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.

 

No one knew exactly what sparked it. Maybe a look, maybe a word. But most figured it was Jack’s mouth, that thing that was always running, always jabbing at nerves just to see who would flinch. He talked more than most men on the track ran laps, and he liked it that way. Stirring the pot, pushing buttons, it was his sport long before his fists ever flew. But this time, he pushed the wrong man. Or maybe depending who you ask, just maybe, the right one. Whatever the cause, there would be no walking it back. No cooling off. This would be settled in the ring,and only one of them would walk out upright. The rest? Pride broken. Body worse. And Jack, in all his cocky bravado, made sure there would be no room for mercy. In fact, before the fight Jac demanded it: the fight wouldn't end until one man was down and couldn't get back up. No ref. No count. No weak, soft rules about points or rounds.

“You fall,” Jack had said, “and you stay down—then it’s over. Not before.”

The bell rang with a sharp clang that sliced through the noise like a blade.

It. Was. On.

Jack sprang to life, all fast twitch and energy. His feet skimmed the canvas, light and fast, dancing around Kevin’s planted bulk. He darted in and out, snapping out sharp jabs, pop-pop-pop, each one tapping off Kevin’s gloves like he was testing a drum. He was fast, no doubt. Hands quick, steps quicker. But Kevin didn’t flinch, he didn’t even blink. He absorbed the jabs like they were nothing, like Jack was a child trying to rattle a mountain. Jack continued to jab, to annoy like a fly on a hot summers day. Pop-pop-pop, jab-jab-jab. All deflected, save one. One jab that connected, without flare or effect. Like a soft touch to a stone wall. But Jack had scared a hit, and he was damn proud of it, even one could say, egotistical about it.

Yeah... that did it.

There was a flicker, barely a shift, in Kevin’s eyes. A flash of irritation. That was the only warning Jack got about what was to come, because barely thirty seconds into the round, Kevin stepped forward with a speed that didn’t match his bulk and cracked a heavy right cross across Jack’s jaw. 

 

The blow echoed, leather on bone, a sharp and final sound like a door slamming shut. Jack’s head snapped sideways, the first hook whipping across his jaw so hard his mouth guard nearly flew from his lips. He staggered, one foot skidding backward, arms raised more on instinct than control. The taste of rubber filled his mouth, it was both sharp and bitter. His brain rang like a bell, synapses firing off in every wrong direction possible. Before he could recover, blink, or get the license of that truck that just hit him, Kevin was on him. Another punch, a brutal cross, caught Jack square in the nose. His vision flared white, and the wet crack that followed might have been from his own cartilage shifting. Blood sprayed across Kevin’s glove, a crimson splash on red leather. The crowd gasped, but Jack didn’t hear it. He only heard the rush in his ears and the crunch of each blow echoing inside his skull. A jab followed, snapping his head back with a sickening rhythm, then another. Then an uppercut, on point, brutal and rising, lifting his chin like a hook yanking a puppet string. A quick one-two, left then right, slammed into Jack’s cheeks, twisting his face like a speed bag. Sweat flew in arcs under the lights, the crowd reduced to a blur as Jack's brain tried to track the fists closing in from all sides. Trying, and failing hard. A short, snapping left clapped against his ear, ringing it like a gong, throwing off his balance. Then came a brutal right hook, full body behind it, that caught Jack under the eye and sent him spinning a quarter turn. Another jab caught him mid-spin, crashing into the opposite side of his jaw and snapping his head straight again like Kevin was repositioning him for more punishment. Jack’s eyes fluttered, tears welling up unbidden from the sheer force of the impacts.

It should have stopped here, but it didn't. 

Jack’s head snapped back again, CRACK, as Kevin’s glove collided squarely with his cheekbone. The sound echoed through the gym like a gunshot. Sweat flew off Jack’s face in arcs, his body sagging into the ropes, mouth slack, eyes glassy. He tasted blood, more blood? Or maybe it was just copper and panic. The crowd didn’t cheer. Not yet. They just watched mostly, some with arms crossed, some sipping from old paper cups of flat soda, all waiting for Jack to drop. Waiting to see if this was the hit that finally broke his smug face for good. Jack blinked slowly, the ring spinning. His knees wobbled. For a second, he thought he might cry. Not from pain, exactly, it was something deeper, something colder. A creeping dread in his chest that whispered: This isn’t a joke anymore.

Before the thought could even finish processing, a punch came.  

Then another punch.

Then another.

Kevin was relentless, mechanical, like he wasn’t even thinking, just following a rhythm carved into his fists. Left. Right. Hook. Uppercut. Jack’s head jerked like a ragdoll, mouth guard now most defiantly halfway out, spittle and blood flinging into the stale air. Jack continued taking the hits, yet in and out of reality. He knew something was wrong. He knew he wasn’t coming back from this clean.

A woman in the crowd whispered, “Should someone stop it?”

“No one likes that prick,” someone else muttered, not even looking up from their phone.

And that was the truth of it. Jack had burned too many bridges, run his mouth too many times, made enemies out of people who used to shrug him off. Now, when the fists were flying and the lights were fading behind his eyes, no one was stepping in. Not for him. Another brutal hook smashed across Jack’s temple. His arms didn’t rise. His jaw hung slack. Blood dribbled from the corner of his mouth like a cracked faucet. Somewhere deep inside, Jack tried to scream. Tried to say enough. But nothing came out. Not a word. Just another glove meeting his face.

And still, Kevin didn’t stop.

 

Another hard blow, Jack barely registered it with all the other pain going on, sent him again stumbling about. He stumbled into the ropes, one arm tangling over the top as he tried to steady himself. His chest heaved. His thoughts scattered. And in the fog, one thing rang clear: This had been a very bad idea. In short he was in the find out part, of the FAFO, and it was just beginning. Jack, while still dazed and confused, felt his arms brushed to each side, placed on top of the ropes. Kevin was exposing his body, leaving no room for guard, leaving no room to deny the pain that was about to come.

BAM!!!!!

A short, compact right slammed into Jack’s ribs. Not flashy. Just devastating. Jack's body jerked sideways, air punched from his lungs. He gasped, eyes wide. Another shot, left hook, low. It sunk deep into Jack’s abs like it was trying to bury itself in his spine. Jack gagged. His knees wobbled. He clutched his stomach with one glove while the other tried to shield high, instinct betraying him. Kevin's eyes narrowed. Target acquired, operations will not end until it is destroyed. One after another they came now. Brutal. Relentless. No rhythm, no mercy. Just raw power slamming into his stomach again and again, like a jackhammer tearing through flesh and will. Jack’s body folded with each shot, breath ripped out of him in wet gasps. His body twitched, barely lifting and shifting before the next blow crashed in and knocked them aside. His legs buckled, but the ropes held him up and held him in, a prisoner in a ring of pain. There was no space to breathe, no time to think. Only gloves. Only pain.

His abs were no longer tight; they were beaten soft, screaming beneath his skin. Each punch landed deeper, drawing a fresh grunt, a hiss, a dry retch. The world blurred at the edges, drowned in sweat and noise and that sick, rhythmic pounding that wouldn’t stop. Jack’s mouth hung open, jaw slack, eyes wide and distant. But he was still there. Somewhere inside the storm of gloves, he hadn’t gone down.

Not yet. Kevin wouldn't allow that.

BOOM.

Hard, cruel, and damaging.

Kevin drove a straight right fist directly into the center of Jack’s stomach. The impact was thunderous, like a hammer slamming into a slab of meat. The glove didn’t just hit, it sank in, plowed in, devastated it's way in. Jack’s lean abs, already glistening with sweat, collapsed inward under the blow, the skin dimpling deep before snapping back violently like a rubber sheet stretched past its limit. His entire upper body shuddered from the force. Ripples burst outward from the point of contact, like someone had dropped a boulder into a pond of muscle. On lookers could see the shock wave, spreading across his obliques and chest, making each rib twitch under the skin. A splash of sweat exploded off him, followed by a spray of spit as his mouth dropped wide open in a grotesque, silent scream. A choked, guttural “gghhuuhh!” rattled from his throat, involuntary. His knees gave a sudden buckling quiver, again, and his eyes rolled slightly as the room seemed to spin. A wave of heat flushed his face. The punch had struck something deep, something very vital. His vision pulsed in and out, like a dying bulb, and his whole body swayed forward before the ropes caught him. For a brief second, Jack looked down, dazed, like he couldn’t quite believe what had just happened. A dark red flush was already spreading across the center of his belly, and the skin twitched with each shallow breath. His muscles were still spasming, confused and locked in panic. His head lulled forward. His gloves sagged. Every part of him was screaming, begging for the bell to ring. But both had agreed, not until one man fell.

Jack wished he never opened his mouth...

Kevin began to work the body like a craftsman breaking down a wall. Thud to the side. Crack to the ribs. A sickening squelch as glove met flesh again and again. Jack's breath came in ragged gasps, each punch stealing more. His skin flushed red, then purple, as bruises bloomed under Kevin’s punishing rhythm. Jack whimpered, quiet at first, then louder, involuntary. Each sound dragged from his core like something primal. One glove dropped to the middle ropes, then both. His abs clenched, then sagged. They had nothing left to protect him. He was done, but Kevin was not. A particularly brutal hook landed just under his ribcage. His entire body jumped. His lips peeled back in agony. His legs nearly buckled. Kevin grabbed him by the shoulders, shoved him upright, and drove two fast punches, left then right, into his belly button. Jack’s head jerked forward as if vomiting air. His mouth foamed. He tried to say something, but it was just a choked cough and a stream of saliva. He was still standing, but he wasn’t there. His eyes were glass. The crowd had gone quiet. Even the bloodthirsty ones knew this wasn’t just a match.

This was punishment now. 

 

Jack staggered (more like thrown) into the turnbuckle like a man walking into a storm, not by choice but because there was nowhere else to go. His arms flopped over the top ropes, dead weight now, but the only things keeping him from collapsing entirely. His chest heaved, sucking in ragged, wet breaths. Red spit clung to his lips, and smears of it streaked down his chin and chest, mixed with sweat and the dark bloom of bruises across his stomach. In a sanctioned fight, this would’ve been stopped long ago. A ref would’ve waved it off, thrown the towel in. But this wasn’t sanctioned. This wasn’t sport. This was two men, something to settle, and one wasn’t done.

Kevin stepped in like a predator, eyes locked on Jack’s trembling midsection. He didn’t speak. He didn’t gloat. He just drew in one long breath, squared his stance, and unleashed hell. The first punch, a deep, vicious uppercut, drove into the soft center of Jack’s stomach with a sickening, meaty thwump. It sank in almost impossibly far, folding the flesh inward, crushing muscle and stealing breath. Jack’s mouth snapped open in a silent scream as a frothy glob of blood, tinged spit flew from his lips. His whole body jolted as if shocked. Before he could slump, Kevin followed with a brutal right hook to the same spot. Jack’s head rolled back. His eyes fluttered. His abs gave up, quivering, softening under the relentless attack. The next hit squashed deep into already bruised meat, forcing more air from Jack’s lungs in a sharp, pained wheeze. His legs buckled, really buckled this time, but the ropes held him upright, cruel in their support. Then came the next, a final, piston, like straight punch. Kevin twisted into it, putting his full weight behind the glove. It crashed into Jack’s gut like a pile driver. The glove seemed to disappear into the bruised and battered flesh, and Jack’s whole torso caved with the impact. You could see his ribs flare slightly outward under the strain. A strangled, high,pitched grunt tore from Jack’s throat. His eyes rolled back. His mouth hung open as his body spasmed once, then stilled. For a moment, Jack just hung there, trembling. His body jerked with shallow gasps that didn’t fill his lungs. He wasn’t thinking anymore. Just feeling. Just hurting. Just drowning in it.

It was beautiful, art, in a very violent kind of way.

Kevin stared at what he had done, knowing the next punch might not just end the fight. It might end Jack’s consciousness entirely. Jack hung on the ropes, no longer a fighter, just a body held upright by tension and stubborn physics. His abs were no longer defined, no longer resisting, no longer worthy of respect. They were a swollen, bruised battlefield, splotched with deep purples and angry reds, slick with blood and sweat. His trunks clung to his hips, soaked through, the waistband stained where spit and bile had dripped down. His arms twitched. His eyes were glass.

Kevin stepped in close.

No words. No wind-up. No flair.

Just a single, final punch, delivered with no form, no mercy, just raw, finishing intent.

THUD.

The glove struck Jack square in the gut, dead center. It landed like a sledgehammer. The flesh folded inward with a sick, low squelch, deeper than any before. His whole body jolted once, then simply gave out. His mouth opened, blood and spit drooling down his chin, his breath escaping in a gurgled choke. His eyes rolled back, and whatever was left inside him, pain, thought, will, vanished.

 

 Jack slid down the ropes like a man undone, his legs folding awkwardly beneath him as gravity finally claimed what Kevin’s fists had started. His body left a greasy smear of sweat and blood along the ropes, a streaked signature of defeat. It wasn’t a fall so much as a slow unraveling, a collapse not just of the body, but of the will. He crumpled at the base of the turnbuckle, limbs tangled, chest pressed awkwardly against the mat. One glove twitched uselessly against the canvas before going still. His face, bruised and swollen, tilted toward the harsh white lights above, lights he could no longer truly see. Just flares of brightness swimming through the blackness edging in around his vision.

His chest fluttered with shallow breath, more spasm than rhythm. His arms, once cocky and fast, dangled limp at his sides. No guard left, no fight left. His body, once proud, once defiant, now looked wrecked. Not just beaten, but abandoned. Like armor left behind on a battlefield long after the war was lost. The crowd, moments ago a living roar, became something distant, hollow.

Applause, murmurs, footsteps...

Everything felt like it was happening underwater. Fading. Leaving him behind. The ropes still shook from the violence. Sweat dripped steadily off his brow, down his nose, into the pool forming beneath his cheek. A soft breath escaped his lips, part groan, part surrender. And then… silence. Inside and out.

Jack’s world narrowed, edges curling in, vision tunneling, breath hitching in his throat. Darkness took him, not violently, but like sleep. Like being carried off without permission.

And hey… at least it was settled, right?

Later that day....

The locker room was quiet, to quiet. It wasn't the kind of quiet that soothed, helped the soul and let a man short out his thoughts. No, it was the kind that echoed, vibrated, amplified every thought and moment of shame. As Jack sat there, every drip of the faucet, every scuff of a shoe outside the door, pressed against Jack like divine judgment. He sat on the bench in the far corner, hunched forward, head in his hands. His body throbbed with the aftershocks of the fight, deep, pulsing aches layered with sharper stings where skin had split. Muscle had failed. Everything failed....

Jack had showered already, but it hadn't helped. The blood was gone, sure. The sweat? The grime? Gone too. But not the shame. That clung tighter than anything else. He hadn’t even been able to look in the mirror on his way out of the shower. It would have only made things worse. Jack knew how he looked. A bruise, well more bruises, were swelling under his eye, purple spreading like spilled ink. His lip was cut. His ribs felt like someone had wedged fire between the bones. His core.... it wasn't one anymore.

He cursed out-loud but mostly to himself, about himself.

He gone down. He'd been dropped. Finished. The fight hadn’t even been close. He swallowed hard, but the lump in his throat stayed. The was the absolutely worst day of his life, one he may never recover from. Maybe he didn't want to anymore?

The door creaked open, Jack didn't look up, but had a feeling it, things, was about to get worse. It hung in the air like a reminder of everything wrong with his life made flesh, it was the smell, the faint trace of soap and the cleaner scent of victory that came with it. Kevin stepped in, drying his hair with a towel, wearing only black boxers and that same relaxed ease that he had in the ring. His body, untouched, looked fresh, loose, relaxed, unburdened. His body looked amazing like always, something Jack could only ever hope to match, but felt he never would.

At first, Kevin didn’t notice Jack.

Kevin moved to his own locker, humming low under his breath, digging through his bag for a clean shirt. He moved like a man who didn't have a fight that day, or was completely unbothered by it. Jack stayed still, like a ghost in the corner. He didn't know if he felt insulted not being noticed, or relived. He wondered if he could leave unnoticed, to leave this moment behind and never come back. This, lasted for all of two seconds, cause just then, Kevin turned. His eyes settled on Jack, and for a moment, just a heartbeat, neither man said a word. Jack didn’t know where to look. Down? Away? Shove himself into a locker and just die? He hated how small he felt, how young and inexperienced he was today. He was furious how obvious the damage was on his small weak body, it was all there painted across his face and posture. He braced himself for some comment. A smirk. A dig. After all he lost bad, it would all be deserved.

But it never came.....

“You took some heavy shots out there, man.”

Kevin's voice was stern, but it wasn't mocking. Not pitying. Just... grounded? Kind?

“Yeah,” he muttered, throat dry. “I noticed.”

Jack blinked, what was happening here?

“Still stood longer than most do. That's something to be proud of man. ”

Jack finally looked up from the ground, looked up from his shame like he was seeing for the first time. They just had a massive fight, well Kevin did, he was just the punching bag. But Kevin’s expression wasn’t smug. It wasn’t insulting. There was a warmth there, and maybe some... respect?

“You’ll bounce back bro. Guys like you always do.”

Then, with a final nod, Kevin stepped away, pulled on his shirt, some shorts, and was gone.

Jack sat there for a moment longer. True, his body still hurt like hell, hurt in places he didn’t think possible. But something was different now. His sense of self-worth wasn’t stinging so bad, and the silence all around him didn’t feel so judgmental. With a quiet grunt, he pushed himself up from the bench. His legs trembled, but they held. He reached for his gloves, creased, sweat-soaked, familiar, and slipped them back on, one hand then the other, tightening the straps with a deliberate tug.

 

Jack stepped in front of the fogged-up mirror, the room quiet but for the soft creak of floorboards beneath him. He looked at himself, really looked. Bruised, worn, exhausted… but standing. Still here. And for the first time in a long time, what he saw staring back didn’t disgust him. It wasn’t perfect. But it was real. A boy becoming something more, a man? Maybe, just maybe, he could be better. Maybe he could become the man he kept pretending to be. Hell… maybe he’d even ask Kevin for help. Hope didn’t come easy. But it was here now, flickering just behind his tired eyes.

And Jack wasn’t about to let it go.

 

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