Tw: Angst, blood, dirty gloating cowards.


The floor beneath his face tasted like feet and sweat. He spat, ignoring the blood that accompanied it. His arms went underneath his body, forcing himself up once more. He was immediately knocked back to the ground. He gritted his teeth and held back a groan as his ribs were hit again and again with the sharp kicks of his opponent.

Both his eyes were watering. He was sure he had a broken rib and his knuckles were covered in bright red scratches, bleeding freely onto the floor. His legs shook beneath him as he got up again. This time he made it completely to his feet before he was struck right in the face, falling backward onto the mat. His head hit the floor, he probably had a concussion at this point. His vision blurred and swam as he rolled onto his stomach to get up again.

Nothing could keep him down. Not even a two-hundred-pound bare-knuckle boxing man built like a truck. The crowd cheered on behind him, although whether it was for him or his competitor, he wasn't sure.

The man-Jack went to kick him down again, but stopped, leaning by his ear. Jack spat viciously in his ear. "You just don't know when to cut your losses and stop, do ya?"

He didn't answer. Standing up again, he faced Jack with a grimace, legs shaking and his face a bloody mess. He held up his hands and Jack shrugged.

"Whatever fool. Enjoy the hospital." Jack sneered and lunged at him again and Stan swung to the side, dodging the sloppy attack. He elbowed Jack's back and he fell to the floor, not expecting any resistance.

Swinging as hard as he could, he brought his foot right into the man's face with all his leftover strength. The man whimpered at the loud crack that accompanied the hit. Jack's nose was broken, for sure. Jack, the coward he was, stayed down and the referee shook his head at how pathetic it was. This mystery man was much better at taking a beating.

The referee called the match and held up the mystery man's hand. The crowd booed, unsatisfied and angry their champion was beaten so easily. The ref looked at the winner sympathetically when he felt his hand rip away.

The new champion shrugged and walked out. He grabbed his reward, stole a couple people's wallets and left. The entire crowd giving him glares on the way out.

Going out to his car, the man sat in the front seat and attended his wounds, being sure to hide away his paycheck. (After driving far, far away.)

No one would help him. No one cared. Stan sighed.

He was better off alone anyway.


I don't know how boxing works.

I take no responsibility for any tears I may have caused.

Never mind. I apologize. *hands you tissues.* Sorry.