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One of Us: Chapter 1: Scene 1-The Fight

An excerpt of a novel in progress.

A flash of pain, and the world died. Its taste remained. A nasty salt that lost its savor long ago. As he resurfaced from blindness, his spinning head took in the night: Hungry faces. Worn brick. Filthy and disturbed puddles. Brown clouds hanging in the air like fat men.The incarnation of one stupid decision after another after another. April’s mist whipped him across the face, an unlikely assist from her. Regaining his footing, he distanced himself from his opponent after the strike. His smaller frame and quicker feet held the advantage in little else but retreat. The dying street light shone upon him, a David casting a Philistinian shadow. His opponent moved against him with the intensity of a bitter wind, loud clopping steps against cracked concrete. The assailant dragged the dark world behind him. Arm drawn back, the adversary planned to end it.

“Alright! Round over!”

The fist stopped short. A guttural voice erupted from the adversary’s throat like magma, as frustration and saliva rained over our protagonist’s bones. Arms open, receiving the baptism, he winked at his much larger opponent before sauntering to his corner. He sat on a flimsy stool, shoulders dropping more than he expected, when he heard from a voice in his right ear::

“PRO-TECT yourself.”

A warm hand slapped his shoulder, “I know you think it’s cute to block with your face, but you won’t be laughing when I have to scoop you off the ground.” The voice quieted, allowing for the swarming sound of human cicadas. It spoke again, “Look, I see you take one more hit like that, I’m stopping it. You get me?”

Without breaking his dead eyes from the opponent across the alley, “No need,” the other spat. “I’ll end it this round. Simultaneously eyeing his trainer and opponent. “I’m going with the three,” the fighter commented, holding up a bandaged trio of fingers. 

The shadow leveled his hot breath to the fighter’s cheek, In a leveled tone, he spoke: “It’s risky. You could be killed.”

“If I don’t, I’ll definitely lose,” the retort came unaccompanied with hesitation as if being defeated with breath in his lungs was an unforgivable sin. He turned his head to the right, waiting for his trainer’s response.

Silence peppered our protagonist's corpse more than the previous three rounds of combat. Before he could make a joke to put his trainer at ease, surrender emerged first: “Fuck it. Be sure your wrists and ankles are coated. You don’t want to shatter them.”

“Good call… Don’t worry, I’ve got it.”

“You had better,” the voice faded.

David rose first, standing shy of 5’9. His combat crafted muscles made him seem taller. An unrelenting sorrowful gaze lay on his face, but not sorrow that leads to despair. He would channel it into the body of his opponent. The world had been bloody to him. It was only poetic for him to share the wealth. Black bandages covered brown knuckles ballooned and bruised through bashing the bare hide of the bastion before him. He wore grey, grease-stained shorts more appropriately burned than washed after an altercation like this. 

He then jabbed the air a few times, fists lighter than Darius expected. Our other protagonist. He played a few roles: trainer, manager, brother. Familial affection has a strange way of manifesting in the midst of a hell like tonight. Tonight wasn’t a moment to talk his little brother down from the ledge, but to have his blade ready in case things took a turn for the worst.  He stood outside of the ring, amongst the shouts of his neighbors. In this case, the term neighbor lacks all affection, goodwill dying with the falling of the sun. Neighbor simply described proximity. Like rocks to the beetles beneath. Like wind to sediment. Like the lion to the gazelle. Darius’ gaze cut through the shouting crowd to a man with a yellow smile. He then shifted his eyes to his brother’s back.

No guts no glory, huh David? Staring ahead at David’s opponent, stirring and rising, as a Leviathan rising from the depths.

The beast’s slow ascent in rising wasn’t due to fear, but physical difficulty. There was just so much of him to get up from a comically small stool. Minotaurs weren’t frequent visitors to these kinds of fights, but that was changing. However, we won’t get into that now. A bare-knuckle interspecies brawl is not an appropriate place to discuss the politics of dimensional immigration. It shouldn’t concern us at the moment. After all, it didn’t concern David. The only thing on his mind was the never-ending wall of muscle rising inch by inch before him. Driftwood colored fur reminded all watching that he was far from home. Standing on powerful legs, he reached a height of greater than eight feet. Black, pupil-less eyes rested in his head. Powerful arms and hooves that could pierce the untrained. His appearance didn’t concern the teen. A target was a target.

Neither David nor Driftwood could hear the drunken jeering of the manipulators and victims of the underworld. They only heard their own heartbeat and violent imaginations, as they stood knee high in the River Styx. The only audience, the fire-eyed Charon, waiting on who he would ferry away after this round. 

Puddle splashes and shallow breaths. It was back on.

Now, there’s a big difference between a hit that you see coming and one you don’t. A mental preparation is required to take a blow well, so when Driftwood heard his rib crack he knew he was in trouble. His instincts snapped into action, placing both of his hands above his head to crush his opponent. 

Sloppy.

The beast missed wide. An intense pain exploded in his leg, toppling him. The rain-coated ground would have been a reprieve for the beast, if his opponent didn’t press the advantage. With more agility than anyone expected, he rolled out of the way and back on his feet. His eyes then focused on the warrior ahead.

 I get it. 

Matterless blue energy emanated from David’s hands and feet, as sweat poured down his face. The bare-faced creature didn’t stay still for long, as they were face to face in just a moment. The minotaur blocked the next three blows, which were significantly stronger than anything he felt in the earlier rounds.

He can’t keep this up for long. 

Just as that thought floated through the creature’s mind, Driftwood found his opening, putting his fist squarely into David’s gut, lifting him off his feet. Pleasure washed over his furred body, seeing the look of surprise filtered pain on his opponent’s face. David’s muscles disengaged, as the minotaur lifted his body up, above the ground, shocked eyelids now shuddering. The minotaur lowered him, without letting him off of his fist, drawing back his other arm for a final blow. That is, until he looked at David’s corner, to see the impassive face of his opponent’s trainer looking on. 

Strange, I’d expect more of a reaction. What’s with that…

Incredible pain broke in upon his chin. Then, he couldn’t feel at all. Teeth exploded from his mouth, piercing the air like shrapnel. Driftwood flew, and then drifted. All 600 pounds of him, as easily as a batted balloon.

He didn’t know exactly what happened, but he did know it was over. On his downward trajectory to the ground, the last thing he saw was his opponent, a smoking palm right in the center of his stomach. 

I see. The deafening crowd cried before the mammoth could hit the ground.