The Dump (8)
He places both ankles under his armpits and begins to spin. Fister is lifted off the mat as Greg turns in place. He releases the hold, sending Tom sailing under the bottom rope and out onto the floor. The crowd responds as if it’s a lumberjack match, as they hoist Fister back onto his feet and shove him back into the ring for more punishment.
As Fister staggers forward, Lynch dives at him; Fister drops to the mat barely evading the clothesline. Greg slams head on into the corner post. His body folds onto itself as he crumbles under the impact. Greg sinks to the mat, blood flowing down his face from a cut across his forehead.
Fister wobbles across the ring, closing in on Lynch. Both men are clearly tired and injured; the pace of the fight has slowed drastically as Tom jams his fingers under Greg’s jawbone forcing him to his feet. The crack of a vicious backhand chop fills the air as Greg’s chest is sliced open and the fighter is sent sprawling backward into the corner.
Lynch leans on the ropes slipping down onto his ass as blood runs down his abs from the gash across his pecs.
Tom lifts Greg’s head up enough to get a good look at his face. He slams his fist to Greg’s jaw, knocking his head side to side as blood flings in all directions. Greg’s left eye is nearly swollen closed as Fister continues pounding him down in the corner.
Vim gulps the last of his drink, slamming the glass down on the table. The loud bang goes unnoticed, lost in the buzz of the crowd. Vim begins to rise from his chair when a change in the mood of the crowd turns his attention back to the ring. Vim stops to watch the action in the ring.
Greg had delivered a kick in the gut to Fister, dropping him to his knees on the mat. Slowly Lynch is pulling himself up, using the ropes, as Fister kneels face down, arms wrapped across his waist, legs kicking as he fights the pain. Lynch throws himself onto Fister’s back. He wraps an arm across Tom’s throat as his legs squeeze the blond's torso. Greg catches Tom in a rear choke hold.
Fister coughs airlessly as Lynch tightens the squeeze on his neck. Lynch pulls the stud up to his feet and pushes him towards the turnbuckle. The crowd is revved up, thirsty for blood, even as the match is slowing down.
Sloppily yet viciously, Greg arches back, lifting Tom’s feet off the mat. Tom’s tongue lolls out between his lips, and his feet kick spastically outwards. As they near the corner, Tom’s foot strikes solid wood and ricochets off the turnbuckle, and the force knocks the two exhausted fighters to the mat and loosens Greg’s murderous choke.
The fighters lie on the mat, not moving, except for their stomachs heaving as they gasp for air. The crowd quiets to a murmur, still yearning for more aggression and bloodshed, yet, through a drunken haze, realizing the heavy toll the fight is taking on both combatants.
(To be continued)