I guess my luck might change tonight. This has got to be the most masculine environment available. A horde of angry men watching two others pummel the living shit out of each other. That’s right, I’ve finally got my shit together to do my piece on the bare fist fighting rings that are rife in this city, and tonight I’m going to the heart of the network.
Thank fuck I’m not doing it alone. I have a chaperone, a ‘security’ team, and I’m in disguise. By that, I mean I’m pretending to be someone interested in fighting, not someone that’s going to write about it. I haven’t changed my appearance to look like a man either. If any of you are imagining a fake beard and my tits strapped back, you’re completely wrong. I may be in joggers and hoodie, but I’m definitely all girl. By the looks of things, I might actually be the only girl as well, but I didn’t expect anything less.
My chaperone is a guy who calls himself Knockout. He’s a veteran of the circuit with something like two hundred fights under his belt. He’s a big man but looks more like a butterbean than a boxer, and despite being as gentle a giant as you can imagine, clearly has some kind of on-going trauma from having his head pounded in so often.
That’s what interests me about this environment. Boxing is a brutal sport, even in the ring, yet it attracts people from all different environments. It can be graceful, perhaps even down here, but it’s also deadly. Two men against each other to leave one man standing.
I get a few odd looks from the punters, but much fewer than I expect. I thought there would be uproar or worse, and maybe it’s because I’m wedged in between these two monsters, but after we take our place in the crowd, I’m practically left alone. Maybe the joggers were enough to put people off.
We are in the belly of an abandoned psychiatric hospital out near Sheepshead Bay. Here, the blood stains on the walls and floor could be part of this scene or the one that preceded it. There is old equipment lying about, broken tiles on the floor, an eerie sensation that fits the way the venue has been repurposed.
There is a palpable sense of nervous excitement and as the hooded fighters make their way to the makeshift ring, the crowd swell in spits and aggression. With the bend and wave of it, I’m pushed out towards the center dangerously, before being pulled back to safety by Knockout.
I’m scared and I feel trapped, but there is nowhere for me to escape to, and nothing else for me to do but take it in and hope I don’t get hurt. Somehow we’ve made our way to the front row, where I have a perfect view of what’s to come, but is also the closest to the action. One mistimed punch or an over enthusiastic audience member and I’ll be going home with a black eye, a split lip or something even worse.
We are about to begin. One of the boxers has a grimace on his face like a pit-bull, tattoos all over his chest and an energy about him that makes him look dangerous. The other still hasn’t removed his hood so it’s impossible to see his face. He’s thinner than the other guy, much calmer too. At a guess, based entirely on his approach, I’d say he might have even more experience here than Knockout.
The referee introduces them as the Pitbull, no surprise there and the Cobra, and when the Cobra finally removes his hood, the hairs on the back of my neck stand up and my heart skips a beat.
Liam. Holy fuck.
Liam
It’s been a good year. In fact, it’s been such a good year, I might be able to make this my last. I’ve got cash saved up, I’m not getting any younger, I’m sick of the environment, and I’m fed up of being alone. I’m incredibly good at kicking the shit out of people, but it’s not exactly something you can share with your friends and loved ones.
Loved ones. That’s a good one. Jasmine was the last, and after her, I knew everything would pale in comparison so I just haven’t bothered looking. I’m hoping that’s going to change soon, though. I’ve been all over this country the last year making a name for myself, which is why I’m here fighting tonight. This isn’t an event you just turn up to and put your name down for. This is an exclusive, invite-only, jewel in the crown, ten thousand dollar event with some of the best fighters from across the country.
I’ve had such a good win record this year that I’m up first in my weight division. If I win, which I’m more than likely to do, I’ll take home enough to leave this whole fucking world behind me.
I’m up against the Pitbull. I’ve never fought this guy before, but I’ve seen him fight, and nobody fights dirtier. I’ve seen him practically rip someone’s ears off the top of their head before pushing his thumbs into their eye sockets until they bled out. He’s an animal, and he’s bigger than me, but I know how to beat him, even if he’s got some kind of blade concealed somewhere, which I wouldn’t put past him.
There’s a huge crowd in here tonight, but I never look at it too closely, not until I’m absolutely sure the fight is over. I keep away from it as much as possible, because getting hit from supporters of your opponent is definitely some of the skeevier shit that goes on here, and as good as I am, I don’t have eyes in the back of my head. If there is one thing that shouldn’t be tolerated in this no-rules environment it’s immoral shit like that, but often the referee turns a blind eye to it, and the other supporters aren’t quick enough to stop it anyway.
I come alone, but I always have support, even if I don’t know who these people are. I’ve become well-known on the circuit, and the crowds seem to like the way I fight, which means they like to get behind me. I’m good too, but I already told you that. Some of these men have no formal training but can handle themselves pretty well, others have a huge amount of formal training but don’t know how to fight, luckily, I’ve got a mix of the two.
I’m barely out of my hoodie before the Pitbull is up in my face, jumping the referee’s starting whistle by a good few seconds and indicating exactly how he means to continue.
I’m quick enough to skip gracefully out of his way, and in doing so get a couple of digs into his side to test my range. I feel good. Relaxed, confident and ready for anything he thinks he can throw at me.
Pitbull comes again, his face twisted into a grimace and this time I stand up, take a few haymakers into my arms and get inside him to open him up. He’s a big man but a slow fighter, which suits my style perfectly. I deliver a volley of quick punches into his chest and neck and get out before he swallows me up.
The crowd cheer the attack, but Pitbull is strong enough to take it. His head is like a boulder set upon two rocky mountain range shoulders, and I quickly realize that knocking him out with punches is going to be almost impossible. His neck is as thick as a tractor tire, and every time I smash a punch into him, his head wobbles but barely moves.
If I want to end this before I break a sweat, I’m going to have to get behind him to choke him out. Pitbull has nothing in his lock-up but weight and strength so as soon as I tire him out I’ll move in for the kill. That’s part of the reason they call me the Cobra. I can dance around an opponent all night just looking for the moment to move in and then when I see it, no-one is quick enough to stop me.
Pitbull has an impressive win record coming here, but I’ve seen the kind of guys he fights and none of them would last even a second with me. If this is the best this country can offer, I’m almost tempted to stay in the sport. I could step down a weight division too, drop a bit of muscle and work on my martial arts, but there’s something appealing about being in the highest class, even if I’m only at the very low end of it.
Pitbull comes at me again, his teeth bared. If there is something this guy has more than many others I’ve fought, it’s stamina. I dance away, keep him at distance with sharp stabbing kicks, and look for an opening to get inside again. When the bell rings to signal the end of the first round, I prepare myself for a late attack that surprisingly doesn’t come.
Pitbull disappears into his corner where a group of nasty looking supporters begin to tend to
him. I stand and wait, my eyes on the crowd now, just to gauge the reaction. I get nods, bared teeth, people spitting in disgust, I see men with anger in their eyes, drunks, hatred, and fear, and then I see her, and my heart skips a beat.
Jasmine
It couldn’t be anyone else.
Time slows down, and then the world warps so much I don’t see the punch coming.
Jasmine
I should leave, but I’m wedged in so much here it would be impossible to get out, and anyway, he’s seen me now, which means I can’t.
Fuck. What is he doing here exactly? I guess that’s a stupid question based on what I’ve seen so far, and he’s probably wondering exactly the same about me because I must be the last person he expected to see here.
This is the second time I’ve seen him fight, the second time he’s melted me doing so. Pitbull may have got an unexpected and illegal dig in, but Liam’s back on his feet now, and even though he’s a little dazed, he seems even more determined to win, because of letting his guard down in the first place.
I suppose that little slip of concentration was my fault, and based on his reaction, I have to say I’m kind of flattered. Alright, seeing any girl here might have made him lose his shit for a minute, and that ass-hole did punch him before the whistle went, but I can’t help but think it only happened that way because it was me.
Liam gathers himself, composes himself, circles Pitbull like a Cobra around an attacking dog and then strikes as quickly as a flash of lightning. His arms and legs move so quickly they blur into a wall of movement, so fierce Pitbull can do nothing to defend himself.
Liam looks fucked off and he looks determined. I guess he doesn’t like getting punched, losing even less. By the time Liam has finished piling into him, Pitbull has a cut above his eye that oozes blood like water from a leaking tap, his face is as puffy as risen dough and my pussy is just as wet as it was the first time I saw Liam do his thing.