"Welcome back to the broadcast folks, they've finished the weigh in and our competitors are making their way to the ring. Let's take this time to mention our sponsor. This fight was brought to you by Cheez-O-Cola, the only dairy based soda this side of the Mississippi." The cheer of the crowd was matched by the overbearingly cheerful commentators, though admittedly the product they were placing sounded absolutely disgusting. "Coming down to the red corner, appropriately so," He paused to let the music play.



The crowd erupted into cheers as the music began to play, his strawberry locks flowed violently in the fans caught his hair in their artificial wind. "Weighing in at two hundred and fifty pounds and standing six feet three inches tall, The Red Streak himself! Fergus MacBrainan!" The roar of the crowd met the man's ears and a dopey grin grew across his face. With his arms raised overhead he let out a roar to match the crowd's own, this fight was kind of important to him. "This fight is a big one for Red Streak, this will be his first fight in the big leagues. He's had several fights in lower circuits but this is the first time he's advanced into the higher ranks. If he wins this fight he'll have taken the first step towards the champ."

To the fighter the announcers had just faded into white noise as he marched down the ramp, his body glistened slightly in the stage lights. In this moment he felt truly like a king, he'd worked so hard to get here and some yank wouldn't stop him from getting all the way to the top. With the confidence of a man twice as experienced as himself and the posture of a comic book hero, Fergus marched towards the stage, his music faded out and the crowd hushed as the man reached the cage, two men on the side pulled the cage gate apart and he climbed inside. It slammed shut behind him and he nearly jumped, wasn't quite expecting it to shut so abrupty. His eyes narrowed on the opposing corner and the vague shadow of his opponent could be seen at the top of his ramp.

The “Ring”, a brutal palace for the destruction of the human body in the most violent way. A place where 20,789 people had paid an average of $98.72 cents for the privilege of watching the fight live. According to the promoters, another 100 million people would pony up the $69.99 to watch the event on pay-per-view.

A solemn knock on the door a half-second before it burst open. The florid-faced events coordinator stepped in, his voice squeaked.
“You’re up . . . Good luck.”

Through the open door the strains of Puscifer’s - roared through the stadium, followed by a cacophony of cheers and boos.

You were way out of line
Went and turned it all around on me again
How can I not smell your lie
Through the smoke and arrogance?

Jake “The Under” Taker stood up, letting the satin black robe cascade down his body. The heavy black fingered gloves clenched several times. A grim smiled crossed his lips as he looked up and whispered a prayer to the gods for victory. If they didn’t give it, well, fuck them.

The handlers, hanger-on’s and fight men began their banal pep talks, all of which were ignored as Jake strode through the door. In the bright, clean hallway, photographers snapped their pictures; well-wishers cast their words, which fell away as soon as Jake passed them.

But now I know
So you will not get away with it again
I'm distant in those hollow eyes
For I have reached my end

The heavy curtains peeled away, followed by wild cheers and thousands of feet stamping, making the “Ring” reverberate with their impacts. As soon as Jake stepped through, he focused on the music, his mahogany eyes on the shimmering octagon and his opponent. A large man. One who had been given a shot on the card, Jake’s opponent had cancelled. A death in the family. More than likely the man didn’t want to face him. It didn’t matter, he was a fighter and he was here to fight.

Thank you for
Makin' me
Feel like
I'm guilty
Makin' it
Easier to
Murder your sweet
Memory

Once inside the ring, Jake stopped just inside the cage; his head down as the crowd erupted, The crowd in their ragged, screaming voices, following along with the song. Eyes closed he listened a moment as the crowd roared their blood lust. The grim smile graced his lips briefly as he slowly opened his eyes, focusing on his opponent.

Before I go tell me
Were you ever who you claimed yourself to be?
Either way, I must say goodbye
You are dead to me

At that moment Jake dropped the robe, exposing his heavily, muscled body. Broad shouldered and narrow hipped, thick butt and heavily muscled thighs made Jake Taker one of the world’s best MMA fighters. The muscles provided the force, but it was his uncanny speed of hand and foot that made him deadly.

Stepping into the center of the octagon, he shook his long arms and legs, pausing a moment facing each of the sides of the ring, bowing slowly. When he was done he turned to face his opponent bowing slightly, then nodding at the referee.

Thank you for
Makin' me
Feel like
I'm guilty
Makin' it
Easier to
Murder your sweet
Memory, I'm
Severin' the
Heartline, I'm
Leavin' your
Corpse behind
Not dead, but
Soon to be, though
I'm not gonna be the one that kills you

I'm gonna leave that up to you
I'm gonna leave that up to you
I'm gonna leave that up to you
I'm gonna leave that up to you (I told you so)

"A Man who needs no introduction! The Man, The Myth, The Legend! The Undertaker!"

As the Undertaker himself made his way down to the ring he couldn't help but feel a mixed sensation of pride and fear. While he didn't wholly recognized a person based solely on title, there was some significant weight to the title of Undertaker. The way the crowd shook the ring, the haunting melody that played. Even the confidence with which he strode down, it gave him a moment of pause as he adjusted the straps of his candy apple red light gloves.

All of the confidence from before still remained, but he was given a sense of cautious optimism once he finally saw his opponent. He stretched in his corner, extending his arms totally vertical and drawing himself into bi-directional leg stretches. Left first and then right, he wanted to be as limber as possible for this. It was probably wise.

"It looks like the Undertaker has Red Streak shaken, Johnny!"

"With good reason, Tom, The Undertaker has an unbelievable win loss ratio. It's unmatched especially considering how many fights he's had."

"It's even more impressive when you take into account the fight in Madison Square Garden a while back."

"It is indeed. What even was that guy's deal? Was he supposed to be some kind of devil zombie or an alien?"

"I don't know Johnny but I do know one thing, Red Streak sure has his work cut out for him. The Undertaker has demonstrated some seemingly superhuman feats of ability, meanwhile old Fergus here has barely scraped his way out of the dregs."

"Heh, a good thing Warmonger dropped out eh? Get to see just how distant The Undertaker really is from a normal man!"

With no ignorance to their commentary he moved to the center of the ring with the Ref. He didn't actually hear the speech that he made, the only words that managed to touch his ears were the most important. "Touch gloves then move back to your corners."

Fergus raised his arms towards Jake with a small grin on his face, his eyes showed no fear. Only a strong and fiery defiance, in his head he thought about how much of a run for his money he would give The Undertaker.

Standing in the center of the ring Jake stared at the man before him. They stood equally in stature and maybe a few pounds different in weight. Standing at 6’3” Jake stared into the eyes of the man before him. No hatred, no anger, merely a grim determination. The people in the arena wanted a fight, wanted to see some blood, something to fill their pathetically boring lives.

"Touch gloves then move back to your corners."

Jake raised his gloves, eyes never leaving Fergus’. As they touched he said softly, “Good luck kid.”

Stepping back he tapped the corner and looked into Joe, his cut man, “This kid any good?”

“Dunno. Heard something about him. He’s decent enough to get here right?”

The Ref called out, “Ready?”

Turning around Jake bowed to the Ref then to Fergus.

“Let’s Get it On!” hollered the Ref as he dropped his hand.

Jake shuffled forward. Right leg forward, left back with the weight on the balls of his feet. His shoulders hunched up. Left hand back and tucked up near his chin. Jake was in a southpaw stance, the right hand out and up crooked slightly ready to jab out. The flex in his knees allowed him to move in anyone of the eight directions with relatively easy to avoid or counter Fergus.

Jake threw out a snapping jab and withdrew the right hand and arm quickly, he wanted to see the kids fighting style. How he’d set up, which side he favored. Was he a ground and pounder or a stand-up fighter? Either way, it would be interesting.

Won't need luck. Thought Fergus as he backed to his corner, never once letting his gaze drift from the Undertaker. He said something to his corner but the crowd was too loud for him to actually understand, so too did he lack the ability to read lips. Wishing right about now that he did, maybe it was strategy talk.

Fergus shook his head and made his advance as well, he entered a midway stance between Krav Maga and Muay Thai. With both hands raised about to eyebrow height, fingers loose within the clenched fist. Like he was holding something valuable that he didn't want to drop, but also didn't want to shatter in his grip. It was a mental trick to give himself the perfect practical fist. His center of gravity was kept low and his knees were bent slightly, he walked on his toe with his leading right and with the flat on his left.

He always kept his hands at even distance because he didn't want to immediately reveal his right handed lead, but his footing revealed that secret far too often. As they moved within striking range Jake opened with an exploratory right ab that Fergus made an unconscious defense towards.

His left arm raised slightly before him and he turned his hip, he put his elbow between himself and the jab and checked the blow with the sharp of his arm. After the block he stepped in with his left foot and planted it hard, quickly rotating his shoulder and torso to add force to his reply. The left block dropped back into its resting defense. His right leg was brought forward quickly and he extended his right hand in a clean cross towards the cheekbone of Jake. His hand rotated slightly, his grip tightened and his shoulder raised a bit to add impact to the blow. It would be an easy strike to avoid but a hard one to take.

If his hand struck clean or if it missed entirely he would quickly withdraw his arm and pull his weight back onto his right, flattening his heel to the ground to return to a sturdy posture. He'd loosen his hand and raise it back to his eyebrow, returning his guard.

Edit: Spelling Error.

The snapping jab snaked back in. Followed by Fergus. It’s obvious he’s a big puncher. That’s the way it is with big right-handers, they are predictable. **Throw** a jab, they try to clean your clock. However, they always leave themselves open to a southpaw and that is what Fergus faced. A southpaw. Pulling back his head ever so slightly to the right, Jake slipped his head out and under the crossing right hand, his body hunching low as his left leg sidled out as he launched a vicious hook to the body of Fergus. Having slipped outside the right hand, Jake rocketed the punch up, exploding the power in his thick legs and butt, translating that power into a focal point along the front of his gloves.

His target, the floating ribs on Fergus’ right side. A liver punch. A devastating blow. On a lesser man, it probably would drop him, but this was a seasoned MMA fighter. While it might not stop him in his tracks it should cause him to fatigue rapidly over the match.

As the left hand landed, as it would be all but impossible for it to miss in the space they stood and their body position, Jake launched the follow-up blow. An uppercut that would be inside the extended right arm of Fergus. Shifting his weight on the balls of his feet in a fraction of a second the power of his thick shoulders raced up in a beeline for Fergus’ jawline. Depending on how Fergus handled the pain of the liver shot would determine if the uppercut landed flush on the bottom of the chin or along the jaw with the potential to break it.

Whatever happened next they would be in close quarters.

** Spelling

The blow to the liver sent shockwaves through his body, a weaker man would have siezed and dropped instantly. His body lurched forward in response to the blow, his face showed a definite sign of surprise upon it. Namely with the spray of saliva being shot from his mouth and his mouthguard nearly being knocked clean out by the force of his exhale. In the moment between lurching forward and the oncoming uppercut, he needed to react.

But how? He was pretty much set for that incoming blow, except for one thing. Just because he was right handed didn't mean that he was defenseless. Three movements worked in a flash, and it was purely instinctive.

Fergus threw his head backwards and put his weight down on his right leg and jerked his waist off to the right. The uppercut swung up and missed his jaw, the wind grazed his ear and threw a tuft of red hair upwards. But that wasn't the whole motion, see Fergus is a reactive fighter, and his reactions are generally what wins his fights.

Remember how he brought his left arm back? Well his guard is that way for a reason, an uppercut is a guarateed arm lock that his opponent throws themselves into. It was even better since The Undertaker was fighting south paw, and since this was a left handed uppercut, he was able to hook his hand right into the movement. He pulled his own left arm into his body, forcing the Undertaker's hand in with it.

The last movement was a full left leg sweep, since his hip was already twisting from the reaction, his leg moving in a wide crescent was a natural flow. Aimed straight for the undertaker's legs and with his dominant hand locked straight in check, this would quickly be taken to the floor with Fergus in the advantageous position.

If executed perfectly, Fergus would have the Undertaker facedown on the ground with his left arm in a lock. He'd be able to perform a full mount and something resembling a rear wrist lock.