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.
The Clash of egos: It's a tale as old as time. Two men want to fight, two men fight. Once it's done, things are settled. Fun wrestling story for any who enjoy it.
When the match between the arrogant Mikey and the hotheaded Celticfire was announced, it came as a surprise to absolutely no one. Seriously, not a single damn person. These two idiots had been itching to beat the shit out of each other for so long that the only real surprise was how long it had taken someone to put them in a ring. For weeks, they'd traded insults, threats, and increasingly creative descriptions of what they intended to do to each other, usually with a few hand gestures that would never make it onto daytime television. Both could talk smack as easily as they breathed, and neither had anything resembling a filter between his brain and his mouth. What started as good old competitive banter had become a full blown rivalry, with bruised egos, wounded pride, and two grown men acting like overgrown children. At this point, letting them wrestle wasn't just entertainment. It was practically a public service.
When the day came, these two bearlike men stood face to face in the center of the squared circle. It was already clear from the looks on their faces, neither would be willing to surrender so much as an inch of ground. On one side stood Mikey, a powerhouse wrapped in muscle, aggression, and enough pent up rage to power a small city. His thick arms hung at his sides, fists tightening and relaxing as he stared down his opponent. His eyes burned with intensity. His jaw was set. Some claimed Mikey's mouth moved faster than his fists. Tonight, he intended to prove them painfully wrong. Opposite him stood Celticfire, a thick as fuck framed Irish brawler whose body bore the evidence of years spent enthusiastically making poor decisions in places where alcohol was served. Broad shoulders, a heavy chest, and a stubbornness that bordered on a medical condition. He had more bar fights under his belt than should reasonably be allowed... naturally legal, or what ever. But right now what was concerning... Celtic was smiling. Not a friendly smile. The sort of smile that suggested somebody was about to have a very unpleasant evening, and Celtic was positively delighted about it. The referee stood between them, issuing the usual warnings about closed fists, illegal holds, and following his instructions.
Neither man appeared particularly interested.
"Hope you've got a dentist on speed dial,"
Mikey growled.
Celtic cracked his neck.
"Bitch boy says what?"
The referee sighed. It was going to be that kind of day. Somewhere in the audience, somebody shouted for them to stop flirting and start fighting. Definitely that kind of day. Great...
DING! DING! DING!
Mercifully the bell rang, and their damn pillow talk no longer became his problem.
They collided like freight trains. If freight trains were sentient, perpetually angry, and possessed absolutely zero regard for their own personal safety. The opening collar and elbow tie up was less a traditional wrestling maneuver and more an argument between two mountains. Thick arms locked around shoulders and necks. Boots scraped across the canvas. Muscles tightened, backs bowed, and the ring itself seemed to groan beneath their combined weight. Mikey pushed, and Celtic pushed harder. Neither moved. The crowd roared as both men strained against one another, faces reddening with effort. Mikey tried twisting his opponent into a side headlock, but Celtic planted his boots and shoved him away. Mikey rebounded off the ropes.
THUD!
A shoulder tackle slammed into Celtic's chest. Mikey expected a glorious cry of pain, what he got was the bricks for brains Irishman staggered backward one step. One. Fucking. Backwards. Step. Mikey stared. Celtic grinned and spread his arms.
"That all you've got... boy?"
Mikey answered with another charge. This time Celtic met him halfway, their shoulders crashing together hard enough to shake the ring. They clashed, raw man power met raw man power. Neither moved. Neither fell. They stood chest to chest, glaring at one another while the crowd grew louder. They pushed off with a loud grunt, with Celticfire quickly drawing back his arm.
CRACK!
A vicious open handed chop exploded across Mikey's chest. The sound echoed throughout the arena. Mikey recoiled, his chest already turning red, but remained standing. Celtic raised his eyebrows. Mikey responded with a chop of his own.
SMACK!
Celtic's expression changed immediately.
"Oh, you son of a- "
Another chop interrupted him. Then another. Celtic answered in kind, and suddenly the two were trading thunderous chest chops in the middle of the ring, each impact drawing a collective gasp from the audience. Mikey finally changed tactics. He ducked beneath Celtic's next swing and drove his shoulder straight into the Irishman's stomach.
WHUMP!
The impact folded Celtic forward, a deep grunt escaping his lips as the air was driven from his lungs. Mikey didn't give him room to recover. He wrapped both arms around Celtic's waist, tightened his grip, and heaved. For one glorious, terrifying moment, the big Irishman was airborne. Then came the body slam.
BOOOOM!
Celtic hit the canvas flat on his back, the entire ring shuddering beneath him. Mikey immediately dropped across his chest.
"ONE!"
Celtic kicked out before the referee could count two, throwing Mikey off with surprising force. The audience cheered. Annoyed, Mikey grabbed Celtic by the wrist, dragged him upright, and launched him across the ring with a powerful Irish whip. Celtic hit the opposite ropes and came charging back. Mikey lowered his shoulder. A mistake. Celtic hopped over the attempted back body drop, caught the ropes on the other side, and came roaring back with a running clothesline.
CRACK!
Mikey's feet left the canvas. The powerhouse crashed onto his back, stunned more by the unexpected reversal than the actual impact. Celtic didn't waste the opportunity. He hauled Mikey upright, hooked an arm between his legs, and lifted him across his chest.
"UP YE GO, LAD!"
Another body slam. Mikey hit the mat with a tremendous crash. Before he could roll away, Celtic hit the ropes and returned with a heavy elbow drop straight across Mikey's chest. The impact drove a strangled grunt from the powerhouse. Celtic hooked the leg.
"ONE!"
"TWO "
Mikey kicked out. Hard. Mikey scrambled to his feet, furious now. He charged. Celtic charged too. Their second collision was considerably less graceful than the first. Mikey ducked a clothesline, slipped behind his opponent, and wrapped his arms around Celtic's waist.
A grunt....
A tremendous heave...
Mikey launched the Irishman backward with a belly to back suplex. Celtic crashed onto his shoulders and upper back, legs flying into the air. The audience erupted, or more to the point, went ape shit insane. Mikey rolled onto one knee, sucked in a breath, and looked down at his opponent. He pulled Celtic upright, hooked him around the waist, and drove him backward into the nearest turnbuckle.
Once.
Twice.
Then a third time.
Each impact rattled the steel supports, drawing increasingly pained grunts from the Irishman. Mikey stepped back, took aim, and charged shoulder first into Celtic's unprotected middle.
WHUMP!
Celtic folded around the blow, both hands grabbing the top ropes. Mikey backed away. Another charge.
WHUMP!
The second shoulder thrust buried itself even deeper, crushing Celtic against the padded turnbuckle. The Irishman's knees buckled. Mikey caught him beneath the chin and forced his head upright. Mikeylaunched a mean headbutt.
CRACK!
The impact snapped Celtic's head backward. For the first time in the match, the Irishman's grin disappeared entirely. He blinked, dazed, tasting blood where his teeth had caught the inside of his lip. Mikey saw it... he literally smelled blood in the water. A right hook buried itself in Celtic's ribs. Then a left to the stomach. Then a brutal forearm across the jaw. Celtic's arms began to droop. Mikey seized his wrist and sent him across the ring with another Irish whip. The Irishman rebounded helplessly into a devastating spinebuster.
BOOOOM!
Mikey drove him into the canvas with enough force to make the front row wince. But he wasn't finished. Oh hell no he wasn't finished. He grabbed Celtic's legs, turned him over, and sat back into a Boston crab. Celtic roared as his back arched painfully beneath the pressure. The referee dropped beside him.
"DO YOU GIVE UP?"
"FECK OFF!"
Mikey leaned farther back.
"ASK HIM AGAIN!"
The referee obliged. Celtic's response was considerably less polite. The crowd laughed and cheered as the Irishman dug his elbows into the mat and began dragging both men toward the ropes. Inch by agonizing inch. Mikey tightened the hold. Celtic reached. His fingertips brushed the bottom rope. Mikey hauled him backward. The crowd booed. Celtic planted his palms, gritted his teeth, and made one final desperate lunge. His hand closed around the bottom rope.
"BREAK IT! NOW!"
Mikey released and gave the ref the finger, earning another chorus of boos. He stood over Celtic, breathing heavily.
"You're not so tough now, are you?"
The Irishman rolled onto his back, chest rising and falling.
"Come closer..."
Mikey leaned down. Celtic spat a mouthful of bloody saliva onto the canvas beside his boot.
"...and find out."
Mikey grabbed him by the head. Another mistake. Celtic suddenly surged upward, driving a fist into Mikey's stomach.
THUMP!
Mikey grunted. A second fist followed. Then a third. Each punch landed with the heavy, meaty impact of a man trying to rearrange somebody's insides. Mikey staggered backward. Celtic rose with him, firing another brutal hook beneath the stomach. Then an uppercut that snapped Mikey's head back. The crowd erupted. Celtic grabbed him by the wrist. Irish whip. Mikey rebounded. Celtic caught him across the chest with a thunderous power slam. Both men crashed into the mat. The ring shook like there was a freak earthquake.
Celtic hooked the leg.
"ONE!"
"TWO!"
Mikey kicked out. Celtic sat upright, wiped his mouth, and stared at the referee.
"Ah, come on!"
"Two!"
"Your counting's shite!"
The referee wisely declined to argue. Celtic grabbed Mikey and dragged him upright, but the powerhouse suddenly drove a knee into his belly. The Irishman doubled over. Mikey hooked both arms beneath Celtic's shoulders, planted his feet, and lifted him into a crushing bear hug. Celtic's boots left the canvas. Mikey squeezed. Hard. The Irishman's broad frame compressed between those powerful arms, his face contorting as the pressure settled around his ribs and stomach.
"COME ON!"
Mikey shouted.
"GIVE IT UP!"
Celtic shook his head. Mikey tightened the hold again. Celtic's breath came in short, strained bursts. For several horrible seconds, it appeared that Mikey might genuinely squeeze the fight out of him. Then Celtic raised both hands. Fuck, in the rush to get the bear hug in, Mikey forgot about the arms! Free, and able to move (even with great pain) Celtic clapped them violently against Mikey's ears. Mikey yelped, loosening his grip. Celtic dropped back onto his boots, grabbed Mikey by the head, and smashed a forearm into his face. Mikey staggered away. Celtic followed with a short arm clothesline that nearly turned the powerhouse inside out. But before Celtic could capitalize, Mikey rolled beneath the ropes and onto the apron.
That little shit...
The crowd booed. Celtic approached, grabbed a handful of hair, and attempted to drag him back inside. Mikey suddenly seized Celtic behind the head. And snapped his throat across the top rope. The Irishman stumbled backward, clutching his neck and coughing. Mikey slid inside. A kick to the stomach. A double underhook. Then a vicious butterfly suplex that sent Celtic crashing onto his back. Mikey rolled over him.
"ONE!"
"TWO!"
Celtic kicked out. Mikey slapped the canvas in frustration. He'd thrown everything at the Irishman, and the stubborn bastard simply refused to stay down. So Mikey decided to get creative. He dragged Celtic onto his feet and hoisted him across his shoulders in a brutal torture rack. The crowd came alive. One arm hooked Celtic's neck. The other secured his leg. Mikey pulled downward while bending the Irishman's back across his shoulders. Celtic screamed. His arms flailed. His boots kicked helplessly in the air. Mikey bounced on his heels, increasing the pressure with each movement.
"YOU WANT TO QUIT?"
"GO... TO... HELL!"
Mikey bounced again. Celtic howled. The referee moved closer.
"CELTIC! DO YOU SUBMIT?"
"FUCK YOU AND YOUR MOTHER!"
Mikey held him there several seconds longer, straining beneath his opponent's weight. But even a powerhouse had limits, and Celtic was not a small man. The Irishman began hammering elbows into the side of Mikey's head. Once. Twice. Three times. Mikey's grip weakened. Celtic twisted sideways and slipped free, landing awkwardly on his feet. Both men staggered. Then Celtic charged. Mikey caught him with a boot to the stomach. The Irishman folded over. Mikey wrapped his arms around him and drove him into the canvas with a thunderous gutwrench powerbomb.
BOOOOOOM!
This time Celtic stayed down. Mikey stood over him, chest heaving, a wicked grin spreading across his face. He could have gone for the pin. He probably should have. But Mikey had never been particularly good at knowing when to stop showing off. Instead, he grabbed Celtic by the hair and dragged him toward the corner. The referee warned him. Mikey ignored him. He hauled the dazed Irishman upright, shoved him against the turnbuckle, and hammered a fist into his stomach.
THUD!
Celtic grunted. Another punch struck his ribs. A vicious chop cracked across his chest. Then came a forearm to the face. Celtic's knees weakened, his arms draped helplessly over the ropes. Mikey climbed onto the second turnbuckle, towering over his opponent. The crowd knew exactly what was coming. He raised his fist.
ONE!
The first hammering punch crashed into Celtic's forehead.
TWO!
The second rocked his head backward.
THREE! FOUR! FIVE!
The crowd counted with every blow, some cheering, some booing, everyone completely invested in the punishment unfolding before them.
SIX!
Mikey raised his fist again. But Celticfire's eyes suddenly snapped open. His hands closed around Mikey's waist. The powerhouse hesitated.
"Oh, shi-"
Celtic roared. With one tremendous surge of strength, he stepped away from the corner and lifted Mikey off the turnbuckle. For a moment Mikey was suspended in the air, his expression changing from triumph to absolute horror. Then Celtic drove him down with a monstrous inverted atomic drop, followed immediately by a short arm clothesline. Mikey crashed onto the mat. The entire ring shook. The crowd exploded. Celtic stood over him, swaying slightly, blood trickling from his lip. His chest was red from the chops, his ribs aching, his back screaming from the submissions and suplexes. He looked like a man who had been thrown down a flight of stairs. Then dragged back up. Then thrown down again for good measure.
"MY TURN, YA BASTARD!"
Mikey barely had time to roll onto his side before Celtic grabbed him by the shoulder and hauled him upright. A vicious fist buried itself in Mikey's abdomen.
THUMP!
Mikey doubled over, the air escaping his lungs in a strangled gasp. Celtic grabbed him by the back of his neck. Another punch.
THUD!
Then another.
THUD!
The blows were short, heavy, and savage, each one driving into Mikey's middle with all the force Celtic's exhausted body could muster. Mikey stumbled backward, trying desperately to cover his ribs. Celtic seized his wrist and whipped him into the ropes. On the rebound, the Irishman caught him across the chest and hurled him overhead with a belly to belly suplex. Mikey crashed hard. He barely had time to groan before Celtic dragged him up again. A body slam shook the ring. Then a second. Celtic hauled him up for a third, staggering under the weight before driving him into the canvas once more. The crowd counted every slam, roaring louder with each impact. But Celtic wasn't done. He grabbed Mikey's legs, rolled him over, and dropped his full weight across the powerhouse's lower back. Then he pulled Mikey's chin backward, locking in a punishing camel clutch. Mikey roared as his spine arched beneath the hold.
"HOW'S THAT FEEL, EH?"
Celtic shouted. Mikey reached for the ropes. Too far. Celtic leaned backward, grinding the hold tighter.
"ALL THAT BLOODY TALKING! WHERE'S IT GONE NOW?"
Mikey growled something deeply unpleasant. The referee asked whether he wanted to submit. Mikey responded by planting his palms against the canvas and attempting to rise. Celtic's expression changed.
"Oh, don't you bloody dare you fu- "
Mikey pushed upward. His arms trembled. His legs shook. But somehow, impossibly, the powerhouse began lifting both himself and Celtic off the canvas. The audience erupted. Celtic released the hold before he could be thrown off, stumbling backward. Mikey turned. Both men stood facing each other once more. Sweating. Bruised. Breathing hard. Neither looking remotely ready to quit. Mikey wiped his mouth. Celtic cracked his knuckles. For one long moment, the two simply stared. Then Mikey swung. Celtic ducked. And answered with a right hook that snapped Mikey's head sideways. Another followed. Then another. Celtic drove forward like a storm rolling across the Irish countryside, hammering fists into Mikey's chest, ribs, and face. Mikey staggered, trying to defend himself. Celtic stepped inside his guard and buried another heavy punch into his stomach. Mikey's mouth fell open. The wind left him. Celtic seized the opportunity, grabbed him around the neck, and dragged him down onto the mat. Then he climbed on top. The wrestling match had officially become a brawl. Celtic straddled Mikey's waist, grabbed a handful of his hair, and drew back his fist. The referee shouted a warning. Celtic ignored him. The first punch slammed into Mikey's cheek. Then came another.Then a third. Mikey brought his arms up, trying to shield his head, but Celtic kept swinging. Some blows caught his guard. Others slipped through. One smashed into his jaw. Another struck his forehead. The Irishman was breathing like a wounded animal now, every punch accompanied by a furious grunt. Mikey twisted beneath him, struggling to escape. Celtic shifted his weight, planted a knee beside Mikey's ribs, and drew back his fist again.
THUD!
A brutal body shot slammed into Mikey's exposed stomach. Mikey jerked beneath him, gasping. Celtic laughed through bloodied teeth.
"WHAT'S WRONG, LAD?"
Another punch to the middle.
"NOT SO FUN..."
Then another.
"...WHEN YOU'RE ON..."
Celtic pulled his fist back.
"...THE RECEIVING END!"
The final blow landed with a heavy, ugly thump. Mikey curled instinctively, trying to protect his battered midsection. The crowd was on its feet. The referee was shouting. Celticfire was roaring. And somewhere beneath the Irishman's fists, Mikey was already gathering whatever strength he had left. Because Mikey was beginning to suspect that Celticfire had a serious problem. Not a wrestling problem. Not a fighting problem. A mental problem. Because no reasonable human being could absorb this much punishment and still have the energy to insult somebody. Yet there Celtic was, straddling his waist, grinning through bloody teeth and raining fists down with all the enthusiasm of a man celebrating his birthday.
Another punch slammed into Mikey's stomach. THUD! Mikey grunted, twisting beneath him. The Irishman's knuckles had already done a considerable amount of damage to his middle, and every fresh impact made his abdominal muscles tighten painfully. "GET... OFF... ME!" Mikey planted a boot against the canvas, twisted his hips, and finally managed to buck Celtic sideways. The Irishman rolled off, but before he could rise, Mikey grabbed his arm and dragged him into a grounded headlock.
Celtic thrashed. Mikey tightened the hold. Both men were breathing heavily now. Sweat dripped onto the canvas, their chests rising and falling as they struggled for control. "Had... enough?" Mikey rasped. Celtic answered by driving an elbow into his ribs. Mikey grunted. Another elbow followed. Then a third. The hold loosened just enough for Celtic to wrench himself free. Both men scrambled to their knees.
And immediately punched each other in the face. CRACK! They staggered apart, blinking in disbelief. The crowd exploded. Celtic spat onto the canvas. Mikey rubbed his jaw. "You're... really starting... to piss me off." Celtic grinned. "Good. Means I'm doing something right." They rose together. Neither looked particularly steady. But neither was finished. Not by a long shot. Mikey struck first. He ducked beneath Celtic's attempted clothesline, hooked both arms around the Irishman's waist, and launched him backward with a German suplex.
BOOOOM! Celtic crashed onto his shoulders. Mikey maintained his grip. With a tremendous effort, he rolled them both upright. A second German suplex sent Celtic flying. The crowd roared. Mikey's legs trembled beneath him as he dragged the Irishman up for a third. "COME ON, YOU BIG BASTARD!" He heaved. A third suplex. Celtic landed hard, bouncing once before collapsing flat on his back. Mikey released him and rolled onto his side, gasping.
For several seconds, neither man moved. Then Mikey crawled across the canvas and threw an arm over Celtic's chest. "ONE!" "TWO!" "THR " Celtic's shoulder jerked off the mat. Mikey stared at the referee. "No..." The referee held up two fingers. "NO!" Two fingers. Mikey collapsed backward, covering his face.
"You've got to be bloody kidding me..." Across from him, Celticfire rolled onto his stomach and laughed weakly. "That... all... you've got?" Mikey turned his head. "Oh, shut up." Celtic laughed again. It hurt. Everything hurt. His back felt as though somebody had taken a sledgehammer to it. His ribs ached whenever he inhaled, and the muscles of his stomach were beginning to protest every movement.
But hearing Mikey's frustration? That almost made it worthwhile. Almost. Mikey pushed himself upright, grabbed Celtic by the ankle, and dragged him toward the center of the ring. He stepped between the Irishman's legs and began twisting him into a sharpshooter. Celtic immediately recognized the danger.
"Oh, no you bloody don't!" He kicked desperately. Mikey stumbled but kept his grip. Celtic kicked again, catching him square in the stomach. WHUMP! Mikey doubled over. The Irishman planted both boots against his chest and shoved. Mikey flew backward into the ropes. Celtic rolled onto his knees, struggling to stand. Mikey rebounded. Celtic caught him with a tremendous spinebuster. BOOOOM! The ring shook.
The audience erupted. Celtic remained kneeling over his opponent, panting. "How... do... you... like it?" Mikey groaned. "Ask... me... tomorrow." Celtic laughed. Then winced. Laughing was becoming a very bad idea. He hooked Mikey's leg. "ONE!" "TWO!" Mikey kicked out. Celtic dropped his forehead onto the canvas.
"Oh, for feck's sake." The referee wisely pretended not to hear him. Both men had taken enough punishment to end an ordinary match several times over. Unfortunately, neither man appeared interested in being ordinary. And both were just stubborn enough to keep proving it. Celtic dragged Mikey upright and attempted another Irish whip. Mikey reversed it. The Irishman hit the ropes and came charging back, only to be caught across Mikey's shoulders in a fireman's carry.
Celtic struggled. Mikey adjusted his grip. Then dropped backward into a devastating Samoan drop. THOOOOM! Celtic's weight came down across Mikey's body as both men crashed into the canvas. The impact rattled the ring. Mikey rolled away, clutching his ribs. Even executing the move had hurt. He crawled toward the ropes, using them to pull himself upright. Celtic was on his hands and knees. Mikey saw his opportunity.
He charged. A running knee struck Celtic in the side of the head, sending him sprawling onto his back. Mikey dropped beside him. Another cover. "ONE!" "TWO!" Celtic kicked out. Mikey slammed his fist against the mat. The crowd roared its approval. He seized Celtic by the head, hauled him upright, and shoved him against the ropes. A forearm struck the Irishman's jaw. Another slammed into his chest.
Then Mikey grabbed his wrist and whipped him across the ring. Celtic rebounded. Mikey caught him in a crushing bearhug. Both thick arms locked around Celtic's lower ribs and stomach. Mikey squeezed. Celtic's eyes widened. "Oh, you miserable AGHH!" Mikey lifted him clear off the canvas. The Irishman's boots kicked helplessly as the powerhouse tightened his grip.
"YOU'RE DONE!" Mikey shouted. Celtic shook his head. Mikey squeezed harder. The pressure was unbearable. Celtic's already battered ribs screamed beneath the hold, and his stomach compressed painfully against Mikey's chest. The referee approached. "DO YOU SUBMIT?" Celtic tried answering. Only a strained grunt escaped. Mikey grinned.
"WHAT WAS THAT?" Celtic grabbed his shoulders. Mikey bounced him once in the hold. The Irishman cried out. "COME ON! SAY IT!" Celtic drew back his head. And smashed his forehead into Mikey's face. CRACK! Mikey staggered. Celtic struck again. Another headbutt. Mikey's arms finally loosened. Celtic dropped onto his boots, stumbled backward, and caught himself against the ropes. Both men stood there, swaying.
Mikey's nose was bleeding. Celtic's chest heaved. For a moment, neither could even summon the energy to insult the other. Then Mikey wiped his nose. "Cheap shot." Celtic raised his eyebrows. "Coming from you?" Mikey gave a tired laugh. And charged. Celtic ducked. Mikey struck the ropes. On the rebound, Celtic caught him around the waist, lifted, and drove him down with a sidewalk slam. BOOOOM! Mikey groaned.
Celtic remained on top of him, one arm draped across his chest. "ONE!" "TWO!" Mikey kicked out. Again. Celtic rolled onto his back beside him. Both men stared at the overhead lights. Neither moved. The referee began counting. "ONE!" " TWO!" Celtic turned his head. "Still... alive... lad?" Mikey stared back.
"Unfortunately." "Good." "Why?" Celtic managed a weak smile. "Not... finished... with ye." Mikey closed his eyes. "Oh, wonderful." The count reached seven before Celticfire finally dragged himself upright. Mikey followed, clinging to the ropes for support. Celtic advanced. Mikey threw a wild right hook. The Irishman blocked it and returned a savage chop across the chest. CRACK! Mikey staggered. Another chop followed.
Then a left hook slammed into his stomach.
Mikey grunted, bringing his elbow down to protect his side. Celtic caught him with a knee to the stomach. The powerhouse folded forward. Celtic hooked his head beneath one arm and lifted him into a vertical suplex. For several astonishing seconds, Mikey hung upside down. Celtic's arms trembled. His legs threatened to buckle. The crowd counted.
"ONE! TWO! THREE! FOUR!" "FIVE!"
Then Celtic dropped backward.
BOOOOOM!
Mikey crashed onto the canvas. Celtic rolled onto his stomach, both arms wrapped around his own ribs. He wanted the cover. He desperately wanted the cover. But his body refused to cooperate. Every movement hurt. Every breath burned. He managed to crawl across Mikey's chest.
"ONE!"
"TWO!"
Mikey kicked out. Celtic simply rolled away.
"You're... a stubborn... bastard."
Mikey coughed.
"Learned... from the best."
The Irishman chuckled. Then, very slowly, pushed himself upright. Mikey tried following. Celtic grabbed him by the arm. An Irish whip sent Mikey crashing into the corner.
THUMP!
The powerhouse struck the turnbuckles back first, arms flying across the top ropes. Celtic followed with a running clothesline.
CRAAACK!
Mikey's head snapped backward. He sagged against the padding. Celtic stepped away, breathing hard. The crowd began chanting his name. He looked at Mikey. At the powerhouse's exposed stomach. At those thick arms resting over the top ropes. Celtic's fist buried itself in his stomach.
THUD!
Mikey folded forward, a strangled grunt escaping his throat. Celtic pushed him upright. Another punch.
WHUMP!
Mikey's boots scraped across the canvas. A third blow drove into his lower ribs. Then a fourth struck the center of his abdomen. The crowd, naturally, counted along.
"FIVE!" " SIX!" "SEVEN!"
Celtic had both men trapped in the corner now, Mikey's back pressed against the turnbuckles, his thick arms hanging over the ropes as he struggled to protect his battered middle. The Irishman wasn't throwing wild punches anymore. He was choosing his targets. A short left hook slammed beneath Mikey's ribs. A right followed into his stomach. Then another left. Each impact was followed by a heavy grunt, Mikey's abdominal muscles tightening desperately beneath the punishment. Celtic stepped backward. Mikey sagged forward, clutching his middle. The referee intervened.
"BACK OFF! GIVE HIM ROOM!"
Celtic raised both hands.
"Alright! Alright! Frecking hell!"
Mikey tried straightening. His stomach was already reddening, and dark bruises had begun spreading along his ribs from the earlier punishment. He drew a shaky breath. Celtic watched. Then glanced toward the opposite corner. The crowd realized what he was thinking. Celtic charged across the ring, bounced off the turnbuckles, and came roaring back. Mikey attempted to move. Too late. Celtic drove his shoulder straight into the powerhouse's stomach.
WHOOOOOMP!
Mikey folded around the impact, a hoarse cry escaping his lips. Celtic backed away. Another charge.
WHUMP!
A second shoulder thrust struck Mikey's middle. The turnbuckles shook. The ropes trembled. Mikey's arms slipped from the top ropes as he began sinking toward the canvas. Celtic caught him under the chin and shoved him upright.
"COME ON, MIKEY!"
A left hook crashed into his stomach.
"YOU WANTED A FIGHT!"
Another right buried itself beneath his ribs.
"YOU'VE GOT ONE!"
Mikey gasped, his mouth opening and closing as he fought for air. Celtic grabbed his wrist, stretched one arm across the top rope, and resumed his assault. A hook to the ribs. A fist into the abdomen. Another vicious body shot. Mikey immediately sagged, folding forward with both arms wrapped around his stomach. For several seconds he could only cough and draw shallow, painful breaths. The audience was on its feet. Celtic wasn't finished. He grabbed Mikey around the waist, pulled him away from the corner, and lifted him across his shoulders. The powerhouse groaned. Celtic adjusted his grip, his legs trembling beneath Mikey's weight. Then he dropped to one knee.
CRACK!
A brutal gut buster drove Mikey's abdomen across Celtic's raised knee. Mikey cried out and tumbled onto the canvas, curling around his battered middle. Celtic collapsed beside him. Both men lay motionless. The crowd was deafening. Celtic managed to roll onto his side. He placed one hand against Mikey's chest.
"ONE!"
"TWO!"
"TH- "
Mikey kicked out. Barely. The referee held up two fingers. Celtic stared at him. Then at Mikey. Then back at the referee. "You're joking." The referee shook his head. Celtic slowly sat upright. "You're actually bloody joking." Mikey lay on his side, one hand pressed against his stomach. He was breathing heavily, his face twisted with pain. But he was smiling. Just barely. Celtic saw it. Celtic dragged Mikey upright. Or tried to. Mikey's knees buckled halfway, forcing the Irishman to support much of his weight. Celtic pulled him into position for a power bomb. He bent forward. Wrapped his arms around Mikey's waist. And lifted. Mikey struggled. Celtic grunted. His exhausted muscles strained beneath the load. Then Mikey suddenly shifted his weight and dropped behind him. The crowd erupted. Celtic turned. Too slowly. Mikey seized him around the waist and launched him overhead with an enormous belly to belly suplex.
BOOOOOM!
Celtic crashed onto his back. Mikey collapsed beside him. Neither moved. Neither even shook to show life. The referee looked between the two, a little confused, then began counting.
"ONE!"
"TWO!"
"THREE!"
Both men were breathing so heavily that the microphones could pick it up.
"FOUR!"
Mikey rolled onto one elbow.
"FIVE!"
Celtic turned onto his stomach.
"SIX!"
Mikey reached the ropes.
"SEVEN!"
Celtic pushed himself onto one knee.
"EIGHT!"
Both men staggered upright. The crowd roared. Mikey charged. Celtic swung. Both connected. Mikey's right hook struck Celtic's jaw. Celtic's left slammed into Mikey's stomach. They froze for a fraction of a second. Then both staggered backward. Mikey clutched his belly. Celtic rubbed his jaw. Neither could quite believe the other was still standing. Mikey laughed. A tired, disbelieving laugh. Mikey then charged again. This time Celtic caught him with a boot to the stomach. Mikey doubled over. Celtic hooked his head beneath one arm. The crowd rose. He was setting up for a DDT. Mikey suddenly drove forward, lifting Celtic off his feet and ramming him backward into the corner.
THUMP!
Celtic cried out. Mikey stepped back and delivered a tremendous chop.
CRACK!
Another.
SMACK!
Then a powerful knee drove into Celtic's stomach. The Irishman doubled forward. Mikey seized him around the waist and lifted him into a devastating back breaker. Celtic's spine struck Mikey's raised knee. He screamed. Mikey dropped him onto the canvas. Then, using the last of his strength, he rolled Celtic onto his stomach and locked in a camel clutch. The audience erupted again. Mikey sat across Celtic's lower back, hooked his hands beneath the Irishman's chin, and pulled. Celtic's back arched. His face twisted. The referee dropped beside him.
"DO YOU GIVE UP?"
"NO!"
Mikey leaned backward. Celtic roared.
"ASK HIM AGAIN!"
The referee did.
"DO YOU SUBMIT?"
Celtic's answer was a long string of Irish profanity that probably violated several international treaties. Mikey laughed. Then immediately regretted it as pain flared through his battered stomach. His grip loosened. Celtic felt it. He planted his palms. Pushed. Twisted. And managed to roll onto his side, throwing Mikey off balance. The hold broke. Both men tumbled apart. Mikey rolled onto his back, clutching his middle. Celtic collapsed face first onto the canvas. Neither moved. One minute passed. Then another long, agonizing stretch of seconds. The crowd began clapping. Slowly at first. Then faster. Both men stirred. Celtic pushed himself onto his hands and knees. Mikey grabbed the bottom rope. They climbed. Slowly. Painfully. Stubbornly. Until they were standing once again. Face to face. Mikey's nose was swollen. His chest and stomach were marked with bruises, and his arms trembled from exhaustion. Celtic looked no better. Blood stained his lower lip. His back was red from repeated impacts, his ribs aching beneath every breath.
A moment, a blinking of the eye, a breath.
They collided once more. Mikey threw a right hook. Celtic ducked. Celtic answered with a left. Mikey blocked it. Mikey drove a knee toward Celtic's stomach. The Irishman caught it, twisted, and swept the powerhouse off his feet. Mikey crashed onto his back. Celtic immediately grabbed his legs. The crowd exploded as he stepped through and turned Mikey over into a sharpshooter. Mikey roared. His back arched. His battered stomach tightened painfully as Celtic leaned backward, applying every ounce of pressure his exhausted body could manage. The referee dropped beside him.
"DO YOU GIVE UP?"
"NO!"
Mikey clawed at the canvas. Celtic leaned harder. Mikey dragged himself forward. One inch. Then another. His fingertips reached toward the bottom rope. Celtic tried pulling him backward. But his own legs were failing. His grip weakened. Mikey lunged. His hand caught the rope. The referee shouted for the break. Celtic released immediately. He staggered backward, breathing heavily. Mikey pulled himself toward the corner, using the ropes to climb. The Irishman followed. But Mikey had been waiting. As Celtic approached, Mikey suddenly surged forward and caught him across the shoulders. A tremendous burst of strength. A roar. And a devastating power slam.
BOOOOOM!
Celtic crashed into the canvas. Mikey landed on top. The referee dropped.
"ONE!"
"TWO!"
"THR- "
Celtic kicked out. The crowd nearly tore the roof off. Mikey rolled onto his back. His hands covered his face. He lay there for several seconds, shaking his head. Then he began laughing. Not because anything was funny. Because it was either laugh or cry.
"WHAT... THE HELL... DOES IT TAKE?"
Celtic lay beside him, staring at the lights.
"More... than that... apparently."
Mikey turned his head. Celtic turned his. And for one absurd moment, the two bloodied, exhausted men shared a grin. Then Mikey reached over and punched Celtic in the stomach.
THUMP!
Celtic grunted.
"YOU... CHEEKY... BASTARD!"
He returned a punch to Mikey's ribs. Mikey wheezed. Both men rolled apart. The crowd was losing its collective mind. And still, somehow, there was a match to finish. Celtic was the first to stand. Barely. He grabbed Mikey by the wrist and pulled him upright. The powerhouse staggered, exhausted. Celtic attempted an Irish whip. Mikey reversed it. Celtic hit the ropes and returned. Mikey bent for a back body drop. Celtic caught him with a rising knee to the chest. Mikey stumbled backward. Celtic grabbed his wrist and sent him into the opposite ropes. Mikey rebounded. The Irishman stepped forward and delivered a thunderous clothesline.
CRAAAACK!
Mikey crashed onto his back. Celtic staggered sideways, nearly falling himself. But he stayed upright. Somehow. Mikey rolled onto his stomach and began pushing himself up. Celtic waited. Not patiently. Not calmly. But with the grim determination of a man who had decided this was going to end one way or another. Mikey reached his knees. Celtic grabbed him around the waist. Lifted. Turned. And drove him into the canvas with one final, monstrous sit out power bomb.
BOOOOOOOOM!
The ring shook. The ropes trembled. Mikey hit the canvas flat on his back, arms sprawling outward.
Celtic remained seated between his legs. For a moment, he couldn't move. His own chest was heaving. His arms felt like lead. His back was screaming. But Mikey wasn't moving either. Celtic slowly leaned forward, folding Mikey's legs over his shoulders. The referee dropped into position. The entire arena began counting.
"ONE!"
Mikey stirred. His hand twitched.
"TWO!"
He tried lifting a shoulder. His body refused. Celtic tightened his hold. Mikey's legs trembled. He made one final desperate effort. But there was simply nothing left.
"THREE!"
DING! DING! DING!
The bell rang. And just like that... It was over. Celticfire released Mikey's legs. Then immediately collapsed forward onto his hands and knees. For several seconds, he stayed there, head hanging, sweat dripping from his face onto the canvas. He'd won. He knew he'd won. But at that particular moment, victory felt considerably less important than remembering how to breathe. Behind him, Mikey lay flat on his back. His arms were spread across the canvas. His broad chest rose and fell in heavy, exhausted breaths. His stomach was sore, his ribs ached, and he was fairly certain that several muscles had filed formal complaints against the rest of his body. He stared up at the arena lights. Blinking. Breathing. Trying to remember exactly why he'd thought wrestling Celticfire was a good idea. The crowd was still roaring. The referee approached Celtic and attempted to raise his arm. Celtic made a vague motion suggesting that his arm was currently unavailable for such activities. The referee accepted this explanation and stepped away. Celtic crawled toward Mikey. He stopped beside him, then slowly pushed himself onto his knees. Mikey turned his head. Celtic looked down. For several long seconds, neither said a word. The crowd had begun chanting both their names. Mikey was still breathing hard, his stomach rising and falling with each deep breath. Celtic looked little better, sweat rolling down his face, his shoulders rising and falling as he struggled to catch his own breath.
Finally, Mikey managed to speak.
"Well..."
He paused to inhale.
"...that sucked."
Celtic stared at him. then laughed. It was a tired, breathless laugh that immediately made him clutch his aching ribs.
"Ah, feck... don't make me laugh..."
Mikey grinned.
"You look... like hell."
Celtic nodded.
"Ye look... worse."
"Yeah..."
Mikey stared back at the lights.
"...probably."
Around them, the audience continued cheering. And there, in the center of the battered ring, the victor and the defeated stay side by side, both breathing heavily, both bruised and exhausted, both thoroughly satisfied. Celticfire had won the match. Mikey had lost the pinfall. But neither man had lost the other's respect.
Until next time...
