The Bull of Ascalon

— The Bull of Ascalon —

The starting bell is struck, and all at once the cheers and jeers erupt around me. The noise is deafening, but I ignore it. Ten years of it echoing around me has paid off. I turn my attention to the bloody cur inching his way towards me. I watch him like a hawk, as we circle each other waiting for the first move. I notice he has begun to sweat, his brow dripping, though we have barely moved. I give him a wide grin, foreshadowing the coming dread. He starts to shake, beginning to draw every breath slowly, trying to steady himself. I start to advance, he recedes. I know when the moment comes, I will have to strike without mercy. Getting bored, I begin to toy with him. Making sudden movements, watching him flinch, all good fun. He has good reflexes, I’ll give him that. The bell is rung, barely audible above the roar of the crowd that surrounds me. I return to my corner, as does he. Someone offers me a towel, I decline. “Give it to ‘im, he looks like he could use it more than I could.” I remark to the person. I let out a laugh as the bell rings for the second round. Looking a little less green, he advances towards me. I steady myself, my heart begins to race. He makes for a blow to my head, I duck out of the way. He quickly tries to compensate with a jab to my left side. I easily jerk away from it. For having such quick reflexes, this guy is sure slow with a punch. He backs away, apparently rethinking his strategy. I make up my mind that I’m done pussyfooting around. Unexpectedly he leaps, I jump back. I see my moment, and seize the opportunity. I quickly trip him. He lands with a sickening thud, and hastily stands. He looks around, but the cur is too ignorant to realize I’m directly behind him. I grab him by the shoulder and spin him around.  With a toothy grin I say, “Boo!” and strike him hard across the bridge of the nose. Blood runs down his face, he stumbles for a few steps grasping his nose. I ponder the thought of letting him regain himself, but decide not to be kind today. I land a blow to his kidneys. He coughs, clearly I’ve knocked the wind out of him. I continue to land blow after blow, again and again he doesn’t fall. My blood begins to boil, my vision becomes clouded. I back away to regain my focus. He wipes the blood off on his arm, then without warning, lashes out in a blood lust. I duck and weave to dodge his flailing arms, in what to a spectator would look like a elaborate dance. His breathing become ragged, his blows less frequent. I wait, biding my time. This is it, the end is at hand. I bring my fist up, between his punches, directly into his jaw. There’s a nauseating crack, he stumbles for a few awkward steps, then falls. The thud echoes, the crowd falls silent. A person walks toward me, and grabs my arm. Lifting it in the air he bellows, “The winner by knock-out is the one, the only Clancy “The Bull” Redfist!!!”. He drops my arm and with that the entire arena erupts with applause once again. I look down at the pathetic cur at my feet. Filth, he has nothing on me. I amass what saliva I can, and spit on his unconscious body. I acknowledge my friends in the stands, and make my way out of the ring. I stagger, slightly light-headed, in the corridor on the way. I look down at my hands for the first time since the fight began. They’re swollen and covered in blood. It looks as if I may have broken a finger, yet I feel nothing.