Friday Night Fights

It’s Friday night and the roar of the crowd slightly faded in the background as I eyed the man in front of me. I stared at him, looking for a weakness until some college punk came from the crowd and walked into the middle of the human circle that enclosed me and this meathead. The punk kid looked at me, silently asking if I was ready and I nodded. He then turned toward the other guy and did the same thing as he nodded back.

“Fight!”

That was it, it was on. I put up my hands as the other guy tried to taunt me to charge him while amping up the crowd. The alcohol fuelled meathead then came charging at me and landed the first punch that grazed my chin. I staggered back a little, shock that he made contact with my face. When the second punch was about to be thrown I reacted quickly and landed a nasty haymaker at his body making him doubled over while gasping for air that he choked on from his beer-weighted belly.  

I landed one hell of a shot. Outside of having the wind knocked from him, which always sucks balls, I noticed the amount of pain I put the poor bastard in with that gut shot. I had a sudden feel of victory run through my veins as I thought the fight was over, but with my luck he played me. He was hunched over and when I took a step closer that’s when he backhanded me in the face like a bitch. He caught me off guard as I felt my lip split and the blood trickle down my chin. I didn’t have any time to react to the hit as I found myself on my back with him on top of me, wrestling me on the cold pavement. Fortunately, I was used to it all.

Having an older brother that was a veteran of the bar fight scene in countless towns across the state of Washington prepared me for this. He would come home drunk and bloody and try to fuck with me. Sometimes I’d win, sometimes I’d lose but it was an experience to learn from and that I did.

The college punk pulled him off of me as the crowd chanted stand up. We both stood straight up, my eyes bulged with rage as I stared at my opponent, some drunken steroid fussed college jackass with a smart mouth. My eyes bore into his shifty little eyes, probably the same size of his dick. The meathead tried to stand tall, but he knew he lost this fight by the look in his eyes and that’s what I wanted him to think. I taunted him like he did to me, waving my hands at him to attack. With every step I took toward him he took two steps back until he bumped into our human cage that pushed the fear stricken punk forward.

“You…” I said as I took one step forward. On the next word, I swung. “Pussy!”

The blow connected with his nose, breaking it on impact. Even the crowd reacted to the hit with hoots and hollers. The so called tough guy held his nose and fell backwards as the blood poured from his nose. I motioned him to get up, he did and charged at me to wrestle me again but this time I was more than ready. I landed another body shot, this one was right to his ribs. I thought I heard a faint cracking sound from the fresh ripples of pain I gave him rattle through his torso. He didn’t fall but staggered back. This amateur tough guy made absolutely sure he did not fall, because if he fell he would be the laughing stock of his frat house. He had a reputation of taking a beating whether he won the fight or not. Not tonight, I will show him that he is nothing more than a human punching bag.

I went in for another shot, throwing a few jabs to cover the distance that was spaced between us. Seeing the bitch ass scoot back so far against the weight of his own body I had the chance to finish the fight. I threw three more jabs and a right hook that landed on his face. The meathead fell but didn’t stay down long as he quickly stood again. It was unreal. Between the pain in his gut and ribs and the general confusion some would call it being punch drunk, the sight of him on his feet after that array of blows was something that I did not want to see. I wanted to end this, so I threw a haymaker, the steroid fucker ducked and responded with a counter uppercut to my jaw.

Click. The sound of my upper and lower rows of teeth making an unplanned contact against one another pissed me off.  I stood on my feet, not even fazed by the punch. I shook off the pain that I felt as I began to throw combos. Left, right, left, still he kept his feet. I yoked him up by the collar of his pretty boy frat shirt, while gazing at him, his eyes slowly started to roll into the back of his head and that’s when I knew it was over. I pushed his limp body and he fell, he fell hard to the pavement. I watched him on the ground choking on his own blood. The crowd died down and I laughed to myself as I turned and walked away. The human cage that linked together opened up for me to pass through. I was about two blocks away from the incident when I heard the ambulance’s siren whaling. I knew in the back of my mind that he ached badly…both in his body and his ego. And that’s how I became known as Rocco ‘Brute Force’ Messina.

 “Pussy,” I said again.

I didn’t grow up with any martial arts or boxing background, although with a name like Rocco Messina, it was only a matter of time before I did some form of combat. When I turned twenty I dropped out of college and joined my first fight club. I loved fighting, win or lose it’s what I wanted to do. I usually got thrown into a fight with only balls of steel and a tough chin. Skills and conditioning didn’t even matter when you fought in this type of environment. The only thing that mattered was if you could take a beating or give it and walk away from it. This was then added to my subconscious as a mental note after being put up against guys that were way out of my league. Loss after loss after loss only propelled me into a massive deconstruction of my former self.

Thank you for checking out this free preview

Only on Amazon for $.99 cents - http://smarturl.it/qlhrdv