Every punch and kick Rachel Gustafson threw at her practice
pads was dedicated to her haters. The right hook was dedicated to Battle Born
President Raymond Katz, who put this intergender match together to solve his
“Rachel Gustafson problem”. The flying knee was for every fan who didn’t
believe she could do battle with a man, let alone win the fucking match. The
elbow strike was for the protesters outside the arena who never wanted this
match to happen. The spinning back fist was for Sting Masters, who thought this
match was going to be a cakewalk. Lost in her rage, Rachel threw enough rapid
fire punches and kicks to accidentally knock over her trainer, to which she
apologized and helped him back up.
The knock on her door followed by a voice shouting, “It’s
fight time!” prompted Rachel to crack her neck in both directions and march out
of the locker room with fists tightened and muscles tensing. The PA system had
already queued up her walk out theme of “One of These Days” by Pink Floyd.
Groovy bass guitar solo aside, the grunting voice of “One of these days, I’m
going to cut you into little pieces!” perfectly described how Rachel felt about
everyone in this arena.
Once she walked down the aisle, she could hear the boos
reverberating off of her muscles of stone. The occasional shouts of, “You
suck!” made those audience members ideal candidates for a hard right hook to
the face. But they were the ones sweating like pigs, not her. Even from the
middle of the aisle, she stared bullets into Sting Master’s smug British face.
He was already in the octagon waiting for her with his arms folded and his red
Mohawk looking as silly as ever. “Cakewalk my ass!” she said to herself upon
reaching the entrance to the cage.
Rachel stripped off her hooded sweatshirt and athletic pants
to reveal her sports bra and baggy shorts with various business logos on it. At
least she didn’t have “Condom Depot” printed on her ass like a lot of fighters
these days had. After getting her face greased up with ointment and being
searched by the referee for weapons, Rachel stomped up the steel stairs and
bolted inside the cage, running circles around the structure and giving the
middle finger to her booing audience. She would have given one to Sting, but a
flying knee would have been more appropriate for someone of his arrogance.
Once both warriors stood in their appropriate corners behind
the black line, the seven foot tall referee stood behind the ring announcer as
he got this main event going. Speaking with passion and fire into the microphone,
“Ladies and gentlemen, we are live from the sold out Tacoma Dome in Tacoma,
Washington for Battle Born 57: Eye for an Eye! This event is sanctioned by the
Washington State Athletic Commission. When the action begins, our referee in
charge of the fight is Bill Dash. If you’re ready for some violence tonight,
make some noise!”
The audience did make noise, but none of their cheers and
boos were enough to take Rachel’s sniper sight focus off of Sting. The
announcer continued his oratory with, “Three rounds in the Battle Born
Promotions first ever intergender lightweight division match! Introducing
first, fighting out of the red corner! This man is a striker who holds a
professional record of twenty-six wins and six losses. He stands five feet
seven inches tall and weighed in at 155 lbs. Fighting out of Manchester, England…STING…MASTERS!”
More boos from an audience who clearly wanted this match to end in a double
knockout.
“Introducing his opponent, fighting out of the blue corner!
She is also a striker, but holds a professional record of nineteen wins and
four losses. Standing at five feet eleven inches tall, weighing in at 153 lbs..
Fighting out of Denver, Colorado, ladies and gentlemen, she is the former
Battle Born Promotions Women’s Lightweight Champion of the
World…RACHEL…”GUTSY”…GUSTAFSON!”
Referee Bill Dash took center stage and brought both
fighters toward his position. With the announcer holding the microphone in
Bill’s face, he gave his instructions, “Okay, you two, I want a good clean
fight. We’ve been over the rules in the locker room. Protect yourselves at all
time. Obey my commands at all time. When I tell you to stop, you stop. If you
want to touch gloves, go ahead and do it and then go back to your corners.” Not
a damn fist was raised, only deadly steel-eyed stares. “Good luck to both of
you and may the best fighter win,” said Bill before both fighters marched back
to their corners.
The ring announcer and other unnecessary personnel vacated
the cage and all that remained were two intergender warriors who wanted to smash
each other’s faces in. Rachel saw red and only red. She remembered the
interviews Sting gave in which he said he was going to, “Make her [his] bitch”
and “Put her in her place.” All the laughing. All the booing. All the fake outrage
going on outside with enhanced security. All the times Raymond Katz wanted to
get rid of her for whatever reason. Those lava-like emotions bubbled towards
the surface and she almost jumped the gun before the referee started the match.
“First round, are you ready, Rachel? Are you ready, Sting?
Let’s get it on!” shouted Bill Dash and both warriors met in the middle of the
octagon. No feeling out process, just throwing caution to the wind. Both
fighters threw heavy punches and created wooshing sounds as those hits never
landed. Rachel threw a kick at Sting’s hamstring and caused him to slightly
wince, but otherwise suck it up. Another kick to the hamstring and a deep
purple bruise formed on Sting’s pasty white leg.
Sting threw kicks of his own to Rachel’s midsection and she
could feel the tiny bit of oxygen leaving her stacked body. The jeers from the
audience intensified, but they weren’t the ones in this match and Rachel easily
blocked them out. She threw more kicks to Sting’s legs and slowed him down considerably.
And then the wily Brit went for broke when he stormed
towards Rachel with a series of hard rights and lefts. He missed the first two
strikes, but the third, a stiff jab, caught her on the chin and sent a dot
matrix of lights scattering across her field of vision. Another punch caught
her on the bridge of her nose and her eyes watered like a raging river of hot
tears. And then Sting used his good leg to throw a high kick and caught Rachel
behind the ear.
The feminine fury wobbled and staggered about as she was
being dissected by this brutal bully. He threw an elbow to her forehead and
knocked her down while opening a gusher of a cut. The boos and outrage
intensified even more, but all Rachel could hear were birdies tweeting in her
head. Sting was little more than blur to her, obnoxious red Mohawk aside. She
threw her feet upwards to try to keep him from mounting her and getting more
vicious offence in.
Sting got overzealous and went for the mount anyways, but
was met with an up-kick to the bridge of his nose, knocking him flat on his ass
and busting him wide open with a waterfall of blood. Both fighters, bloodied
and beaten, stood on their knees and punched the shit out of each other.
Rachel’s vision was darkening with every knock she took on the face while
Sting’s gusher poured like a busted fire hydrant.
Bill Dash was awfully close to stopping this fight when out
of the corner of Rachel’s vision, a fan leaped over the cage and was
immediately tackled to the floor by the seven foot ref. But then more fans
jumped the fence and swarmed in on Bill Dash. The booing audience who hated
this idea of an intergender match came rushing it all at once, even knocking
one of the sides of the cage down.
Sting got up from his dazed kneeling position and was
actually protecting Rachel with fists and feet towards the zealous fans. Bill
Dash and other security members tossed around fans like sacks of potatoes.
Meanwhile, a pair of husky arms grabbed the fading Rachel under her pits and
dragged her out of the arena. She didn’t resist due to her weak body even
though she wanted to. All she could hear was cussing, screaming, and riotous
violence surrounding her. One fan even stepped on her ankle on the way to the
cage and she didn’t even flinch. She huffed in exhaustion and closed her
swollen eyes (or at least tried to) on her way to wherever the hell she was
going.
By the time Rachel Gustafson opened her black and blue eyes
and wiped away the crusted blood from her black ponytail hair, she actually
thought she had woken up in a different time period. Was she an old lady by
this time? Was this place a nursing home? No, it was a medical facility located
far away from the Tacoma Dome. She recognized the plain white walls, the dull
florescent lights, and the ultra-comfortable bed snuggling up to her spinal
cord. Opening her eyes hurt like a motherfucker, but she did so anyways and
caught a certain chubster in a cheap suit with horseshoe hair and a cheesy
moustache standing over her bed.
“You’ve got a lot of balls coming here, Raymond. What the
hell do you want?” asked Rachel in a weak, but angry tone.
“Miss Gustafson, I am so sorry for the way things turned
out,” begged Raymond with his hands folded together. “This was supposed to be a
special night for all of us. A revolution was unfolding before our very eyes. I
didn’t think it would come to a full on riot.”
“Where’s Sting?” asked Rachel.
“We have no idea where he is. He could have gotten lost in
the riot for all we know.”
“…So in other words, I’ll never get my win back from the man
who stole it from me…because you wanted a fucking revolution?!”
“Rachel, I’m sorry, I really am.”
Having no more of Raymond Katz’s bullshit answers, the
battered, bruised, and sore Rachel burst out of bed and held the CEO against
the wall by his throat with both hands. “Don’t give me that crap! You knew from
the very beginning this was going to happen! You wanted to get rid of your
so-called Rachel Gustafson problem! So what do you do? You have a fucking riot
in the middle of my fight! A fight, which by the way, I should have won by
TKO!”
After listening to her boss wheeze and hack for hair, she
finally let go of his chubby neck and let him plop to the floor on his giant
ass. As he desperately caught his breath, Rachel kneeled down next to him and
asked, “So what is the problem, Raymond? Is it because I asked for a raise? Is
it because I asked to be promoted properly instead of getting pushed aside like
a commodity?” She leaned her battle tested face towards his and said in a deep
whisper, “Or is it because I tried to use the company’s health benefits to have
an abortion when I needed one the most? If I had that baby, I would have died
and you knew that!”
Once he had a sufficient amount of oxygen in his raspy
lungs, Raymond threw his hands up defensively and said, “Trust me, Rachel, any
problem I had with you has flown out the window. You’re important to me. I
honestly didn’t believe this match was going to end in a riot. I’m sorry. I
really am. I’ll give you whatever you want.”
Rachel stood up and asked, “Anything?”
“Anything you want. You fought like a trooper tonight,
against a man, no less. You deserve something special for that.”
“If I can really have anything I want…then I want to be
released from Battle Born Promotions.”
“What?! You’re kidding me!”
Rachel punched a hole in the wall above Raymond’s head and
caused him to flinch and yelp. “I’m serious, you fat fuck! No amount of money
can ever make me forgive you. You put my life in danger that night and I should
do the same to you. But I’m not going to…unless you don’t grant me my release.”
With nothing more to say to her now former boss, Rachel
stormed out her semi-private room and collapsed on the floor. She needed nurses
and doctors to help her stand up. Out of her still painful vision, she saw a
man in a wheelchair covered in bandages except for his eyes, which were swollen
and purple just like hers. The man gave a thumbs up and said in his signature
British accent, “I’ll see you again someday. We’re not finished by a long fucking
shot!”
“You’re damn right we’re not, Sting!” shouted Rachel as she
was being dragged away by medical personnel.
