Never Piss of the Humble Guy

Series: 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. 

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In reality, Vic was an up-and-coming kick boxer, he has a decent build, good skill but still a LOT to learn. So day after day, match after match, he carried himself like the whole world already knew the truth. He. Was. God. His frame was cut lean, cords of muscle wrapped tight around him like rope. Every motion carried a kind of sharp snap, like a blade coming out of its sheath. In the gym, he worked harder than anyone, but he made sure everyone noticed. In the ring, he fought meaner than anyone, and he made damn sure everyone remembered. Broken bones, bleeding, bruising, that was his signature, and he didn't care how the other guy wound up. Just as long as they, and everyone, knew him. And truth be told, and this was the infuriating part, no one could touch him. Opponents walked in with confidence and left staring at the ceiling, clutching their ribs or spitting blood into their gloves. His highlight reels were short because his fights never lasted long. A few brutal kicks, a savage right cross, and down they went. The local promoters whispered that he wasn’t just “good,” he was “next.” The name Vic started to circulate beyond the town’s borders. But of course, the more he won, the worse he got. Every KO swelled his ego, every headline fed the fire. Humility wasn’t in his vocabulary. Outside the ring, he strutted like he owned the ground under his boots. At bars, at clubs, on the street didn't matter, if someone mouthed off, Vic’s knuckles or knees did the talking. Broken ribs were his calling card, bruises the souvenirs he left behind. And if he was in a bad mood?

Well, people learned quickly to clear a path.

Friends tried to talk him down. Coaches warned him about burning bridges. But Vic didn’t care. He was the man. Everyone was just jealous of him. Everyone else was just waiting their turn to be humbled by him. So when the next fight opportunity landed on his lap, he didn’t even blink. He didn’t ask who he was fighting, didn’t bother to study tape or ask about style. To him, it was simple: another payday, another win, another poor bastard to add to the list of victims. A long list he didn't even know (or care to know) the name of. He smirked as he scribbled his name across the sign-up sheet. No hesitation. No second thought. Just a lean, hungry fighter too arrogant to imagine that this time might be different.

 

 

His name was Kenji Sato.

He came from a village most maps didn’t bother marking, a forgotten patch of earth in the mountains where the roads broke down to gravel and the houses leaned tiredly against each other like old men too stubborn to fall. Kenji had grown up in those dust thick streets, barefoot and thin, working odd jobs before he was old enough to know what childhood was supposed to feel like. His father had died when he was just a boy, leaving behind debts no one could pay and a mother too frail to carry the load.

So Kenji carried it.

Day after day, he hauled wood, cleaned stalls, took whatever work people would throw at him. Nights, he trained in secret. An old fighter from the city had retired in the village years ago. Broken body, busted jaw, but sharp eyes and a fire that refused to die. The old man taught Kenji how to fight, how to strike, how to keep breathing when the world was trying to choke him out. Kenji wasn’t born with bulk, but he had wiry muscle, balance, and a stubborn streak that refused to let him quit. Best of all?

He didn’t fight for pride. He fought for survival.

Every tournament he entered, every underground match he scraped through, the money went straight home. Medical bills for his mother. Schoolbooks for his younger brother. Sometimes he walked away from fights bleeding and bruised, but that didn't matter to him. No. what he cared about was walking away with cash in his pocket. Cash that meant food, medicine, life, and that was enough. Humility had been beaten into him by circumstance. He didn’t brag, didn’t boast. He bowed to opponents, win or lose. He didn’t need recognition.

He needed rent money.

So when a promoter whispered about a chance to fight a rising star from overseas, the offer made his stomach tighten. The purse was large, larger than anything he had ever seen. Enough to buy his brother new clothes, enough to put actual meat on the table for months. Maybe enough to send his mother to a real doctor in the city. It was to much, and to damn good. Kenji didn’t hesitate, he couldn't for the sake of his family. He signed his name, quiet as ever, bowing slightly as he handed the form back. Whether he won or lost, he had already won in the only way that mattered. The walk home was one of deep thought. Kenji wasn’t blind or stupid. He had seen Vic’s fights, had heard the stories. The arrogance, the power, the way he cut through opponents like they were nothing. But again, that didn’t matter. Kenji wasn’t stepping into the ring to make a name for himself. He was stepping in to feed his family.

And for that, he would fight until his bones broke.

Never Run your Mouth

Series: 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. 

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 Vince was new to the gym.

Not new to gyms, he clearly spent plenty of time in them. But this one? He was definitively the new guy and the lowest on the totem-pole. Despite this, and from the moment he walked in, everyone could see the difference from the average Joe or seasoned fighter. Sure, he came in looking good. He was lean muscled, sculpted like a statue, and had the kind of definition you only get from hours of treadmills, weights, and mirrors. But, in a way, that was the problem. Vince here looked great, but he didn’t look like a fighter. No, kid looked like a pretty pretty princess poster. Everything about him screamed show over substance. Likes and subscribing over form and trails. His warmups looked less like drills and more like a performance. Instagram staged, rehearsed, like he was filming content for followers instead of preparing for combat. He flexed between sets but only when someone was looking, adjusted the lighting when he thought it was even slightly off, and angled his phone just right to catch his best side. Where the other men ended their sessions plunging sore muscles into ice baths or wrapping joints that ached from decades of work, Vince disappeared into the locker room with a razor. Every trace of body hair had to go. His chest, his arms, even his stomach and legs, stripped smooth as glass. He spent longer shaving than most men did sparring. His body always had to look “on point”.

While all others who entered this gym bore sweat, scared, bruises and more like badges of honor they truly where... Vince checked mirrors between rounds. Bro just absolutely had to make super sure every strand of hair on his head stayed in place. Where men saw sweat and pain as weakness leaving the body, tot a drip of sweat on Vince was allowed to roll where a camera might catch it wrong. Only approved proper sweat was allowed. His guard, when he practiced or did drills, was neat, polished, practiced. But really, that's was all it was. A stance from a boxing video game copied for maximum effect. A pose from an old movie where the star was clearly paid to much. A grunt like he was a 80's action star. Kid moved like a live studio audience was watching, like the damn bell was just a cue for the next scene. It was obvious to everyone: Vince didn’t come here to fight. He came here to be seen. Which was a huge mistake in the long rung. You see, nothing pissed off the veterans, these men who bled and bruised for every inch of ring space, than watching a glossy show pony strut around their gym pretending to be one of them. It was, to keep it brief, bullshit.

Fitness boy belonged on a fitness magazine cover, not inside a ring.

The Twins

Series: 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. 

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The twins, Aiden and Evan, were once inseparable. Born minutes apart, they grew up mirroring each other’s every move. Same toys, same sports, same grades, even the same damn haircut until they were seventeen. It was cute when they were kids, people joked they were telepathic, finishing each other’s sentences like some novelty act. But now? Now they were twenty-four, and the sameness that once bonded them was starting to feel like a prison. It wasn’t just that they liked the same music or both preferred their steaks rare. It was deeper, more instinctual. If Aiden started going to the gym at 6 a.m., Evan would show up the next day at 5:45, just to be first. If Evan mentioned a girl, Aiden would find a reason not to like her. It was competition masked as connection, closeness twisted into rivalry.

The shift didn’t come with fireworks either, it was more like a slow burn. Little frictions here and there piling up over days, months and then years. But no one saw the final match being struck. Not even them. All anyone knew was one Sunday afternoon, a shout rang through their parents’ house. Then another. Then came the sound of glass rattling, doors slamming. Their mother tried to intervene, only for both boys to yell in unison, "Stay out of it!" It was chaos. Their father left the room, muttering something about letting them be men and settle it. Whatever the fight was originally about, who took the last protein bar, whose girlfriend had more substance, who was the real reason they both quit college, got lost in the storm of shouting. Every wound, every slight they had swallowed over the years was vomited up in ugly, bitter words. They stormed out. Then came back. The yelling resumed. Someone’s shirt got torn. A chair was flipped. Their mother cried quietly in the kitchen. And finally, they stopped. Standing across from each other in the living room, heaving for breath, fists clenched. The old photo wall framed them perfectly, baby pictures, matching graduation caps, childhood smiles.

Now they stared each other down. The same face, reflected in rage.

Back Yard Show Down

Series: Stories series. Like shorts, these are generally done by request and have some personification of the requester in the story.  Unlike shorts, these are longer (6k+ words) and move descriptive and world building. 

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The late afternoon sun hung low, casting molten gold across the backyard. The weathered fence circling the patchy grass looked less like suburban privacy and more like the battered walls of a makeshift arena. No crowd. No referee. Not really needed. Just the dull thud of gloves on flesh, the sharp snap of breath between clenched teeth, and the steady rhythm of two men who’d been trading leather long enough to wear the fight on their bodies. Sweat ran in rivulets, darkening patches of dirt where it fell. Bruises bloomed in purple and red along ribs and shoulders. A thin line of blood traced the edge of a mouth, a raw badge of how much fun they were having. This wasn’t about points or belts. This was about power. About pushing past pain until it turned into something addictive.

Kevin’s chest heaved, the black-ink spirals across it shifting with each breath, the design alive with motion. Sweat clung stubbornly to the wiry hair on his torso, glistening like molten glass in the sunlight. His bright green hair, matted, damp, still caught the light like a flare every time he moved. He cracked his neck, rolled his shoulders, and grinned through split lips, eyes locked on Rena. Rena stood lighter on his feet, bouncing, his smooth skin slick with sweat that caught the gold of the sun. His curls, damp and unruly, clung to his forehead. His jaw was tight, his breathing steady but charged, gloves already up, not out of caution, but instinct. He shifted with the grace of a streetwise dancer, legs alive with energy, waiting for the next beat in this bruising rhythm they were writing together.

They didn’t speak. They just circled.

Neighborhood Spat

Series: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. 

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The town name wasn't important, rarely was when things hit this close to home. What mattered was the neighborhood, the block, and the two people this story is about. They were two storms, once formed, that never passed peacefully. CelticFire and Diego had lived on the same block their whole lives, but there wasn’t a single memory between them that didn’t end with fists clenched or words sharp enough to cut. It was like they were born to hate each other, and they followed their Karma to the letter. CelticFire was the older of the two, a retired boxer with heavy Irish roots (and he would tell anyone who would listen) and the kind of hands that still twitched whenever he smelled leather and liniment. Old habits die hard, and some never do. His backyard smelled like smoke and meat more often than not, barbecue was his religion now, and neighbors swore he could grill a steak so good it could end wars. Just not the one with Diego, go figure. He carried his pride like an old belt around his waist, faded but still shining when he let his temper loose. Shine might not be a strong enough word, more like... burn. Diego, on the other hand, was somewhat younger, very proud Mexican, and carried himself with a swagger that came from a lifetime in kitchens and a childhood of sparring in neighborhood gyms, and back ally, and street corners, and... well you get the idea. Cooking was his art, his release, and nothing made him prouder (or more filled with joy) than the sound of family and friends tearing into something he made. His food could seriously achieve world peace if given the chance. But under the apron? Under all that charm? There was a man who never let go of the way CelticFire had wronged him. The offense? He had no idea anymore, maybe there wasn't one, and never would be, but he still just didn't like the guy. They were both fire to flint, every single time. Sometimes it was a scuffed-up mailbox. Sometimes it was a trash can tipped over “by accident.” Sometimes it was just the way one of them looked at the other too long. Everyone on the block knew it was coming. The question wasn’t if they’d fight. It was when.

That answer would come late one Friday night.

TKO to the Core

Series: 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. 

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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.

A friendly Holmgang

Series: 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.  

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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.

Gut Punch Journal - Entry 4

Series: Stories series. Like shorts, these are generally done by request and have some personification of the requester in the story.  Unlike shorts, these are longer (6k+ words) and move descriptive and world building. 

 

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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... 

Butting Heads

Series: Stories series. Like shorts, these are generally done by request and have some personification of the requester in the story.  Unlike shorts, these are longer (6k+ words) and move descriptive and world building. 

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The two had been friends for years, maybe even longer. They trained hard with each other, helped push the other before fierce, high risk fights. They bandaged each other when one fell. They lifted each other up. They were as close as brothers. Maybe even closer. So of course the day would come, when brother would fight brother in the ring. Being at the top of their game it was only a matter of time. Plus the money was good. 

But that unspoken rule would be there.

Before the fight there would be respect, after the fight they would reunite as brothers. During? Today? Now? The world would watch them fight it out, draw blood and make it flow like waterfalls, and destroy each other for honor, to see who was really the top dog. They where still men after all. It would be a long ruthless match, bloody, never giving up, driven. It was the kind of fight guys with a lot of testosterone really loved.

And so the day came. 

 

Split Decision

Series: 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.

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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.

Hooked on the Sport.

Series: 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. 

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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.”