C***s

A cage fighter before and during his match, based upon the ultra violent days of the early UFC.

 

He felt the cold inside his head as his eyes ran down to the balled up hands, knuckles cracking out into strings of blue vein, like threads of electricity bursting out of his callouses and moving into the ripples of his forearms. He rocked back and forth, his mass stacked up on the locker room bench, the glorious din of the crowd rung from outwards and hummed into the walls, as if acting as reminder to why he would destroy another man. ‘Someone’s son,’ He thought. His manager, Evans paced in front of him, a dazzling bright suit and the bouncing extravagance of a cowlick in complete ignorance to the blooded stench which enveloped them, his mouth hosting a flurry of random and generic strings of incoherent speech, Darius could only assume that it was motivational.

‘Look Darius, m**********r ain’t got nothing on you.’ Evans raised his voice over the cheering, ‘You got anything to say?’ He paused, turning around to the trainer. This other man responded with a grimace, before returning a beer can to his lips, his gut was hanging loose over his belt, over it a yellow T-shirt plastered with the words ‘Team Pitbull.’  

‘Yeah, pretty much what he said, you know?’ The trainer finally managed.

‘I got this’ the words sounded weak inside his head, but he knew it’d all change as his feet touched the rough canvas. Looking around now, he saw the white tiles of the locker room were stained with blood and his ears tore as the crowd’s roars peaked once more as the sign of another fight’s finish, wondering in what state of mind he’d return.

 

‘Kid it’s on you.’ Evans said.

Darius sat still for a few more moments, his mind blocking out the world so he could have a few more moments as a man, for he knew that inside that cage he was something more, or something less, this much he did not know.

‘This guy ain’t fit to talk to you, this guy ain’t fit to shine your shoes, frankly I don’t know what business the m***********s got thinking he has the right to fight you.’ Evans straightened his jacket and stepped back as Darius stood up and broke into shadow boxing. His body twisting with each punch he threw along with the soft whispers of his breath, a deep grunt followed each time he crouched to simulate a takedown and a spin each time one of his legs kicked outwards and into the air.

‘That’s it kid, it’s on you, night’s yours, and I know it, you know it. M**********r out there definitely knows it.’  Evans said, the trainer managed a grin before he tossed the beer car can aside. The members of the gym walked in excitedly, repeating Evans’s words, yet to Darius they were distant murmurs for to him for  the world turned to silence, as if it were in mourning of mankind itself.

 

Darius squinted as they walked outwards and into the narrows of the stadium hands outstretched from the seat crowds and the cage, a blood stained remnant to battle had sunken into the drunken flurry of lights, which slashed across, and into each other from above as if the skies themselves were doing battle.

His trainer walked besides him, the stolid man in stone face astoundment to the crowds fascination, and the manager Evans bounced lightly upon his feet as if it were he who was fighting, behind them trialed an entourage of men who seldom spoke, but never did they miss a cue to grunt or flex.

Each step carried the weight of the world, and each time his name was heard through the screams he knew what must be done. He thought of the other man, and he thought of the cage, he thought of the animal in his head and what savagery he would stand witness to as it was released. He thought about how he would leave for a while, and how he knew that when he came back his only thoughts would be of horror.

 

He felt Evans’s grip yet again, firm against his arching shoulders as he realized now the walk was over, for only the cage remained. The man in black beckoned him with the wave of a hand, cage doors opening before him. Darius rose up upon the stairs, above the world. They shut behind him with a thud.

‘Yeah kid, you’re a f*****g animal.’ Evans shouted.

Darius looked across to the other man, who had walked the narrows much like he had, faced the same crowds and now stood upon the same canvas.

But now it was different, now a man was going to be destroyed.

 

A portly man stood in the rings centre, a microphone in one hand and loose hanging sheet in the other.

‘Ladies and gentleman, this is the third fight of the night, in the NHBFC. Introducing first, fighting out of the blue corner, this man is a freestyle fighter, with a record of three wins and one loss, Darius ‘The animal’ Taylor’

Darius, put on his face, a grin from ear to ear as his hands propped to his hips.

‘And out of the red corner, this man is a karate and judo fighter, with a record of two wins and two losses, ladies and gentleman, Alex ‘Magic’ Margolis.’

The crowd roared once more, and Darius looked across for the first time to see his opposing man, he stood taller, wearing an old karate gi and an extravagantly fashioned blonde mullet, his eyes carrying the first glimmer of fear. At this Darius knew what was to become of him.

Civilization seemed to walk out of that cage along with the ring announcer, as if only two men remained, and he was going to try his damndest to ascertain that there would only be one.

His feet grinding into the canvas, browned by fighters blood. It was just them, them and the man in black, he signaled them to the heart of the ring and the words felt fleeting as he recanted the two rules which sat as cardinal sin here.

‘No eye gouging, no biting, defend yourself at all times, play it clean.’ He heard.

They stepped backwards as the referee finished. Waiting now for his call of war.

‘Get it on’ The shout like a storm of cinders raining down upon him, driving his body forward almost instinctively, a dark enchantment him and the opposing man into a circling  dance, each with their guards up and feet bouncing. Stalking one another.

 

Darius took three steps forth, his chin tucked low and his bare hands clenched in the air, the crowd spoke amongst themselves, some shouted as Darius threw the first jab. Magic moved his head to the right, and leapt backwards before he sent a low kick, Darius felt the sting against his legs as he drove onwards his hands whipping out into two hooks, the right connected, his knuckles cracking against Magic’s jawbone, but as the man stepped back from the onslaught he returned a right cross. Darius felt as his nose burst open, and his eyes grew hot, water welling up in them, he pushed forward ducking the next punch and feeling the slap against his thigh as Magic’s next kick landed. Magic stepped forward now, pushing through with a series of punches, Darius put his guard up before throwing a jab and twisting Magic’s form with a body shot, hearing the man whelp in pain as his elbows lowered and his gut wrenched into itself. Darius followed with a left hook and right cross, both landing and leaving their marks upon Magic’s face. Magic retreated backwards across the octagon as recovery to his frame. Gore cascaded from the bursting orifice of his mouth, and the cavernous abyss of a red gash screamed out from the corner of his eye.  

Darius swung once more, his head stooped into his shoulders as to cover his face. Magic in turn put up his hands in defense before he moved in, locking Darius’s arms in a clinch. Darius swung him, as if they were cavorting into the movements of a twisted dance, before Magic’s right foot stepped across and his arm across Darius’s neck for a hip throw, Darius slipped low and let the bicep slip over his head and his arms reached around the opposing man’s torso before his hands clasped together and lifted the man into the air, twisting his body before bringing him down to the canvas in a cataclysmic thud.

He had induced the cheers of the crowd, and it was only then the world came back to him.

     

 Magic turned to his knees and elbows and kept his head tucked into his body as Darius crawled to his back and threw heavy hands down upon the slab of flesh.

Magic’s arms dug into the mat, as he pushed himself forward before Darius’s fists came down hard upon the back of his head, in response he turned and fell upon his back, legs kicking out in attempts to keep his assailant away from him.

The blood had already soaked into the fibers of Magic’s gi, soaking it in blood and something else.

He scampered to his feet as Darius bulled in, pushing him backwards as he attempted to strike back, only to fall into himself, sending his body hurtling into the fence. He had barely enough time to stand before Darius’s knee dug into his groin, keeling him over before the back of his head took three more punches, only falling forward as an uppercut swung into his mouth, leaving him on the floor, hands gripping to the locks of the fence. Darius stood over, watching this man as if he were all men.  Thrusting his fist into Magic’s face as he rolled against the floor of the cage, deciding his hands weren’t enough for such a task Darius grabbed onto the cage for leverage, methodically bringing his foot down upon the mans face, feeling the delicate dislocation of bones upon the soles of his foot, and as Magic turned he continued, but now upon the back of his head. The body grew limp, yet the foot came down like some sort of mechanical beast, stopping only when the man in black’s hands pulled him back.

 

They slowed before him, as if he had caught the fleeting sight of their minds, as if the world itself was at its whim, and it was held within the man who lay bloodied before him. For this cage, as the men flooded it, basked in his adulation, and stepping backwards, staring into the eyes of his felled man he knew that what it held was war. No, he was not but a warrior, nor a practitioner, for he knew now looking at the man convulsing violently upon the canvas, that he was far more.