Albert had come into this case with LOTS of expectations. Stalk behind some unfaithful party to uncover their hidden mistress, maybe she was a monetary provider? And this man was another one of her toys to use before tossing away after growing board. Or maybe, he was selling his body to make ends meet? Or even juicier, maybe he was cheating on Olivia with her half-step sister that faked her own death to secure the fortune of some distant relative.
Or maybe, just maybe he'd been watching too many of those brain-rot drama shows with the constant twists and turns.
'Damn you Michael'
Despite all his off information, he really shouldn't have been too surprised with yet another twist. But if one were to ask him what he thought he would be doing tonight, the answer certainly wouldn't have been pressed in from all sides like sardines. Nor would it had been as depressing.
Back in his old life, underground fighting rings were only things in movies and tv-shows. Or something professional fighters bragged about being in before hitting the big leagues. They weren't something his social ring had any part of.
So it was safe to say that once again, he was well outside his element. And with how the crowd became a near impenetrable wall as they leaned over each-other to get a better look at the upcoming fight, retreat was no longer an option. Maybe it hadn't been the moment he'd forced his way to the front.
"Drop five on Bold-Hound, he just gives me a good feeling."
"Why are you gambling if you can't pay me back?"
"...I know he got this, after I win here I'll pay you back. I swear!"
"That's what you said last time, and the time before that. Let's take a walk."
"Wait-wait!" A ratlike man waved his hands before him, shielding away his debtor's increasingly persistent grabs. "I'll get you your money back! Just...wait till after this fight pass, you know? There's no reason to get all physical! Don't worry, I wouldn't dream of runnin!"
"Of course." The other man smiled in a way that didn't quite meet his eyes, this one looking a tad bit more dangerous than the average citizen with extremely vibrant and intricate tattoos scrawling across his tanned skin. That bright orange safety vest still present over his thick clothing told of his profession, combined that and the heavy scent of sweat and dirty water it was safe to say he was a dock worker. With a sudden lurch, he had a single massive arm over the skittish debtors shoulders. "Let's watch this fight, together. I've seen how fast you can run, didn't you use to run track in high school?"
"No-no! You must be mistaken-"
Turning his gaze away from the obvious shakedown, Albert gathered himself back to the inner circle. The main attraction hadn't actually began yet, something he wasn't sure he was all too happy about. He suspected that unlike the carefully curated expeditions matches shown to the public, there wouldn't be nearly as many safety rails to both spare the fighters from unnecessary harm and the viewers from a traumatic showing.
The two men, both large in their own ways, stood opposite of each other. They both seemed to take in their opponents with a differing approach. Wrecking Ball, the older man with a ring of fat across his stomach, eyed up the young buck like a prized steak ready to slapped on a grill. Those beady eyes glimmering with an intent that made the teen a bit uncomfortable. They spoke of lapping up suffering like a thirsty dog to a dirty pond, they relished in breaking people. Taking their hopes and dreamers in hand before ripping them to uneven shreds.
Maybe it was from some form of bitterness or jealously towards anyone going against him, or a desire to shatter anyone that might showcase the fact that he'd let himself go or wasn't in the spot in life he wanted to be. Whatever the reason, the Wrecking Ball seemed to be the type of person to thoroughly enjoy playing with his opponents. With some of the earlier chatter supporting this particular judgment.
While Malcolm, or Bold-Hound as proclaimed by the crowd, had a different air about him. Not an overly confident atmosphere but probably the complete opposite. He was worried and from how those eyes skittered across his opponent's form, it was clear he must've heard of the man's 'stellar' reputation and wasn't too excited about being thrown in the pits with such a creature.
Especially on what seemed to be some sort of promotion match.
Something extremely fishy with a tad bit more slime was afoot and Albert would bet a chunk portion of the nonexistent money in his pocket that the slippery looking man from before was the case. Even now, he stood there. Dressed in a cheap suit, flashing those yellowed pearls to the world. An all too pleased expression on his face.
"Are both fighters ready?"
The referee stated, raising a single hand lazily in the air, instantly forcing those close enough to see to simmer down to a mere whisper. Whatever sway this organization had, it was enough to reign in gamblers sliding in last minute bets.
"Hell yeah!" The wider fighter looked ready to begin salivating, meaty hands opening and closing in eager anticipation. Taking advantage of the slight pause, he bulldoze his next words out loud enough to cause ears to ring. "I'm gonna fuck you up so much, they'll be calling you Bold-Bitch around here!"
Like a switch had been flipped, the crowd cheered. Bloodshed was like water to these people, and all them acted as though they'd gone days without a single drop. The cement rattled as some began to stomp in tandem. Those farther in the back no longer caring of the previous semblance of order and even now, the teen could feel someone push against him. Normally, he would've just either stepped forward or the side to the person pass but a glance down told him the danger in that.
A white spattered circle was hastily sprayed in an uneven shape, despite how rough it was or how easily the lines could be rubbed out, not a single person dared to tip even a single toe into the ring. And who was he to ignore such an unspoken rule?
Combine that with the pungent scent of alcohol fueled breath, it instantly put him down a few paths. Ignore the drunk and continue watching, a sign of weakness that some who spotted wouldn't hesitate to take advantage of. Looking like an easy mark in this rough of company wasn't the way to go.
But confronting them could possibly make a rather dangerous enemy. Drunk people were less prone to logical decisions and a significant drop of inhibitions, so it wouldn't be strange for them to lash out in a flurry of inebriated wrath.
'It couldn't hurt to at least talk to them first, right?'
Turning his head a bit, he looked up at the person trying their best to bulldoze him over in the slowest manner possible. It seemed he was mistaken, the man wasn't drunk….that wouldn't be close enough to the truth. He looked worse than that. His weathered face was a bright red, an angry color. Clouded over sewer green eyes that didn't particularly focus in any one thing. But it was the smell that hit the teen full force in the nose the moment he turned back.
Alcohol, piss, sweat and vomit.
The man had what looked to be barely dried vomit dripping down his collar and shirt with pungent sweat punching through multiple layers of his clothes and looking down, it was clear he'd released his own bladder not to long ago.
In that moment, frozen in time, Albert felt truly glad that he wasn't his prized trench-coat. Everything else on him could be burned without a second thought. But his baby? That was like a mantle he wore, only truly becoming a noir style detective while wearing it. If before he was going to toss the ugly jacket he replaced his prized possession with, then now it was clear that only fire could cleanse it.
'Is that…?'
Never-mind, to the sea it'll go. Tied to cement brinks and tossed into the harbor, never to be seen again. For once he craned his neck back, he spotted something made him want to toss the thing on the ground. Near his left shoulder, a thin pattern was formed. A smudge really. But just looking at that form and the line of vomit that just ended abruptly, was enough.
"Back up." He didn't even try to make the request polite, for it was nothing of the sort. Dumpster diving was one thing, garbage was another. Both thing's he would've gladly traded in exchange for there not to be another person's vomit on his back and shoulder.
"Fuck you kid!" At-least that's what he thought the man said, or tried to say through that heavy slurring that did the world a disservice of expelling more toxic fumes out for the human race to suffer. A rather unpleasant person to say the least, even more so when he raised his hand in a well practiced motion to cuff some random 'kid' in the back of the head. "Mind your fuckin manners."
The blow didn't even land, him being far too out of it to properly use his motor functions. Instead, the back of hand only got up to the middle of the teen's back. A fine favor, to wipe up some of the vomit clinging to his clothing. But in that moment, it didn't matter if the hit missed or not. From glances he caught out of the corner of his eye, far too many people had witnessed what happen and were now peeking at the pair like a drama unfolding. In some of their eyes, he didn't like how they glinted.
"We'll see."
Malcolm responded, drawing the attention away from the standoff. His words weren't exactly coolly like in those animes or TV-shows but more like he had nothing else to say in response. In all ways, it was kinda lame and did nothing to sway the crowd to his side. In fact, there were probably even a few boos a few braver individuals let out.
"If that's all?" The referee asked in a way that meant it wasn't really a question. But seeing as both fighters nodded from across one another, he continued. "Then my friend here will start you off. He'll call the end of this fight if it's required. Ignore it and...I won't have worrying about paying either of you."
With that, he stepped back and allowed his muscle bounded bodyguard take up the previously occupied space. Crossing his arms, he stared down at the pair. Those dark eyes spoke heavily of his confidence. Especially if the metallic butt sticking out of his waistband was anything to by. If his physical force wouldn't reinforce his order, then the grand equalizer will.
The two combatants stared down their opponents and in that moment, the crowd was truly quiet. Like a bubble of silence in this den of bloody sin, not even the nearby cheering or cries was enough to pierce the stillness.
Albert held steady, a single foot raised as the person encroached further into his invisible domain. Now they felt as close as a well mannered cape. Eyes locked ahead as though he was equally as enraptured as these people were but instead, he waited for the bodyguards gaze to focus entirely on the first few seconds of the fight.
With a singe nod of the large man's head, the cheers began. And in that split second, a heel stamp down with all the force a diminutive body could muster. Combining weight, muscle and disgust fueled vindictiveness. It wasn't a lot, and some of force was met with a steel plate that made it clear that there would be a price paid for this blow in the morning but there was still some left for to transfer down. Expelling all of it onto three toes.
A yowl bellowed above the crowd's noise and suddenly, there was more shoving. This time with much more force and coming from more than one direction. Craning his neck back, he watched on with a grin twitching at the corner of his lips as he saw the drunk with a pained expression on their red face being manhandled by none too pleased looking group of people. Primarily composing of young men. A splash of alcohol hitting the legs of others as the clear cup fell, at least what remained in the cup. A vast majority of it's contents was currently covering a smaller women's hoodie, who looked as though she was seconds away from breaking into anger fueled tears.
Things really did not look good for the drunk.
Turning back to the fight, Albert felt the urge to pat his own back. It seemed Harley's all too enthusiastic 'self defense' advice was pretty effective. He knew his actions hadn't been entirely hidden but they didn't need to be, an example was made and a message sent. And now his problems were being dealt with by the group of youths trying to prove something to an attractive women.
Thankfully, the two combatants weren't masters of their craft. Else in that split of inattention, he would've missed everything. The Wrecking Ball was the first to advance, a grin plastered across his face as he held his hands out wide in a way to limit his opponent movement. They weren't long strides but a steady encroachment to eat up the distance and hem in anyone who dared to face him.
While Bold-Hound just stood there with his arms up in a basic guard. Eyes locked onto the advancing wall of meat. At that point, it was a waiting game. A few moments in time where all the crowd saw was a man walking, but despite that no one in the crowd complained at the slow showing. Instead, some of them looked ready to jump up and down like an army of groupies.
Albert didn't need to wait long to find out why that was the case as the distance closed about halfway between the pair, The Wrecking Ball with a sudden acceleration that bellied his size charged forward in a blur of movement. His outstretched arms fell down into an 'x' before him, acting like a sort of shield protecting his face and chest.
'That's where he got his name from..'
If this move was what earned him that moniker, then it made a lot more sense. Before, maybe it could've been assumed the name was a bit mocking. A jab at his massive size. But, that didn't seem like the entire story. It seemed to be the man's acceleration speed that earned him that name. Slow and pondering at the beginning with wide arms to hem in the opponent before bursting into speed that someone his size shouldn't be able to reach.
Hell, if the investigator was in that ring then there really wouldn't a lot he could do. Dodging could only take him so far and that sudden burst would probably take him off guard, meaning he would be flat on his backslide seeing stars as fists came raining down. He was just too weak, too slow and too inexperienced when it came to fighting all together.
Instead of trying to dodge out of the wall of the rampaging ball of destruction, Bold-Hound took a step forward. Fist cocked back like an arrow, arm taut like a drawn bow. And like those archers of old, he waited. Waited for the perfect moment and just as the full might of a man that looked at least sixty pounds heavier than him was barreling down closer, he struck. Digging his foot into the ground, he twisted his waist and used that motion to further aid that mighty fist.
There were plenty of areas he could've hit, sliding around that 'x' shaped guard to rattle the brains of the man. Or maybe aiming down low to give a kidney shot, a blow that would've debilitated anyone. But instead that, or choosing any other logical decision, the fist charged forward to meet that makeshift shield.
'Bold.'
At least one part of his name made some semblance of sense. Whether it was the forward momentum of the Wrecking Ball or the full hail-marry from the Bold-Hound, or maybe some combination of the two, what resulted was a sight to see. The fist, that slightly glinted in the moonlight slipped through that guard and landed squarely in the man's nose. Or at least, that's what was suppose to happen.
What was suppose to be written. The story of an upstart, a black horse rampaging through the underground fighting circuit, reaching the top and gathering the adoration of the people. And maybe after tonight, they would earn the respect of other fighters. Maybe some random love interest in the crowd that would want them to stop fighting after awhile, but this was no movie. No feel-good piece of drama about an underdog. This was real life.
And Albert would tell anyone, real life sucks. Life will take any carefully laid out plans and throw in the human factor, sending that tower of meticulously stacked cards to come tumbling down.
The blow did land, forcing the man's neck to snap back. His guard to fall, for a stutter to appear in his stride. And for his steps to grow unsteady. But what did that matter? Newton's first law was clear. An object in motion, will stay in motion unless acted upon by an outside force.
And it didn't matter how clean that blow was, how well it landed or the force behind it. The Wrecking Ball and truly lived up to his name, as the pair collided in a way made Albert visibly wince. It wasn't pretty. Having someone of that size ram right into someone before falling on them? If all the air hadn't been forced out of Bold-Hound's lungs, it would be a miracle of epic proportions.
The crowd, cheered. Their feet stomping as a close chant began to fill the area.
"Wreck!"
"KING!"
"BALL!"
In that chant, the 'king' really made itself known. Whether it from the chanting our maybe the fall shook him out whatever stupor that blow to head had inflicted but whatever the cause, the large man was the first to act. Now atop, he placed both knees on either side of the dazed fighters waist in a top mount. A large, toothy grin stretched across his bloody spattered face as he gazed around at the crowd. Raising a single up, they grew wild. They wanted bloodshed, and they would get their fill.
With a grunt, that meaty fist came hurtling down once. Through a hastily put together guard and hammering forward like the pistons on an ancient steam engine. On this went, heavy blow after blow striking down into a guard that was growing increasingly weaker, blood coating those mits and sending out specks of blood to land onto the shoes of those 'lucky' few that got a close-up view of this massacre.
Albert already didn't feel all too comfortable in that kind of crowd, and that didn't go away there. It only grew, as he glanced around at people that just looked like ordinary everyday citizens with no way to pick them from a crowd. Just normal people going about their day but now all had this gleam in their eye. A hunger on their face, an expression of...pleasure? Here they were, relishing in the pain and misfortune of others. To feel something of than this depressing life that Gotham forced onto their shoulders.
In that moment, he didn't see these people as...well 'people'. They looked more like smiling demons, yokai or any other evil spirit that took delight in all this brutality. Their faces grew longer to a point, ears more pointed and teeth became akin to tiny glinting daggers. Eyes morphed into larger, pupil-less things.
'Why do you choose to protect these people?'
It didn't make sense and maybe he was being a bit too judgmental or even had a holier-than-thou mentality but if these people could so easily rip off their mask of civility and fall into blood-lust, then why do they deserve a guardian angel looking over their shoulder? This city was rotten to the core, the darkness far too deep for anything but a brilliant flame to wash it all away.
It brought mind to a particular tale from his childhood memories. Sitting in church one Sunday morning as a deacon droned on about a few events going on that week before presenting a visiting pastor. He was an unassuming man, wearing a simple suit and a warm smile on his face. Seeming like nothing but a pleasant man to be around..that would change. He preached on a story in the Old Testament about two cities, Sodom and Gomorrah, destroyed personally by divine wrath. The tale had terrified the young him, weeks of nightmares of burning city. Pillars of salt and divine eyes in the sky. Maybe that wasn't the visiting pastor's intentions but the story had scarred him in a way that forever turned him away from the path of religion.
He thought he'd gotten over that, whether from age or dying and coming to a new world. But looking at the smiling devils and stretching buildings, all he could see was fire. A white hot flame to consume this place whole.
But was he honestly any better? Would he be spared the searing flames? Here he was doing nothing as all this was going on, how was he different?
Sudden movement shook him from his spiraling thoughts, a change had occurred in his seconds of inattention. The blows had stopped, a lone armed was wrapped around the Wrecking Ball's thick neck and pulled him flushed with his opponent. Another hand, clenched into fist came swinging from below.
Strike after strike landed with an air of vindictiveness onto the man's side and no matter how he tried to get out of the hold, the arm remained locked in place. Holding him down with an iron grip that was like a mutt refusing to let go of even the smallest of scraps.
A hound indeed.
The man's roars of pain and panic could be heard over the crowds new cheers, they had no sense of loyalty. Just as long as they got their fix, it didn't matter who it came from. With his chest pressed flushed, shoulders digging into the ground and that arm pressed under his own weight, it only truly one arm free to use. And use he did, as he slammed fist after fist into Bold-Hound's chest and arm. Or at-least tried, they could all see it. The large man was out of steam, using it all in that charge and those unrestrained strikes.
Those fists didn't have enough force behind them, maybe enough to bruise but not to the halt the near relentless jabs digging into his side. And when he lifted himself up far enough to aim a fist at his downed opponent's face, a quick jab to side of his head spoke of the foolishness in that. The blow did rock him but didn't do anything besides that.
In that moment, he was stuck. Pressed onto the ground, locked in placed by an unyielding arm while receiving multiple kidney shots with no real way to retaliate. If it was a battle of endurance, his opponent was much younger than him meaning only one thing. He was going to lose. He knew it, the crowd knew it and even Albert with all his significant inexperience could tell that much.
"You can't fuck with m-"
It was the first verbal exchange sense the beginning of the fight and it cost him, a split second to form that curse earned him multiple quick jabs to the face. Further forcing that crooked nose out of place, more blood seeped down below. Coating that giant fist in red.
There was a saying, even a cornered rat is dangerous. Desperation was a poison, some were all too eager to lap up.
The teen could see it, see the man's jaw unhinge to show case those yellowed teeth. See where he was aiming and it was like the future was playing out in front of him.
With nowhere else to strike and with that strong grapple in play, there was only one way that the Bold-Hound's grip would loosen: If he was missing a portion of his traps. With those muscles out of commission, there was no way he would be capable of keeping that hold together. Much less be able to continue the fight without being blinded by pain.
A sudden boot shattered that future. Snapping the large man's jaw shut with an audible click, he flew off to the side. Teeth and blood flying everywhere as a massive, steel toed foot ended everything. It was too fast, far, far too fast for Albert's eyes to catch. In one moment, a tragedy affecting his target's life was split seconds of occurring and the next, everything had been flipped on it's head.
"No biting." The bodyguard's voice was quiet but easily heard above the crowd, that had simmered down into a hush as they looked down at the completely still powerhouse. With a nonchalant that bellied how serious things were, he walked over the groaning fighter and jabbed two fingers against the large man's neck. A few seconds passed as everyone look on with bated breath. "He's alive. The fight's over. You win Bold-Hound. Congratulations."
There should've been cheers or boos, something anything to preclude the end of such a bloody battle. But there was none. No one cheered as he roughly dragged the tall young man from the ground, no one cheered as the rising of falling of the Wrecking Ball was made clear as he mewled like a broken toy surrounded by his own yellowed teeth.
The first to break the silence was but a single man. A slow clap, a used cars salesmen grin stretched across his face as dollars signs practically oozed out of him. He was man that couldn't even be trusted not to kick a puppy, a person that would try to sell water in front a fountain, someone who would gladly raise the price of damaged goods just to snatch a profit from a failed business. Gold rings clattered together, the sleeves of that cheap suit raised just a hair to expose a crisscross of long faded scars.
But it was a single gleaming golden tooth, that truly cemented the sleazy and slimmy air of the man.
Like the spell had been broken, the crowd broke out into cheers beyond imagine. Foaming at the mouth as the victors arm was forced up by the guard. Malcolm stood there, more like hung, as the crowd showered him in praise. His face had seen better days, but the actual damage done to it would have to be assessed after the blood was wiped away. Those glassy eyes scanned over the crowd, passing over Albert's location before they stuttered to a stop.
Rolling over, they looked onto him. And he knew, there would be a pretty interesting conversation after all this.
(A/N: Hello everyone! I hope you all enjoyed this week's chapter! I wanted to show how awful these street fights can actually get, none of these combatants are anywhere near the level of peak humans. So there weren't any flashy moves or feats of great skill. But that a bit realistic. A lot of the time, it's just flailing fists and actually landing anything comes down to pure luck. Trained fighters are different of course, but none of them here are professionally trained. If you noticed the biting part, I decided to change a few things from the previous chapter. It just made more sense to me and allowed me to more smoothly wrap things up. Anyway, thank you all for reading and supporting! And I hope to see you all next week!)