckoning.

With shirts discarded, that time was now.