The Fight

         Smoke hung heavy in the air. Voices, even at a low murmur, echoed through the large warehouse. People of all sorts gathered around the wrestling ring, sitting on whatever they could. Like flies on shit, photographers hovered around the entrance ramp and fighting space. They jostled for position trying to get a decent line of sight.
         A voice rang out, only slightly audible above the din of the audience. A name, mumbled and barley heard, is said then music begins to play. This music silences the audience. The lights, already dim to begin with, dim even more. For a few brief moments this is how the setting stays. The stage lights brighten, as do the ones over the ring, and a large figure loomed out of the shadows at the head of the entrance ramp.
         Cameras click as the man, who stood over six feet tall, lumbered down the ramp. Built like a football player and covered in tattoos, he looked like the kind of guy you wouldn't want to meet in a dark alley. With surprising grace, he climbed onto the ring and slid between the middle and top ropes. He moved around the ring, lifting himself onto each corner in turn, rousing both cheers and boos from the fans. Then he lounged against the ropes, facing the entrance ramp, seemingly unconcerned about the fight about to take place.
         Lights on the ramp and stage lowered until they were almost completely out. The announcer spoke a name; there was only the slightest movement, almost indescribable, on the stage. Once again, music game over the speakers, it was joined by a steady smacking sound. As the lights came up, a slender wiry man emerged from the darkness. He carried a ken do stick, wacking it on the stage a few times before resting it on one shoulder. He ambled down the ramp, glowering into the lenses of photographers as they clicked away. Stringy brown hair hung against his face, making him look more like a murderer than a wrestler.
         With one arm, he pulled himself into the ring. He, too, made his rounds, eliciting a few cheers and hisses. It was all too obvious who the crowd though was going to be the victor. The slimmer man stood in the corner, ken do stick resting at his side with the tip on the mat. He didn't seem at all phased by the size of his opponent.
         A tension rolled off the audience, ratcheting up the excitement. There was no referee, not for this fight. Unlike most backyard and underground fighting groups this one wasn't faked. The fighters didn't pull punches or kicks. Chairs, and other weapons, connected with full force. They fought until one knocked out the other. It was this brutality that brought in crowds of paying customers. It also attracted photographers looking to make a quick buck. As long as the crowds kept coming, the mysterious organizers would keep putting on the fights.
         The two men glared at each other from across the canvas covered space. A low murmur rolled across the audience. The two were ready to lunge at each other, only tethered in place by some invisible force, waiting for the bell. After what seemed like an eternity, but was only a few a moments, the bell rang over the speakers.
         The reverberation from the bell hasn't ended, when the two men lept at each other. The ken do stick clattered to the ground as the slender man charged forward. Their bodies connected with a dull thud that made the crowd roar. The two grappled for a moment before the larger man swept his opponent's feet out from under him.
         Corvyn, the smaller man, was momentarily stunned. The larger man climbed onto the ropes, smirking down at the prone fighter. The crowd cheers as the tattooed fighter front flips off the ropes, his legs landing across the other fighter's torso.
         Bruno, the large tattooed man, leapt to his feet. Hands are thrown in the air as he approaches the ropes, eating up the audience's admiration and hate. Behind him, Corvyn coughed, only partially sitting up. His movements were slow and deliberate as he crawled over to his ken do stick. Before anyone can react, a loud crack resounds through the building. It almost drowned out the crowd.
         Bruno's face went blank for a moment, and then it turned almost purple with rage. He whipped around, Corvyn now stood in front of him. Ken do stick raised for another blow. As he brought the bamboo sword down toward his opponent's head, a maniacal grin spread across Bruno's face.
         Another crack resounded through the room. Cameras clicked as Bruno grabbed hold of the stick. Corvyn tightened his grip as the larger man pulled. The sword, removed from Corvyn's grasp, is tossed over the ropes. Once the ken do stick was dispatched, Bruno grabbed his opponent's shirt. He laughed quietly, and then tossed the smaller man over the ropes and onto the pavement surrounding their fighting space.
         A dull thud was lost in the roar of the crowd. For a moment, Corvyn laid there. Breathing somewhat raggedly, he pulled himself to his knees. A folding chair, one of the few that are empty, is grabbed by Corvyn. Pulling himself into the ring again, he slid quietly between the ropes. Bruno, not about to let Corvyn cheap shot him again, turned only to come face to face with the chair.
         Corvyn laughed ast he larger man crumpled to the mat. Still breathing in that sort of ragged manner, Corvyn dropped the chair and grabbed the man. He drug Bruno to the corner, propping him up. The chair is rested against the stunned fighter before Corvyn makes his way across the ring. In a few quick movements, Corvyn is standing on the top rope in the corner. Bruno groans, eyes partially open only to see the smaller man come flying, feet first, across the ring. Corvyn's feet connect with the chair, slamming it into Bruno's chest.
         Bruno sagged, coughing and sputtering as the air was forced from his body. Corvyn jumped to his feet, reaching for the chair. Bruno was faster, grabbing the chair before his opponent can even get his hands on it. The larger man stands, bringing the chair back over his head. He is almost growling as its brought down, aimed for the center of Corvyn's head. The smaller man is too quick for that, and jumps backward, the chair skimmed by with a quiet whistle.
         As Bruno advanced and Corvyn moved back, photographers pushed and shoved to get decent pictures. Tossing the chair aside, Bruno grabs the back of Corvyn's shirt, and drug him backward. His free hand grabbed his opponent's jeans and pulled him into the air. With a grunt, Bruno tossed Corvyn over the top rope.
         Luckily for Corvyn, not all photographers move very fast. One of the slower ones broke his fall. The camera is dropped, after Corvyn catches it in the face, and the photographer is knocked unconscious from the impact with the pavement. Corvyn seemed unharmed, aside from the split lip and bloodied nose, and was back on his feet rather quickly. A couple audience members drag the photographer out of the way.
         Corvyn helped himself to a nearby table, not caring who was using it, and set it up alongside the ring. He moved quickly around the ring, grabbing his ken do stick. As he jumped back into the ring, Bruno charged him. The ken do stick was swung like a baseball bat, connecting with Bruno's mouth. Corvyn moved around behind Bruno as the larger man staggered a bit.
         Now spitting blood, Bruno turned again. Unlike his smaller opponent he has become a dumb animal blinded by rage. Again Bruno charges at the smaller man. At the last second, Corvyn ducked, sending Bruno flying through the ropes and into the table in a perfect belly flop. Corvyn looked over the ropes, watching as Bruno pulled himself from the wreckage that was once the table, splinters stuck in the front of his shirt. The smaller man can't help but laugh, it is a slightly evil sound as he watched his opponent.
         Pulling himself onto the top rope, he dropped the ken do stick. After a moment’s pause, he sprung off the top rope, Corvyn planted his feet in the middle of Bruno's back, knocking him forward. As the larger man caught his balance, Corvyn picked up a two by four left over from ring construction, and stood.
         Bruno, staggering and still full of rage, turned to face his persistent opponent. He lumbered forward, and grabbed Corvyn's t-shirt. This was the last abuse the shirt would take and as Corvyn stepped backward the shirt ripped. In anger, Corvyn pulled off the remains of the shirt then jabbed Bruno in the gut with the end of the board. The shot to the gut doubled Bruno over, Corvyn took the chance and brought the board down on the back of Bruno's head.
         With a grunt, Bruno sprawled at Corvyn's feet. He was breathing but not conscious. Grabbing his tattered shirt and ken do stick, Corvyn gave Bruno one last parting kick to the ribs then ambled up the ramp, not giving the announcer time to announce the winner. Photographers swarmed around him, snapping pictures. Once he disappeared back stage, the money grubbing shutter bugs swarmed around Bruno's incapacitated body.
         A few men came from backstage, and headed toward Bruno. Water was splashed on him and the men helped the staggering brute backstage. Meanwhile, in the crowd, money exchanged hands and people began to leave. Corvyn's theme music blared over the speakers. A few photographers lingered, hoping to catch a couple more pictures of the fighters on the stage. The shutter bugs that weren't hovering had moved outside, hoping to catch snapshots of the bloodied warriors leaving.
         Of course the fighters would pick of their pay before they left. There was speculation over who funded these fights, but no one knew for sure who organized and paid for these events. Whoever it was made plenty of cash off of them. Cars were leaving the parking. A few groups lingered, chatting about the fight. Apparently, Corvyn winning had been quiet the upset.
         Bruno had been pegged to win by a huge margin. Several people were upset by Corvyn's win and in these circles, which was bad. Since the groups creation, fighters had disappeared whenever fights didn't go as expected. Bruno was the angriest person of all over the loss. He was especially angry about the run in with the two by four.
         Inside the warehouse, Bruno was getting his head stitched up. His manager stood in the corner, looking rather angry in the dull glow of his cigar. He had not spoken to Bruno since he regained consciousness. That was just fine by Bruno. He wasn't the brightest bulb in the box, but he knew he was in deep shit when his manager did speak.
         In another room, Corvyn had pulled on another t-shirt. He had his money, which had been waiting for him when he returned from the fighting arena. Now he was making his way out the back door, lit cigarette dangling from his lips. A few lingering photographers snapped his picture as he exited the warehouse. A long dark land yacht pulled up, and the trunk popped. Corvyn loaded his stuff in the back of the car, and slammed the trunk. He slid into the passenger seat. The car pulled away, leaving the photographers in the dust.