Fimion slowly opened his eyes, his head was pounding and he felt like death. He rolled over slightly in the grotty cot he was lying on and puked over the floor before he slumped back and wiped the back of hand across his mouth.
“Ffffffuck…” he groaned as he tried to remember where he was and what had happened to him. His head was fuzzy and he could barely remember a thing… literally nothing sprang to mind as he tried to remember...
He gazed around and took in the shithole that surrounded him, some messy half ruined room filled with all manner of crap. He saw on the table beside him numerous empty bottles, needles and jet containers along with various bits of grime. He curled up into a fetal position and tried to wait for the pain that was wracking him to subside, but it didn’t. After what felt like hours he moved again and sat up, this time though he didn’t vomit, though he certainly felt like he would.
He didn’t remember his name, where he was or anything beyond the room he was currently in. He picked up the empty jet container and looked at it. Weird how he could remember what this was, but nothing about himself. He almost automatically brought it to his lips and tried to inhale, but it was empty. Moments later he instinctively started to search through the exhausted stash for anything that was still good, his hands trembling the whole while. He glanced up and across the room to where there was a filthy mirror and stared at his reflection. It was a little distorted but he could make out some rather unhinged individual glaring back at him. He had matted blondish brownish looking hair and a face and nose that showed the signs of being hit an awful lot, but underneath that he guessed he didn’t look quite so bad.
He didn’t know quite why, but he needed to get his hands on something, anything. Suddenly there was a series of heavy knocks on the door to the room and the angry sound of someone’s voice reached him.
“Fimion you filthy no good piece of deathclaw shit! Open this mothafuckin door right now!”
He groaned inwardly, already knowing somehow that he was this Fimion character. The real question was who the fuck was at the door, and what had he done to piss them off. He stood up and swayed on his feet for a few moments and feeling far from steady he took a step or two towards the doorway before he almost stumbled and fell.
The knocking came again followed by several more lines of abuse, something about being late and a fight he was due to be at….
“Yeah yeah I’m coming…” he grumbled as he took the last few steps and pulled the door open and came face to face with what he initially thought was a rather large molerat in a dirty three-piece suit, but quickly realised was in fact just a very angry and very ugly man who was glaring at him. Moments later the man had grabbed Fimion and was pulling him through the doorway as he spoke to him very quickly. Far too quickly in fact for Fimion to hear or understand and so he simply stared at the molerat man before he asked "Got any jet buddy?”
The man’s face bulged and Fimion could see he was holding in his temper as he rooted inside his jacket and pulled out a Jet inhaler which he trust aggressively into Fimion’s eager hands. He wasted little time in taking the hit as he felt the familiar rush as the groggy feelings left him and he felt somewhat better, in fact a whoooole lot better.
“Now you beat the shit out of that bitch and you do it good” he spat as he continued to lead Fimion closer to the sounds of cheering and chanting “She’s taken down three of our best n yous all that’s left. We can’t afford another lost for the house you hear? Earn your keep or fuck off permanently.”
Fimion gazed blankly at him for a few moments, his memories slowly returning slightly before he realised what he was missing and asked ”Got any Psycho buddy?” He was starting to remember what it was his ritual was, and that was to take chems, lots and lots of chems.
The man practically tore out a chunk of what little hair he had as he went bright red and stormed over to a locker and opened it with a key he pulled from his pocket before he tossed the heavy set needle to him.
“No fucking more until you win!” he screeched, his voice cracking as he did before he pointed a stubby finger towards the doorway.
Fimion went to inject the vain into the inside of his elbow, but hesitated as he glanced down at the mess of puncture marks and scars that covered his dirty flesh. Shamelessly he slipped down the ragged boxing shorts he wore and plunged the needle into the vain just above his groin and injected the drug into his system. Moments later the combination of chems coursing through his system not only renewed but increased his energy and desire. He remembered now exactly where he was, what it was that he did at the moment. He was one of the house fighters from the Jungle Gym – one of the best at that. He beat the shit out of anyone they told him to and they kept him rolling in the chems in exchange. It was a good system most of the time, that was unless they made him throw a fight whilst making it ‘convincing’.
Feeling suddenly fantastic and like he wanted to hit something many times Fimion strode towards the ring from the back area. He paused for a split second as he saw the woman he would be facing in the ring. She was short, slim and blonde and was hopping back and forth energetically as she punched at the air as she waited. Her slightly bloodied face showed that she had mostly come through the last few fights unscathed. With the psycho and jet coursing through his system he immediately found himself aroused as he stared at her form, the blood only adding to her overall appearance of desirability in Fimion’s mind. Maybe once he’d knocked her out they’d let him take her back to his room for some post-fight relief. Yeah that’d be real good.
With that thought in his mind he grinned and stepped out into the ring. The announcer yelled over the crowd that was admittedly bigger than usual, introducing her as ‘Dusty’ and him as ‘Raging Fist’ to which the spectators whipped themselves into even more of a frenzy as they anticipated the upcoming battle. He spared a brief moment to consider how stupid his new nickname was.
As the match started the pair of them both lunged towards each other, Fimion high and Dusty low as the crowd screamed. The fighters paid little attention as the woman ducked under his swing and buried her fist in his gut. Fimion grunted but took the hit as he swung his elbow down with force into her back before she grappled him and slammed him into the cage behind him winding him further.
Gasping for air Fimion recovered as best he could but not before he took a pair of jabs to the face which sent his vision swimming. With a surge of strength fuelled by both the psycho and the pain to his face he twisted and threw her off as he scrabbled to gain the upper hand. He may have been stronger and bigger but damn she was fast. By the time he’d stood she too had already recovered and was once more moving towards him with her guard up as he stood and again noted how desirable she looked. The split second was all it took for her to once more lunge in and deliver a punch to his face followed by an uppercut that he only narrowly just stepped back to avoid. She lunged forwards again but this time he was ready and he delivered a wild haymaker, aiming vaguely for her face he grunted as she blocked it with her arms still up before he followed up with numerous strikes before he finally got past her guard and landed a hit which sent her sprawling. Moments later he lunged at her and pinned her with his knees as he followed up with a few more direct punches to her face.
Suddenly there was a series of gunshots and screams that erupted, Dusty using the opportunity to punch him squarely in the jaw before she wriggled free as they both stared towards the doorway to see what the hell was happening.
The gunshots and screams continued and it became clear no-one was watching their fight any-longer, a group of gunmen having shot the doormen before forcing their way in. Both Fimion and Dusty glanced at each other unsure if they should keep fighting or not.
The mole-rat man came out of the back and approached them, a seemingly rather heated conversation taking place before one of the newcomers pointed a gun at his head. He raised his hands before he gestured behind him towards the bosses office and Fimion caught “…Jeshua Baum owns this joint, not me!”
Seconds later there was a gunshot and Moley hit the ground with chunks of his skull and brain joining him. “Well there go my chems…” mumbled Fimion glumly as he stared at the unmoving body. The group stormed their way through as the majority of the patrons panicked and started to flee past them. ‘There go the adoring fans with their caps…’ he thought as he watched them go.
Suddenly he and Dusty found themselves practically alone and with very little reason to continue their fight and so he stood and without really knowing what to do he exited the ring and made his way over to the body of mole-face and nudged him with his foot. One of the thugs that had burst in had remained near the doorway, he eyed Fimion up and down as he did this but after a few moments he obviously realised that Fimion didn’t care about the aggressive change in management that was happening and so continued to keep watch occasionally glancing back.
Fimion rummaged through his pockets looking for any chems he may still have but after an exhaustive search he had only found the little key which caused him to have a brainwave. He made his way back into the shabby locker room to find Dusty already having picked the lock and now in the process of emptying the chems into a bag. Instantly all of his more ‘romantic’ feelings towards her faded and were replaced by a burning hot white rage. So this bitch thought she could take the chems he had already decided were his? Oh fuck no.
He charged forwards and without particularly thinking grabbed her from behind and smashed her face into the metal locker beside the open one. Once, twice, three times he lifted and smashed her head down as hard as he could using her rather lovely hair as a convenient hand-hold before he threw her backwards where she crashed into a pile of rags and boxes and remained slumped down. He looked at his hand and realised he had a few strands of her hair still clutched there which he’d ripped out. Glancing over she seemed to be bleeding profusely from a large split on her head and was unconscious or dead, he toyed briefly with the idea of going over a using her to ‘relieve himself’. He took a step towards the unconscious woman but a gunshot from the boss’s office made him think otherwise. Maybe it’d be better to get his chems and get the fuck out before they decided that they were their chems instead of his. He continued Dusty’s work of filling the duffel bag with the chem stash that had been used to supply the fighters at the Jungle and stared at the bag in glee. It was pretty full with buffout, pshycho, med-x and jet and he felt so excited that as he zipped it up and made his way towards the exit he only barley glanced back at the woman one more time. He paused and snatched a dose of jet and once more indulged himself before he made his way out tossing the empty container to the floor.
As he walked towards the exit the guard turned his head and watched him, particularly when he stopped at the bookie’s lockbox and tried to open it. It was stuck and he didn’t know where the key was so he picked it up before he continued towards the exit trying to look as nonchalant as possible – which was difficult as his heart was pounding and he felt like he wanted to sprint and scream and kill something.
“Wats dat?” the man grunted at the bag and lockbox as he raised his sawn-off shotgun and turned it towards Fimion.
“Mine” replied Fimion as he rapidly lunged into range and swung the heavy lockbox into the man’s face suddenly. He went down like a sack and Fimion wasted little time in delivering several follow up smashes with the rather weighty box. He was pleasantly surprised at how quickly it reduced the man’s head to a pulp, and not even with a shot off. “Damn I am good” he said praising himself happily.
“Huh” he mused as he looked down at the man’s jacket. It was some kind of black leather thing and to Fimion it looked rather badass. Ratty but otherwise quite nice he thought as he took another few moments to slip it off the corpse, paying no heed to the slight bloodstains that came with it. A few wipes later and it was as good as new (at least in Fimion’s eyes) and he slipped it on before he too grabbed the man’s shotgun. ‘Fuck’ he thought to himself in bewilderment ‘why doesn’t this happen more often?’
He strolled out of the Jungle gym alive and better equipped than he ever remembered being. In fact he felt like he needed to celebrate. He had what he considered a fuckload of chems, caps (although locked away beyond his ability to access) and now a sweet gun. There was only one man that he could think of who would have exactly what he needed. That man of course was Redding Schmidt, and so Fimion turned and headed towards the ‘The Cracked Glass’.
