Shorts: The Clash of egos – Mikey vs. Celticfire

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 the match was announced, it came as a surprise to no one. Both wielded and flung smack talk easily as any person would breathe. The stage was set, the date had come and now? The crowd was electric, the roar deafening as two bear-like men stood face-to-face in the center of the ring. On one side, Mikey, a powerhouse wrapped in muscle and rage, eyes burning with intensity. Some said his mouth moved faster than his fists. Today he would prove them all wrong. On the other side, Celticfire, full of self pride and a thirst for battle. His thick frame carved by years of battle, fists clenched ready to go, and more bar fights under his belt than should ever be allowed (or legal for that matter).

The bell rang. It. Was. On. 

 

They collided like freight trains, if freight trains were sentient, angry, and had zero regard for personal safety. Celtic struck first with a mean chop to the chest. Mikey felt it, he even doubled over from the sting, but did not diminish. Mikey struck back with a thunderous shoulder check to the stomach. The blow sank in deep, not only sending Celtic stumbling, but also producing a loud grunt. It would have folded and broken another man, but Celtic was not another man. The crowd cheered and gasped as the Irishman recovered fast. One blow would not end this match. The two wasted no time in locking up again in a brutal grapple. The ring creaked under their weight as they fought for dominance.

Muscle vs muscle, each pushing the other with everything they had.

Slowly, very slowly, with sweat and grunts, Mikey backed Celticfire into the ropes, dazed the larger man with a headbutt that shook the arena. Celtic would taste blood, and Mikey would not stop or rest. A hook to the body, a slap to the chest, hammer fists to the face that left Celtic seeing stars. Mikey dragged the dazed and confused Celtic to the turnbuckle and slammed him into it. Mikey climbed the ropes, aim and let loose... and so the crowd would count with him.

The first hammer fist... 1!

The second.... 2!

3! 4! 5! 6!

But before Mikey could get to ten, to complete the punishment, Celticfire bellowed and threw Mikey off. He landed with a hard thud, stunned for a moment. A moment was all that was needed. In a instant Celtic was on top, dripping more than blood and sweat. He first retaliated with a vicious gut punch, sinking his fist deep into Mikey’s core. Mikey gasped, and gargled as the wind left his lungs. Then came a hit to the face. Then again, then another, more. Celtic would rain down fists like rain in the thunderstorm.

And yet he would not be satisfied.

Dragging Mikey up, Celticfire thew him into the turnbuckle with a loud crash. Before even the ropes could stop shaking, Celtic was once again on Mikey, following up with a blistering chest chop that echoed like a gunshot. Mikey staggered, chest already turning red. The slaps would not stop, nor the burning feeling that came repeatedly after. Mikey tried to fight back with a wild swing, tried to rally. Celticfire ducked under, took hold of Mike's body and lifted him off his feet. The crowd cheered, already knowing what was coming next. 

Mike hit, no he collided with the mat with a thunderous body slam. Eyes rolled behind the head, breath left the body, the soul wanting to follow after. A boot assaulted the ribs, sending fresh waves across the body, much like a surge taking out power lines. Mikey tried to take breath in, just as a massive elbow plowed into his chest. He was being taken apart piece by piece. He rallied what he could, rolled to the ropes. It was  a struggle but he grabbed each rope and stood. Celtic waited, like a Predator about the pounce on wounded bleeding prey.

The match raged on, both to stubborn to care about the state of their bodies.

Mikey would fight back with heavy fists and crushing suplex after crushing suplex. With boots to the gut and biceps around the throat. Celticfire endured it all, the sweat and blood mixing on both their faces as they traded blows like warriors in a last stand. Celticfire would lash out with vicious gut punches, tortures arm bars, torture racks that would break the spine, and rib cracking body slams. Mikey would take it, return it, and endure. But not without notice or effect.

Abs would be bashed.

Ribs would be assaulted.

Chest chopped.

It would all come to a head, with both men exhausted and barely standing. It a brief moment, Mikey mistepped, Celticfire found his opening. Taking a chance he charged in, driving a flying knee to Mikey's core. It connected with a sicking thick thud. As Mikey staggered, Celtic grabbed him by the neck and  whipped Mikey into the turnbuckle. The ring shook with protest, then shook even more when Celtic came in, no charged in with a massive splash. Life left Mikey's eyes. This was it! Celtic then dragged him out and hoisted him up high in the air once more.

Body Slam.

 

A massive, unforgiving, body slam. Mikey hit the mat hard. Celticfire dropped to his knees, flipped the fallen bear of a man onto his back, hooked the leg. This was his only chance.

One… two… three.

The bell rang again, and the crowd erupted. Celticfire rose slowly, chest heaving, arms raised in victory. Mikey lay on the mat, beaten but not broken, a sign of the war they had just fought.

Two beasts entered. One stood tall.

 

 

 

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