Con - A Round in the Ring

[Ruben Rooben Reuben]

A fist smashes into Corgan’s face. For an instant, the world blurs and trembles. His bare feet stir up clouds of dust as he shuffles to one side. His vision clears just in time for him to see another fist sailing through the air. He twists at the waist, dodges the punch and rebounds. His knuckles sink into a stomach, just below the ribcage. The impact sends thick sweat in all directions.

Both men are drenched. Perspiration carves deep ruts through the tawny dust clinging to their shirtless torsos. The trails almost look like swollen veins running the course of their bodies. Like dust-men gradually melting away.

The man throws his shoulder back. Corgan reacts by stepping in close, ready to clip the attack short, but realizes his mistake too late. Something hard smashes into his temple, snapping his head to one side. A resounding thud fills his ears, followed by a sharp whistle. His eyes fill with tiny dots of light dancing in a chaos of contact. Corgan stumbles backwards, edging just out of the reach of another uppercut.

A deep voice calls out. “Round!”

Corgan drops his hands as he rights himself. His vision remains blurred for a moment, but slowly clears. The other man turns and walks away. Even through the nebula of dust, Corgan can see that his opponent is breathing heavily.

“Corgan!” a female voice shouts. He turns to his corner where one of his entourage slides a small wooden crate into the boxing ring.
“Let’s go! Get over here!”

He makes his way to his corner and promptly collapses onto the crate. A splinter of the crate stabs through the seat of his pants. He doesn’t notice. The slashes of flesh on his colossal chest begin to disappear as the dust resettles on his sticky skin. The echoing thud in his ears begins to fade, leaving only the piercing whistle.

A small crowd cheers and laughs as the fighters rest between rounds. Some of the crowd watches from a distance while the majority stands just outside the rope barrier of the ring, getting as close to the action as possible. The rope is thick, course and sooty from so many dusty bouts. It runs through the holes bored into the turnbuckles: thick, wooden railroad posts stood on end.

“What the hell’s wrong with you out there?”
Sweat seeps into Corgan’s eyes. He turns to Valerie, his manager. His eyes sting and wink shut but he can still imagine her face. He’s seen it before. Her long red hair is pulled to one side and drapes over her shoulder. It is frayed at the tips from her nervous habit of chewing at it while concentrating. Her round face looks amused, even though she’s genuinely angry. Her emerald eyes give that away. They always did.

“You’ve pissed on guys bigger than him!” she says. “What’s the deal?”

A corner man runs a grimy rag across Corgan’s face. His words come loudly, pushed out between gulps of breath. “Sex…before…fight.”

Valerie thumps his head. “Don’t you try to blame me for this, you lummox! If you get the hell beaten out of you, it’s your own crotch’s fault.”

“I’ll…live…with it.” Corgan smiles. His top lip splits and blood spills down his chin.

“Not looking like that you won’t,” Valerie says. She turns to the corner man and accepts his offered towel. She begins wiping at his face. “God, Cor, you’re all over the place. Look at that.” She points to the ground between his feet where the blood has pooled.

For a moment, before his blood seeps into the ground, Corgan can see his scarlet reflection. The bulging muscles in his wide neck push out snaky veins. The cleft in his chin is bleeding almost as much as his lip. His shorn scalp is streaked with dust and grime. The face in the blood smiles even wider and begins to chuckle. It pours from his lip.

“I am getting whipped, aren’t I? What round is this?”

“Seven of ten, Mr. Cor,” the corner man replies.

Valerie leans close to Corgan’s ear. Even in the sun, he can feel the heat from her lips. A few strands of her hair stick to his shoulder.
“Just two more to go, baby. Don’t let him win pretty, though.”

Corgan nods.

The announcer steps into the center of the ring and bellows.
“Up! To the line!” He drags one foot through the dust, marking the standoff point for the next bout. The crowd cheers as the men pull themselves up and into the ring.

There weren’t many draws in Junktown. The Skum Pit was the only bar and its prices were starting to near those found at Gizmo’s casino. The Ring was Junktown’s only alternative to the entertainment provided by whiskey and roulette. More often than not, however, it was whiskey and roulette that led to The Ring. It was a diabolical chain of venues. Thirsty travelers would commonly stop by the Skum Pit first. Once they had thrown back more than enough booze, they would feel indestructible enough to empty the rest of their pockets at the casino. After that, broke, hungry and confused, the most obvious means of recovering their money seemed to be prize fighting.

Corgan and the man step to the center of the ring. Each extends one bare foot across the line, positioning themselves low and close together. The man’s eyes are baggy; dark lines of earthy sweat etch across his face. He points down to his side where a purple bruise is already forming beneath his ribcage. Corgan smiles, nods and indicates his own split features. The man laughs quietly. Several of his teeth are missing.

Most fights were over within a few rounds. The majority of contenders were oddball nomads bent on making a quick profit. Likewise, the majority of contenders left disappointed. The Ring was originally an obscure area designated by the founders of Junktown as a place to settle disputes in a non-deadly fashion. In a more civilized manner.

Corgan rams his head into the man’s nose; the feel of a fleshy squish tells him that he’s broken it. The man stumbles back and cups a hand over his nose, which is already turning into a blood-faucet.

The crowd erupts as a ribbon of gore courses across the ground. They cheer as Corgan rages after him. He keeps low and maneuvers to the man’s bruised side.

Once he had established himself as a presence in Junktown, Gizmo was quick to purchase The Ring. He had the citizens construct the turnbuckles and ropes. In the beginning, he had tried to charge admission to the fights. But as it was an open-air arena, it proved futile. So instead, Gizmo found profit in obtaining and managing a group of the more successful fighters, making them the draw for more spectators. He then established a small entry fee for challengers. And even if the fee could be paid, one would not be permitted to fight unless a second party represented him in the corner. If no second party were available, Gizmo would provide one. For a price, of course. If the contenders happened to be broke, which they often were, then part of their winnings went toward their “fight expenses.” If they lost, which they often did, they were pressed into Gizmo’s service for a length of time.

Hot, dusty air rushes past the man’s face as Corgan’s fist swoops just short. He senses that Corgan will be a while on the recovery and so takes advantage of his exposed flank.

Two rapid-fire lefts pummel into Corgan’s gut. Breath whooshes out of him. He tries to step back but the man is already moving in. He pounds on Corgan’s stomach in a steady, left-right rhythm, pushing him closer and closer to the ropes.

It wasn’t a bad life, Corgan had figured. Since he was scouted for Gizmo’s prizefighters two years ago, he had eaten more, slept better and gotten more women than he ever did as a caravan driver; especially the women part.

It wasn’t that he couldn’t land a woman. That was never a problem. His hulking size and rugged features usually brought in the more superficial skirts. Rather, it was the demands caravanning had on time and energy that kept him above the sheets. Now, however, it seemed that all he ever did was eat, screw and compete.

Gizmo had seen to that. Part of the signing benefits the prizefighters received was free lodging at the Crash House, a seemingly bottomless supply of food and access to Gizmo’s better girls. At first the girls didn’t cooperate with the system. They didn’t like the idea of working without pay. So Gizmo, as was usual, found an equitable solution. His fighters had a free hand to the girls, who in turn received payment as the fighters’ representatives for the bouts.

The girls had each picked out her own protégé based on his performance in and out of The Ring. They had made a game out of it, as hookers often do. This way, it wasn’t lechery so much as it was an effective management skill.

Whatever, Corgan had figured.

The man slips back too far and Corgan capitalizes. His elbow smashes across the man’s mouth, sending a stream of spit and blood arcing through the air.

He was relieved when Valerie stated her intention to manage his career. Some of the girls had gotten dumpy with the flow of income. Valerie, however, had managed to keep herself in such a shape that the mothers of Junktown still had to forbid their sons from entering Gizmo’s precinct. She was almost as tall as Corgan and twice as foul-mouthed. Like many of the other girls, Valerie had grown fond of managing a fighter and so she approached the job with deadly seriousness.
The same couldn’t be said for Corgan.

A voice bellows from the crowd. “Round!”

[Archchancellor]

Yay that brings the total number of contest entries to three

[Ruben Rooben Reuben]

That means everybody gets a trophy, doesn't it? Go advertise the contest at other fanfic sites. Slap it up on Interplay's own forums. Dammit, Arch! Unzip and wang that thang until somebody notices! 8O

And dammit! People be reading this! They better be voting too! SOMEbody be the mammy, I knows it.

[Archchancellor]

*Hands him fliers and paste*
You complain you advertise so get to it the Rubey

[Ruben Rooben Reuben]

*Wipes ass with fliers*
No.
*Eats paste*
I've got my own causes to pimp on my own time. Anybody want to buy a 1984 Toyota Corolla?

[AltraWave7]

*Hands him fliers and paste*
You complain you advertise so get to it the Rubey

I'll make mention over at V52 for ya Arch...

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Oh the fun!
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[Ruben Rooben Reuben]

zug zug

[Ruben Rooben Reuben]

Losers never win.