Page 102 of The Twins
Vickery, the independent judicator stepped into the center of the cage his plain black shirt and trousers, signaling his role. He held up his hand, and the arena went quiet.
He was known for being a bit of a showman, so I hoped his spiel would be quick.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he started, “you have come to witness one of the greatest spectacles in our beautiful city today. The multiple-title-holding brothers, Finn and Cillian Sullivan, and Del the Destroyer paired with Keith Kickass are here to battle it out.” He paused as a cheer went around. “These guys are not used to defeat, they live and breathe the fight, so, spectators, do not wince if there be blood and hard hits, do not gasp if teeth fly and noses break, you have come to witness the bare bones of the sport we all love.”
He beckoned us all to the middle, and we smacked fists, reminding us we were sportsmen not kill-to-the-death enemies.
“Now let’s get started,” Vickery yelled, “five, five minute rounds, that will end in a knockout, technical knockout, submission, or disqualification. Elbows to the head are allowed, no kicking or kneeing the head. What will the end result be? Who will go home victorious? Only time will tell, and that time is now!” He checked his watch, put his whistle in his mouth, and blew.
Both Cillian and I skipped into the cage, fists up, not that we were both fighting, we just wanted to keep the mystery of which one of us was going first.
The second of confusion worked, and Del skipped side to side, flicking his attention between us, not sure who to focus on.
In a well-rehearsed movement, I went backward and Cillian went forward, taking a slice at Del’s chin and backing it up with a blow to the temple.
The crowd went wild. Del staggered, but only for a second because he came back kicking low ankle picks, and Cillian had to scoot sideways, backward, sideways again before he could counter with his own right-footed kick that landed on Del’s thigh.
It was a solid kick right above his knee and caught Del in a moment of imbalance. He fell to his ass, scooting to the netting with his momentum and crushing up against it.
Cillian pounced, circling his body around Del’s and capturing him in a hooks-in leg lock. He placed his right arm around Del’s neck in an anaconda choke and clasped his dark hair.
Spit flew from Del’s mouth with each breath, and his cheeks puffed up, becoming redder by the second. He bucked and tried to turn but to no avail. Cillian had him well and truly trapped.
Vickery scuttled around, whistle at the ready, shoulders hunched.
My heart raced, and my guts clenched. This was quick work even for us.
And then Vickery gave the point with a sharp, high-pitched blast and a wave of his arms.
The crowd were uproarious. Cillian released Del and shoved backward on his butt before springing upright. He spit out his mouth guard and grinned at me.
It was an excellent start, but we still had a long way to go.
Once upright, Del shook his arms and shrugged, hopped on the spot, and glared at Cillian. He was hungry for victory now,determined to get revenge for that last slick move that saw him concede a point.
The next round started with gusto, legs and arms flying, fast twists and turns. Cillian hit the side of the cage, stumbled and fell but was up in a flash and avoiding Del’s heavy kicks and cross-punches designed to take out Cillian’s dominant arm.
“Just fucking put him down,” I yelled through my mouth guard.
And then Cillian spun past me, held out his hand, and requested a tag.
I slapped his hand and rushed forward.
Del glanced between us, perhaps though wondering if we really had switched, we looked so similar. But I was fresh and greedy for the fight and approached with lightning speed.
He blocked my first three punches, then I got him in the kidney. He spun and threw out his right leg, catching my left knee. I hit the deck to avoid it locking out, but the moment my body made contact, I rolled and jumped up. He was right there, his determined face inches from mine.
I flew out my fists, making several contacts; he did the same, his bulk filling my view and forcing me backward.
The yells of the crowd faded, the music dulled, the lights blurred—all I focused on was Del and taking him down.
Counterpunches became my best friend, and each time he opened up a vulnerability by firing a hit at me, I got him one back. I nearly got a neat kick to his jaw, but he blocked me, so I lowered my head, bull-style, and rammed him into the cage side.
He huffed out a breath and clasped me as we fell to the floor. His skin was slick with sweat, and beneath his flesh the solidity of his muscles tried to clasp me in various holds and locks.
We were in a stalemate, locked together, no give available, then he managed to unbalance me and force meupward. He kept on going, lifting us both. Instantly, I recognized the move, he was going for a body slam, something I really didn’t want to give him.
I dropped to my knees, pummeling his abdomen with vicious blows. He huffed and grunted and clasped me to him to reduce my momentum.
