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.

They met at the center of ring like two freight trains. El Yaguareté was sure of himself. He had trained his body and mind, studied the tapes, knew the Irishman’s habits. He thought CelticFire wouldn’t land a single clean hit.

That lasted five seconds.

Celtic didn’t wait. He wouldn't, he couldn't. His hunger was at it's peak. Like a wolf desperate to kill, he leapt in with reckless force. The ring shook with the impact of a hook that would’ve knocked down a wall. El Yaguareté’s head snapped to the side with the ease of hot blade through butter. And Celtic kept going. A hook to the left. A hook to the right. A sledgehammer to the body that sent shock waves through El Yaguareté’s system. His insides lurched at the abuse, stomach threatened to expel it's insides, The fire threatened to burn the jaguar alive before the match even began.

But El Yaguareté was fast. He was young and full of spirit, he would recover, he would come back with odiar! He ducked under a hook that could’ve ended a career and struck back, burying a left hook deep into Celtic’s ribs. A loud crack echoed. In slow motion, the muscle around the rib rippled from the power of the shot. A small grunt would be forced from the battle harden Irishman. Celtic snarled. Pain gripped him, but he would not yield. Instead, he responded with a brutal overhand right that clipped El Yaguareté’s temple and staggered him.

All this, and only thirty seconds had passed.

The crowd surged. The noise was fuel for a symphony of destruction. Flesh met glove, bone met bone. Sweat flew. Impossibilities were tested. The bell for the end of the round came like a dream, too fast to believe. A tiny blur in the grand match that would be talked about for years to come. As the rounds continued, El Yaguareté rocked the Irishman to his core, shaking his resolve. His muscles shuddered under impact. But Celtic took it, and fired back. He snapped El Yaguareté’s head around like a lollipop in a toddler’s hand. Blood flew. El Yaguareté tasted it first. His eyes would get glassy, his vision would blur. His guard would come up, his body would be rocked. Celtic, not invincible, would bleed soon after, rocked by a combo faster than he could see but definitely could feel. By the fourth round, both men bled more than any man should. And neither showed signs of stopping. 

 

In the fifth round, El Yaguareté found rhythm, DDR but for the fists. Uppercuts born of the savage jungle would delight in  snapping Celtic's head back, blood spraying from his mouth. Hooks and jabs would assault the core, wrecking the body and sapping stamina. Soon, soft Caucasian skin would give way to red, blues and purples. But the Irishman gritted his teeth and walked through the pain, he would land hits of his own. A rib-cracking body shot that nearly folded El Yaguareté in two. A series of jabs that would make El Yaguareté see the face of God. A body blow that literally shook his body so hard, it appeared on the Richter scale. 

 
In these rounds, twice Celtic would go down. Twice he would fall to the relentless assault. Once by a well placed uppercut shattered his chin, and left him seeing two, five, twenty of his foe. While dazed, the fists would fly without mercy. His head would go black, his body would go right after. The other time, a blow to the stomach so real, so without mercy, so perfectly timed during a desperate intake of hair, that didn't care about core strength. Celtic folded like a baby. El Yaguareté, would not be safe however, he would be downed once. Celtic had roared back to life during his second fall. Planting a blow so hard into the younger man's core it lifted him off the ground. The glove would push aside muscle like it was nothing. Like all the crunches in the world would be forever meaningless. El Yaguareté just got up at 9. Blood and spit clearly coming from his mouth.

Round six was a war zone. It was crime scene. It was proof this fight went on for to long, but none would allow it to end.

CelticFire pinned El Yaguareté in the corner, raining hooks to the body, each punch sounding like a hammer on wet leather. Each punch would rock the younger fighter back into the turnbuckle before being bounced back, each punch would send sweat flying from one fighter to the other. Each one would chip away at what little El Yaguareté had in core strength. When Celtic stepped back to let him fall. His abs were marked. His abs were broken. His abs was a episode of Crime scene murders. El Yaguareté coughed, blood and saliva, spilling it on his chest, while what was left of his nervous system was screaming in pain. 

He would fall to the pain, but he wouldn't stay down.

El Yaguareté returned with a venganza, of a man who no longer cared what happened to his body. He demanded reparations, blood. Pain. He got caught on the ropes again, but then El Yaguareté twisted out and drove a vicious uppercut under Celtic's chin. The man forged in fire, took it has his name, reeled. The light faded just a bit more. The follow up left hooks sent sweat and blood flying. Celtic faltered more, falling back. The abuse, the come back, would continue, no stop, no mercy. His body would be fully explored by leather gloves hungry for retribution. El Yaguareté would come fast and hard.

And no amount of body hair would cover these marks.

El Yaguareté would attack. Celtic would take. Celtic would counter attack, El Yaguareté would take. It was a epic ballad of fists, pure chaos made flesh. El Yaguareté's eyes were swollen, vision narrowing. Celtic's breathing was ragged, body bruised. Their bodies threatened to give. Neither man backed down. Both smiled. The battle was bloody, fierce, but they were clearly enjoying themselves. By the tenth round, and by many counts five rounds to many already, both looked like they had been through war. The ring canvas was spattered red. 

The crowd was on its feet. This would be it.


Ending 1: CelticFire Triumphs

 

 

Round eleven began. Celtic's corner had packed ice on his core, chest, hell his whole body, and whispered ancient Irish prayers. From the times of the druids and maybe even older. The bell rang, and he came out swinging. He let his fury rage like the sun. But, El Yaguareté danced, a missed hook, a countered jab. It would seem Celtics body wasn't done taking punishment. Is chest turned red from a hard jab. His core rippled and failed with a well place hook. He saw his ancestors by way of a devastating uppercut.

But he kept going. He had to....

Soon, despite the power of youth behind him,  El Yaguareté's legs would betray him, they would wobble from the rounds of overuse. Celtic took his chance, feinted a jab, then smashed a right cross into El Yaguareté's jaw. The crowd felt it's power, even from their far away seats. The cheers increased, the Argentinian buckled. Celtic surged, the fire was about to explode. His glove thudding into El Yaguaretévs liver, then an uppercut that would due the  Tuatha Dé Danann proud. El Yaguareté would fall back, try to recover as before, but he would find no rest or safety. His body would explode with massive hits to the core, Celtic was no longer holding back. The switch was flipped. El Yaguareté wanted to puke, but instead his face would snap in every natural and unnatural direction. His knees gave way. He crumpled.

The ref counted. Ten. It was over.

CelticFire dropped to his knees, arms raised. Victory tasted like blood and glory. It would take weeks to recover, but it was worth it. And this fight? The best fun he had in a long time.

Ending 2: El Yaguareté Conquers

 

Round eleven. Both tired, both spent, both unwilling to give up. El Yaguareté's coach growled, it would be words that changed everything.  

“Finish this like a jaguar or he will finish you!"

El Yaguareté came out stalking. Celtic surged forward with the might of a madman, either drunk on power, or having lost all sanity. Either way, it was furious, it was dangerous, it would have broken lesser men of both will and strength. His fist flew without remorse or care. Then came a tiny but fatal mistake. El Yaguareté head had been snapped hard to each side, a serious combo of hits that sent his mind into the astral realm, saying hi to the panther Gods. But then there was  a wild uppercut. It would have ended the match, but El Yaguareté sidestepped and countered with a devastating left uppercut of his own. Celtic's head snapped back. Blood poured down his face. A follow-up straight right hammered him into the ropes. The flow of blood and spit now dripped down to his chest. No mouth guard was holding this back. 

El Yaguareté pounced, this was it. This was his moment. Left, right, body, head, CelticFire was drowning in leather. Time seemed to slow, as leather met once hard, once proud muscle and flesh. Sweat sprayed from Celtic like a child jumping onto a pool. His body rippled with each hard devastating blow to his core. Then....it gave. He was falling forward, doubling over from the pain of the slaughter, but not out. That mercy would come in a just another moment. A final clean, aggressive, uppercut lifted the Irishman’s chin, and he collapsed like a felled tree. He was greeted by a puddle of his own sweat, blood and defeat.

The count reached ten. El Yaguareté fell to his knees, growling through bloodied teeth. He was batter, he was bruised, he was hurt. But he was the jaguar that had hunted his prey. And won.

Even better? He had the time of his life.

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