Post by Dionysus on Jul 18, 2016 23:39:40 GMT -5
It was a mild evening in Arden Hills, MN. A crowd is gathered around a pit in the back of a gym. The pit sits eight feet deep and 15 ft in diameter, with one side sloped. The crowd is letting out a cheer as a smaller man is knocked to the ground, his face matted with dirt and blood. A larger man towers over him, a plank of wood in his hand. It too is covered in blood. The smaller man spits out blood as he lets out a groan.
“Heh, that’ll teach ya; don’t break my streak!” the larger man whispered. He turned to the crowd, raising the wood over his head while the crowd cheered. The smaller man was dragged out of the pit, his head hanging, though whether it was from shame or from his injuries, no one could tell. “NO ONE CAN BEAT ME!” the large man said. “NO ONE CAN BREAK MY STREAK! THE STREAK OF BIG SAL!”
Despite the size, the pit did attract a fair number of people. A promoter, simply referred to as “The Rat,” would have people place bets on who would win the pit fights. So far, Sal had gone 20 matches without a single loss…or even being hit. Some would call it amazing…all except for one man. He would appear at each fight, but stand off in the distance, observing more than participating. Some of the fighters were impressive to him, with the exception of Sal. He would wait, therefore, until people would think he was entirely unbeatable, and put Sal in his place.
Tonight was Dion Necurat’s lucky night.
“That’s right! 20 matches and still no one can stop Sal,”
said The Rat. “I’d be afraid, whoever decides to go next!” The crowd cheered again, and when it died down, they heard…a clanging noise. In confusion, the crowd looked around.
Dion Necurat stood behind The Rat, towering over him. The crowd was hushed, now having put two and two together; there was a large metal disk strapped to Dion’s arm. Dion had hit his fist against the shield, making it ring. One man in the crowd shouted, “Lookit there, fellas! The nerd’s got a shield!” His buddies laughed as Dion walked with confidence down the ramp. Dion was not phased; they would witness soon enough how devastating Dion can be with it.
Sal looked over Dion; though tall, Dion stood shorter than Sal. He let out a laugh. “HA! This runt wants a piece of me?!”
Dion cocked his head to the side. “A piece? No, I’d much rather have the full thing…if you can muster even that much.”
Sal glared at Dion. “Oooooo, we got a tough guy in the pit.” Sal circled Dion, looking him over. “Tough guy hiding behind a shield…bet you’ll tell me my mama was a hamster and my pops smelled like dog shit, right?”
Dion looked to Sal, his eyes determined, but his mouth twisting into a crooked grin. “Not at all. Your mother was a whore, and your father could be anyone within 200 miles of this county.”
The crowd roared in laughter, some shouting “OOOOOOOOoooo,” while Sal’s face turned red in anger. He began to pant heavily, his body twitching with each breath. “You shouldn’t have said that, boy,” he spat in anger.
Dion ignored him, turning to The Rat. “I’ll put 50 on me landing the first hit, and 200 to end the fight in three blows. Give me two minutes; I’ll be through long before then.” The crowd looked at him in shock, The Rat’s mouth in a quiver. This newcomer thinks he can make easy work of Sal? No one else was taking his side; all their booze money went to favor Sal winning. Fine by Dion; more money for him.
Sal’s rage was close to uncontrollable. “I’m gonna paint this pit with your blood, runt,” he grunted, pointing the piece of wood at Dion.
Dion had a constant problem of poking people when they shouldn’t be poked. “Runt? At least come up with something more colorful before I put you on your ass, you lemon pucker cum danish!”
Sal howled in fury as he took a quick swipe toward Dion’s head. Dion brought up the shield, blocking the blow and also causing the wood to splinter. As Sal staggered back, jaw agape, Dion rushed forward, planting the face of the shield into Sal’s torso. One bet settled by Dion as he landed the first blow, Sal reeling toward one wall of the pit. Sal put his guard up and attempted to sweep Dion’s leg. Dion hopped over the sweep, and lashed out quickly with the edge of the shield. The blow connected with Sal’s chest, forcing him into the wall. Dion dropped the shield, watching Sal stagger from the wall. He could barely keep his guard up, and his breathing was quickened from having the wind knocked out of him. Still, Sal made a clumsy swipe at Dion. Dion caught the punch and pushed it aside, lashing out with a right hook aimed for Sal’s temple. The large man went down, a gasp escaping his breath as he landed with a muffled thud. He coughed and sputtered, muttering out groans and inaudible curses; Sal’s streak had been broken.
Dion then turned to the crowd, saying, “Alright, show’s over. Get the hell out of my pit!”
The crowd stood confused...until the realization hit them; this was private property, and Dion, the owner, was here to clean house! They quickly dispersed, The Rat being too slow on the run. Dion approached The Rat as he tripped, crawling backward. “C’mon, man, just let me keep this take, eh?” he muttered pathetically.
“I have a better idea,” Dion replied. “Keep it, but donate the money to a good cause. One that I can read about.” Dion reached down and grabbed The Rat by the scruff of his shirt, pulling him up to eye level. His grin was a look of evil. “And if you don’t…well, people are run over by their own cars all the time, now aren’t they?”
The Rat squealed, scurrying away. Dion chuckled as he ran off. He never really meant to hurt the guy. Aside from running illegal fights, he was mostly harmless. He stopped chucking as he noticed a figure had stayed behind. It was a woman, dressed for business, not for a pit fight. “You know,” she said, “This is a way you could lose your gym.”
Dion turned to the woman. “Gym’s already closed,” he replied. “Who cares who wants to use it? I keep the riff-raff out when I hear a fight is going on, and that’s enough for me.”
The woman shook her head. “Your father wanted me to watch over you while your mother recovered from her illness. Would you want to run her bills into the dirt while you face assault charges again?”
Dion winced; he did not care to hear those words. The fights behind his gym, at one point, were sanctioned, with rules that people were required to follow, or otherwise be banished. Over time, the pits became the main focus of the gym until its closure, and with it Dion’s primary source of income.
He did wonder how this woman knew so much about his family's life, however.
He did wonder how this woman knew so much about his family's life, however.
“I have no other talent than this,” Dion said. He walked back to the pit, Sal still sprawled across the bottom. “I only know how to fight people. I only know how to compete. I’m a boxer without a ring, a gladiator without an arena.” He turned to the woman. “Poetic, I know. But that’s what my friends tell me.” He jumped down, grabbing his shield and sliding it back onto his arm.
The woman looked at him while he walked out of the pit. “You know…there is an industry where your brand of fighting could be…very entertaining…as well as profitable.”
Dion gave the woman a look of confusion. “What, travel to Russia and fight live steel? Then who would take care of my mother?”
She stepped closer to Dion. “No, not that. Something more entertaining.” She pulled out her card holder, and handed him a business card. “Contact this guy. He will interview you on the spot. You may need to train, and you obviously will need to learn restraint…but you have a future. A chance to win it all.” She chuckled. “Heck, you’d have an arena to fight in, gladiator.”
“Dion, actually,” he replied. “And you would be…”
The woman held out her hand. “Janet. Janet Esteed.” Dion took it, shaking her hand. Normally he wouldn’t bother being approached in such a way, but what was important was not the means of the job offer, but the fact that he had one. His mother was in need of medical treatment, and without a stable job, he would be unable to afford to keep himself alive, let alone his mother.
Janet turned and walked away. “Call him tomorrow, and if you don’t…well, gladiators are mauled by lions all the time, right?” she asked coyly as she departed. Dion let a smile dot his face, a genuine feeling of hope. In the dim light, Dion looked at the business card.
On it was written the contact information to WCF.
