Walking With The Outcast

Chapter 27 - Ace

I swing my clenched fist, landing it on my opponent's jaw. He crumples to the ground with a cry, and I take the opportunity to descend upon him. Punch after punch, my fists fly. They crack against his jaw mercilessly, and with each hit, my anger continues to grow.

Why did she have to get involved?

I slam my aching knuckles into his face, and blood flies from his mouth.

Why couldn't she just drop it like I asked?

His blood coats my hands, blending with my own crimson liquid so I don't know how badly my split knuckles cascade.

Why does she make me feel like I'm the monster?

My opponent's cries mix with the jarring shouts of the turbulent crowd, their bloodlust fed by my own. I push off of the man, face the crowd, raise my fists, and bask in their violence. Turning back after a minute, I'm surprised by the sudden fist from my adversary. It slams into my jaw, and blood pools into my mouth from where I bit my tongue. Stepping away from the blow, I wipe the thick liquid trailing down off my chin. I pause for a moment, tasting the coppery tang of my spilt blood.

And then I grin.

This is what I wanted: a fight.

Our shirts dyed maroon, we face each other with the desire to maim and prove ourselves better than the other. Circling me, he searches for any sign of weakness, so I remain still, permitting him his perusal. He lunges forward, his right fist cocked back and when it flies, I sidestep and throw an uppercut to his exposed stomach. Bending over, he shouts in pain as my elbows then slam into his head. I step back when he crashes to the ground, leisurely waiting for him to recover. It's not a fun fight if he loses too quickly.

My opponent climbs unsteadily to his feet, teetering to the side, and I'm amused when he almost falls again. The crowd boos his broken form, and the cheers of those who placed bets for me spurns him to right himself. While he waits for the dizziness to pass, I pretend to yawn, looking at my wrist as if I had a watch. The crowd roars with laughter, and my adversary watches it all with hatred shining in his eyes. I smile cheerily, inciting him to attack again. He punches me with renewed ferocity, adrenaline fueling each blow. I dodge and block some, but then he lands one on the side of my face, and colors explode across my vision. I stumble back, trying to maintain my balance. He seizes the chance to throw a swift hit to my rib cage, and pain rocks my side as I hear a crack. A rib is broke.

Heaving for breath, I clasp my side and feel the tender area. I see my opponent swing again, so I throw myself back to avoid it. My foot catches on a root, and I fall to the rough ground. My opponent jumps on me, and I now am in the position he previously was: punches slamming into me with a feverish intensity. Blocking his hits all the while, I try to buck him off, but his weight is too much and my strength too little. Eventually my arms drop, too heavy to lift anymore. I feel the punches stop, and I open my eyes to see the crowd in complete disbelief and silence. I look at my opponent, his hand being raised by John, the fight organizer.

"And the fight goes to-uh..." John starts unsurely and looks at me, laying on the ground. He's trying to give me time to get up. "The victor is Crusher!" He finally yells, even though it is quiet enough to hear my sweat drop. John drops my adversary's hand and starts to clap. No one joins him.

Riley shoves through the crowd, or more accurately, the crowd moves for him. He kneels next to me, wrapping an arm around my shoulders. "C'mon, Champ. Let's get you out of the ring before the crowd kills you."

I climb to my feet, and Riley guides me to his drink station. "Thanks," I cough out, my side burning. I sit on an overturned bucket.

Riley gnaws on his lip ring and swipes a hand over his buzz cut. "Well, that was...interesting."