The Dump (5)
Saturday night and The Dump is packed. The owner even paid off the city and county to exceed fire-code limits for one night only. So the place is surging with loud, drunken, boisterous fight fans—mostly men, with a few women interspersed. Tickets are being scalped for well over the $50 cover—some hitting as high as $775.
The monitors intercut music videos with surveillance camera footage of the original fight, including the shit talk between the two wrestlers held back by the security guards. The crowd cheers when their favorite fighter gets a close-up, shouting obscenities at his opponent. This time the crowd is evenly divided, Fister fans and Lynch fans.
“I’ll kick his fucking ass,” the monitor replays Lynch’s red-faced threat. “I will kill the mofo with my bare hands.” Lynch’s fans wear T’s with his photo—shirtless, pumped up, and raging—emblazoned on the front, the words “Kick His Fucking Ass” on the back.
“That bitch is mine,” Fister growls at the shaky handheld camera-phone that captured the moment last week. “Gimme the fuckin papers. Sign me on. I will tear the dumb bitch a new asshole.” His fans wear matching T’s with the words “That Bitch Is Mine” in metal studs.
The owner quietens the crowd gathered round the ring and introduces the fighters, who enter simultaneously from opposite ends of the club. Fister in a flamboyant pink thong—an electric green feather boa strewn around his neck and trailing behind him. The stripper gear nicely offsetting his smooth, chiseled physique. Greg Lynch in skintight wrestling briefs and a Lynch fan T-shirt that he rips off before sliding between the ropes to the ring. His muscles shining with oil and sweat.
The two fighters don’t even wait for the bell. They charge each other, fists flying. Fister’s feather boa is shredded, green feathers floating over the crowd’s heads like coyote night in a hen house. The club owner barely escapes the ring without getting punched. The crowd screams. Deafening excitement all round.
Lynch is first to land a series of blows as his fists hammer Fister in the face and head. Fister is knocked back, but not for long, as he counters with punches of his own. A kick to the ribs has Lynch clutching his side. There is no showboating tonight as Fister keeps his full attention fixed on Lynch’s rippling abs. Lynch groans and stumbles as Fister jabs his foot into Lynch’s belly, just above his pube line.
Sitting at a nearby table is Lynch’s buddy, Joey Vim. Joey is sipping his jack and water as he watches the exchange in the ring. Vim squints recognizing Greg’s pain as Fister slams a fist to his jaw.
(To be continued)
The monitors intercut music videos with surveillance camera footage of the original fight, including the shit talk between the two wrestlers held back by the security guards. The crowd cheers when their favorite fighter gets a close-up, shouting obscenities at his opponent. This time the crowd is evenly divided, Fister fans and Lynch fans.
“I’ll kick his fucking ass,” the monitor replays Lynch’s red-faced threat. “I will kill the mofo with my bare hands.” Lynch’s fans wear T’s with his photo—shirtless, pumped up, and raging—emblazoned on the front, the words “Kick His Fucking Ass” on the back.
“That bitch is mine,” Fister growls at the shaky handheld camera-phone that captured the moment last week. “Gimme the fuckin papers. Sign me on. I will tear the dumb bitch a new asshole.” His fans wear matching T’s with the words “That Bitch Is Mine” in metal studs.
The owner quietens the crowd gathered round the ring and introduces the fighters, who enter simultaneously from opposite ends of the club. Fister in a flamboyant pink thong—an electric green feather boa strewn around his neck and trailing behind him. The stripper gear nicely offsetting his smooth, chiseled physique. Greg Lynch in skintight wrestling briefs and a Lynch fan T-shirt that he rips off before sliding between the ropes to the ring. His muscles shining with oil and sweat.
The two fighters don’t even wait for the bell. They charge each other, fists flying. Fister’s feather boa is shredded, green feathers floating over the crowd’s heads like coyote night in a hen house. The club owner barely escapes the ring without getting punched. The crowd screams. Deafening excitement all round.
Lynch is first to land a series of blows as his fists hammer Fister in the face and head. Fister is knocked back, but not for long, as he counters with punches of his own. A kick to the ribs has Lynch clutching his side. There is no showboating tonight as Fister keeps his full attention fixed on Lynch’s rippling abs. Lynch groans and stumbles as Fister jabs his foot into Lynch’s belly, just above his pube line.
Sitting at a nearby table is Lynch’s buddy, Joey Vim. Joey is sipping his jack and water as he watches the exchange in the ring. Vim squints recognizing Greg’s pain as Fister slams a fist to his jaw.
(To be continued)
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