Post by Bishop Damian on Apr 17, 2016 12:33:11 GMT 2
Around seven o'clock at night, the streets are calm, people are slowly making their way back home after a day's work. That's at least what takes place in the main streets. Then you start to walk through the dark alleys, between brick walls and trash, careless to the clothes you may get dirty on your way there, because in the end, there is the real party. You see some light, coming from a wide open door, some music escaping the gap within a building. And then you see him, a man flying out from the light, like a hellish spawn of Satan thrown up from heaven itself. Bloody and drunk, half laughing and half crying on the concrete as more men appear in the scene, their heads deformed by laughter and red noses, having the time of their life. They point their fingers at the man on the floor, some exchanging money with one another.
The man on the floor gets up, slowly and painfully, looking back inside with wide eyes and a look on his face of someone who just didn't get enough. He runs back inside, yelling. He passes the men making the frame of the door to end up in a circle of sweat and heat, the stench of alcohol filling up the air, the loud music and encouraging cries of the crowd make for the greatest of hell. Because this is the perfect mix of hell and heaven, mayhem of passionate wrestling.
In this empty circle, made possible by the even understanding and invisible line keeping the other men out, there was one other person, blue hair, sweating bull, standing calmly and straight, waiting for his opponent to come get some more. This wasn't Bishop's first time here, he was a fairly common customer of the Sinking Chicago as they call it. A bar by day, a private Fight Club at night, starting at 7 o'clock. That was where the man came when he needed to really blow off steam and didn't feel like getting in bed with anyone. And quite frankly, to him this was much more enjoyable than any of the Tiger Den girls.
His opponent seemed to be hesitant about fighting the blue bull again, but he had bets to win, and a raging need to satisfy his prideful and fight hungry mind. He was so hesitant, Bishop had the time to drink some beer before his opponent grew balls. He lunged forward, and Bishop threw the rest of his beer into his face, not stopping him as he was launched, but blinding him for a bit. Bishop took a punch on the shoulder for the sake of show before he stepped to the side, and waited a second for the man to raise himself and turn his head towards him. Hello.
A strong dry blow was delivered into the man's beer drenched face, occurring a small momentum where the man was still standing before he slowly fell. He was out. It was rare for Bishop to have a worthy opponent, but when it happened, it was glorious. This guy wasn't very impressive, and quite frankly Bishop was ready for round two if anyone wanted to go at him tonight. There were cheers, and to take a break he sat at the counter and got a new beer, free for him since he was one of the reasons why the owner of the establishment made so much money in the first place. Bishop and some other fight heavy guys nearly ran the place. If they stopped fighting or coming, then the Sinking Chicago would probably be forgotten in less than a year.
With his sweaty shirt, he drank his beer, enjoying his night so far, and only asking for it to become more interesting. Fighting was the soul of all men, a way to let out the bestiality in everyone, blow off steam and show that you are worthy of life.
Take it off
Your pride not your shirt dumbass
credit to nat of adoxography.
