![]() ![]() The man simply didn’t care about pain or his own well being and knew that he could more easily score a KO with nothing between his fists and his opponent’s face. Jack’s knuckles were knobby and misshapen and he had personally seen him knock teeth out and break jaws with his bare hands. Not so much as a scrap of tape on his hands, so many assumed he was a grappler. The mountainous figure was clad in a tank top, jeans, and combat boots, exactly as he had been when he entered the building from the street. If it had been revealed to the room that one of his parents was of the genus Ursa it is unlikely anyone would have batted an eye. True to his nickname Jack was enormous, closer to seven feet than six, broad-shouldered and visibly muscled despite copious amounts of thick brown body hair. “Please welcome, the Beast from the East, the Bipedal Bear: Kodiak Jack!” The shouts and jeers filled the room as the announcer trailed off and the man in question entered the ring. Much better for a beaten fighter to live and take a few months off so the crowd would forget them before coming back with a new nickname and a fresh record. Death drew attention from the authorities, not to mention had a way of discouraging prospective talent. Those promoting the fights liked to talk about it but always preferred avoiding it. Death was pretty rare, even in the underground circuit, but the crowd loved the fact that it wasn’t totally out of the question. The fights he had witnessed had all ended in knockout and one of his challengers had, in fact, died of a brain bleed days later, at least that was the word on the street. He had seen the man fight on only 8 occasions, but it seemed reasonable he had been in plenty more. “I’ve no way to know how many fighters he has actually decimated, but with my own eyes, I’ve seen him go an impressive 15-0, all by way of knockout or death,” again a slight exaggeration. “and has left a trail of blood from Mistral to our very own city of Vale in search of a worthy challenge.” The length of said trail may have been overstated but not necessarily the amount, Brothers knew this man could throw down. “Tonight’s challenger comes to us all the way from Anima,” he knew for a fact that he was a local thug unlikely to have traveled further than the nearest liquor store most of his life, but sometimes a few embellishments were necessary. The growing rumble from the crowd told his seasoned ear that the dramatic pause had accomplished its goal, so he continued. Crafting an image was a talent that Roman had honed to a fine edge in his many years of shady dealings, and he loved any opportunity to let that talent shine. Despite his appearance and the fact that no one present had ever actually seen him throw a punch it was never doubted that he could handle himself. ![]() Tall, lean, sharply dressed in his white coat and immaculate bowler hat and sporting his signature cane, Roman didn’t exactly look like the type to run an underground fight ring, but somehow he pulled it off. Roman Torchwick to his associates, but the ring was a first names only affair. ![]() Sometimes it was under an out-of-the-way overpass, sometimes in a parking garage or particularly large cellar, often like tonight it was in an old warehouse, but always the layout was the same: hastily built risers, standing room only, surrounding a platform covered in canvas, lined with chain link fence and doused in lights erected or hung as necessary to ensure that everyone could see the action. The man with the microphone grinned savagely, almost leering at the crowd that had gathered to watch the contest. “All right everyone, it’s time for the match we’re all here to see!” ![]()
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