A Night's Work

From TFC Galactopedia

A Night's Work

By Zerry Wergo

"Stars above, I hate this, I think as I get my fists taped.

There are so many reasons I loathe these underground fights it's tough to pick out a main one. Perhaps it's the fact that the corner of a warehouse is a lousy substitute for a ring. Maybe it's that few of the fighters have much experience. Or it could be that there's always at least one guy in the crowd who prefers to stare at my tail than watch the fight. Oh well: these fights mean money, and I'm rather in need of that right now.

The guy who organized this fight said it would be bare-knuckle kickboxing. Suits me just fine: I've been wanting a chance to use Noyo-Raj again for awhile.

I make my way to my side of the "ring" (nothing more than a circle of onlookers) and wait. Scanning the audience, I spot the obligatory tail-watching idiot. Tonight it's a black-furred weasel, and his eyes are already fastened to my rear end.

Oh, do I hate this.

The crowd starts murmuring as my opponent strolls in. He's a jackal, a tall one too. Taller than me even, and that's saying something. He's pretty built, too, but I bet it's more from steroids than actual training. Inwardly, I grin: although a sculpted chest may be good for attracting brainless females, it does little to cushion impacts. Impacts like the ones my fists were about to make.

The kid gives me a look of pure contempt. Apparently, my reputation hasn't proceeded me; if it did, this guy would be a lot more humble. Definitely a rookie, one in need of a deflated ego. I'll be quite happy to help him with that.

The rat emcee makes his way to the edge of the crowd, and motions for everyone's attention. He looks at the jackal, then me.

"Hold nothing back, you two. Go."

The crowd erupts in noise as things get underway and the rookie saunters over to me. I just keep my guard up and wait for him to make the first move.

He does so with a big roundhouse kick aimed at my head. I duck it easily enough, and I pop back up to send a nice uppercut into his stomach. My other fist gets him in the chest, more to push him away than anything else. Play hit-and-run at the start, then wade in when he gets tired for the kill, Murben always told me.

The jackal looks surprised, maybe realizing I'm not a rookie like he is. He fires his right at my face. I lean to the right slightly to dodge it, then use that momentum to bring my knee into his ribs.

From the audience spring shouts of approval for me and a few mocking jeers directed at the jackal. He must have heard them, for his ears suddenly flatten in frustration. I duck the elbow he scythes at me, but then I get tagged with an uppercut to the chin.

An important thing to remember about rookies is that while they often lack accuracy and strategy, some make up for it with power. That's certainly the case here as stars flash in my brain and I stagger a bit, trying to clear my head. The jackal keeps it up, slamming a kick into my side.

I was already swaying with it, which took a little bit of the impact off. Nevertheless, I stumble and have to fight for my balance. The crowd really starts roaring now that it senses blood. My head is still so full of static...

A sharp blow to my back sends me pitching forwards. As I hit the ground, I realize that the bastard actually snuck up behind me, a dazed opponent, and hit me from behind. Of all the low-down, disrespectful tricks... I haven't seen such cowardice since... since Jorna.

My head is clear. Oh, is it ever clear. I get back to my feet quickly and purposefully. I turn to face my opponent, who has just finished with working the crowd. The punk is going down.

With a glare of hatred and a snarl of fury I launch myself at the slime bag. The reason for the snarl is simple: it'll make him think I'm attacking out of anger and will strike blindly. Sure enough, he receives me with a very unconcerned stance and a smug grin. Boy, is he in for a nasty surprise.

There is nothing blind about the elbow to his stomach, the knee strike into his abdomen, or the three-punch combo to his face and chest. I round things out with a hard jab to the solar plexus.

Suddenly dazed by my onslaught, the jackal staggers back into the crowd. The spectators behind him gather together to toss him back into the ring and into my awaiting side kick.

He suddenly twists sideways, dodges my kick, and hooks an arm under my leg. His other arm lifts up in preparation to breaking my knee with an elbow strike.

If I had the time or the breath, I'd sigh. Once again this rookie resorts to big, flashy, and underhanded maneuvers. Maneuvers that are also easy to counter.

Using the one leg I still have on the ground, I leap up and twist around in the air. As I do so, I succeed in bringing my free foot right into the rookie's teeth. I hit the ground and quickly recover to see that my opponent is down, drooling blood and probably a tooth or two. The emcee doesn't even bother counting him out.

The rat lifts my victorious arm and the spectators go wild for a few moments, then go about dealing with the bets they've just won or lost.

Later, as I'm gathering my things, the emcee walks up to me with a grin on his face.

"Here you are," he says, handing me a cred stick, "five hundred, plus a bonus fifty for the entertaining finish."

I shrug as I take the stick and stuff it into a jacket pocket. "Just putting some idiot in his place, that's all."

The rat blinks at me, not quite sure how to respond to that. He smiles again, but weaker this time. "When that stick runs out, there's plenty more where it came from."

"Sure," I say dismissingly as I walk out into the cold Nar Shaddaa night. Five hundred and fifty creds, all for beating on some rookie whose name I don't even know.

Stars above, I really hate this.