Free Dirty Fighters by Kyle Adams Page A

without having lost too many brain cells, along with my pride.

    ****

    When I slowly came to, my head was pounding. I felt like I was waking up from a punishing hangover, or more like three hangovers simultaneously wreaking havoc inside my head. I think I groaned a little but didn't open my eyes, just wanted to lay there until my head stopped spinning.
    "It’s about time you woke up," I heard a vaguely familiar voice say all too cheerfully. I scrunched my eyes tighter and grimaced. Striker must have noticed my reaction. "Sorry, man," he said a lot quieter and more soothing. "You know, losing wouldn't hurt so much if you just gave up before being put to sleep. We might be a bunch of assholes that like beating each other up, but none of us want to beat a man unconscious just to rack up a win.”
    I knew what he said made sense but I fought to win. Just giving up and admitting defeat wasn't satisfying. It was not my way. I had to fight until I couldn't open my eyes. That’s why I worked hard to keep my body in great shape. I was quick on my feet, and had endurance to outlast almost everyone else I have come up against.
    I'm 5'11" and 170 pounds of solid muscle. I run five miles every day to keep up my stamina, and I hit the gym four to five times a week. I have midnight black hair that I keep short on the sides and just long enough on top to style, but not long enough for an opponent to grab onto during a fight. I have strong facial features with a square jaw, high cheekbones and a sharp small nose. I’ve been lucky, even with all the fighting, I’ve never had my nose broken.
    I was lying on the wrestling mat trying to breathe, but even small shallow breaths burned my throat like I had just done a round of battery acid shots. Even feeling this shitty, it was worth it to know I fought until I passed out. I don't quit. "Where's Buddy?" I managed to say without sounding too raspy. This was Buddy's group, his cellar which the guys called The Cage, was below his old farmhouse about 10 miles outside of Pittsburgh. Buddy was always here after the fights taking care of anyone that got hurt.
    "Buddy had somewhere to be, I told him I would make sure you made it out of here and locked the place up when we left." He knew what I wanted to ask and answered before I could open my mouth, "Buddy made all the guys leave with him so they wouldn't be hovering. You were only out for twenty-three seconds but you know Buddy, he had the guys leaving before I even released the choke. Of course, I let go as soon as you lost consciousness, and it's not like you stopped breathing or anything. You're fine," he said as he grabbed my chin, manhandling me he pulled my head to the side, “except for this nasty cut above your eye. You'll have to work on those reflexes.” I opened my eyes and glared, he was smirking.
    Sexy fucking bastard. “Fuck you!” the croak in my voice made it sound less angry than I meant. I sounded like I was teasing, when I was about a minute away from breaking his smug nose.
    “Maybe if you're a good boy,” he said winking at me, conceited bastard. "Hold still, I'm going to clean it with some antiseptic."
    He started scrubbing the pad on my open cut. I resisted the urge to flinch from the sting of the alcohol and how much pressure he was using. I felt like he was cleaning it with sandpaper. Asshole! Did he have to be so rough? I didn't want to seem like a baby but this was hurting worse than it did when I got the cut. "Your cut won't need stitches. Nothing seems broken, you'll probably just be light headed for a while and have a sore throat for a few hours. If you knew when to submit, it wouldn't bother you at all." He smirked again.
    He said it like it would have been okay to tap out and just give up. I smiled, thinking next time I would break his arm and dislocate his shoulder if I got the chance. I felt Striker press a small bandage onto my cut, when he finished he said, "You can sit up now. But move slowly," Striker added