Fight Night with @nogodsnoheroes

[forrestertailor]

Prizefighting went one of two ways, for Luka. First, he could take the fight seriously and attempt a good show despite his enormous strength by toying with his opponent for a few rounds and then finishing them off decidedly after the bell, usually at the top of the fourth or fifth round. It was a tough business, not because of any real risk of harm but because his strength and ability to walk off nearly any injury made him a very conspicuous fighter. He had to sell pain and disorientation in a way he did not real, and often got wrapped up in his performance enough to lose sight of his real objective: Beating the snot out of his opponent for large sums of money.

The second option was altogether easier: Rig the fight. Few were the fighters who looked up at his seven foot, musclebound self, and thought they had a fair chance in a brawl. So why not fake it? Both fighters would perform, toss each other around and see how they could best hurt one another without injury, before one of them wheedled out a victory. Then they split the money and disappeared. It was altogether easier and left far fewer questions. Even if they were made for charlatans they were then both culpable, instead of strange questions being asked as to why just one fighter had been holding himself back.

Seeing the woman across the ring from him tonight, with a severe, animal look in her eyes and no apparent interest in talking things out, Luka guessed tonight would go the hard way.

He shrugged off his satin robe, hung it on the post behind him and sat watching the woman in the opposite corner of the ring. Worrying over fighting women didn't concern him, only the worry that he would be up against someone slighter than him and punching down at that. If he wasn't careful there could be serious trouble right away, and if the match was over too quickly he might be made for the sneak thief he occasionally was.

Hands wrapped, glasses stewed away, in his undershirt and trousers Luka rose when the ref grumblingly summoned the fighters to the center of the ring. He tapped his knuckles on his opponent's and inclined his head towards her, hoping for fruit at the end of his olive branch as he said:

"Let's have a good clean fight, uh?"

Comments

[nogodsnoheroes]

Organised fights weren't usually Bethan's speed. They had referees, for one thing, and usually it wasn't considered good practice to grab your opponent's hair and smash their head repeatedly against the floor. More importantly, people saw her in this kind of fight, and there was an unfortunate chance that, if she got in too much of a mess, they would start asking why she didn't go to the hospital. Or trying to take her to one.

But the money was good, and her family did keep telling her she should get out more. And it wasn't like they could get on her back for putting herself at risk. Not when she had been hearing her father and her uncle try to outdo each other with cage-match stories for her whole life.

She didn't have a satin robe - perhaps unsurprisingly, given how much she generally looked like she'd never seen satin in her life. She just shucked off her leather jacket, pushing up the sleeves of her faded blue sweater, and took a moment to check the tape on her knuckles before crossing over to the centre of the ring.

Despite being tall for a woman, Bethan was pretty used to feeling small. It came with the territory - she might be tall, but all the men in her family were well over six foot and most were built - to use her mother's terms - like brick shithouses. Still, the guy in the ring was extreme - there had to be a full foot's height between her and him, not to mention the weight difference.

If this fucker pins you, it's over. So... better not let him bring his weight to bear, then.

She rapped her knuckles against his, looking up at him with hard blue eyes, her lip curled a little.

"Get fucked, asshole." Olive branches had never really been her speciality.