Stories: Split Decision

Series - Stories: Like with the shorts, these are generally done by request and have some personification of the requester in the story.  Unlike shorts, these are longer (6k+ words) and generally have far more descriptive and world building elements.  

 

Teaser: Split Decision. CelticFire vs. El Yaguareté.  Two warriors. Brutal rounds. Blood, bruises, broken pride, and enough punches to make the Gods wince. Two possible endings. One unforgettable fight. Who survives the war? 

 

 

Under the scorching lights of a roaring Las Vegas arena, two warriors stood at opposite ends of the ring. Two men carrying the pride of their nations on their shoulders. Two fighters at the absolute peak of their game, hungry for glory, eager for battle, and ready for the time of their lives. Of course, there had been plenty of shit talking leading up to this moment. Threats, insults, outrageous promises of knockouts, and enough swagger to fill the entire arena. That was simply part of the spectacle. The fans demanded a show, and both men had been more than happy to deliver.

But beneath the bravado lay something far more important.

Respect.

These two warriors respected the hell out of each other. They understood the sacrifices, the discipline, the countless hours spent bleeding and sweating for the privilege of standing beneath those lights. Neither man would dare insult the other by holding back. There would be no mercy given, no quarter asked, and certainly no punches pulled.

They hadn't traveled thousands of miles to dance around each other.

They had come to fight.

And by the Gods, what a fight it promised to be.

Before the night was over, that pristine canvas would be stained with blood, soaked in sweat, and bear witness to a glorious display of violence, determination, and sheer, unrestrained exuberance. First to enter,  came The CelticFire, carrying the pride of Dublin on his broad, battle hardened shoulders. An Irish hurricane with fists of granite, a stubbornness bordering on the supernatural, and enough fire in his blood to keep the furnaces of Hell burning for centuries. His beard was thick and brown, matching the closely cropped sides of his head, while the wild hair on top burned a fiery red beneath the arena lights. He looked like a drunk on Christmas morning who had just discovered that every present beneath the tree contained whiskey and a legally sanctioned opportunity to punch someone.

Joyous. Dangerous. Absolutely delighted to be there.

His dark red trunks bore simple black trim, while his battered black gloves looked as though they had already survived several wars. There was nothing particularly elegant about CelticFire. He was a bruiser, a brawler, a man who believed that the best answer to most problems was a sufficiently powerful right hook.And tonight, he had found someone who shared that philosophy.

Second, but no less, entering from the opposite side came El Yaguareté, the Jaguar of Argentina. He moved with the controlled confidence of the predator whose name he carried. Every step was deliberate, every movement economical. His dark eyes surveyed the ring with an intensity that suggested he was already calculating where his fists would land. Born in the barrios of Buenos Aires, he had clawed his way to the top through grit, determination, and enough hard fought victories to earn his place among the world's finest. Nothing had been handed to him. Every scar told a story. Every championship had been purchased with pain. And he wore those accomplishments with pride, as he fucking should. 

His muscular frame was leaner than CelticFire's, built for explosive speed and punishing precision. His dark blue trunks were equally unremarkable, his red gloves held loosely at his sides as he approached the center of the ring. Like his opponent, El Yaguareté had little interest in elaborate costumes, glittering robes, or unnecessary pomp.

They were here to beat the living shit out of each other, not win a fucking beauty contest.

A moment before hell was unchained....

The referee summoned them to the center, with two pairs of eyes locked. For one brief moment, the roaring crowd seemed to fade into the distance. CelticFire grinned, his expression somewhere between friendly amusement and outright insanity. El Yaguareté answered with a sharp, predatory smile. No hatred. No genuine animosity. Just two men who loved their sport, loved the challenge, and knew damn well that neither would be walking out of that ring looking particularly handsome.

Their gloves met with a firm, respectful tap.

Then they stepped back.

The referee raised his hand.

The crowd rose to its feet.

DING! DING! DING!

The bell rang.

Shorts: Hot Day at Work

Series - Shorts: Shorts are short one off stories done by request of the person generally in the story. Meaning, they will be self contained even if they have characters from other stories. Good for when you are looking for a quick fight that won't hurt your eyes reading for a long time. 

 

Teaser: Hot Day At Work. Jack's 24, cocky as hell, and thinks his perfect six-pack makes him untouchable.Kevin's older, tougher, and fresh out of fucks to give. One cheap shot turns a scorching jobsite into a brutal lesson in humility.

 

 

The red-hot sun blistered the job site like a furnace, somehow managing to be an even bigger dickhead than that murderous Sun from Super Mario Bros. 3. Metal gleamed beneath the relentless heat, hot enough to fry an egg and possibly the poor bastard holding the frying pan. Not even the thick industrial insulation seemed capable of keeping the heat at bay. Dust clung to sweat-soaked skin, tempers simmered, and the entire crew was approximately one minor inconvenience away from committing a felony. Most of the men had long since abandoned their shirts, deciding that the mandatory safety vests were more than enough clothing for this particular circle of Hell. Most of the men were smart enough to bitch to themselves... Jack, however, was having the time of his life. He strutted along the scaffolding, bare chest gleaming beneath his open safety vest, looking like he'd mistaken a construction site for a goddamn bodybuilding competition. Or what was the cool new thing? The Instagram photo shot? Twenty four years old, chiseled like a Greek statue, and possessing an ego large enough to require its own building permit. His abs were practically carved from marble, his arms were thick with youthful muscle, and his perfectly sculpted chest was something he apparently believed the entire world should stop and appreciate.

And he made absolutely certain everyone knew it.

Naturally with the power of youth came the absence of common sense. Unfortunately, Jack appeared to have received a double helping of the former at the complete expense of the latter.

"Yo, Kevin!" he shouted, loudly enough for half the crew to hear. "That beam's off by half an inch! You sure your ancient ass didn't measure it in cubits?"

Dark World: Collections Time

Series - Dark World: Dark world is the collection of stories that are far more violent then the other stories and often have brutal beat downs, sadistic fights and unforgiving knock outs. Great for your looking for a fight with more gritty tones. All stories take place in the same world. 

 

Teaser: Dark World Collections Time. James owed a debt. Ben and Comhraic came to collect. Two merciless fighters. One unlucky bastard. No rules. No mercy. Just fists, blood, and a beating that refuses to end. In Dark City, some debts are paid in pain.

The open park, despite being a space of quite retreat and nature surrounded by the city, was everything but. It stank of of rust, oil, and rain-soaked trash. Plus piss, a lot of fucking piss. It was the type of park the city sunk money into so they could pretend they cared. In practice is was a place people forget about, mostly on purpose. Like much in this city, one so perfect in "law and order", darkness swallowed most of it, save for the dim flicker of a busted streetlamps casting jerky shadows across the open areas. Somewhere distant, sirens howled (when didn't they in this shit hole city?), but here, in this forgotten corner of the city, there was only two sounds. The first was that of a body hitting the ground, with a puddle of water, hard. The next, the slow crunch of footsteps on wet concrete. James, was slowly getting back to his feet, having just been thrown there by a very nasty punch. His chest, bare having already lost his shirt, was heaving, showing little sign of being able to recover. His nose was already broken, blood poured like thick ropes down his chin. One eye was nearly swollen shut, possibly even damaged beyond healing. But he, James,  still clenched his fists, knuckles white and raw, jaw tight in defiance. The fight would never go his way, but he be damned if he go quietly. Coming up on either side of him, Comhraic and Ben approached with the patience of executioners. 

It was after all, their "sacred" calling.

“You had a chance to walk away,” Comhraic said, voice like the unforgiving deadly cold, so contrast to his code name... "To simply pay up and be done with it..."

Ben cracked his knuckles. “Too late for that now little bro, we have to collect!!” He didn't sound upset at all..

James spat a wad of blood at their feet. “Come on then.”

Shorts: Hooked on the Sport

Series - Shorts: Shorts are short one off stories done by request of the person generally in the story. Meaning, they will be self contained even if they have characters from other stories. Good for when you are looking for a quick fight that won't hurt your eyes reading for a long time. 

Teaser:  Hooked on the Sport. 22-year-old Dante has jokes, guts, and something to prove. Celticfire has years of experience and two fists ready to teach him a painful lesson. One ring. Two fighters. Countless body shots. Will Dante break... or be reforged? 

When men, real men,  stepped into the ring, there was a certain understand. Understandings that normal social behavior gave way to batshit insane violent mentalities. You understood pain was weakness leaving the body, you understood bruises were badges of honor, a sore body was a temporary inconvenience, blood came as easily as sweat, and you never half assed anything. Here boys became men. That's why CelticFire didn't question the man on the other side of the ring. His smaller (muscle) size didn't manner, his lack of experience didn't matter. He manned up and entered the ring, so no matter what, he earned respect.

Once the bell rang? It was time to earn some more. 

With the lights above the ring blazing hot, two men stood below ready to dance the violence dance. Many of the men in the gym had stopped their workouts to watch the fight, enjoying the social experience of it all. The crowd swelled to dozens of voices, but all of it, every sound, every face, every emotion on display, blurred into a dull hum for Dante. Dante being the man on the other side of the ring. He stood in his corner, shoulders twitching with nervous energy, he tried to calm himself. Gloved fists tapping against each other like he was trying to coax the courage out of them, he still tried to calm himself. He was far to excited for this fight, far to nervous, far to everywhere.

“Keep your hands up!” his friend turned corner man barked, “He’s not here to dance with you.”

“I dunno?” Dante quipped, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “I brought my best two step. Think he likes salsa?”

Across the ring stood CelticFire, or Celtic for short. He was a wall of muscle and menace. Of power and the subtle scent of "I want to hurt you". Previous battle scares danced around Gaelic knots coiled across his arms, chest and ribs, telling tales only fists could read. He didn’t bounce. He didn’t blink. He just waited, still and terrifying, like the moment before a wave crushes you. This was a man who enjoyed the fight, but did not let it control him.

The bell rang, fun time. 

Dante surged forward, light on his feet, ducking low, testing with a jab. Celticfire swatted it aside like it was an insult. Dante grinned, circling. “What do you call a boxer who makes pancakes?” he called out. Celticfire narrowed his eyes.

“A whisk-taker.”

Shorts: Ashes and Iron

Series - Shorts: Shorts are short one off stories done by request of the person generally in the story. Meaning, they will be self contained even if they have characters from other stories. Good for when you are looking for a quick fight that won't hurt your eyes reading for a long time. 

 

Teaser: Two bitter rivals. Years of bad blood. One forgotten alley. Celticfire and Unbroken have tried settled their differences in rings, cages, and underground fights, but tonight there are no rules, no referees, and nobody to stop the violence. Just bare fists, brutal punches, and a whole lot of unfinished business. Two men enter. Only one gets to walk away with his pride intact.

 

Philadelphia, 1995.

The city had fallen into that peculiar, almost dull silence, that only existed in the hours just after midnight. Slightly past the witching hour, but not really what people would call "morning" yet. It was the time reserved for when the drunks had mostly staggered home (mostly), the bars were shutting their doors to clean up the chaos, and the last stragglers of the night were disappearing into taxis or more likely, stumbling toward whatever passed for home these days. Meanwhile, the morning commuters, delivery trucks, and "respectable" bullshit citizens were still several hours away from bringing the streets back to life. Bringing them back to something that resembled "normal". It was that strange, forgotten stretch of time when the city seemed to belong to no one. Which naturally met no witnesses, no interruptions, no curious strangers asking questions they had no business asking. The perfect time for certain kinds of business, that was absolutely perfect. It would be as it should be. Just two men with a score to settle.

Neither had come here by accident.

There had been words over the years. So many words, so many arguments, threats to do this or that. Grudges that had been allowed to fester long past the point where reasonable men might have buried them. Reasonable, heh, what even was that no a days? Whatever had started their feud hardly mattered anymore. Time had twisted it into something uglier, something personal, something neither man was willing to walk away from.

Tonight, there would be no more talking.

No referees to stop them.

No audience, drunk or not, cheering them on.

No flashy entrances, no dramatic speeches, and certainly no concern for sportsmanship.

This wasn't a sporting event. 

This was personal.

The time for words was over.

The time to settle things had finally come. 

It was time to fuck shit up.