A/N: Did NO ONE else notice that the CHEETAH WITH A MOUSTACHE was in the episode Monster Battle Club Now!?!

Inspired by 'Priscilla, Queen of the Desert' and 'Monster Battle Club Now!'

Disclaimer: I do not own SRMTHFG.

Survive

Fighting is more than muscles.

The golden fur gleamed, shining in the light as he stretched. The muscles tensed and relaxed underneath the skin. They were perfect, ready.

Fighting is more than punching.

The shark screamed a nauseating gurgling noise from its throat. Three tracks of dark red marred the flesh near its nose. It had been a perfect strike.

Sure, you can hit him more times than he hits you.

Almost.

But that only works so far.

The teeth that fell onto the ground were pointed, and covered in blood. He spat out his wooden pipe with the dislodged teeth. He hadn't lost many; the fight would go on. They rolled along the arena floor, the pipe coming to rest on its side. The contents spilled out onto the ground, a pool of dark liquid seeping into the sand.

Fighting is more than psyching out the opponent.

The shark took a step back, its oily black eyes blinking. He had spat out his pipe. He had spat out his pipe; he never, ever spat out his PIPE-

Fighting is more than unleashing fury.

There was a deep rumble from his chest. His claws lengthened even further. A few had been chipped, but most of them were sharp, long, and incredibly dangerous. It would not be wise to get in the way of them.

He roared.

One should not cage wild animals. They will fight. They have the instincts and the weapons. And they will kill.

He leapt forward, a smooth movement that involved careful timing and muscular agility. The shark was stunned by the action; it had been fast and all of its opponent's weight went crashing into it. The claws went deep. The blows were hard. The crowd around the arena were thrown to the back of their seats by his thunderous roar of animalistic rage. To feel warm tissue around his claws brought a surge of adrenaline through his blood. He flicked his wrists.

Two dotted lines of red were drawn on the sand.

He sat on top of the shark, his paws digging into its soft belly. The shark's head rolled from one side to the other, in time with the punches. An eye for an eye. A tooth for a tooth. The muscles bulged.

It was violent. But graceful.

You fight to survive.

The fur shone with sweat. A trail of blood ran down underneath his eye, but that was only a scratch from his broken monocle. The warlord had warned against wearing it in the ring, but he couldn't give up his monocle, it was a part of who he was. The same applied to the pipe.

Nothing matters in the ring, except one thing-

The varnished wood caught the lights that hung above the arena. The pipe, half-buried in the sand, lay forgotten in the corner.

"The Toothsome Terror has been defeated!"

The pipe was picked up, the sand shaken out of it and refilled. Bubbles of all sizes soon flowed out of the opening and floated into the air above the audience, towards the high window. They were free. He was not.

Survival.

There would be other fights. He had only just finished one round. But he had won it.

That's what he was fighting for. Victory. Glory.

Fighting is more than being a monster.

The right to survive.

It was somewhat hard to get into the character's head, but I put my Latin nerdiness to good use and thought of the Roman gladiators. I am the Queen of Latin! Muahaahaaha! But if I let that go to my head I'll end up stabbed like Julius Caesar...

And I love the Cheetah with a Moustache. XD

I'm a little concerned about confusion caused by the breaks with the lines in italics. Any critique?