Daily Creative Writing Practice - And Than He Punched [Short Story]
My daily practice of bringing depth to simple sentences...
And Than He Punched
He knew everything was close to being lost, as did the crowd as they roared with a collective delight, man's inner sadomasochism showing through as they sensed blood, sensed that within moments he would be just another crumpled body dragged to the side. Another victim of what they called Blood Sport, a hushed game known only to the underworld, that would pit one warrior against another in a carnal display of anything goes combat.
The winner would walk away with £ 50K in cash and their name forever immortalized. While the loser would face the very real possibility of a bloody death. In the realm of the underworld, acknowledgement of the sport was considered taboo and those who were given the special invite of attending such battles were placed under the tightest of rules.
But right now they screamed and cursed from the tops of there lungs in anticipation of who would win. There wagers no longer 50/50, odds now dangerously in favour of one than the other.
They knew he'd taken a devastating spin kick only just managing to get his guard up in defense. But the price was that now his right arm was numb, the heel of his 6ft plus opponent had caught him in between the meeting point of the two muscles of his right biceps. He couldn't stop his arm hanging limply to the side if he wanted to.
Worse still was that his opponent the dreaded Onslaught sensed his weakness, saw the falter in his resolute. So advanced on him, grinning bloodied teeth as he wrapped the barbwire tighter around his shovel like fists. Blood dripping from his massive hands, but he cared not as he knew that within moments he would be reining champion yet again. That he'd be the bloody king of the bloody sport. 10 victories 0 losses. A great record to retire on if he wished too.
He watched as the massive behemoth walked towards him with surprising agility. His bloody remains of flesh left on the brutes barbwire. Acted as a reminder of just what he'd got himself into.
Being a victim of modern day slavery since birth, he'd come up hard, he was feed fists for lunch and kicks for dinner. Love was lost on him as he'd been considered just property, something there for people to do with as they pleased. But he'd always had more resolve than they'd realised as he quietly would work on honing his own body. Through the dead of night, when all was quiet and when all were asleep. He'd practice punching his fists to the stone floor, kicking his feet to the stone wall, over and over, again and again. Until his feet were bloody and his hands were numb.
His life was pain from birth, physical pain was just a different type of pain, something he found easier to manage. A thousand push-ups a thousand sit-ups. Pain turned his malnourished body into something strong and wiry with an embattled spirit. A spirit that was now tired of being a slave, that was now tired of giving in to the desires of others and so with a wooden spoon, he went to the task of freeing himself.
Hard-driving the wooden spoon into the skulls of his captors, blood and brain matter dripping from his makeshift weapon, as he rubbed some of the messy human goo into his own flesh. He remembered hearing the voices from a film as he was locked in his stone prison, the voice stood out to him, as if talking directly to him the voice in a full battle cry spoke of "bathing gloriously in the blood of enemies." That day he took his first bath. No man nor gunshot was able to stop him, he was powered by rage, powered by the battered ghost of his mother. Completely consumed to bloodlust.
His earlier actions as if by destiny had led him to this battle, the most important of all. As this battle was the battle in securing his future. Giving him a fighting chance in a world where people like him were used as just expendable labour. And mothers like his, as cheap throwaway thrills for men long indulged in the ills of hedonism.
Well, he was no throwaway thrill and he'd show every last one of them, who thought they were above him and could do with him as pleased. He'd show them that he could bring each and every one of them to their begging knees. Starting with the hulking mass in front of him. The hulking mass named Onslaught, who was taking further confident strides towards him, his face grim as his aura set on bringing death. Of releasing another unfortunate soul into the realm that no man knows but all men go.
He lifted his massive hand covered by barbwire. Sharp and bloody. Aiming only, in pushing his whole fist through the head of his foe.
Without thinking he done what he'd always done, did the only thing that he'd ever known to do. Which was to survive. Surviving through all things, through all situations even when the odds were stacked impossibly against him. When the odds themselves, if given a chance, would off bet against him. But he remembered, like how he always remembered the sad look to his mother's eyes. Her constantly tired and drawn in face. But her words with strength that she constantly repeated. To "Never give up!"
He dropped to one knee and flashed a punch hard and fast into the stomach of Onslaught. He struck with everything he had, he struck like how he'd struck the stone floor, over and over again. Never stopping never relenting, waiting for a chance, an opportunity where he could simply be free. Free of enslavement. Free of judgment. Free to simply live as anyone of his fellow humans on Gods green lands.
His fist split more than just the innards of Onslaughts stomach. It split into the minds of spectators. Their foreheads sweaty with fear that they hadn't felt for decades. As they knew that their actions of past would be the cause of the eventuality of their soon to be demise.
Inspiration for this story was Grand Master Codner
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