Warrior: A Fighter’s Odyssey Chapter 1: Over-the-Border Beatdown By [email protected]
This is chapter 1 of the on-going novel “Warrior: A Fighter’s Odyssey.” You can find this and four more free chapters on www.praetorianconsortium.com
In addition to “Warrior” is a second novel: “A Rite of Passage” featuring collegiate erotic fighting, also with free chapters. Both novels also feature for-pay chapters.
Registration is FREE, so come to the site that offers “The Finest in Erotic Combat Fiction” – www.praetorianconsortium.com!
(This message cleared with this site’s administrator) Artwork: Elvenesque
Summary: It all begins here: Bronco’s first professional fight, or at least, his first fight for money. There are no locker rooms, no music, no commentators – just a beat-up warehouse in the Mexican desert where a group of young thugs in the audience watch two young fist fighters in a cage while the “real” – and older – thugs and fighters filter in for a night of underground bouts and betting. “The Boss” has brought his latest – and only – fighter south of the border to see what he’s made of. Working with a complex formula of dice rolls to keep the outcome honest and fresh, will Bronco have what it takes to put “The Little Bull” away, or will the Texas teen get gored on “The Bull’s” horns? * FREE CHAPTER *
Wordcount: 3,033
Tags: Underground fighting; teen fighters, fist fight; fighting for prize money; betting on fights; no-rules bouts
Primary Characters: Bronco – Texas teen and underground prize fighter; “The Boss” – his mystery manager.
Secondary Characters: “The Little Bull” – Mexican teen and underground prize fighter Rating: PG for violence PLEASE NOTE: All characters depicting are 18 or older
Young Bronco looks down from his stool at the losers of the night’s first four fights. He nudges the bloody pile with his toe.
“Chickens,” he says shaking his head, then pulls his foot back from the feathery, lifeless bodies. After two years of lifting weights and the Boss’ merciless training, his first prize fight is finally here and the opening bouts were between… roosters.
“Prize fight…”
He snorts and smirks. His first fight for prize money, and probably not enough to cover the gas money all the way down here to Mexico, but, like the Boss says: “You gotta start kickin’ ass and taking names sometime.”
Besides, Bronco overheard the bookies in Amarillo tell the Boss that if “the kid” could beat “the Little Bull” of Nogales, it would impress the right people and open the door to more important – and brutal - underground fights.
Still… Bronco looks around the cramped, loud, tin shed that is in the corner of what looks like a slightly bigger tin shed – an empty warehouse in the desert. What is he in, anyway? The generator room? Something smelling of diesel blatts away in the corner. Some debut.
Bronco shrugs and begins pumping the two free weights. He admires his biceps and pecs as they flex under tight skin. He nods: The guns are ready – bring on The Little Bull.
The Boss walks in at that moment, leaving the door open behind him.
“Fight time,” he says, nudging the rooster bodies away with his foot. “You ready?”
“Yeah,” Bronco says, standing up and putting the weights in a back pack.
The Boss glares at Bronco’s trunks.
“What trunks did I tell you to wear?!” he snaps. Bronco looks down at his red flames-on-black shining spandex trunks that outline his jock.
“Oh,” Bronco says. “The American flag.” He begins pulling down the skin-tight shorts. Outside the door in the dimly-lit warehouse he could hear the announcer speaking Spanish. The only word he could make out is “Americano.”
The crowd begins booing.
Bronco straightens up as he pulls up the red-white-and-blue spandex.
“They’re booing,” he says.
“Of course they’re booing,” says the Boss as he lifts the backpack and puts it over his shoulder. “You’re the Americano punk who’s come to kick the hometown hero’s ass. Well, the future hometown hero, maybe. The sight of the two of you beating the shit out of each other isn’t even as popular as the cock fights. The real beat-downs start in about 30 minutes, but ‘the Little Bull’ is popular with a lot of teenage gang-bangers around here. He helps them learn to be crooked fight-managers-in-training.”
The Boss reaches into the backpack and hands Bronco a black hoodie.
“Put this on,” the Boss says. “Pull the hood down.”
Bronco slides the hoodie over his tanned torso and pulls the hood down. The hoodie’s sleeves have been torn off to reveal Bronco’s muscled arms so as to impress bettors and intimidate enemies. He begins zipping it up.
“Leave it open,” the Boss says. “They’re going to want to see what you’re bringing to the dance so they can decide who to bet on, even though I’ll be about the only one betting on you since you ain’t got a rep and the Little Bull does.”
Outside the generator room, the announcer again announces the “Americano.” The booing increases in intensity.
“C’mon,” says the Boss.
The Boss exits the room first, then sweeps his arm toward the opening as Bronco emerges. The booing rises to a crescendo. Bronco sees half-empty portable bleachers arranged around a 10-foot by 10-foot-square cage made of chicken wire with no “roof.”
As Bronco and the Boss walk through a narrow opening between the bleachers, fans lean down and shout in Spanish at him. A box of popcorn bounces off the top of Bronco’s head.
Just as Bronco is nearly past the bleachers, a teen with multiple arm tattoos leaps down and blocks his path. The young Mexican gets into Bronco’s face, shouting, waving his hands and cocking his head. The crowd bursts into laughter and applauds.
The Boss stops and turns back.
“If he touches you, break his nose,” the Boss says.
Bronco looks the teen up and down. The Mexican wears a tight, sweat-soaked wifebeater that reveals small but tight muscles. Bronco tenses his right bicep in preparation for a punch, but the teen’s laughing friends pull him back on to the bleacher
“Bitch,” Bronco snarls, then continues walking up to the cage door, held open by a fat man in a dirty black-and-white-striped referee’s shirt.
The Boss stands to the side of the entrace as Bronco steps in and examines the blood and feathers on the concrete floor.
“Take off the hoodie,” the Boss says. “Then start walking around the ring like the cock of the walk so the bettors can check you out.” The Boss nods to the far side of the cage where two benches of rough-looking men sit talking with notepads in their hands and glancing at Bronco.
Bronco slips off the hoodie, fully revealing his muscled torso. Some in the crowd coo and whistle in appreciation as others continue to boo, laugh and shout.
“What about my mouthguard?” Bronco asks as he begins to shake out his legs.
“None,” the Boss says. “When you punks punch each other in the mouth, they want to see blood and teeth. You’re lucky they allow jocks – you especially.”
Bronco tilts his head and looks up at the Boss.
“How do they determine who wins?” he asks. The Boss snorts in amusement.
“The winner knocks the loser out, or the loser just stops fighting,” he says.
“What about the ref?” Bronco asks, nodding toward the fat man.
“His job is to lock the cage behind you,” the Boss says with a smirk.
“No tapouts?” Bronco asks.
“No tapouts – no rules,” the Boss says, then looks intently at Bronco.
The young fighter considers this for a moment, then smirks.
“Cool,” he says, nodding.
The Boss smiles and runs his fingers through Bronco’s hair.
“All right, kid – kick his ass. Now, flex and walk toward the bookies,” the Boss says as he stuffs the hoodie into the backpack.
Bronco begins walking, bringing his knuckles together and flexing his biceps, then his pecs. The bookies examine him and jot down notes as other men walk up to them and whisper in their ears. Bronco looks down and admires his hardened new body. The stifling heat of the desert warehouse, even at dusk, produces a steady stream of sweat down his body that highlight his muscles.
The announcer again speaks and the crowd begins cheering and clapping. Bronco turns around to see glistening tan muscles stalking toward him – a fighter his age wearing spandex trunks with the colors of the Mexican flag. The Little Bull is surrounded by six or seven of his posse, all wearing sunglasses. The Bull wears a red cape. Bronco looks up to see the Bull glaring at him, all challenge – a predator.
Bronco locks eyes with the Bull, smirks and slams a fist into his palm.
“This is gonna be fun,” Bronco says.
The Bull snorts and clamps his bulge in a sign of disrespect. .
Bronco clamps his right back.
The crowd cheers louder at the sight of two muscled teens challenging each other and its promise of an entertaining bout.
The Bull walks up to the cage entrance and stops. A member of his entourage pulls off his cape and, eyes still locked on Bronco, the muscled young Mexican enters the cage.
“Circle him!” the Boss shouts, seated on a bench near the cage’s entrance. The Bull walks across the cage toward Bronco, flexing his pecs and biceps as he makes a show of it for the bookies.
Bronco flexes back, refusing to be intimated, and begins walking slowly around the cage’s perimeter.
The bookies jot down notes and record bets as the Little Bull continued his staredown with Bronco, both fighters now circling each other around the cage’s edge.
The fat referee now clicks the cage’s door shut and, makes a dramatic show of holding the heavy lock aloft, lowering it, threading it through the door’s plate and locks it with a key on a key ring holding seemingly hundreds of keys. He then holds the keyring aloft then places it in his pocket.
The crowd cheers louder and shouts out encouragement to the Little Bull and threats and jibes at Bronco.
The fat referee shouts instructions in Spanish at the circling fighters as the Boss shouts as well:
“Meet him in the middle, stare him down and trash talk, but don’t attack until the fatso says, ‘vios,’ ” the Boss shouts at Bronco. “But if he starts to attack, go nuts.”
Bronco nods, then begins moving forward toward his foe and the center of the cage as the crowd goes wild.
The two muscled teens stop inches away from each other, glaring: both wearing their skin-tight spandex fighting shorts, one green, red and white, the other red, white and blue.
The Little Bull looks Bronco up and down and begins speaking rapid-fire Spanish in a loud, threatening voice. The audience begins laughing and applauding.
Bronco doesn’t let it go unanswered.
“Screw you, PUNK!” Bronco shouts as the Bull continues his insults. The two fighters touch noses and cock their heads as they try to intimidate each other and refuse to back down. “You want a piece of ME, boy?!”
The crowd’s cheering and shouts become frenzied screams as a group of men and boys and a few arriving older fighters enter the warehouse drawn by the crowd’s reactions and the promise of mano-a-mano violence.
“Take a couple of steps back!” the Boss shouts. “This shit’s about to start.”
Bronco, still shouting, begins to take one step back as the Little Bull’s muscles instinctively tense at the motion. He slams his palms into Bronco’s pecs and shoves the young American back.
The crowd reacts with cheers and “ooooooooooooohhhhhhh!” Bronco’s muscles tense as his fists instinctively raise. The Bull immediately raises his fists, his legs tensing and setting in place.
“VIOS!” screams the referee and Bronco immediately fires a right fist that smashes hard into the Bull’s left cheek, snapping his head to the side in a spray of sweat and opening a small cut.
“YES!” the Boss shouts, pumping his fist.
The fighters begin circling each other warily, fists raises, bouncing on their feet in the familiar dance of fighters.
Bronco makes a small leap forward and twists his torso to the left, raising his right arm, then spins back, smashing his right elbow across the Bull’s right cheek.
The Bull stumbles two steps to his left, his knees nearly giving out before he regains his footing, his right cheek cut deep and dripping blood.
The crowd boos and shouts out instructions to their fighter as Bronco smirks.
“I BRANDED you, PUNK!” he shouts, then immediately fires a sweeping right foot upward toward the Bull’s left ribcage, but the Mexican fighter dodges the blow and fires his right fist in an arc, far from Bronco’s face.
The two resume their circling, fists raises, glistening chests starting to heave with heavy breaths.
Bronco rears back his right fist, but the Bull is faster, firing his right fist toward Bronco who twists and pulls back, the Bull’s fist bouncing hard off the young American’s ribcage.
Bronco tries returning the ribcage kick, but the Bull rears back, out of harm’s way.
Bronco moves one step forward, then fires his left foot up in an arc, smashing it brutally hard into Bull’s right eye, sending the young Mexican airborn and spinning in a spray of sweat before smashing hard onto his back, his left arm pressed against the cage’s fencing.
“Ooooooooooo!” the crowd shouts, some wincing in empathic pain.
“MOUNT HIM! MOUNT HIM!” the Boss screams. Bronco races forward and over his downed opponent, then crashes down to his knees, Bronco’s muscled ass resting on the Bull’s bulging jock.
The Bull looks up and pulls his arm across his chest, then fires his right elbow up toward Bronco’s nose, but the young American rears his head back, then lifts his left elbow upward, but the Bull fires a fist into the side of Bronco’s stomach.
Bronco, still mounted atop the Bull, fires his left fist into Bull’s swelling, bloodied right eye.
The Bull grimaces and grunts in pain. Bronco smirks, then sends a right fist smashing into the Mexican teen’s cut left cheek, opening a deep gash as Bull’s head snaps hard to the side.
The Bull moans in pain, eyes closed, and squirms under Bronco’s weight. The young American immediately fires a right fist solidly into the Bull’s mouth, splitting the Mexican fighter’s upper lip.
The Bull’s right fist shoots up and smashes into Bronco’s nose, snapping the American teen’s head upward but failing to move him from his dominant position.
Bronco raises his right arm up, then sends his elbow crashing into Bull’s mouth, splitting the Bull’s thick lower lip and sending blood spraying across Bronco’s muscled chest as twin lines of blood roll down from Bronco’s nostrils.
As the Bull cries out, Bronco’s taped hands shoot downward and clamp hard onto the Mexican fighter’s throat.
The crowd’s screams take on an urgent note of fear as the Bull’s fingers fly to his throat and try to pry off Bronco’s hands. For his part, Bronco smirks and tightens his hold around the Bull’s windpipe, Bronco’s pecs and biceps hardening into rock-solid mounds at the extreme effort.
“PUT YOUR WEIGHT INTO IT!” the Boss screams.
Bronco rises up slightly as the Bull tears at his enemy’s hands but fails to move them. The Mexican fighter’s face turns an angry shade of red as his eyes flutter.
“HE’S ALMOST OUT!” the Boss shouts as the fat referee frantically searchs through the numerous keys for the right one to open the cage’s padlock. The Little Bull pulls his left hand off of Bronco’s hand and pushs his fingers into the side of Bronco’s chest, then slashed his nails down the side of the American fighter’s torso, drawing five lines of blood.
Bronco smirks.
“Feels good, dumb ass,” Bronco growls. “Rip me to shreds!”
Bronco rears back his right hand from around the Bull’s throat, keeping his left hand squeezed tight around Bull’s Adam’s apple. Rearing back his right fist, Bronco fires it downward, smashing into the Bull’s nose and sending his the Mexican teen’s head bouncing off the concrete floor.
The crowd boos as the referee finally gets the right key into the padlock, opening it and swinging the cage’s gate wide open.
The Bull fires his freed left fist upward toward Bronco’s face, but the American fighter rears his head back, smirking, and fires his right fist into the Bull’s bloody left eye, now grotesquely swollen and shut.
The Bull – his face a dark purple – groans, then goes unconscious, his eyes closing and his head lolling to the side.
The fat referee races toward Bronco – who again rears back his right – and pushs him backward hard onto his ass. Bronco shakes his head clear and looks up in surprise at the referee who immediately yanks him up by the wrist, then raises it in victory.
As the crowd explodes into boos, Bronco looks about, then cheers.
“WOO-HOO!” he shouts. “HELL, YEAH!” He looks at his downed opponent as the Boss races into the cage, camera in hand. Bronco sends a kick into the Bull’s knee before being pulled away again by the ref. The Boss quickly takes a final closeup of the Bull’s bloodied face, then points to the Mexican fighter’s trunks.
“Take his shorts as a souvenir, kid,” the Boss says. Bronco smirks and bends down, then pulls the shorts off h s opponent and holds them up over his head.
“HELL, YEAH!” Bronco shouts.
“Let’s get the hell out of here,” the Boss says, pushing Bronco out of the cage with a hand on the fighter’s sweat-slickened back. Angry members of the audience move toward Bronco and the Boss, but a warning hand from the Boss stops them.
Moving quickly, Bronco and the Boss exit the metal warehouse and enter the now-darkened desert. One of the bookies stands by the Boss’ pickup.
“Get in,” the Boss tells the still shirtless Bronco, whose chest heaves in ragged breaths. Bronco climbs into the pickup as the bookie hands the Boss a wad of cash. The two speak quickly and nod, then shake hands. The Boss quickly enters the pickup, fires it up, and takes off at top speed.
As they move quickly across the desert, the Boss gives Bronco a quick look up and down. He taps at Bronco’s bloody chest.
“This is his blood, right,” the Boss asks.
“Hell, yeah!” Bronco says with a grin, then wipes the blood from under his nose and upper lip. “He punched me in the nose once, and my ribs hurt, and the side of my stomach and chest.” Bronco and the Boss looks down at two red welts on Bronco’s muscled body – one on his ribcage and one on the side of his stomach. The five bloody scratches continue to trickle blood.
Two new lines of blood roll down from Bronco’s nostrils, spattering onto his shorts.
“Fuck,” Bronco says, wiping the blood off again.
“Two bruises and a bloody nose ain’t bad for your first pro fight, kid,” the Boss says. “Especially when you left him out cold in the cage with a fucked-up eye and multiple cuts to his face. Nice job.”
Bronco opens the backpack on the pickup’s floor and slips on a tight T-shirt.
“What did the guy say to you as we left?” Bronco asks.
“That the Bull is his nephew,” the Boss says, his eyes on the road. “And that they’re definitely going to want a rematch.”
Bronco looks surprised, then looks out at the passing desert and nods.
“Cool,” he says softly. “Bring it on!”
The Boss smiles and runs his hand through Bronco’s hair.
“Well, all right, stud,” he says.
THE END, but more free chapters and for-pay chapters available at www.praetorianconsortium.com – for the Finest in Erotic Combat stories. (This message cleared with the admins.)
Guysmiley (41 )
2/26/2013 11:12 PMDon't know if anyone else has trouble reading this because the right side tab cuts off part of the writing.
warhorse573 (0)
2/27/2013 6:28 PM(In reply to this)
Fixed! Thanks!
fightguy (19)
2/26/2013 11:26 PM(In reply to this)
Hey Guy...same problem reading...right margin has a problem
warhorse573 (0)
2/24/2013 2:01 AMWarrior: A Fighter’s Odyssey Chapter 1: Over-the-Border Beatdown By [email protected]
This is chapter 1 of the on-going novel “Warrior: A Fighter’s Odyssey.” You can find this and four more free chapters on www.praetorianconsortium.com
In addition to “Warrior” is a second novel: “A Rite of Passage” featuring collegiate erotic fighting, also with free chapters. Both novels also feature for-pay chapters.
Registration is FREE, so come to the site that offers “The Finest in Erotic Combat Fiction” – www.praetorianconsortium.com!
(This message cleared with this site’s administrator) Artwork: Elvenesque
Summary: It all begins here: Bronco’s first professional fight, or at least, his first fight for money. There are no locker rooms, no music, no commentators – just a beat-up warehouse in the Mexican desert where a group of young thugs in the audience watch two young fist fighters in a cage while the “real” – and older – thugs and fighters filter in for a night of underground bouts and betting. “The Boss” has brought his latest – and only – fighter south of the border to see what he’s made of. Working with a complex formula of dice rolls to keep the outcome honest and fresh, will Bronco have what it takes to put “The Little Bull” away, or will the Texas teen get gored on “The Bull’s” horns? * FREE CHAPTER *
Wordcount: 3,033
Tags: Underground fighting; teen fighters, fist fight; fighting for prize money; betting on fights; no-rules bouts
Primary Characters: Bronco – Texas teen and underground prize fighter; “The Boss” – his mystery manager.
Secondary Characters: “The Little Bull” – Mexican teen and underground prize fighter Rating: PG for violence PLEASE NOTE: All characters depicting are 18 or older
Young Bronco looks down from his stool at the losers of the night’s first four fights. He nudges the bloody pile with his toe.
“Chickens,” he says shaking his head, then pulls his foot back from the feathery, lifeless bodies. After two years of lifting weights and the Boss’ merciless training, his first prize fight is finally here and the opening bouts were between… roosters.
“Prize fight…”
He snorts and smirks. His first fight for prize money, and probably not enough to cover the gas money all the way down here to Mexico, but, like the Boss says: “You gotta start kickin’ ass and taking names sometime.”
Besides, Bronco overheard the bookies in Amarillo tell the Boss that if “the kid” could beat “the Little Bull” of Nogales, it would impress the right people and open the door to more important – and brutal - underground fights.
Still… Bronco looks around the cramped, loud, tin shed that is in the corner of what looks like a slightly bigger tin shed – an empty warehouse in the desert. What is he in, anyway? The generator room? Something smelling of diesel blatts away in the corner. Some debut.
Bronco shrugs and begins pumping the two free weights. He admires his biceps and pecs as they flex under tight skin. He nods: The guns are ready – bring on The Little Bull.
The Boss walks in at that moment, leaving the door open behind him.
“Fight time,” he says, nudging the rooster bodies away with his foot. “You ready?”
“Yeah,” Bronco says, standing up and putting the weights in a back pack.
The Boss glares at Bronco’s trunks.
“What trunks did I tell you to wear?!” he snaps. Bronco looks down at his red flames-on-black shining spandex trunks that outline his jock.
“Oh,” Bronco says. “The American flag.” He begins pulling down the skin-tight shorts. Outside the door in the dimly-lit warehouse he could hear the announcer speaking Spanish. The only word he could make out is “Americano.”
The crowd begins booing.
Bronco straightens up as he pulls up the red-white-and-blue spandex.
“They’re booing,” he says.
“Of course they’re booing,” says the Boss as he lifts the backpack and puts it over his shoulder. “You’re the Americano punk who’s come to kick the hometown hero’s ass. Well, the future hometown hero, maybe. The sight of the two of you beating the shit out of each other isn’t even as popular as the cock fights. The real beat-downs start in about 30 minutes, but ‘the Little Bull’ is popular with a lot of teenage gang-bangers around here. He helps them learn to be crooked fight-managers-in-training.”
The Boss reaches into the backpack and hands Bronco a black hoodie.
“Put this on,” the Boss says. “Pull the hood down.”
Bronco slides the hoodie over his tanned torso and pulls the hood down. The hoodie’s sleeves have been torn off to reveal Bronco’s muscled arms so as to impress bettors and intimidate enemies. He begins zipping it up.
“Leave it open,” the Boss says. “They’re going to want to see what you’re bringing to the dance so they can decide who to bet on, even though I’ll be about the only one betting on you since you ain’t got a rep and the Little Bull does.”
Outside the generator room, the announcer again announces the “Americano.” The booing increases in intensity.
“C’mon,” says the Boss.
The Boss exits the room first, then sweeps his arm toward the opening as Bronco emerges. The booing rises to a crescendo. Bronco sees half-empty portable bleachers arranged around a 10-foot by 10-foot-square cage made of chicken wire with no “roof.”
As Bronco and the Boss walk through a narrow opening between the bleachers, fans lean down and shout in Spanish at him. A box of popcorn bounces off the top of Bronco’s head.
Just as Bronco is nearly past the bleachers, a teen with multiple arm tattoos leaps down and blocks his path. The young Mexican gets into Bronco’s face, shouting, waving his hands and cocking his head. The crowd bursts into laughter and applauds.
The Boss stops and turns back.
“If he touches you, break his nose,” the Boss says.
Bronco looks the teen up and down. The Mexican wears a tight, sweat-soaked wifebeater that reveals small but tight muscles. Bronco tenses his right bicep in preparation for a punch, but the teen’s laughing friends pull him back on to the bleacher
“Bitch,” Bronco snarls, then continues walking up to the cage door, held open by a fat man in a dirty black-and-white-striped referee’s shirt.
The Boss stands to the side of the entrace as Bronco steps in and examines the blood and feathers on the concrete floor.
“Take off the hoodie,” the Boss says. “Then start walking around the ring like the cock of the walk so the bettors can check you out.” The Boss nods to the far side of the cage where two benches of rough-looking men sit talking with notepads in their hands and glancing at Bronco.
Bronco slips off the hoodie, fully revealing his muscled torso. Some in the crowd coo and whistle in appreciation as others continue to boo, laugh and shout.
“What about my mouthguard?” Bronco asks as he begins to shake out his legs.
“None,” the Boss says. “When you punks punch each other in the mouth, they want to see blood and teeth. You’re lucky they allow jocks – you especially.”
Bronco tilts his head and looks up at the Boss.
“How do they determine who wins?” he asks. The Boss snorts in amusement.
“The winner knocks the loser out, or the loser just stops fighting,” he says.
“What about the ref?” Bronco asks, nodding toward the fat man.
“His job is to lock the cage behind you,” the Boss says with a smirk.
“No tapouts?” Bronco asks.
“No tapouts – no rules,” the Boss says, then looks intently at Bronco.
The young fighter considers this for a moment, then smirks.
“Cool,” he says, nodding.
The Boss smiles and runs his fingers through Bronco’s hair.
“All right, kid – kick his ass. Now, flex and walk toward the bookies,” the Boss says as he stuffs the hoodie into the backpack.
Bronco begins walking, bringing his knuckles together and flexing his biceps, then his pecs. The bookies examine him and jot down notes as other men walk up to them and whisper in their ears. Bronco looks down and admires his hardened new body. The stifling heat of the desert warehouse, even at dusk, produces a steady stream of sweat down his body that highlight his muscles.
The announcer again speaks and the crowd begins cheering and clapping. Bronco turns around to see glistening tan muscles stalking toward him – a fighter his age wearing spandex trunks with the colors of the Mexican flag. The Little Bull is surrounded by six or seven of his posse, all wearing sunglasses. The Bull wears a red cape. Bronco looks up to see the Bull glaring at him, all challenge – a predator.
Bronco locks eyes with the Bull, smirks and slams a fist into his palm.
“This is gonna be fun,” Bronco says.
The Bull snorts and clamps his bulge in a sign of disrespect. .
Bronco clamps his right back.
The crowd cheers louder at the sight of two muscled teens challenging each other and its promise of an entertaining bout.
The Bull walks up to the cage entrance and stops. A member of his entourage pulls off his cape and, eyes still locked on Bronco, the muscled young Mexican enters the cage.
“Circle him!” the Boss shouts, seated on a bench near the cage’s entrance. The Bull walks across the cage toward Bronco, flexing his pecs and biceps as he makes a show of it for the bookies.
Bronco flexes back, refusing to be intimated, and begins walking slowly around the cage’s perimeter.
The bookies jot down notes and record bets as the Little Bull continued his staredown with Bronco, both fighters now circling each other around the cage’s edge.
The fat referee now clicks the cage’s door shut and, makes a dramatic show of holding the heavy lock aloft, lowering it, threading it through the door’s plate and locks it with a key on a key ring holding seemingly hundreds of keys. He then holds the keyring aloft then places it in his pocket.
The crowd cheers louder and shouts out encouragement to the Little Bull and threats and jibes at Bronco.
The fat referee shouts instructions in Spanish at the circling fighters as the Boss shouts as well:
“Meet him in the middle, stare him down and trash talk, but don’t attack until the fatso says, ‘vios,’ ” the Boss shouts at Bronco. “But if he starts to attack, go nuts.”
Bronco nods, then begins moving forward toward his foe and the center of the cage as the crowd goes wild.
The two muscled teens stop inches away from each other, glaring: both wearing their skin-tight spandex fighting shorts, one green, red and white, the other red, white and blue.
The Little Bull looks Bronco up and down and begins speaking rapid-fire Spanish in a loud, threatening voice. The audience begins laughing and applauding.
Bronco doesn’t let it go unanswered.
“Screw you, PUNK!” Bronco shouts as the Bull continues his insults. The two fighters touch noses and cock their heads as they try to intimidate each other and refuse to back down. “You want a piece of ME, boy?!”
The crowd’s cheering and shouts become frenzied screams as a group of men and boys and a few arriving older fighters enter the warehouse drawn by the crowd’s reactions and the promise of mano-a-mano violence.
“Take a couple of steps back!” the Boss shouts. “This shit’s about to start.”
Bronco, still shouting, begins to take one step back as the Little Bull’s muscles instinctively tense at the motion. He slams his palms into Bronco’s pecs and shoves the young American back.
The crowd reacts with cheers and “ooooooooooooohhhhhhh!” Bronco’s muscles tense as his fists instinctively raise. The Bull immediately raises his fists, his legs tensing and setting in place.
“VIOS!” screams the referee and Bronco immediately fires a right fist that smashes hard into the Bull’s left cheek, snapping his head to the side in a spray of sweat and opening a small cut.
“YES!” the Boss shouts, pumping his fist.
The fighters begin circling each other warily, fists raises, bouncing on their feet in the familiar dance of fighters.
Bronco makes a small leap forward and twists his torso to the left, raising his right arm, then spins back, smashing his right elbow across the Bull’s right cheek.
The Bull stumbles two steps to his left, his knees nearly giving out before he regains his footing, his right cheek cut deep and dripping blood.
The crowd boos and shouts out instructions to their fighter as Bronco smirks.
“I BRANDED you, PUNK!” he shouts, then immediately fires a sweeping right foot upward toward the Bull’s left ribcage, but the Mexican fighter dodges the blow and fires his right fist in an arc, far from Bronco’s face.
The two resume their circling, fists raises, glistening chests starting to heave with heavy breaths.
Bronco rears back his right fist, but the Bull is faster, firing his right fist toward Bronco who twists and pulls back, the Bull’s fist bouncing hard off the young American’s ribcage.
Bronco tries returning the ribcage kick, but the Bull rears back, out of harm’s way.
Bronco moves one step forward, then fires his left foot up in an arc, smashing it brutally hard into Bull’s right eye, sending the young Mexican airborn and spinning in a spray of sweat before smashing hard onto his back, his left arm pressed against the cage’s fencing.
“Ooooooooooo!” the crowd shouts, some wincing in empathic pain.
“MOUNT HIM! MOUNT HIM!” the Boss screams. Bronco races forward and over his downed opponent, then crashes down to his knees, Bronco’s muscled ass resting on the Bull’s bulging jock.
The Bull looks up and pulls his arm across his chest, then fires his right elbow up toward Bronco’s nose, but the young American rears his head back, then lifts his left elbow upward, but the Bull fires a fist into the side of Bronco’s stomach.
Bronco, still mounted atop the Bull, fires his left fist into Bull’s swelling, bloodied right eye.
The Bull grimaces and grunts in pain. Bronco smirks, then sends a right fist smashing into the Mexican teen’s cut left cheek, opening a deep gash as Bull’s head snaps hard to the side.
The Bull moans in pain, eyes closed, and squirms under Bronco’s weight. The young American immediately fires a right fist solidly into the Bull’s mouth, splitting the Mexican fighter’s upper lip.
The Bull’s right fist shoots up and smashes into Bronco’s nose, snapping the American teen’s head upward but failing to move him from his dominant position.
Bronco raises his right arm up, then sends his elbow crashing into Bull’s mouth, splitting the Bull’s thick lower lip and sending blood spraying across Bronco’s muscled chest as twin lines of blood roll down from Bronco’s nostrils.
As the Bull cries out, Bronco’s taped hands shoot downward and clamp hard onto the Mexican fighter’s throat.
The crowd’s screams take on an urgent note of fear as the Bull’s fingers fly to his throat and try to pry off Bronco’s hands. For his part, Bronco smirks and tightens his hold around the Bull’s windpipe, Bronco’s pecs and biceps hardening into rock-solid mounds at the extreme effort.
“PUT YOUR WEIGHT INTO IT!” the Boss screams.
Bronco rises up slightly as the Bull tears at his enemy’s hands but fails to move them. The Mexican fighter’s face turns an angry shade of red as his eyes flutter.
“HE’S ALMOST OUT!” the Boss shouts as the fat referee frantically searchs through the numerous keys for the right one to open the cage’s padlock. The Little Bull pulls his left hand off of Bronco’s hand and pushs his fingers into the side of Bronco’s chest, then slashed his nails down the side of the American fighter’s torso, drawing five lines of blood.
Bronco smirks.
“Feels good, dumb ass,” Bronco growls. “Rip me to shreds!”
Bronco rears back his right hand from around the Bull’s throat, keeping his left hand squeezed tight around Bull’s Adam’s apple. Rearing back his right fist, Bronco fires it downward, smashing into the Bull’s nose and sending his the Mexican teen’s head bouncing off the concrete floor.
The crowd boos as the referee finally gets the right key into the padlock, opening it and swinging the cage’s gate wide open.
The Bull fires his freed left fist upward toward Bronco’s face, but the American fighter rears his head back, smirking, and fires his right fist into the Bull’s bloody left eye, now grotesquely swollen and shut.
The Bull – his face a dark purple – groans, then goes unconscious, his eyes closing and his head lolling to the side.
The fat referee races toward Bronco – who again rears back his right – and pushs him backward hard onto his ass. Bronco shakes his head clear and looks up in surprise at the referee who immediately yanks him up by the wrist, then raises it in victory.
As the crowd explodes into boos, Bronco looks about, then cheers.
“WOO-HOO!” he shouts. “HELL, YEAH!” He looks at his downed opponent as the Boss races into the cage, camera in hand. Bronco sends a kick into the Bull’s knee before being pulled away again by the ref. The Boss quickly takes a final closeup of the Bull’s bloodied face, then points to the Mexican fighter’s trunks.
“Take his shorts as a souvenir, kid,” the Boss says. Bronco smirks and bends down, then pulls the shorts off h s opponent and holds them up over his head.
“HELL, YEAH!” Bronco shouts.
“Let’s get the hell out of here,” the Boss says, pushing Bronco out of the cage with a hand on the fighter’s sweat-slickened back. Angry members of the audience move toward Bronco and the Boss, but a warning hand from the Boss stops them.
Moving quickly, Bronco and the Boss exit the metal warehouse and enter the now-darkened desert. One of the bookies stands by the Boss’ pickup.
“Get in,” the Boss tells the still shirtless Bronco, whose chest heaves in ragged breaths. Bronco climbs into the pickup as the bookie hands the Boss a wad of cash. The two speak quickly and nod, then shake hands. The Boss quickly enters the pickup, fires it up, and takes off at top speed.
As they move quickly across the desert, the Boss gives Bronco a quick look up and down. He taps at Bronco’s bloody chest.
“This is his blood, right,” the Boss asks.
“Hell, yeah!” Bronco says with a grin, then wipes the blood from under his nose and upper lip. “He punched me in the nose once, and my ribs hurt, and the side of my stomach and chest.” Bronco and the Boss looks down at two red welts on Bronco’s muscled body – one on his ribcage and one on the side of his stomach. The five bloody scratches continue to trickle blood.
Two new lines of blood roll down from Bronco’s nostrils, spattering onto his shorts.
“Fuck,” Bronco says, wiping the blood off again.
“Two bruises and a bloody nose ain’t bad for your first pro fight, kid,” the Boss says. “Especially when you left him out cold in the cage with a fucked-up eye and multiple cuts to his face. Nice job.”
Bronco opens the backpack on the pickup’s floor and slips on a tight T-shirt.
“What did the guy say to you as we left?” Bronco asks.
“That the Bull is his nephew,” the Boss says, his eyes on the road. “And that they’re definitely going to want a rematch.”
Bronco looks surprised, then looks out at the passing desert and nods.
“Cool,” he says softly. “Bring it on!”
The Boss smiles and runs his hand through Bronco’s hair.
“Well, all right, stud,” he says.
THE END, but more free chapters and for-pay chapters available at www.praetorianconsortium.com – for the Finest in Erotic Combat stories. (This message cleared with the admins.)