by Ironspoke
The man punched his opponent. Repeatedly. It needed to end. From a distance I’m sure you could see his opponents long blond hair slowly turn red. The gash at the forehead, the broken in nose, the torn off earlobe, the split upper lip, the oozing crushed eyeball and the tooth that swung back and forth on a string of flesh from a bloody mouth. The dripping spit; a bright shade of red hung almost to the ground. His opponent stood opposite of him, hunched over in agony, but he refused to go down. There was a bonus for finishing on your feet and penalties against the man for failing to knock down his opponent cleanly. The man grew tired of the beating. He grabbed his opponent by the neck and twisted.
“How’d you do?”
“I think you’re gonna be hard pressed to best me,” said the man.
“Mine went down pretty quick. He slipped on his own vomit but that was after a few connections. I caught the side of his head. Hurt like a motherfucker. I’m sure I finished in the bonus.”
“All the same, I don’t think you’ll catch me.,” said the man with a lighthearted tone. The two men stood in the mostly empty locker room and undressed. They were exhilarated, refreshed and energized. Their fighting clothes on the floor, in a crumpled heap. They showered, dressed and then took their seats in the lounge.
“Tullamore Dew and ice,” said the man to the waitress.
“Rolling Rock,” said the other man.
They reclined and waited the moment for the interface to engage.
“Cheers,” said the man as he tasted his beverage.
They “watched” as they “fought” each other. The bonus points the one man got from the punches to the head of his opponent were nullified by the penalties incurred. The computer made the calculations, and the winner was determined. The man who snapped his opponent’s neck was victorious. The “battle” lasted all of five seconds.
“I knew I bested you!” said the man.
They both laughed as they enjoyed their drinks.
“Next week we try knives. I’ve heard nothing but good things,” said the man, content with his victory.