Doug rolls on his side trying to break loose. Vim rolls with him, but Doug’s greased up muscles are too slick and he slips free of the scissors. Lucas slams a punch to Vim’s chin and knocks him back across the mat.
The two fighters face off on opposite sides of the cage. Panting. Sweat rolling off their foreheads into their eyes, making them burn and blink. Doug, bloody and sore all over, roars. The tendons of his neck swell out.
The yell gives him a hot jolt of much-needed adrenaline.
Joey swipes his forearm cross his forearm and then motions for Doug to come at him. Lucas slams his fist into the wall of the cage, pumping up, growling. Joey shifts his weight from foot to foot, staring his opponent down, waiting.
Lucas rushes him. Joey feints to the left, then roundhouse kicks Doug in the gut. The THUMP echoes in the club, and the patrons go OWWWW. Doug doubles over. Vim hikes his knee into Lucas’s face. Lucas hits the mat, face down. Joey circles him like a predator on prey. Stomps on his shoulder blade. Backs up and stomps with both feet now on Lucas’s lower back. Doug howls. Somebody in the crowd yells, “Kill him Joey!"
Joey looks blankly up at the bright lights. He strikes a pose for the crowd. Hard sweat has stripped him down to just muscle—his magnificent body glistens in light. He drops his elbow down on the back of Lucas’s neck. He rolls Lucas over and covers him with a lateral press, his back and right arm over his opponent’s chest. He grabs Doug’s leg and pulls it up high. Joey’s face, exhausted and in pain, turns up to the ceiling, just inches above Lucas’s motionless face, apparently out cold.
The crowd chants, “ONE.” A beat. The crowd chants, “TWO.” A beat.
But suddenly Lucas grabs a fistful of Vim’s curly hair and wrenches it back and down to the mat. Lucas bucks, flipping Vim’s body over his head to the mat. Lucas rolls over and drives the top of his head into Vim’s exposed ribcage like a charging bull. Joey’s flat on his back, twitching in pain.
Lucas straddles his chest, resting his sweaty ass on Joey’s heaving diaphragm. He grabs Joey’s right ear and tugs his head up by it. He floats his huge fist about a foot from Joey’s face.
He says, “Mama always told me I was bad about busting up pretty things” … and then precedes to give the muscular babyface the drubbing of his life.