Post by Juggers on Jul 25, 2006 14:58:50 GMT -5
The ring of people was made up of a bizarre contrast of characters; ragged beggars, leather-clad thugs and suit-wearing high rollers all stood cheering and wagering as the brutal contest of flesh and bone raged at their centre. Flanked by howling, money wielding punters Nick Smithson aka 'Nasty' Nick stood on the front line, a cruel smirk written plain across his metal-studded face. It was widely believed that Nick was more piercing than flesh these days, not that anybody would say such a thing to his face if they wanted to stay intact.
Another meaty smack sounded from the heart of the throng and one of the combatants stumbled to the ground clutching his bruised jaw and dripping blood from a split lip. Somebody yelled at him to get the fuck up, somebody else threw a bottle. The bloodied man struggled back to his feet and dived back into the fray.
Three minutes and several more smacks later and the same man thumped heavily to the ground and lay still, his face a patchwork of rapidly deepening bruises and his jaw twisted at an odd angle.
"He'll live!" Nick yelled at the frenzied mob, some of which were already putting the boot in as compensation for their lost bets. "But he might not talk right again," he added quietly. Not that the crowd cared. They were only interested in violence and money.
The victor, one Jim 'Clubber' Johnson, was roughly slapped on the back, handed a John Smiths and variously praised by his supporters. His supporters for as long as he continued to win at any rate. Thus far his winning streak stretched to five; not a record, but not bad by bare-knuckle standards.
The crowd was momentarily drowned out by the thunderous roar of a train as it rattled across the bridge above. When he could hear himself again Nick raised his hands for attention.
"We ready for another?!" He shouted enthusiastically, his pockets already bulging with ill-gotten gains.
The crowd bellowed its ascent and Clubber got another round of slaps on the back.
"Who ya got for me?" He said with a grin.
"New boy," Nick said with another of his unpleasant smiles, "local lad, ya might know 'im ... the Marko kid?"
Jim snorted in contempt, "a fuckin' gang-banger kid? Are you taken the piss?"
Cain Marko shouldered his way to Nicks side, his six foot and one inch frame already heavier with muscle than the average seventeen year-old.
"No, ya fuckin' wanker, are you?" Cain spat into the ring, barely missing the feet of the Clubber. He pulled off his shirt and threw it into the waiting hands of Telson, his number one ganger and what passed for a closest friend.
"Pissant kid, I'm gonna fuck you up," he pointed a calloused finger at Nick, "this is fuckin' sick!" He said, but balled his fists up ready anyway.
Cain stepped into the ring and money instantly started changing hands, he could hear his gang start bawling encouragement behind him but kept his eyes on the big man in front of him. He could do this, he told himself, he'd been fighting on the streets for years and taken down worse than this piece of shit.
Clubber swung an experimental left, testing the kids reflexes. Cain jumped a little, ready to protect himself. Big Jim grinned and stepped in with a slug to the gut the almost knocked Cain to floor there and then. As it was he gasped and retreated, swinging his fist in a wide arc that bounced off the Clubbers shoulder.
"That all ya got you little shit?" Jim taunted as he closed in again, aiming a blow at the kids face this time.
Cain ducked the heavy swing, this time connecting with a punch of his own to the Clubbers midriff. There was wet smacking sound and Jim stepped back a grimace on his face that clearly showed he HAD felt that one.
"You little bastard!" Clubber spat, then spun in with a left, right combo.
Cain blocked the right but moved too slow for the left. The fist cracked painfully into his face and tumbled him to the floor. Jim stepped back with a huge grin plastered all over his face and the crowd screamed its support.
"Fuck off back to ya' mum kid," the Clubber taunted and walked the circle laughing.
Cain was on his hands and knees. Blood dripped from his mouth and nose and there was a ringing in his ears. He was sure he could feel a loose tooth. Though he couldn't see them, he could already imagine the looks derision on the faces of his gang.
The ragged circle became a desolate school ground, the jeering crowd the tormenting children, the swelling bruise on his face the mark left by his father and in his mind he saw the Clubber standing over him, the image of his drunken father yelling obscenities at his cowering son.
Deep beneath the toughened exterior, down through the layers of emotional scarring and abuse, at the furthest and most secluded depths of his heart and mind, something precious finally broke.
"My mum," Cain growled through bloodied teeth. Jim stopped his circling and leered down at the kid, "what?" He asked.
"My mum," Cain repeated, "is fucking DEAD! YOU PIECE OF SHIT!"
He surged to his feet in a blur of motion, a balled fist leading the way with such ferocity that big Jim Johnson had only a moment of shock and surprise before the blow connected.
There was an unpleasant, and not entirely meaty crack of impact.
The crowd continued to cheer for a few moments, unaware that anything was wrong before Jim started to waver on his feet. The cheering tailed off into coughs and stares.
The Clubbers nose wasn't broken, it simply wasn't there any more. It had been crushed flat into bloody pulp of broken bone and flesh that now occupied the centre of his face. He tottered sideways drunkenly, hands clasping and unclasping spasmodically.
Somewhere in the crowd a girl screamed.
Then big Jim Johnson's eyes rolled up in his head and his knees buckled beneath him.
It didn't take an expert eye to tell that the man would not be fighting ever again. Or anything else for that matter.
Telson ran over to the fallen foe and knelt beside him. He put a hand on his brow and then on his throat like they did on TV. A moment later he withdrew his hand again, trembling slightly.
"Jesus Cain," the young ganger breathed, "you fuckin' killed 'im!"
Cain stared numbly down at the cooling corpse before grabbing his shirt back from Telson.
"Yeah?" He shouted, "well he fuckin' deserved it!"
With that he stormed out of the circle and back to the streets. Nobody tried to stop him.
Another meaty smack sounded from the heart of the throng and one of the combatants stumbled to the ground clutching his bruised jaw and dripping blood from a split lip. Somebody yelled at him to get the fuck up, somebody else threw a bottle. The bloodied man struggled back to his feet and dived back into the fray.
Three minutes and several more smacks later and the same man thumped heavily to the ground and lay still, his face a patchwork of rapidly deepening bruises and his jaw twisted at an odd angle.
"He'll live!" Nick yelled at the frenzied mob, some of which were already putting the boot in as compensation for their lost bets. "But he might not talk right again," he added quietly. Not that the crowd cared. They were only interested in violence and money.
The victor, one Jim 'Clubber' Johnson, was roughly slapped on the back, handed a John Smiths and variously praised by his supporters. His supporters for as long as he continued to win at any rate. Thus far his winning streak stretched to five; not a record, but not bad by bare-knuckle standards.
The crowd was momentarily drowned out by the thunderous roar of a train as it rattled across the bridge above. When he could hear himself again Nick raised his hands for attention.
"We ready for another?!" He shouted enthusiastically, his pockets already bulging with ill-gotten gains.
The crowd bellowed its ascent and Clubber got another round of slaps on the back.
"Who ya got for me?" He said with a grin.
"New boy," Nick said with another of his unpleasant smiles, "local lad, ya might know 'im ... the Marko kid?"
Jim snorted in contempt, "a fuckin' gang-banger kid? Are you taken the piss?"
Cain Marko shouldered his way to Nicks side, his six foot and one inch frame already heavier with muscle than the average seventeen year-old.
"No, ya fuckin' wanker, are you?" Cain spat into the ring, barely missing the feet of the Clubber. He pulled off his shirt and threw it into the waiting hands of Telson, his number one ganger and what passed for a closest friend.
"Pissant kid, I'm gonna fuck you up," he pointed a calloused finger at Nick, "this is fuckin' sick!" He said, but balled his fists up ready anyway.
Cain stepped into the ring and money instantly started changing hands, he could hear his gang start bawling encouragement behind him but kept his eyes on the big man in front of him. He could do this, he told himself, he'd been fighting on the streets for years and taken down worse than this piece of shit.
Clubber swung an experimental left, testing the kids reflexes. Cain jumped a little, ready to protect himself. Big Jim grinned and stepped in with a slug to the gut the almost knocked Cain to floor there and then. As it was he gasped and retreated, swinging his fist in a wide arc that bounced off the Clubbers shoulder.
"That all ya got you little shit?" Jim taunted as he closed in again, aiming a blow at the kids face this time.
Cain ducked the heavy swing, this time connecting with a punch of his own to the Clubbers midriff. There was wet smacking sound and Jim stepped back a grimace on his face that clearly showed he HAD felt that one.
"You little bastard!" Clubber spat, then spun in with a left, right combo.
Cain blocked the right but moved too slow for the left. The fist cracked painfully into his face and tumbled him to the floor. Jim stepped back with a huge grin plastered all over his face and the crowd screamed its support.
"Fuck off back to ya' mum kid," the Clubber taunted and walked the circle laughing.
Cain was on his hands and knees. Blood dripped from his mouth and nose and there was a ringing in his ears. He was sure he could feel a loose tooth. Though he couldn't see them, he could already imagine the looks derision on the faces of his gang.
The ragged circle became a desolate school ground, the jeering crowd the tormenting children, the swelling bruise on his face the mark left by his father and in his mind he saw the Clubber standing over him, the image of his drunken father yelling obscenities at his cowering son.
Deep beneath the toughened exterior, down through the layers of emotional scarring and abuse, at the furthest and most secluded depths of his heart and mind, something precious finally broke.
"My mum," Cain growled through bloodied teeth. Jim stopped his circling and leered down at the kid, "what?" He asked.
"My mum," Cain repeated, "is fucking DEAD! YOU PIECE OF SHIT!"
He surged to his feet in a blur of motion, a balled fist leading the way with such ferocity that big Jim Johnson had only a moment of shock and surprise before the blow connected.
There was an unpleasant, and not entirely meaty crack of impact.
The crowd continued to cheer for a few moments, unaware that anything was wrong before Jim started to waver on his feet. The cheering tailed off into coughs and stares.
The Clubbers nose wasn't broken, it simply wasn't there any more. It had been crushed flat into bloody pulp of broken bone and flesh that now occupied the centre of his face. He tottered sideways drunkenly, hands clasping and unclasping spasmodically.
Somewhere in the crowd a girl screamed.
Then big Jim Johnson's eyes rolled up in his head and his knees buckled beneath him.
It didn't take an expert eye to tell that the man would not be fighting ever again. Or anything else for that matter.
Telson ran over to the fallen foe and knelt beside him. He put a hand on his brow and then on his throat like they did on TV. A moment later he withdrew his hand again, trembling slightly.
"Jesus Cain," the young ganger breathed, "you fuckin' killed 'im!"
Cain stared numbly down at the cooling corpse before grabbing his shirt back from Telson.
"Yeah?" He shouted, "well he fuckin' deserved it!"
With that he stormed out of the circle and back to the streets. Nobody tried to stop him.
