The Fight

Breet and Diego

"Can we dance?" Breet asked the petite woman he’d been watching all night in the club. Her hourglass figure swayed with the music, her hips moving in a way that made him lick his lips and shift uncomfortably. Her face was striking—bare of makeup, which only heightened his interest. Her curves, accentuated by her tight dress, reminded him of overripe fruit, full and inviting. But when she looked up, his confidence faltered. She was a finger taller than him, her gaze steady and unyielding.

"Sorry," she said with a slight smile, nodding toward a man at the bar. "I promised the next dance to him."

Breet’s eyes flicked to the guy, a scowl crossing his face. Noticing the tension in his expression, she added quickly, "Hey, don’t start trouble. It’s first-come, first-served." She winked, her tone light but firm.

His jaw tightened. "If you don’t want trouble, cancel that dance and hit the floor with me. After that, if I’m feeling generous, we could head to my place—or maybe slip behind those curtains." He gestured toward the stage, his voice low and suggestive.

Her laughter cut through the thumping music, sharp and mocking. "What do you take me for?" she said, a smirk curling her lips. "Get lost, buddy."

Anger flared in Breet’s chest. He grabbed her arm, his grip tight enough to make her wince. "You don’t get to talk to me like that," he growled.

She met his gaze, unflinching. "Let go. Your cheap muscles don’t scare me."

Instead of releasing her, Breet tightened his hold, leaning closer. "I’m gonna teach you a lesson that guy at the bar never could," he said, his voice dripping with scorn. "You’ll regret crossing me."

She yanked her arm, but his grip held firm. "Let go, you creep," she snapped, her voice rising. Before he could respond, she swung her free hand, landing a sharp slap across his cheek. "Don’t you dare talk to me like that."

His eyes darkened, a dangerous glint flickering in them. "That just killed any generosity I had left," he said with a twisted grin.

But she wasn’t fazed. She’d faced men like him before—men who thought they could intimidate her—and she’d always come out on top. Raising her voice over the music, she called, "Diego!"

At the bar, Diego was deep in conversation with the bartender, who was spinning a wild tale about his rise to running the club. "It was a setup," the bartender said, pointing to a scar on his cheek. "I was new, and the others—guys who’d been here for years—stole a chunk of cash and pinned it on me. The boss, a guy you don’t mess with, was ready to take my hand for it. Lucky for me, the CCTV caught the truth."

Diego laughed, leaning forward. "No way. How’d you get out of that one?"

The bartender grinned. "I was napping in the change room when they came for me. Woke up to a slap that left this mark." He tapped his cheek. "Knocked me out cold for a minute."

Diego chuckled, shaking his head. "That’s one hell of a wake-up call."

"Yeah," the bartender continued, "when I came to, I was chained to a wall, arms spread, staring at the boss holding a machete. Scariest moment of my life."

Diego whistled, wide-eyed. "Man, that’s intense." 

The boss glared at me, his eyes narrowing. "Did you steal from me?"

I blinked, confused. "No, boss, I don’t know what you’re talking about."

Maybe he saw the honesty in my eyes, because he nodded and turned to the accountant. "Let’s check the CCTV."

Biggie, the accountant—ironically small in stature—began to sweat. "But boss," he stammered, "we’ve got the thief right here. No need to stress yourself watching him cut the pie."

The boss’s face darkened. When he got mad, blood tended to flow. He swung a fist, and Biggie crumpled to the floor, blood streaming from a broken nose. The boss turned to the security guard. "Show me the CCTV footage."

The guard glanced at Biggie, still sprawled on the floor, and stammered, "Boss, I—I resign. This treatment is too brutal."

At that moment, Diego’s name echoed across the room. He turned from his barstool to see a young man gripping Benita’s arm tightly. Swearing under his breath, Diego leapt from his seat and hurried over.

"What’s the meaning of this?" Diego demanded, flicking the man’s hand off Benita’s arm with a casual yet precise gesture. The man, Breet, grimaced in pain, clutching his thumb, though he quickly masked his discomfort.

Breet scowled and threw a punch. Diego dodged effortlessly, landing a sharp left hook to Breet’s kidney. The blow sent Breet crashing to the floor, curled into a ball.

"Diego, this creep’s been harassing me," Benita said, nodding toward Breet. "When I turned him down, he got violent."

Breet staggered to his feet, one hand pressed to his side. "You’ll pay for this," he spat. "How dare you challenge me? I invoke the first rule of the club!" He glared at the bartender.

Diego turned to the bartender, eyebrows raised. "What the hell’s he talking about?"

"He’s challenged you to a fighting duel," the bartender said with a sly grin.

Diego shook his head. "I’m not accepting."

"Then you’ll owe a hundred grand and lose the girl," the bartender replied. "That’s the rule here."

"And if I accept and win?" Diego asked.

"You get seventy percent of the betting pool, and the loser pays the boss two hundred grand for using the ring."

Diego locked eyes with Breet, who was still fuming. "You don’t want to do this. You’ll lose."

"I’m gonna bash your head in until your pretty face looks like Sméagol from Lord of the Rings," Breet snarled.

"So be it," Diego said, nodding to the bartender in acceptance.

The bartender’s grin widened. He’d seen Diego’s fluid movements and knew the muscled brute was in for a surprise. He raised a hand, signaling the DJ to cut the music. Climbing onto the bar, he raised his voice. "This club is one of the best in town, serving you with top-notch service. But we also run a Fighting Ring behind that red door." He pointed to a door at the end of the bar, guarded by two hefty bouncers.

"For those new here, entry to the ring costs a hundred dollars. And tonight, we have a match between these two!" He gestured to Breet, with his muscular frame, and Diego, lean but deceptively strong.

The crowd erupted in cheers. First-timers rushed to pay their fees, eager for the show. In his secret room, the boss watched with a satisfied smile, knowing he’d chosen the right bartender for the job.

The bartender pointed at Breet, grinning. “Hey, Scowling Face, what’s your name?”

“Breet,” he growled.

“What’s that? Breath, eh?”

“I said BREET!” Breet roared, his voice cutting through the bar’s din.

The bartender raised his hands, chuckling. “Easy, man, I ain’t the one you got beef with. Save that fire for the ring.” The crowd erupted in laughter, their jeers bouncing off the smoky walls.

The boss, lounging in the corner, smirked. The bartender was working the crowd like a pro, and that meant big bucks tonight. Oh, what a time to cash in, he thought, sipping his drink.

The bartender turned back to Breet. “Alright, Mr. Scowling Face, you’re in black shorts with a red stripe. As for you lot—” he spun to the crowd, voice booming, “—if you’re betting on this guy, get your money down now! I ain’t got all day!” He jabbed a finger at a young man trying to slip past the bookie. “You, grinning like a fool, don’t think you can skip the line. Pay up, or you’ll miss more than a bet.”

The crowd hooted as the bartender’s gaze shifted to the other fighter. “And you, the guy eyeing the dame. What’s your name?”

“Diego,” the man said coolly, leaning against the bar.

“Die-go, huh? What kinda name is that?”

“Diego, you fool,” he shot back, his tone sharp.

The bartender shook his head, smirking. “No need to get hurt over the F-word, kid. We were having a good time till you stirred things up.”

Diego crossed his arms. “Just get on with it, man. I’m tired of standing here.”

“Wow, aren’t you the eager one?” the bartender said, winking at the crowd. “Let’s see if you’re as quick in the ring.”

"You’ll wear blue shorts," the bartender said, pointing at Diego. Then he raised his voice, "Hey, everyone betting on this guy, get your blue stripe and hurry up! Time waits for no man, and money is time!"

The crowd roared, scrambling to place bets. First-timers received an armband with the bar’s logo—a roaring lion—emblazoned on it.

The boss grinned at the milling crowd. What a day to watch a fight and make bank, he thought. He flicked his finger, summoning his bodyguard. "Get Maxwell on the phone. Now. Before the show starts. I haven’t got all day."

The bodyguard pulled out his phone and dialed the bartender, who answered on the first ring, knowing it was the boss. "Yes, Charles?" Maxwell said after a brief pause.

"The boss wants to talk," the bodyguard replied.

"Sure, I’m ready."

The bodyguard handed the phone to Mr. Wick, who paused, a faint smile curling his lips. He remembered his days as a street thug, clawing his way to the top with nothing but street smarts. Now they called him "Fatty" behind his back, thinking he didn’t know. His neck had vanished under layers of fat, and his doctor’s warnings to cut back on his diet echoed in his mind. Screw the doctor, he thought. "Max!"

"Yes, boss?"

"Who’re we betting on?"

"I’d stake my life on the kid."

"How sure are you?"

"Boss, the kid’s got moves. He’s experienced."

"Hmm. You willing to bet your dick on him?"

Max hesitated. "What’s my cut if I’m right?"

"Twenty percent, Max. You know how generous I am."

"Yes, boss."

"And you know how I deal with failure?"

"Yes, boss."

"If the kid loses, you lose your dick."

"What?!"

"You heard me." The boss hung up.

Max hurried to the ring, dread knotting his stomach. He approached Diego. "Hey, kid!"

Diego turned, sizing him up. "What do you want?"

"Don’t lose."

"Who says I’m losing?"

"No one. Just… encouraging you."

"Why’re you sweating, then?"

Max wiped his brow, surprised to find sweat despite the bar’s icy air-conditioning. "Stress. The crowd," he muttered.

"Yeah, sure." Diego smirked. "What’d you bet on?"

"Can’t say, man. Just… don’t lose." Max walked off, heart pounding.

The bell rang, silencing the rowdy crowd. The commentator’s voice boomed, "Hey, George, you think this is a fair match?"

"Why not?" George replied.

"Look at the muscle on that guy! He could crush the other one’s bones!"

"Don’t sweat it. Let’s get on with the fight."

"Ladies and gentlemen!" the commentator continued. "Today, I present the first fight of October, just before Halloween!" The crowd erupted in cheers. "In one corner, we have the muscle-bound beast who’d make young Arnold Schwarzenegger jealous—BREET THE CRUSHER!"

The crowd roared its approval.

"And in the other corner, a newbie, a first-timer. They say he’s fighting for a dame, maybe settling a score. Whatever it is, he’s ready to entertain us. Give it up for DIEGO!"

The crowd exploded again as Breet and Diego stepped into the ring. The referee barked, "In this ring, there are no rules. Kick, bite, punch—do whatever it takes to win until your opponent can’t stand or surrenders. Let the fight begin!"

Breet lunged, feinting a left punch while swinging a vicious roundhouse kick aimed at Diego’s temple. But Diego was ready. He slid to his knees, the kick whistling over his head, and slammed his fist into Breet’s groin. A collective "Ooh!" rippled through the crowd, many wincing and clutching their own groins in sympathy. Breet crumpled, vomiting and sobbing, his body curled on the floor.

The commentator roared, "What a quick, nasty hook from Diego! Breet’s down, his guts spilling out of his mouth! Let’s see if he’s giving up—because a lot of cash is riding on his head!"

Breet staggered to his feet, wincing in pain. With a snarl, he glared at Diego. “You got lucky. Let’s see if you can land another jab like that.”

As Breet stood, the crowd roared, and the commentator seized the moment. “This Breet is made of tough stuff! I can’t imagine taking a hit to the balls like that—it’d kill me!”

George, his co-commentator, chuckled. “What if big money’s riding on those balls? Would you let a cheap shot stop you if losing meant getting grabbed by the hands of defeat?”

“You’re painfully right,” the commentator replied, grinning. “I’d find a way to fight, even if I lost a nut!” The crowd erupted in laughter.

The fight resumed, but Breet was cautious now, knowing brute force wouldn’t work against Diego, who was as slippery as an eel. He squared his stance and taunted, “What, you scared? Come get me if you can!”

“Now that’s Breet taking a careful step toward Diego—and did I hear a taunt?” the commentator asked.

“You sure did,” George said with a grin.

Diego shrugged, unfazed. “I’m not in a hurry. My balls aren’t on fire. You sure yours’ll work after that nasty jab to the root, huh?”

“Now that’s a savage comeback from Diego!” the commentator crowed. “What’s The Crusher gonna do?”

The crowd roared with laughter, chanting, “Breet the Crusher, crush him now!” Fueled by their cheers and a surge of adrenaline, Breet let out a roar. Moving with a speed reminiscent of a young Iron Mike Tyson, he attacked Diego with a complex blend of karate and kickboxing, striking high and low simultaneously.

“Hey, George!” the commentator shouted.

“Yeah?”

“You seeing this?”

“Don’t distract me!” George replied. “This is one of those desperate moves. Look how Diego’s casually blocking every hit like he’s bored.”

“Yeah,” the commentator said with a sly grin, “and I bet those who put money on The Crusher are about to lose a few bucks.”

“Lose?” George scoffed. “Some’ll go bankrupt!”

At that moment, Diego dodged a vicious punch aimed at his face. Using Breet’s momentum, he flipped him over in a fireman’s carry. Breet crashed onto his back, the air rushing out of his lungs. Before he could recover, Diego delivered a powerful kick to his temple. An audible crack silenced the crowd.

The commentator’s voice boomed, “Let’s give it up for Diego the Kicker!” Those who bet on Diego erupted in cheers, knowing they’d leave richer than when they arrived.

Maxwell, the disheveled bartender, slumped in his seat, a mix of satisfaction and nerves on his face. He wondered how he’d ever agreed to bet with his dick.

Breet was carried out of the ring to the club’s medical wing, set up for just such emergencies. He was declared unconscious but stable. The boss was pleased, having pocketed two hundred grand from the fight, plus his winnings from the bet.

Diego received his cut from the fight and the betting pool. The envelope felt heavy in his hand, and he whistled. Turning to Benita, he grinned. “I think I deserve to get laid tonight. You gonna open your door after all I went through?”

“Take me home and unwrap me, your trophy,” she replied with a coy smile.

The End