A Painful Beginning, CelticFire's Story 1
By CelticFire




Jack, or The Boxer Jack as he preferred to be called, was in the locker room staring aimlessly and silently fuming at the world. To say it had been a rough couple of days would have been a understatement. As if meticulously planned in advance, both the gym and boxing ring had treated him like shit. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t up his bench weight. No matter what he took, his curls stayed the same and the painfully obvious lack of muscle showed. No matter how much he practiced or trained, he couldn’t defeat any opponent he took on. In front of him, rows of lockers presented themselves, and openly mocked him. Each one represented one of his opponents, each one a time he was bullied and beaten. With his shower towel still around his shoulders, he took a seat by one of the nearby benches and privately continued to fume.

“Much bullshit” he said to himself “fuck them all”.

Even despite his admittedly unbecoming whining, Jack had a point. For as long as he could remember, at least with concern to boxing, anyone he gloved up and faced had beaten him. One would have thought with all the time, effort and training he had done, it would have at least yielded one win. But no, Jack was a loser, and would forever be known as a loser. Be it this thought or just general frustration with the whole situation, he punched a locker as hard as he could, wishing instead it was the face of one of his opponents.

“Fucking bastards!” he cursed… and ouch his hand.

Rolling his eyes at the shear dumbness of his actions, he took a quick moment to check himself. How could he be so foolish? How could he be so out of his senses? Was it just the taxing couple of days or something to do with his fellow boxers? His fellow “brothers” in gloves always enjoyed punching him in the face until all he saw was stars, until the sweat dripped into his eyes and he could no longer see. They would break his nose, cut his eye, bust his lip, saying it was all part of the game. They enjoyed tying him up on the ropes being unable to defend himself from their hungry gloved fists. With great delight, and with various combos of lefts and rights, they rocked his upper buddy hard. They would pound hard each muscle (not like there was much) of his chest until it was soft and red. They, and one American opponent in particular, enjoyed working his stomach on the turnbuckles. Furious hooks, killer upper cuts, powerful jabs, limitless in number, they all came to blast his soft midsection. Even now, so long after the fact, the thoughts of it made him tense up and try to block his stomach. Even now his abs burned with the power of their hits. He was sick of it, sick of all these big guys picking on him! Screw them and their muscles! One day, he mused to himself, he would take them all on and win. One day he would destroy them like they destroyed him. One day they would see him as the alpha male.

By now, he was eager to get home and relax, to forget about the crap of the week.

As the day was coming to a close, at least at the gym, his private complaining affair in the locker room was rapidly becoming significantly less private. As the locker room became more crowded, he gaze hit the ground. If he didn’t make eye contact, they would mostly leave him alone. They would be, after all, to busy gloating and admiring themselves on being the masters of everything. With great haste, Jack showered and changed, wanting to be gone already. Getting a fresh pair of clothing, he stopped short of his shirt. In the mirror he saw his reflection, and he wanted to spit. One of his most frequent opponents, the American from before, liked to insult him when they fought. Little boy, pretty boy, weak, and worse. He knew he wasn’t there yet, but one day he would make that man pay.

The thought put a smile on his face.

The Celtic Fighter, a name created mostly in honor of his heritage, was finishing up his workout. Keeping mostly to himself, while blasting power metal music, the other guys respected his alone time. It was an odd thing with men and the gym. If you put forth effort, no matter what shape or size, they would respect you for it. If you came back and stayed hungry, you would earn their respect. If you paid your dues, and did what had to be done, this was your place. Nothing was given freely here, everything had to be earned. It was hard but there was respect. In any case, his muscles were screaming from the intense three hour pushing, but it didn’t matter. He was always hungry for a better looking body, and he would not stop till he got it. For too long, he was the little shit, the little guy, the guy who could stand up to no one.

Now that he was on his own, he would no longer tolerate being so weak.

Today, while also allowing his heavily tattooed body some air, he was blasting chest and arms pretty hard. While boxing was enjoyable, especially with this kid always looking for a fight with him, it wasn’t the only way to build muscle. Grunting under his breath, and trying not to show pain, his body became drenched in sweat. He had to dig deep and focus hard to finish this fifth and final rep on the bench. It was a new record for him after all, two hundred and twenty pounds. His arms strained under the weight and his chest heaved fast. His chest hair (at least what he had) was soaked and his hair was even worse. But he would not let this beat him, he would rise up, man up! With a final push, the set was done. He had done it. Clicking the bar into place he sat up to catch his breath. While working out had proven positive effects on the male persona, not to mention the increase testosterone had him feeling great, the smell that came with it sucked serious man balls. No lady enjoyed the smell, and most guys would only tolerate it for so long. So after cleaning off the equipment, he made a straight line for the locker room. The day was done and he needed a shower bad… like real bad.

After a rather lengthy shower, that was always set to “Bitch what’s with you getting fucked by Satan” hot water, and trim (for his facial hair at least), he made his way back to his locker, wrapped tightly in his towel. While it was perfectly acceptable for men to wear little or nothing while in the locker room, Celtic wasn’t quite up to that level of showing off or fun and fancy free. Maybe after dropping some weight and putting on a couple pounds of muscle? Maybe.

After changing into his fresh clothing, he turned to leave, but not before accidently bumping into someone…

“Excuse me bro didn’t –“

Celtic was quick to cut himself off once he noticed who the person he bumped into way. While they were not mortal enemies, more like uneasy gym rivals, they also didn’t get along… at all. Celtic was generally an easy going guy who could get along with anyone, be it sucking it up or general niceness and respect winning them over. He also knew his place in the gym, and navigated it smoothly. He wouldn’t mess or piss off guys bigger than him, and he did his best to help out the smaller guy just starting out. Jack, however?

Wasn’t happening.

He hated how Jack always mouthed off and showed major attitude to other boxers and gym people. What was with some piss poor skinny ass Asian kid thinking he could disrespect people? What made him think he could pick fights and not suffer for it? All he had to do was show some basic nice manners and his situation here would improve a thousand fold. But no, he mouthed off and acted big. Hell, Celtic could probably punch THREW the kid’s skinny chest if he wanted to… and sometimes he really wanted to. The way Jack treated him, treated the other gym goers, even the new kid Dante (or what ever his name was), it was just well shameful. All around, he was just disgusted with this kid’s attitude and presence.

Jack was furious that his long time American rival had dared intruded on him. Intruded and once again looked down on him, like he was nothing at all. Jack understood he was the smallest guy here, he didn’t need reminding of it, nor did he need their disrespect. Even the new kid, who was just as small as he was, had more respect than him! He worked hard every day to become the best boxer here and they should have given him all the wins he wanted! Given the chance he could be an amazing fighter! He just needed that chance-

Lost in thought, and deep in his own self pity, Jack suddenly became infuriated. Celtic, apparently thinking himself high and mighty, casually brushed him off to return to his post work out routine. “Seriously?” Jack thought. Once again this punk old man belittled him. Once again Celtic made him feel small. Once again he made him feel weak. His face exploded with anger, rage, the want and need for blood. He wanted this man to pay for his attitude, to pay for all the misdeeds that were ever done to him. But knowing full well he couldn’t take the older American, Jack would have to resign himself to glares and… suddenly an idea came to him. Because he spent so much time at the gym, working out and training, Celtic were generally the last person (or close) to leave. Jack also knew Celtic had his own set of keys to lock up with. They trusted Celtic with important things, things that could be used against him.

This was too perfect.

Fueled by his overwhelming intense anger, a utter lack of any sense to stop him, and need to just pulverize the crap out of something, he closed his fist into a tightest ball his fist could manage. He flexed his arms as tight as he could, and summoned up all of his strength. I wouldn’t be much, considering he was still sore from the gym today, but maybe with the element of surprise, it would be enough. With the silent nimbleness only one of his low weight could accomplish, Jack crossed the distance between the two and slammed his fist into Celtic’s ribs. The resulting force, that took Celtic completely by surprise, forced him back into the lockers with a painful gasp.

“Ahhhhhhhhh the fuck!” Celtic cried out.

The attack had been successful, and Jack would not stop. Knowing full well speed and consistency was key, he continued an unrelenting assault. He gave himself over to hate and rage and let his adrenaline filled aggression take out every bad feeling he ever felt on Celtic’s body. Once not thought possible, the gasps of pain and thuds of fist against Celtics body echoed in the locker room. Dazed and confused from the attack, Celtic stood there helplessly as his body became a punching bag. Even worse, Celtic barely registered being turned around and having his back pushed into the lockers. It seemed the real beating was about to come, and it started with Jack’s bare fist making
contact with Celtic’s chest.


Surprisingly hard hits rocked Celtic’s chest hard, making an already bad situation worse. Had this been in the ring, and an official match, these would have been pretty good clean hits. But now, they were just one of many hits in a cowardly assault. With a swift, double fisted blow to the center of his chest, Celtic grunted loudly then fell silent. This was not how he was planning on ending his day, and his body was not ready for such attack. He would – apparently be interrupted by an uppercut to the gut. Unflexed, and unready, Celtic doubled over in pain and let out a loud “oooooph” as the air escaped him. He wanted to reach down and protect his soft midsection, but another series of punches to his stomach ended that quickly. Each hit sunk in deep and made his insides shake. Celtic, despite himself, wanted to puke. With each hit, Celtic’s body shook from side to side, and his stomach sagged just a bit more. Having worked long and hard for a flat stomach, this was just adding insult to injury.

He tried to mouth a “please stop” but a sick combo of three chest punches, a stiff uppercut to the jaw and a straight powerful jab to the midsection quickly stopped that. The uppercut to the chin knocked the senses out of him, both from the blow and his head slamming against the locker hard. Pushed back and held there with one hand on his chest to prevent him from falling down, Jack ripped into his body once more. Jack was on top of the world, and now he was the alpha. Even the, admittedly beefy pecs and strong abs of the older American could not protect from awesome Jack. He felt one of his arms raise above his head, quickly followed by numerous fists to his ribs and kidneys. Each direct and unchallenged hit caused Celtic to groan loudly, as if he was some bitch boy at his first day of boxing camp. Then, Celtic felt his other arm raise, to which he tried to resist. For his trouble, Celtic was rewarded with a strong fist to his solar plexus, knocking the breath right out of him. This was quickly followed up by a normally illegal hammer fist to the back of the head. With that, Celtic saw black. He hit the locker room hard, busting his nose and leaving a puddle of sweat and blood. With a long and pathetic moan of pain, Celtic tried to move, or make some attempt to move. He wanted to scream and curse, but the feeling of wanting to throw up stopped him. He needed something to happen, he needed some way for the flow of this fights to change, and he needed it to happen fast. Maybe if he could just get a second to breathe?

“That’s for talking down to me bro!” Jack sneered as he stepped back.

Running on a high never thought possible, Jack took a moment to do something equally unbelievable; he took a moment to admire himself. In the locker room mirror, a reflection of him was clearly on display. Here he saw himself in his shorts, and no shirt. He saw himself flexing hard and appearing even more powerful than he actually was. Now, he was no longer a skinny twig of a boy, now he was a man bursting with masculinity. He also finally took notice that his shorts were a bit tighter than he remembered. Turned on by beating the crap out of his most hated rival? Jack didn’t seem to mind or care. He had far more things to concern himself with. Like Celtic, again in the mirror. He witnessed Celtic in a world of pain; he witnessed him weak and powerless. Jack flexed hard again in front of the sight. He threw a few mock punches in the air, as he held a boxers stance. He was feeling powerful, he was feeling unbeatable, and he didn’t want this to ever end. ”Finally,” he thought “they will respect me as a fighter!” Returning back to his punching bag, he bore a wicked smile on his face. What fun could be had when no one else was around, and no one could stop the unbeatable Jack? Taking another moment to stretch out his muscles for the long beating that would come, Jack readied himself.

“And this is because you need it, old man!”

With that, Jack renewed his cowardly assault with a swift and devastating kick to Celtic’s head. The force of the blow snapped his head back hard, slamming it against the metal locker doors. Just when he thought he could use this ego stroking display to get his wits about him, Celtics vision went black again. If this went on for any longer, he could be completely broken and no longer able to fight. This rather depressing line of thought, however, was interrupted by a sharp pain in his abdominals, courtesy of an unmerciful kick by Jack. “Ooooooph” Celtic groaned as air was forced from his body again. Wrapping his arms around his midsection, Celtic rolled around in pain. This bastard, Celtic knew, was doing just as he would. Jack was working the head hard to keep him dazed and unable to put up a guard. Then he would work the midsection to keep him from catching his breath. Jack had taking Celtic’s strategy and made it his own. “Fuck” he thought out loud. The sneak attack was not only working, but doing considerable damage to his body armor, damage he could not counter.
Lifted up by a strong force tugging on his hair, Celtic felt himself once again slammed again the lockers. Sweat dripped from Celtics hair into his eyes, stinging them. His chest heaved fast and hard, desperately trying to give air to his body. Celtic then felt his arms forcible being held back behind him and being held in place. “Shit” Celtic thought, Jack was setting him up for –


A punch to his lower abs, a punch to his chest, a punch to his middle abs, a punch to the center of his chest, a punch to his upper abs, a punch to his lower chest, then an upper cut to his gut, once, twice, three times. All came fast and hard. Each forced a grunt of pure pain from Celtic. More than a machine gun than a man, the rapid fire fists continued as Celtic spewed out bits of blood and saliva. Red marks in the shape of a fist would first appeared, then darken to deeper reds and blues, marks that Jack felt great pride in.

Unable, or unwilling to support Celtic’s weight any longer, he let Celtic drop like a rock.

“That’s what you get punk” Jack mocked, his voice heavy with an accent. “Now get up, I’m not done with you!”

Even as Celtic slumped to the ground, his arms lazily flaying to his sides, Jack wanted more. He wanted more punishment, more beatings, and more action. Celtic truly wanted to just lay there and heave for an hour as his body tried to catch its breath. Jack wanted to pound Celtic’s body till his fingers bleed. It was a sick and unfortunate situation to say the least. With Celtic slumped against the locker, Jack stomped his foot down hard on Celtic’s stomach. Digging in deep, Celtic grunted hard, and then again and again as Jack repeated the process. He tried to flex his stomach as hard as he could, but did nothing to save him overall.

“Fuck….. you” Celtic managed to get out, before once again being silenced by Jack’s foot.
“Oh stupid old man? Let’s see what’s next!”

With both ego and anger raging throughout his body and muscles, Jack gripped Celtic hard by the chest hairs. With a fist full of hair, he tugged hard, causing another pleasing gasp of pain from his rival. Lifting him up, Jack once again returned the beaten fighter to his position against the lockers. With each new blow to his body, with each fist that sunk in deep to his battered midsection, with each hit that blew up his chest, Celtic raged. He would not, he could not, be beaten by this kid; he would not be knocked out and used as a punching bag! If only he could just get one good shot in, Celtic would be able to turn things around… at least long enough for him to regroup. A thought he would have to think quickly about as several more punches to his body rocked him hard.

“Not done yet, right, old man?”

Behind Jack, behind his cowardly revival, the locker room mirror tortured Celtic with a dreadful sight. Two bruises his chest that was red as the sun, one for each pec muscle Jack pounded. As he heaved, he could feel his chest fall flat, like it was pudding. Whatever muscle was there had been tenderized by this punk kid. His stomach was in even worse shape. His upper and middle abs was several shades of red and blue, while his lower abs was black and red. Even worse, his stomach felt like it was going to burst.

At this point, all he could do was wait for Jack to act and try to counter.

“Stupid American, you pay for long time making fun of me!”

Rolling his arms and shoulders, mostly to unlock them for this was one hell of a work out, Jack took up his boxer stance. It was weak and sad, and mostly the reason he always lost in actual boxing matches, but right now, it was the best thing in the world. Setting up for a massive left hook, Jack renewed his attack. Except, he took far too long this time… ego had finally caught up to him. Assaulted with what would have been a mean left hook, Celtic quickly dropped, allowing his knees to give, and dodged the attack. What would have hit his face, knocking him down and out for sure, instead turned into a punch to the locker door hard. Jack yelped in pain and brought his fist back,
Celtic had his opening.

Wasting no time, time he know he didn’t have, Celtic acted. Allowing pure desperation to carry him, he launched and connected with, a deep uppercut to Jack’s stomach. His fist plunged in deep and pushed aside any weak muscle there. Being weak in the abs to begin with, coupled with being unflexed, did not too well for Jack. But he could not stop here, Celtic had to push hard to still take control. Doing just that, Celtic willed his body to keep moving, lifting Jack up with nothing but a fist in his gut. Holding him there for a moment, for a moment was all he could manage, Celtic then threw Jack off and back into the lockers. The resulting yelp of pain was music to Celtic’s ears. Leaning back on the lockers, Jack covered his midsection with his arms, pain clearly on his face.

“That’s what you get boy, attacking someone from behind? You’re lucky I don’t beat you until you can’t move anymore!”

Jack’s response, in-between fits of pain, was to spit at Celtic. Arrogant to the last, the act did nothing to lessen the dire situation. In another time and place, such arrogant behavior would be enjoined and encouraged. Now, it just pissed Celtic off even more. With Jack was still spinning from the deep blow to his insides, Celtic followed up with a left and right jabs, each hit making Jack’s head bang against the locker. Payback would be a bitch, more so since Celtic was seeing red. It was time to put this punk in his place, this time for good. Jack’s legs wobbled despite his best effort, as another devastating blow (a jab) came to his stomach. Doubled over, he was quickly forced back into the lockers by a mean and not friendly push.

“We are not done yet pretty boy”, Celtic mocked.

Placing a hard fist on Jack’s chicken bird chest, with Celtic wondering if there was even any muscle there, Celtic threw uppercut after uppercut to Jack’s upper and lower stomach. He also worked in chest punches, because he knew how much Jack hated them. His face looked like he wanted to puke and die.

“Good” Celtic thought.

Celtic didn’t care, any respect he may have had, any restraint he may have had, died today. This kid dared engage in a cowardly attack, and now he would learn the price. Celtic then slammed Jack down on a nearby bench. Body slams were more of a wrestling thing, but it was painful, therefore Celtic liked it right now. Laying him out flat, he began to beat Jack’s chest and ribs hard. Mounted and held down by body weight alone, bare fist pounded the boy, and left marks both red and bloody as some skin was cut open. Jack cried out in pain, but could not break free.

“Very good” Celtic thought out loud.

Celtic just let go, he checked out of his head and just let his fists do the talking. To long had this kid mouthed off and started drama in the house of gains. To long had he cause unnecessary drama for everyone here and gotten away with it. To long had this kid not learned his place. After what seemed like an eternity, but was really only about five minutes, Celtic’s fire cooled, and he stepped away to admire his work. The kid took a lot of hits, and looked like crap, so should be lesson learned, right? This could finally be over and done with?

“What now kid? Still going to throw around attitude?”
“Fuck…. You…. Old… man”
“Still got some fight? I can easily take care of this.”
“oooooooooooophhhhhh, please stop”
“Beg me to stop bitch”
“Oooooooph please, no more hits to my chest”
“I told you, beg me to stop”
“Fine then, take this!”
“Done yet?”
“I fight you!”
“You tried to remember? Even being a sneak attack bitch can’t help you.”
“I fight you in the ring, I will beat you!”
“What? You’re kidding, right?”
“I fight you in the ring. Settle it once and for all.”
“… maybe. What's the prize?”
“Winner breaks loser. Never fight again.”
“Fine, I’m in. Meet me in the ring. Ten minutes. I’m going to take a piss.”

Jack was left alone in the locker room, still reeling from the attack. As he touched his stomach and chest, seeing if anything was broken, he wondered what the hell he just agreed to, and how the hell he was going to win this. Celtic, for his part, was wondering the same. This should have been over and done with, this should not be going on any longer. But part of him really wanted to pound him in the ring despite his compromised state, but another part of him quickly wondered what tricks this kid had in store….


A Painful Beginning, CelticFire's Story 2
By CelticFire

Honestly it wouldn’t have taken Celtic that long to get ready, but he needed this time, any time really, to recover. The previous cowardly attack had taken its toll, more so than he was willing to admit. His chest heaved with pain as he tried to breath and center himself. Had he faced off Bill, Fred, or even the super fast kid Dante, maybe he could have accepted this. Now, he was just pissed at himself for allowing to happen, and Jack for doing it. Reaching into his locker, he pulled out two leather black and green gloves and put them on. He clenched his fists hard and threw a few mock punches in front of the mirror. Mentally, he was ready for this fight, even if physically he was still messed up. Realistically, all he would have to do would be to block and dodge all of Jack’s hits, easy win right? He had done the same a million times before, so this should be no different. Taking another moment before he left, he stretched out his body as best he could. His ribs and stomach were still in pain from the cheap shots, and the marks there wouldn’t go away for some time. He wouldn’t have fun explaining that to his fellow gym mates either. His chest felt hot and soft. Considering how much effort he put into building muscle, this was a huge insult to him. As long as he didn’t take any more serious hits he would be fine. Celtic knew he would be. This was the open ring, this was HIS battle ground. Jack could only win by cheating, and he didn’t have that advantage anymore… right?

It would take about half the allowed time before Jack could even move again. His body was more than rocked from the unplanned counter assault, and he wasn’t really up for a match right now. He couldn’t let Celtic do this to him again; he couldn’t suffer ANOTHER beating from the upstart American asshole. Not today, not ever again! He closed his eyes, an dangerous move for a person with possible concussion, and envisioned Celtic on the ropes, begging for mercy as his insides are beaten. But, how? How could he overpower the man in the open ring without some short of - the idea came to him. Managing to get his body somewhat moving again, he went to his bag that had his boxing gloves. Reaching into a side pocket, he found a pair of heavy metal knuckles in there. He used them to protect himself from anyone who would mess with him outside the gym. It wasn’t what he wanted, but it was all he got. Putting them on, then his gloves over them, he knew he was ready. Celtic would pay. He would suffer, he would die for his insults.
It was just over ten minutes later when the two would meet again.
The Celtic Fighter, the older American man who picked up boxing for fun, was changed, gloved up, and ready for a fight. His ribs and stomach still hurt, and his head was a little dizzy, but he was ready. He showed no fear, just as a fighter should.
Boxer Jack, the younger, smaller Asian who boxed most of his life, was ready to win… and he didn’t care how. The stage was set, the actors ready, now it was time to dance.
The Ring
After checking his gloves for the final time, Celtic headed for the ring. He was eager for this fight, and for the rewards that would come from it. Interestingly, he found his rival already in the ring and warming up. After the beating the kid took in the locker room, he was rather surprised to see Jack moving at all. “Ok kid, I’ll give you props for that” Celtic thought to himself, “but I’m still going to end you here and now.” Keeping his eyes fixed on Jack, for Celtic couldn’t trust him after such a cowardly attack, he slowly entered the ring. He pulled up the ropes and ducked under them, firmly placing his feet into the ring. He circled around Jack for a few moments before settling into his corner.
“Are you ready for this punk” Celtic spat.
“You are going down bro” Jack jeered back.
As if compelled by a silent bell ring, the two pushed off from their corners and rushed for the center of the ring. There, they each began circling each other, each began sizing the other up, each looking for an opening to throw the first punch. Hoping to take the advantage early and quick, Celtic lunged forward with a left hook. Prepared for the attack, Jack blocked the hook with ease and responded with a jab of his own. Also ready for the attack, Celtic deflected the blow and swung twice more. Again, Jack dodged by ducking low, using his smaller height to his advantage. Swinging, Jack’s punches hit only open air as Celtic had pushed himself back to prevent the attack. A quick but uneventful start for the two. Already annoyed, the two returned to circling each other, looking for any opening they could exploit. This time, Jack struck first for the advantage but met with the same success that Celtic did before. Even with two quick jabs, Celtic blocked it with his high guard up. Responding quickly, Celtic went low to throw a powerful hit to the boy’s midsection.
Leaning low to assault the midsection, a personal favorite he liked to do to Jack, Celtic was surprised by a vicious blow to the side of his face. Assuming and even anticipating the move, Jack quickly closed the gap between the two and slammed his not so legal gloved fist into his face. The force of the hit rocked Celtic, far more than it should. With but a single hit, Celtic was knocked senseless and into the ropes. It was also the first hit that drew blood. “How the fuck did he hit so hard?” Because of his momentum and force of the blow, Celtic was quickly bounced off the ropes and flung back at Jack. Hoping to capitalize on this, Celtic used this momentum to throw another punch at the boy. It was his hope that the speed of the punch would catch the boy off guard. It didn’t and Jack easily dodged the punch. “Too fast and too messy of a punch”, Celtic thought to himself, one that should have never happened. Celtic would have continued to scold himself, but a mean uppercut from Jack shut that up quick. His head and body were flung back by the force of the blow, again something Jack should not be able to do.
“Fuck, how does this hurt so much!” Celtic cursed at himself “This is wrong, all wrong!”
Yet again, he was given neither time nor opportunity to collect himself or consider this, as two strong jabs came his way. A left and right hook came screaming at him and connected with his midsection, followed quickly by an upper cut to his chin. Bits of blood came forced out of his mouth, as his chin felt rather displaced. Celtic then doubled over in sheer pain from another mean blow to the stomach. This was just too much, and Celtic hit the mat. Coughing up even more spats of blood, Celtic dropped face first several times while trying to get up.
Was this really it? Could this really be the end for him?
“UP BITCH!” Jack roared.
While Celtic was trying to get up, Jack circled around him, as if waiting for his prey to move. Jack was back in his mood, his mood of feeling like a god. But unlike last time, he kept the cocky ego in check. While he was winning and injured his prey well, Celtic was still dangerous.
“I said up bitch!” Jack repeated.
Celtic, for his part, was trying to do just that, but his much weakened body was having trouble. Using the ropes of the ring, he managed to get on his feet. Trying to take a stance he was once again blasted with a mean uppercut to the chin. In a spray of blood and salvia, the older American head was snapped back and his whole body was sent back into the ropes; where he had to hang on them to prevent himself from falling. Wasting no time and with a wicked smirk on his face, the first blow from Jack came as stiff upper cut to the right side of Celtic’s stomach. The force lifted Celtic off his feet with a loud grunt and several moans of pain. No matter how hard Celtic flexed, the brass knuckles Jack wore tore right threw his a stomach muscle armor. It was just as Jack had hoped. The next hit, a right this time, burned from the impact and left its mark. Celtic gasped and yelped in pain again, but was unable to do anything. If he moved his arms, his legs would give, opening himself up to even more pain. Yet, if he did not block, he wouldn’t have a midsection anymore.
“Ugggggggh” Celtic moaned as more blows to his stomach came.
Again and again straight jabs, mean hooks, deadly uppercuts and even double fisted blows came. They were joined with loud thuds and grunts that were slowly being replaced with moans and dull sounds of defeated muscle hit. Previous red marks turned deep blue and bruised. Celtic wanted to throw up, he wanted to fall down and die. The locker room was happening all over again, but this time, Celtic would never fight again. Even worse Jack’s arrogance allowed him a small break to again breathe and rest his body. While Jack was clearly in control, his cardio was still crap. He needed breaks, he needed rest, and he could never really go a full amount of round in a match… at least fairly. Done and stepping back into range, Jack proceeded to take a few more shots at Celtic’s stomach. Just to make sure it was nice and soft.
When Jack was sure Celtic’s abs (a laughable thought at the moment) was mush, when the one thing Celtic prized was finished, he sought a new target, a higher one. After all, he wanted Celtic knocked out, not just beaten. Retaken his boxer stance, Jack started with straight jabs to Celtic’s head, snapping him back hard with each blow. His left eye swelled hard as his right eye became covered in blood. Celtic groaned in pain from each deadly blow, but was largely ignored by Jack. After all, he had better things to do than caring about some baby crying.
“Shut up baby, and take it like a man!” he made his inner thoughts vocal.
The ringing in Celtic’s head was agonizing, but again, there was little he could do about it. After about a solid minute of jabs, Jack switched to hooks, throwing his full weight into it. Left, right, left, right, the sound of the blows echoed off the walls of the gym.
As did Celtic’s cry of pain…
The last of Jack’s hits, at least for now, had managed to bust Celtic’s lip, sending blood onto the mat. It would have to be cleaned up later, but right now it was a sign of Jack’s dominance. He wanted it there, just like the others. Stepping back once again, to catch his breath and admire his work, he saw Celtic demolished. Hanging on the ropes, which were the only thing keeping him up, he saw a man that was once his biggest rival... now it was his biggest punching bag. Celtics stomach was beat red and already had several bruised on it. His ribs looked worse than ever, and his face? You could still tell it was Celtic even with the blood all over it. Said blood was also dripping down onto his chest, something that excited Jack. Seeing no harm in it, Jack returned to his corner to wipe the sweat from his face and body. He also sought to do something with the growing problem in his trunks.
“How could this have happened” Celtic silently thought to himself. He had the muscle, he had the experience, he was better than Jack. How could this little kid beat him? How could his punches be so strong now, only after a short time when he- it suddenly came to Celtic. Jack had always carried brass knuckles with him, in case he got jumped outside the gym. The kid was mouthy, but he wasn’t that stupid outside the ring. With his insiders burning, Celtic knew he couldn’t take another hit, least of all from Jack’s cheating fist. He would have to come up with a plan, and quick. For if he didn’t he would never fight again.
“Shit” Celtic thought… “Do I even have time to think?”
With his body reasonably cleaned off of nasty sweat, and after taking another moment to stretch out his arms (this was really a work out!), Jack turned to face his once time foe again. He was still just laying there on the ropes, begging to be humbled some more. Jack, with a grin, was all too happy to do so. Coming in fast, much to Celtics surprise again, he threw two quick hooks that shocked Celtic and knocked him to the ground. “That it old man” Jack spat, clearly thinking the older man was knocked out for good. Somehow Celtic had remained awake, even if his face burned like the sun. His sweat and beaten body drenched the area he was in, but he knew this was going to be his one and only shot. Rising slowly, and staggering quite a bit, he waited for Jack to come in close and finish him off. That’s when he attacked.
Had he been a spectator watching the fight, Celtic would have pointed out how desperate he looked, how stupid he looked. Just how weak and useless he looked. But right now, in a fight that could mean life or death, he didn’t care. If Celtic didn’t hit his mark, he would never fight again, he would just be some loser, defeated and broken before his time. Summoning up anything he had left, and sending out a hail Mary for good measure, Celtic punched as hard as he could into Jack’s chest. You see, for all his bluster or cheating ways, Jack would always have one giant weak spot. The boy yelped in pain, being hit with the force he once wielded himself. With the loud “oopppffff” of surprise and pain, Celtic knew he hit his mark. Using this success to push himself, and managing to get up on one knee, Celtic sprang again. This time, a strong left uppercut to the chest, right side. Once again, it connected, and Jack cried out in pain. Celtic could feel his second wind coming, and feeling he could finally take this fight back. Doubling over from the blow, and trying to cover up to protect himself, Celtic took total advantage of this and swung again, then again, then again. Even with gloves on, his were legal at least; the hits sunk in deep and stung hard. Jack, roaring in pain, found himself suddenly useless, only stand there and take it.
And take it he did.
From upper cuts, Celtic moved to straight jabs to the chest, assuring he could do enough damage so he could stand up without counter attack. Back on his feet, and working off his own momentum, Celtic held back nothing. With Jack dazed and confused, he was an easy target. With wild swings, he pounded the boy’s ribs with his might. Marks first red turned deep brown from bruising. Each blow to Jack’s side, each hard pounding Jack took, was awarding Celtic with a cry of agony from Jack. They were high pitched and full of pain. Next swift uppercuts, jabs, hooks and more pounded Jack’s midsection, throwing him around the ring like a rag doll. Unable to even keep his arms up, Jack rocked back and forth, sometimes falling on Celtic himself. Pushed back into the ropes, mostly so Jack would be bounced back and connect hard with a hit, Jack would see no end to this. Coughing up blood and losing air fast, Jack couldn’t keep up with the hits, and feel many more times. Unwilling to stop, Celtic forced the boy up, only to pound and knock him down again.
Had this been an official boxing match, the ref would have called the fight long ago. However, since no ref, Jack would have no help at all.
Forced to the ropes, arms pulled behind him and tied in place, Jack would come to know defeat. His body, already beaten far beyond its limit today, would finally break. Punched in the midsection repeatedly, he would groan softly, but do little else. His body barely holding enough air to remain awake, he couldn’t do much anyway. When the whole of his midsection was dark and brown, Celtic moved to the ribs. Being as thin as he was, the ribs were clearly seen and exposed. Straight jabs shocked Jack’s bones and made him bounce with the ropes. If they would not break by the end of this, they would surely be bruised. Jack wanted to fall, he wanted to curl up into a ball and cry, he wanted to throw up.
But none of this came.
For next his head was snapped back, to the left and to the right hard with many hits. Jack knew he would have many bruises there as well. Maybe even his face would be disfigured for a time. His chest, Jack’s weakest part, was slammed with fist after fist. Muscle did little to protect his body as it had already given up long ago. Jack tried to scream out, but he no longer had the energy to do so. All he could do was hang there and be the punching bag… the punching bag he always was. Each blow came faster and harder now, and Jack sagged on the ropes more and more. Had his arms not been tied, he would have surely fallen, completely knocked out.
Drenched in sweet, his arms on fire and his breath short, Celtic stepped back to see his work. The Boxer Jack, the mouthy kid who cheated, was beaten. He sagged there on the ropes, completely unable to do anything but be his punching bag. His face was messed up, both eyes swollen and nose broken. Blood dripped from his left eye and mouth and feel onto his chest. His chest was badly bruised and cut, and it would be some time before any muscle could grow there again. His abs, were just gone, pounded to mush and neve to be seen again.
“Guess I won the bet kid” Celtic sneered.

Drenched in sweat.
Arms on fire.
Stomach turned to mush.
Chest pounded.
Ribs bruised.
Even flexing hurt…
Celtic had won the fight, but at what price?
He had been in bouts before, he had won some and lost some. He had fought bigger and smaller challengers, and even had some marks to prove it. But they were, as strange as the phrase was, with honor. They were two men locked in fair combat to see who would win. There was no fear yes, but there was no underhanded cowardly crap either. They wanted a strong fight and to beat someone, but there was still respect. Bro code! But what this kid did, it was insane. Jack had broken the boxing code, spit in its face and paid for it. But now, Celtic had other ideas and just didn’t care anymore. He was in desperate need of a shower, a two hour long full body massage (for a couple of days), and about a week off.
Ok, maybe a month...
What should have been an easy short fight, turned into the worse two hours of his life. A beating in the locker room, a near devastating beating in the ring, and almost losing everything to this skinny as hell kid? Who would have thought! But, in the end, he had won! He had beaten the kid the way he deserved, the way many would say “he had coming”. Almost on instinct, Celtic raised his arms in victory and immediately regretted it. Sweat fell from his chest hair, and his face stung with sweat and blood. His bruised muscles also begged him to stop. Jack was far, far, far worse.
“Good” Celtic coughed between words, “he earned this”.
Celtic took another moment to sneer, mostly out of the pain from the match than gloating. His stomach and ribs still screamed from keeping him up, probably a good idea to find a place to lay down for a bit. Might even fill up one of the baths and pass out there. He also fathomed over the fact that, had he eaten anything before the fight, it would have been all over the ring.
But now, what to do next?
For a brief moment, Celtic entrained the thought of just leaving. Jack, even as arrogant as he was, had clearly learned from this. Even if he didn’t, well the beating today would assure he had a LOT of time to think it over. And even if he cheated, twice, he still took on an opponent that was much bigger than him. So maybe props for that? But what about the bet? The stakes were destroying the other so as they could never fight again, but what was the point now? Hadn’t enough blood and sweat been shed today? Hadn’t enough bruises dispensed? Not to mention the ever so slight problem of Celtic being in no shape to wage another fight, having even one hit ending him in his tracks.
And yet…
This kid had attacked him in the locker room. With bare fist and no regard, he had assaulted him from behind, slammed in on lockers and floors like some punching toy. He had beaten his body for the purpose of embarrassing. He had done so like a coward. He used brass knuckles to batter his body, bruise his body and bones, and nearly destroy Celtic for good! This kid had tried taking away his sport, his life… Should pity be shown to a person who would not show it to him? Given the chance, this kid would have broken every bone in his body. Celtic would be a wheelchair for life, weak and useless. Limping over, and still favoring his side, he placed a still gloved hand on Jack. Jack winched but said nothing, unable to speak save for grunts and gasps of pain. He was probably expecting a beating that would finish him for good. What he got, was a way out.
“Done Jack?” Celtic said between deep gasps of air, still low on the energy.
He also hoped using his name, instead of boy or some other insult would make him see reason.
“Can we drop this finally? So we can both just leave and live to fight another day?”
There was both pity and understanding in Celtic’s eyes. This had already gone too far, and it was time to bury it. When no response came, Celtic knew it was done. He figured Jack didn’t like it, or the way things turned out, but it was done. Finally, done.
Just disgusted with the day, and unwilling to even fight anymore, Celtic turned to leave for the locker room. He had a date with the longest shower (or even hot tub stay) in history and he was NOT going to miss it. Shit, what time was it anyway? He was supposed to meet some of the guys for drinks not soon after closing up. Well, at least he would have one hell of a story to tell… Lifting up the ropes to exit, a battle cry from the depth of hell roared behind him. “The fuck?” he thought as he turned back. Just in time, he saw Jack screaming towards him with a fist aimed right at his head. Mistaking pity for insult, Jack had rallied himself for one last blaze of glory. Only one hit would be required to end Celtic, and both of them knew it. If that connected, there was a good chance Celtic would never wake up again… Ducking down low, while his body protested the whole way, Celtic countered with a quick, but strong blow to Jack’s midsection. The skin on his stomach rippled from the blow as it sunk in deep, almost as if hitting Jack’s spine. Bits of blood and saliva shot out of Jack’s mouth, making contact with the ring floor and Celtic’s back. The force of the blow, connecting with an already weakened target, also sent Jack stumbling back. Celtic pressed the attack and connected with an uppercut to the chin that sent Jack further back, this time into the ropes.
“You son of a bitch!” Celtic pulsated with rage. “Twice? Twice you attack me with my back turned!”
Jack had pushed Celtic to the limit, and broke any reserve Celtic might have had. Any lingering respect that was there was forever lost, now replaced with pure vengeance. Three times in the course of two hours, this little bitch had tried to end him. Tried to take away the one thing he could do to better himself. To do this to a man? Three strikes and you’re out. Blacked out with rage, adrenaline surged through his body, giving him new strength. Any pain that Celtic had and was still feeling was now blocked out by blind rage. Nothing would stop him.
This would not end well…
Invigorated, he climbed the ropes and started pounding Jack's head from the top ropes. He imaged the crowd counting away the blows, then cheering when he finished with a mean hammer fist, the force of which slumped Jack down hard. Celtic flexed hard for his imaginary audience, and act that took some effort. Returning to his bout, Jack’s body was once again rocked by no less than a dozen boots to the chest, all of which laid Jack out flat. Lifting the beaten fighter up by the hair, but not before a few more blows to the face, and back onto the ropes, Celtic took a few steps back. Jumping he performed a double leg kick right into the chest of Jack. Both hit the mat and both screamed in pain.
“Maybe not the best idea” Celtic thought in a brief moment of clarity.
Beaten body, plus slamming on mats, equals a world of hurt. Yet his rage once again overtook him, and he was back up. Using the power of his forearm, Celtic slammed Jack’s head back several times, knocked the sense clear out of him. Turning himself around, Celtic slammed a right and left elbow combo hit directly into Jack’s solar plexus. Stepping forward, he let the boy hit the ring floor hard. Grabbing a fist full of hair, Celtic added insult to injury by dragging Jack to the center of the ring. Once there, he dropped two elbows deep into Jack’s stomach. Jack moaned deeply in pain and curled up into a ball. On his side, and clearly exposing his ribs, Celtic was all too happy to slam several boot strikes into them. But he wasn’t done yet. Still screaming out in pain, Jack was once again lifted back onto his feet. With a killer strike to his chest, Jack doubled over… and right into Celtic’s arms. Lifting the boy up and onto his shoulders (fortunately he was light), Celtic pulled down hard on both his legs and chest, executing a devastating torture rack. Pain screamed throughout Jack’s entire body, as demonstrated by his renewed inhuman cries of pain.
Seemingly empowered by this, Celtic lifted the unfortunate boy up and over … right onto the ropes suspending him in the air. Cracking his knuckles, Celtic threw uppercut after uppercut to the younger man’s chest and midsection, each spewing bits of blood and saliva onto the mat below. With a mean shoulder slam into Jack’s stomach from below, Celtic lifted Jack high up and slammed him hard on the ring. Jack screamed in agony, his entire body feeling it. Liking the feel of it, he picked Jack up and did it again. Once again the screams seemed to rock the gym. In final response to this, Celtic slammed a massive boot several times down onto Jack’s chest, stomach and sides.
This was turning into Rocky when that stupid Russian told him “I must break you!”
Again, Celtic took the younger man into his arms and forced him up. Raising one arm, as if mockingly showing Jack the winner, Celtic slammed a gloved fist (his rage made him forget they were still on) into his ribs. Open and unprotected the hit sunk in deep. Jack’s body rocked and red showed up over fresh purple bruises. Celtic hit him again, and again, until a cracking sound could be heard. Celtic stopped and blinked for a moment, had just what happened, happen? No, could enough punches really do that? This had gone too far, this had- the thought was immediately cut off with Jack spitting into Celtic’s face. Instead of allowing the moment to play out, to finally seek mercy, Jack had instead cursed Celtic out in his native language.
No, a person with a broken rib could not do this, and Celtic once again saw red.
Wrapping his arms around Jack’s chest, mostly to keep him up, Celtic introduced Jack’s sides to his knee. Many. Many. Times. Clearly regretting doing the stupid, Jack changed his tone and begged for mercy. But his cries, as well as further crunching sounds were drowned out by the force of the blows. When his knees grew tired and sore, Celtic shifted his grip slightly down. With his arms between the chest and midsection area, Celtic squeezed hard and gave the best bear hug his body could manage. Jack’s cries of pain would not stop till Celtic threw the beaten boy into the ropes, so hard he would quickly bounce off of them. Jack would soon find himself back on the mat, curtsey of a forearm to the chest.
“DONE YET BITCH?” Celtic roared.
Unable to move, having suffered the straw that broke the camel, Jack could only lay there and accept his beating. Glaring, full of rage, hate and bloodlust, Celtic quickly mounted the younger fighter and started pounding away as his ribs and chest. Forgoing straight jabs in favor of faster moving and flowing hooks, Celtic pounded every inch of Jack’s upper body, leaving nothing unaffected. From wrestling to MMA? Celtic’s fury was clearly enjoying itself. His fist would grow sore and bloody from both his and Jacks blood. Quickly shifting his position (again, something he saw on tv), he took position on Jacks side. Placing a hand on the opposite rib and side, Celtic slammed a stiff knee into Jack’s open rib cage. Again and again he would do this, only pausing to switch sides and continue. Finally, he would wrap his legs around the chest of Jack, and squeezed hard, only stopping when his screams did. He had done it. Jack was broken.
For a moment, both laid there in silence.
One, broken and beaten, had not the strength to move or speak.
The other, coming off terrible beating and rage high, was exhausted.
Every inch of Celtic’s body came back screaming in pain, with nothing now able to block it. His adrenaline high was gone, nothing could focus him now. He reached out, he tried to drag himself to the ropes to get up, but he couldn’t. The body of the Celtic Fire gave out. This alone probably saved him uncomfortable questions. A few moments later, his friends would arrive, worried as to what happened to him. Upon seeing the ring, police and ambulance would be called. With no cameras to speak off, the story would be difficult to piece together at first. However, with the discovery of Jack’s brass knuckles on him, and his repetition among the gym staff, the case would be quickly and quietly settled up. Celtic would be hailed as “the man” for taking on such a cowardly cheater and manning up to win the day. Jack… well it would be assumed he would never be heard from again.
But one never knows.