Scary ghost stories and stuff (1)

Pit Fight

Nothing’s fun about being a pit fighter. Sure, at first it looks exciting because of the danger, the excitement, the glory of winning, and the money. The money! I own a cobra and a viper and there’s my condo downtown.

Before I started this I had zilch. School wasn’t for me and neither was flipping burgers. I got into martial arts and stuck with it. Still, fighting had risks. Serious injury was one of the major ones.

Like how just now that Tai fighter got his knee shattered when the Shaolin dude kicked his leg inward. There’s also the chance of being arrested. Prison wasn’t my main concern. Death was my bane.

It’s not like I was afraid to die. Just I liked being alive. From the suckle of my first breath every morning, to the joy of slamming my fist into an opponent’s face, and raising my hand in victory - life’s worth living.

My next fight was coming up and I knew I’d win for sure. This was a first for me. I knew equality had recently become a big deal. Didn’t know it would come to me standing in a pit preparing to fight a girl.

“Contra Divine,” they called her—an interesting ring name. Mine’s better, Sig the Slugger. Still this slugger never fought no broad.

She was a dirty blonde with sleek abs stretched about in the pit across from me. It was hard to believe I was really about to do this. Even when my manager told me it was going to happen, I was doubtful. At first the idea of having to fight a girl sounded like a joke. But it turned out I was contractually obligated to fight whomever my manager deemed appropriate.

When I became reluctant my manager said, “This is what the people want to see. Look, you’re in the same weight class. It’s a done deal. You need the money.”

I did. I had a payment to make on my second car and the ex-wife was nagging me for child support again. Not that I would pay, but I needed this fight money anyway.

Although my opponent was equal to me in reach and weight, as a man, I had more muscle mass. Then again, we were the same height. She was mostly legs. I’d call her Legs if we met in a bar. She was cute enough to hit on. Her soft crystal eyes as blue as the sky.

I couldn’t think that way about an opponent. I had to see Legs as just another face to pound and not as a hotty with perfect b’s. I had to avoid looking at her chest altogether, which was sloppy of me to do from the start. I wasn’t ever sloppy before.

Despite being a fighter with a long record of wins, I had managed to not kill anyone. That’s a big deal for a fighter. Most victors killed their opponents at the end of a bought. I was “a rare commodity,” so my manager would say.

Other fighters believed an enemy combatant was not truly defeated unless the victory ended in the opponent’s utter demise. Killing seemed wrong. I would do what was needed. Make them submit, or knock them out, and stop the fight. I never felt like I was in danger either.

Judging from the looks of this girl I’d be knocking her out like most of my previous opponents quickly. I liked to choke them out with their own arms. It was my finisher. That way they knew I owned them in the pit.

I’ve seen some girlies fight here and there. Chicks liked to kick. It made sense from a logical viewpoint. A kick could produce more brute force than a punch, technically. However, a punch was quicker and with arms as burly as mine I didn’t have to worry about strength. This girl’s legs were long and well defined. If I managed to stay clear of them, I would do okay. Also, I had strong arms that knocked out better opponents than this girl could ever dream of facing.

Turned out this battle meant I’d be the first fighter in the pits to face the opposite sex. I got the experimental opponents. Once fought this deaf guy. I punched him in the ear. He was fighting for the same reason as me. Besides, it’s not like he heard the punch. I still remember his eyes rolling up into his head. He made this weird sound like a challenged kid—probably because he couldn’t hear himself.