Street Monster's Rampage
They called me street-raised. While Whittaker laced up my gloves, the ref smeared on the Vaseline. With all checks done, we stepped into the WFC Octagon.
Callum Drake locked eyes on me as I entered, his gaze burning. I met it head-on, bouncing on my toes to feel my muscles hum. The thick, heavy air clung like glue, the crowd's heat making sweat bead even standing still. The stench of blood and sweat from the previous fight pierced my nostrils, slamming straight to my brain as the world went dark.
Thump. Excess oxygen flooded my lungs deep, my slowing heart pounding harder to pump blood everywhere. "Haaah..." A sharp tingle climbed from my toes... the raw aliveness sharpened Callum's image before me, every detail crisp—his battle-hungry glare, his ragged breaths aimed at me.
"Right nooow~~~ It's here!!! The moment we've all been waiting for!!! In the light heavyweight division..." The announcer's voice cut through the intense reek; I'd forgotten he was even there. He introduced me first in red—not official WFC colors, but red's always for the challenger.
"The Korean Monster~~~!!!"
"Wooooaaahhh!!!"
I don't know where they got my name from, but Korean Monster hit hard—music to my ears. I rose with his hype, arms spread wide to flaunt my reach.
"Come on! Come on!"
"Wooooaaahhh!!!"
The thunderous roar hurled me back to the Colosseum. Brazilians booed me just days ago, but now this? Solid mic work. Callum's intro wrapped up, and the ref, seeing us ready, called us to center. His quick rule rundown? Whatever—didn't need it.
Callum glared daggers... up close, those eyes burned not with fight spirit, but raw murderous hunger for me. "Hmph..." His glare mixed with the arena's blood scent, blacking out my vision again. The chill hit: my blood could spill here too.
We backed to our corners. "Fight!!!" The ref sparked into view then vanished. Eyes on Callum, I advanced, glove out for the touch.
No touch—just a whipping hook. I swayed my upper body back. Whoosh. Counter time, but an awkward overhand followed. I slipped my head aside for a clearer shot, minding his position, and fired a pure-speed check hook. Crack!
I snapped front for a straight, but he'd already peeled away. No damage at all? Not even groggy from that. Still, glove touches are tradition—why's he dodging?
"Ungh?" He rubbed his nose, flipping me the bird. I grinned. "Heh."
Kickboxing stance looked stiff as hell. Light step for a quick position switch, low kick snapping from the toes. Thwack! One hit, and he wobbled back, realizing his mistake. He'd prepped for lows, but not from that angle—had to freak him out.
My lows are taekwondo-based: step and explosive motion. First time seeing it? Tough react. He backed way off, clueless on the angle. I shrugged, and the crowd jeered him.
"Boool!"
Spotting his right foot advance, I ripped an oblique kick to his knee. Thud. His balance tipped forward. As his hands dropped instinctively, high kick slotted in. Smash! Ranker's no joke—he blocked even off-balance. Felt the chill warning, maybe? He sprang up, face twisted in confusion.
"Safe word?"
"Fuck off!"
His coaches yelled in Portuguese from behind. I caught it easy: just dive in for jiu-jitsu. Basic advice. Callum ducked low for a takedown setup, feinted a shoot, then flung a brainless overhand. I slipped back; he crashed in. Pinned his head with my hand—amateur mudfight punches flew. Barely tickled.
Took one to the chest, fired a short knee. Crunch! Heavy feedback through my knee. Sensed it right—his eyes squeezed shut, face lifting. Classic boxing one-two to the face. Pop! Splat! Jab to nose, straight to chin. Felt solid, but weird vibe off my right knuckles. His teeth probably shattered. No brain rattle, though.
Lucky? Nah. Panic and despair flooded his face. "...?" That look—like prey sensing death—lit me up. I charged, unleashing combos. Crunch! Crunch! Splaaat! Dodged his dumb counter with a head tilt, straight to the open chin. Splat! Still off on the chin feel. Should've dropped him dead—how's he up?
Shock hurled him staggering to the fence. Torso still upright, I hammered over his guard. Crack! Crack! Aimed uppercut, but he bent deep to survive. Knee over his guard—bone-on-arm clash. Snap! Nicked a nerve? Leg buckled; crammed another knee. Crunch! Thread snapped—he ricocheted off the fence, skull-planting the mat.
"Hngh..." Pinned his head with my right for ground pounds—ref dove in, horrified. Bullfighter-style jump; I twisted aside. He ate fence ugly. Slam!
"Wooooaaahhh!!!"
Overdid the flair—heart raced for oxygen. "Huuuh..."
Ceremony time: loosed my half-holstered pistol tattoo at downed Callum, rapid-fire kill-shot mime. "Bang~"
"Wooooaaahhh!!!"
Shoulder-shimmied for the crowd, spat my mouthpiece back, hopped fence-perch no-hands.
Cameramen swarmed. "Proof's in the puddin'~"
"Wooooaaahhh!!!!! "
"Championship's just a matter of time!"
"Come on! Come on!"
Bounced down to land, eyed stirring Callum. He knew: total loss. Doc checked him, stretcher out—he rolled away.
Entourage and crew piled in. Whittaker's eyes sparkled. "That final flurry? Pure terror."
"Naturally~"
Hugged Tahar and Whittaker, fist-bumped grinning Colin, shoulder-checked. "Cool enough?"
"Fuck off. Still looked brutal though?"
His praise hit; I eyed him playful. He'd been grinning—now stone-faced. Ref declared my win. Roars intensified, screaming Brazil's passion.
Sweaty me? Grappling fodder next time. John Logan approached, drenched despite just commentating—place was a sauna.
"You're the craziest motherfucker! Fists, kicks, that knee into one-two—I thought it'd snap my neck! Training payoff!?"
Mic shoved my way. One-two from training? Every fighter's story. Skipped it, faced camera, spat fire.
"Grapplers, listen up. You dive headfirst, swing like kids—keep it up in front of me. I'll crack your skull first, like that."
Seven straight insta-KOs? Crowd erupted. Snagged John's mic mid-question for my piece.
"Expected more from #7. Wasted four months' effort again."
"..."
"Now I get it."
"Get what?"
"Moment I step in this octagon, it's no sport—it's a disaster. #6? #5? Champ? Fuck 'em. That's my spot."
Scanned the roaring masses.
"I'm no predator. I'm an unstoppable monster!"
"Wooooaaahhh!!!!"
They exploded as I finished. John had questions left, but my body auto-exited the octagon. Catch 'em next time.