"Rule one of Fight Club: Do not talk about fight club.
Rule two: Do NOT talk about fight club!
Rule three: If someone yells, goes limp, or taps out, the fight is over
Rule four: only two men to a fight
Rule five: one fight at a time
Rule six: no shoes, no shirt
Rule seven: fights will go on as long as they have to
Rule eight: If this is your first time at fight club...
You have to fight."
Allistor breathed heavily as he mopped the sweat from his face. The loud shouts of the fight club echoed around him, but to him, it was just another fight won by the resident bare-knuckle fighting champion. Today, it even felt like a burden to him. He knew that no one would be there to fix him up after he left the Hellhole. It wasn't worth it without him...
"Next fight!" The chairman, Mathias, shouted, with all the flare and finesse of an official WWE announcer. "Fighting prodigy from St Petersburg, Russia, Ivan Braginski, versus our reigning champ, Allistor Blackwood!"
"'at's my cue," he grunted to no one in particular, tossing the towel aside halfheartedly.
His challenger was no one to sneeze at. He was maybe two inches taller than Allistor; about 6'4". Solid. His skin was pale white, and his hair was a white-blonde, with blue eyes that almost looked purple standing out against his light skin and hair. He had big hands, as well. That would leave a mark...
He entered the crudely made and worn ring, shaking out his hand, getting into position.
"I am thinking that you will be going down, da?" His challenger said, his voice surprisingly more high-pitched than expected, given his tough, bulky physique.
"We'll see 'bout that," Allistor grimaced back, cracking his knuckles and preparing himself as much as he could through his scattered thoughts.
"Fighters ready?" Mathias grinned. "Start!"
Before doing anything else, Allistor made sure to close the distance between himself and his challenger: an Irish stand down. Once the first hit was made, there would be no room for either of them to run. Just a series of hits, dodges, and eventually a tap out.
It would seem as though Ivan had the same idea. Before he could realize it, a punch made contact redhead's face. Glaring angrily, he tried to return it. All he felt was the swoosh of air as he missed his target; he had moved out of the way. Growling, he tried again. His punch seemed to bounce off the Russian effortlessly. The challenger's turn; a punch to the jaw, again, and to the arm.
Allistor could tell he was off his game. He usually was able to get more hits in less time. He had to end it soon; keep his title. But why couldn't he do it?
"Tch-" Ivan growled as one of Allistor's punches sailed into his face. Finally, one that would leave a notable bruise instead of a minor abrasion. "You will be paying for that..."
In a blur, Allistor was down on the mat. "Get up..." He told himself. Hearing the Russian behind him, he rolled out of the way, he rolled to the side, barely missing a hit. He looked to the spectators. Was that...?
He was snapped from his daze when he was hit with excruciating force to his lower leg. A sickening crack was heard, but the crowd wouldn't hear it due to the ruckus. He screamed out in pain, and nearly all noise stopped. Mathias blew his referee whistle, rushing over to stop the fight.
Allistor breathed heavily, grimacing in torture at the pain. Even Ivan looked a bit concerned, though not much. "Someone call 999!" Someone shouted. "Say he got in an argument and a fight; can't have him arrested!"
"Haah..." He breathed, his eyes closing. He had wanted to see Francis again, but not like this. Not when he was proving the Frenchman was right.