I don't even know what's going on either, folks. Touch and go.
Spit; cough, roll onto your back- bad move- he's on you again. Something connects hard with your face. A red fluid.
Brownout. World spinning.
I can fight this.
Crawling, rolling, trying to get distance. No such thing. A boot connects with my ribcage. I swear something is snapped in there. It hurts to breathe. Broken ribs as painful as lung cancer.
This makes me so fucking mad. I'm not on his level. Both ways.
I'm no stud, but I'm no caveman.
Getting beat like a government mule? Is that what they call it?
Finally back up on feet. World hurts. Swirling. I can't tell shit.
The crowd is roaring.
The soundtrack of my own death is being performed by the same people who gave birth to me.
I think I'm going to pass out soon.
Down the way, on this fake-arena made to resemble some kind of battlefield, stands the man in charge of my execution. I won't be dead; I won't be living, either. Not after he's done with me. Cute. I never pictured him as a felon.
But here we are.
He flashes me a grin, a real shit-eating grin- makes me want to vomit. This is not going to end well.
"Your move, brother." Mario says.
"Eat shit," I reply.
Failure is not an option. Failure is not an option. Failure is not an option.
I charge. It's the only thing I can do anymore. Every step against the platform is a resounding clank- and it feels good. Like I've accomplished something.
My fist makes contact with the side of his head, and there's no better feeling than this.
Failure is not an option.
He staggers back, and the realization is that he might just lose this. It's dawned on the spectators, too. The chant picks up.
Keep the herd mentality intact, you fucking idiots. I appreciate it.
Mario is goading me now. But he's not going to understand this until he's lying face down in a pool of his own blood.
He'll never understand.
Whatever injuries I suffered do not seem to affect me at all now. I'm raining punches down like a thunderstorm. Nothing can stop me now. Nothing can stop me now
I should have known, but I didn't. Mario wrestles me to the ground and takes off in a mad scramble. I spit out gravel and body fluids- disgusting.
Go ahead and run, pussy.
I glance up towards the massive Jumbo-Tron installed; It's mostly used for informing the ADHD "fans" on what's going on in the match, but everyone just uses it for reference.
Scoreboard, pretty much.
I pick myself off the ground again. Surprisingly, he didn't take the moments where I was distracted to attack. Well, I guess that's how it is with idiots.
Unless he's planning something.
Audible hissing sound.
Son of a bitch!
I do a quick 180. Already too late. Something explodes in my face. Something violent. At this moment, my head might have just blown apart in every direction. Otherworldly forces lifting me off the ground and tossing me like a rag doll.
Failure is not an option. But I did it anyway.
Sailing towards oblivion. He's down there with a shit-faced grin. As always.
I kind of feel like I'm lying down. Nothing really hurts. I hear whispers.
"He's not going to advance past the first round…"
"Why'd we sign him onto a deal? He can't fight worth shit…"
"…Probably going to make a switch to the minor divisions…"
I know all too well what's coming next.
Why have I done this to myself?