A Bloody Fight and A Favor

"In the blue corner, we have the fighter who ain't no quitter, the berserker who's gonna serve ya! Weighing in at 270lbs of raw muscle, standing at 6'4" and having a history in this pit as one of the most mean motherfuckers we've ever had! We! Have! Mike 'The Berserker' Goodwin!"

The announcers shitty voice and even worse introductions came from the speakers that surrounded us, followed only by the crowd of mindless drones who loved the mindless violence of this place.

Across from me, dressed in only blue shorts, was a Caucasian man who looked well into his thirties. He was tall and bulky as hell. He looked like a walking tank of muscles and he obviously lived in the gym. Though, from the somewhat yellow-ish tint to his skin, I can also tell he lives most of his life outside of the gym, inside a bar. He's on his way to liver cirrhosis.

My opponents medical issues aside, he had black eyes and brown hair cut short. He sauntered around the ring, raising his hands and shouting before he looked to me and drew his thumb across his neck.

...Oh, I'm very scared.

I gave him a deadpan expression and stepped forward just in time for the announcer's annoying nasally voice to come through the speakers again.

"And in the red corner, we have our other fighter! Don't let his good lucks fool ya, because he's here to school ya! On what? How many bones of your opponents you can break before he passes out, of course! Weighing in at 199lbs of lean meat and standing at 6'0", we have a regular here ladies and gentlemen and those of you who've seen him fight will no doubt be betting on him tonight!" this got the blue shorts guy's attention as he began booing and pointing his thumb down while showing a 'Really?' face, "We! Have! Adam 'The Butcher' Williams!"

I stepped forward, my expression dead and just concentrated to a knife sharp edge as I looked at my opponent. He stepped toward me, towering over me by four inches and out weighing me by about 70lbs.

He looked down at me and snorted, "You think you can take me, kid? I've taken bigger shits than you," he laughed to his own mediocre joke and I just looked at him.

...I wasn't in a good mood right now. I was still in that cycle. The cycle of numbness and pain.

I...I wanted to make this guy feel some pain as well.

The man in question seemed a bit agitated by my lack of response, so he began to push at me, prodding for an open nerve, "What you doing here anyway? Shouldn't you be studying for school--Oh, I get it. Mommy's a whore and you need to be the breadwinner because she's too busy fucking people, right?"

I almost did it. What, exactly? I almost broke his fucking neck. I almost rung him out like a wet rag because of what he just said. But no. I controlled it. My past self took the drivers seat for now. My new self was too overly emotional. I would much rather be the cold-hearted surgeon and medical genius I once was than the grieving son I am in this life*.

(A/N - Don't worry, he doesn't have split personality disorder or anything. He's simply going back to how he was in his previous life and locking away the emotions he's gained from his current life. Well, not locking them away or suppressing them, exactly. No, he's just not letting them sit in the driver's seat.)

My further silence only made his agitation worse but upon the announcers orders, we both backed away into our corners.

The fighting pit we were in was a legitimate pit. It was about 6 meters by 6 meters and all the people watching were stationed about 2 meters above us, overlooking us from their rafters. Most of the people who came to watch here were the elites who loved blood sports and the influential gangsters who scouted new talents.

They cheered and they cheered, calling for blood. I knew at that moment that I'd give them what they wanted. As the announcer began the countdown, I closed my eyes and began to take control over myself.

First, my heart beat. I kept it steady and strong but slow and calm. Second, my breathing. I didn't breath too slow or too fast. I keep it perfect so I wouldn't get winded during the fight. Next, I opened my eyes and began to tune myself to my opponent.

He was bulky, so he no doubt relied on brute strength. He'd go for strong hits. From how his body's built, he fights more like a boxer than anything else. Powerful straights, jabs and other combinations are what I need to look out for. But because of his awful muscle management, he'll no doubt be too slow. Muscle management meaning he's gained too much mass to have an effective fighting body. He looks more like a powerlifter than a fighter which will no doubt effect both his speed and flexibility.

So, I'll take a speedy-type of fighting. More of an Out-Boxer than an In-Boxer, so I'll focus on counter attacks and punishing mistakes.

I felt the blood thrumming passed my ear and my vision seemed to pulse as I felt myself becoming wholly ready for the coming fight. I took one last deep breath, just as the bell began to ring to signal the start of the fight.

And as I guessed, the bulky man rushed at me, throwing a somewhat crude but effective cross* at me.

(*A/N - The more official term for a straight.)

But alas, it was too slow. I slipped to the left of it, tilting my torso to the left and under the punch as I lifted my right arm and suddenly twisting my body to throw a brutal counter cross that hit the guy's face straight on.

He recoiled back as soon as the punch landed against his nose but it wasn't enough to escape as I continued with the counter and slammed his nose back into his face with a sickening crunch.

Blood splattered outward, covering my bare knuckles that cried out in pain from hitting bone head-on, but I ignored it and ducked downward, avoiding the instinctive left hook that was aimed right at my head. As I ducked and moved to the right, I brought left hand and threw a left hook of my own but toward the side of his body, landing a body shot against his liver.

Once again, he recoiled backward from the pain but this time, I backed up and brought my guard back up and just stared at him.

Calmly, without even blinking. I just...stared at him.

To him and the audience watching I was just trying to unnerve him but I knew what I was doing. I was predicting his next course of action. But most of all, I was deciding the best and most painful route that I could take to pick him apart one hit at a time.

Just as I came to a decision, he threw a flurry of jabs at me. All of which I slipped and didn't even let hit a hair on my body. Or face, for this specific matter.

Once he came to the end of his combo, and seeing he failed to land even a single hit, he tried to rush me and tackle me to the ground. But I easily reacted to his boorish charge and backed up. As he tried to get his footing back under him but I soon stopped that as I stepped forward and lifted my knee to meet his momentum.

Another crunch echoed throughout the pit, making the surrounding watchers even more rowdy as they roared for more. So, to give them more, I grabbed Mike's hair before could fall to the ground and held him up.

Pulling my knee back again, I sent it back into his face with even more power before letting go of his head just as my knee hit his face.

His head snapped back and his body followed. He lay on his back, seemingly concussed.

I just prowled around him, waiting.

From what I'd seen and felt, he could still keep going. I know he could...I hope he can. I wasn't done with him yet. I still had so much more to do before I felt even a modicum of calmness.

More and more anger seeped out from within me, not even letting my old self take the driver's seat was helping much anymore. So, instead of fully suppressing the anger...I took a hold of it and reigned it into submission.

I compressed it into something solid, and I let it burn like coal. But I also boxed it in with only one small exit.

And from that exit came pure, yet controllable, rage.

Thankfully, just as I finished this, Mike began to get up again. As soon as I saw that he was wobbly in the knees, I knew I only had now to do what I wanted to do. After this next combo, he wouldn't be able to get back up.

I waited for him and he didn't have me waiting long as he clumsily charged at me with a roar that felt like it was more for his own motivation than it was for intimidating me.

But that didn't matter and I put my right foot forward, changing my stance from Orthodox to Southpaw before I dodged a surprisingly rapid one-two combo. I replied quicker, however, with two right jabs before ducking under another of his wild haymakers and upon quickly switching back to my orthodox stance, I sent a left hook right into his side and liver again.

This time, his weakened liver was hit squarely and he didn't have a chance to recoil away from it due to his awkward footing. So, his liver took the entire force of the punch and he began coughing but kept his guard up.

Yet I didn't let him keep it up.

I sent an uppercut right through the gap in his guard and slammed his head up and out of it before swinging my body with the leftover momentum and sending a left hook right across his chin.

It was like someone cut a puppets strings as the man's knees gave out on him.

But I wasn't done.

Aiming a punch with my right hand, I took a step forward before rocketing my hand out like a bullet shot from a gun. As he was falling, my fist came from a 45 degree angle and collided right against his jaw. A crack echoed out as his head snapped to the side, even as his body began to fall. I brought my hand across his face, continuing to put the destructive force inside my fist through his face.

A few more cracks came as his jaw broke and a few teeth probably snapped but he dropped to the floor breathing.

...No.

As he lay there, with a broken nose, a broken jaw and cheek, with multiple teeth having been knocked out of snapped...as he lay there with even more damage to his liver and to the lower ribs on his right side...even as he lay there unconscious...I knew I wasn't done.

This place was an underground fight where everything goes. I'd killed opponents before. It wasn't abnormal for me to do that. You don't get the nickname 'The Butcher' by being merciful to your opponents, after all. But this was different. It was personal. He...he really shouldn't have brought my mother into this. Not today. Definitely not...today.

So, I took a step toward him and lifted a foot into the air above his neck and throat.

And I slammed it down.

*Crack!*

First, my foot hit his throat. The force I'd put behind it easily crushed the cartilage that made up the throat, crushing it beyond repair and essentially making it hard to breath if not pretty much impossible. Even if he survived this, he wouldn't be able to eat or speak without extensive surgery.

But he wouldn't survive this.

The next thing the force of my curb stomp damaged was his neck vertebrae. The awkward angle at which he was lying down made it easy to damage his neck. The second crack was one of those vertebrae cracking and paralyzing him.

*Crack!*

Yet the real thing that would make sure he wouldn't survive to see surgery...was the fact I lifted my foot up again and brought it down on his throat a second time.

And a third time.

And a fourth time.

And so on and so forth.

I kept going until his neck was practically flat and blood was spurting out of his mouth every time my foot landed against his neck.

Once that was done, I looked up and saw the crowd was still cheering as loudly as before. No, they weren't cheering AS loudly as before. They were cheering with more fervor. Screaming and hollering like a bunch of animals. When I looked around at the audience I could see only a bunch of apes of differing sizes and appearances, screaming like wild animals who'd been incensed by the blood they'd seen.

This was humanity's weakness. This was...our bad side. The side no one wants to admit exists. But no matter whether someone wants to admit it or see it, the truth itself doesn't care because it's still the truth no matter who believes in it.

The truth here...is that human's aren't above animals. We are animals. A human is no better than a wolf. Humans are just better at acting and pretending to be more civilized.

Shaking my head, I left the dead or dying body of Mike and turned around and walked away.

I wanted to go and have a shower and go home before organizing my mother's funeral.

. . .

As soon as I came out of the shower in my own little office for this place, I came into contact with Larry, the announcer for the fights and the guy who runs the whole thing.

"Adam!" he jovially said with his arms wide open, "How's my favorite fighter doing?" he asked.

I just gave him a dead-eyed stare before pulling a shirt over my head, "...I'm doing fine, Larry. Do you have my money?" I asked, knowing I should have a big pay day right now. I bet all my money on that fight and Larry agreed to pay me more than usual anyway. Meaning? I'd have more than enough money to give mother the funeral she deserves.

Nodding his head eagerly, Larry replied, "Of course, of course. Here it is," he said, outstretching one of his fat hands towards me, handing an envelope that was stacked with cash. But as I went to take it, he pulled back, a smile stretching across his weaselly face as he spoke, "But if I give you this, I need you to do me a favor, Adam," he asked with a suspicious tone.

I narrowed my eyes at him and stepped toward him, looking down my nose at him. He wasn't much shorter than me - he was about 5'9" or 5'10" but the difference in our physiques and combat ability was immense.

I was 6'0" and covered in near perfect muscle and Larry had seen me practically rip apart guys.

Larry was 5'10" and was majorly out of shape. He was overweight, had a pot belly, he smoked a pack a day and he drank a six pack a day. It was safe to say he wasn't much of a fighter either.

What am I getting at? He knew better than to fuck me around like this. The only thing that would give him the balls to do this...is if he had backing. This backing is probably to do with his so-called favor.

"Just give me the money, Larry. And then I'll think about your favor," I said, feeling tired all of a sudden. No doubt due to Larry's avarice and weasel-like behavior.

If this place didn't pay so well...I'd have stopped coming here a long time ago.

"Sure, sure," Larry said and he actually handed me the money this time, "But you can't back out now, Adam. This favor I'm asking of ya is to meet with someone who really wants to meet with you. A big gangster from outta town. Some big shot in Europe. He wants to talk to you about having you work for him as an enforcer. Said something about talent needing to be nurtured," he rambled on but I knew this was going to be a long night. I'd dealt with these...'offers' before. It was like walking in across a field full of landmines.

Sighing, I opened the envelope, counted the money before looking at Larry and nodding. Really, this was going to be a long night.