02-03-2015, 12:02 AM
It was rare that White had a night out for his own reasons. Often if he was away from the safehouse, it was work related. Personal, Pervaya, or Atharim, whichever it was, it was rarely for particularly simple reasons. Other then grocery shopping, of course. Groceries. The occasional beer. Pit fights.
White had participated in a few 'underground' fighting pits in his day, but tonight was his first in Moscow. His first where he stood the chance to make quite so much money, that is. Of course he bet on himself; why wouldn't he?
He'd arrived an hour or so earlier, and as always, appearances were important. White had arrived in a simple black suit, white dress shirt. Off the rack, but, again, tailored to fit. It had drawn a few looks when he'd arrived; he was by some written off as some common mob thug who had earned a fat paycheck and knew just the right people to find his way into a club like Almaz. Certainly not the lowliest of scum to be sharing air with in the room, but far from the highest.
That changed as he was occasionally greeted by some of those on the upper rungs of the ladder. Men and women for whom White, through Pervaya liniya Security, had held contracts with in the past. They shared words and greetings, and some showed great interest to learn what Hood's reason for coming out that night. White wouldn't be the only one betting on himself.
A quick round to get folks talking, then he made his way to where the nights' entertainment was kept, away from the guests and their 'delicate sensibilities.' Pack of degenerate fucks if one were to ask Hood for his opinion, but he was perfectly willing to take their money. And, of course, to measure himself up against the local professional toughs.
What passed as managers, or in some cases, outright owners, saw him as little more then some idiot in over his head. Of course, it hadn't helped when he made a joke to one of the rich snobs that outright owned his fighter. Something about Ukrainian underground shovel fighters. It helped that the slaver in question was, of course, Ukrainian.
Most of the fighters wore something they could toss in a dumpster (or wear into a dumpster if their fight went badly enough), but it quickly became obvious that Hood hadn't exactly brought a gym bag. When his time came, Hood emerged into the pit in question in white dress shirt and leather shoes. The sleeves were neatly rolled up above his elbows, the tie sat below with his jacket and, of course, his revolver.
It had taken some finagling, but his opponent for the night was a bit of a local champion; a known winner, someone most of the crowd would bet on over White. Mostly, it was for the challenge, and of course the few in the crowd that knew Hood and the company he worked for, would expect him to win. And be happy with their winnings, guessing by the odds he heard from outside the pit.
Arseniy Demidov, aka the бак (Russian for Tank), was a mountain of a man. The iconic Rocky Balboa eating Russian monster. White was a large man by most standards, but the Tank had a full foot over him, and easily a hundred pounds. Not all muscle though...the man was a professional fighter, after all. Thick slabs of muscle were to be found under a thick layer of insulating fat, the better to cushion a blow.
Arseniy was one of the local power-houses, and his arrival in a pit drew a crowd of onlookers and betters. Money changed hands as White finished adjusting his shirt sleeves, then stepped forward to shake hands with Arseniy, raising an eyebrow slightly as his hand was easily encompassed by the large Russian's bearclaw of a hand.
"You are a brave one, little man. You look as tasty as a little piece of Ptichie Moloko. White and creamy and soft."
Arseniy growled the threatening words in a thick accent, grinning down at White.
"бак, yeah? Norwegian for 'behind' too. You look like the type that likes men playing with his back door."
White's tone was dispassionate, almost entirely dissinterested really. Arseniy had already let him down; the guy relied on veiled threats and insults to try and soften up his opponents. Taking him down a few pegs would be a challenge, sure, but it would be a fun one at least.
Arseniy growled in irritation and threw White's hand free before stepping back. The big fellow wasn't used to people actually talking back to him in such a manner. The calm and cool manner. White stepped back, and then it began. The bets continued to flow over their heads, with onlookers leaning in to get a good view of what was about to happen. Most weren't even betting that Arseniy -would- win, but rather for how long it would take for that inevitable conclusion.
Arseniy surged forward, and through sheer weight and size was able to got his hands on White's torso, driving the smaller man back into the wall of the pit. White took the wall on his shoulders; Arseniy's arms were too long for him to get a blow in with his own arms, so he went with his legs instead. White's back met the wall, and his dress-shoe'd foot met Arseniy's face.
The big man grunted in anger and let White go while stepping back to press a hand to a broken and bleeding nose, and White took the opportunity to regain his bearings; the Tank had earned his name, at least for raw power.
By the time White was standing again, Arseniy had recovered, although a thick river of blood had stained the man's chin and bared, hairy chest. Arseniy came forward again, one powerful arm swinging in a wide ark meant to smash White into the wall again. White was the faster of the two, and wasn't one for being hit though, and rather then try to block or back-step, White lunged forward in a roll to get clear of the wall, narrowly avoiding a follow-up kick/stomp in his wake.
He came up again and was met with one of Arseniy's hands grabbing a fistful of White's collar. He twisted to face the big Russian, then brought both arms up to take a blow to his forearms instead of his face, as Arseniy again made use of his superior reach to land a punch at White.
Arseniy pulled back for another swing, and rather then just take it again White twisted further into the Russian's grip, and put a knuckle-led jab into the Russian's inner-elbow, buckling the big man's grip and freeing himself. Arseniy let out another annoyed growl and gave his arm a shake, and flexed his hand once, before looking back to White.
In the moment's distraction, White gave his own arms a single quick shake then he closed on Arseniy. Body shots would be wasted on the heavily built, and heavily padded, man, so White went for weaker spots. Limbs and joints, to be exact. The Russian looked up to find White right in front of him, and let out an angry howl as White drove his heel into Arseniy's ankle. The Russian was forced to draw his hurt foot back and away from White, and the American transitioned to a sharp kick to the Russian's leading knee.
Arseniy staggered back and to the side, nearly lost his balance and almost recovered before White was on him again. The Russian threw an arm out to catch himself against the wall of the pit, and was lower to the ground for it, and White capitalized with a palm strike to Arseniy's ear, then was driven away as the Russian swung out his other arm amidst a yell of pain.
The Russian pushed from the wall, chasing White with a series of vicious, sloppy blows, which White would duck, back-peddle and otherwise avoid, for the most part. Some landed, knocking the smaller American a few feet in one direction or the other, but he weathered the storm until a new opening presented itself.
A wide swing and White ducked under then surged forward, and grabbed at the tendons behind Arseniy's knee, and crushed and twisted with an iron grip. The Russian let out another angry, pain-laced yell and delivered a solid punch to White's ribs, staggering White away.
The fight continued like that; give and take, and White seemed to take more blows, the ones he gave to the Russian were far more devastating. And to a skilled eye, White was just drawing it out. A risky venture, but worth it for the effect it had on the crowd. Bets surged; to most watching it seemed like White was on the ropes, but Arseniy was limping, his swings were slowing, exhaustion and pain were setting in.
It all came to a sudden head. Arseniy tried to pin White to the wall again, and White responded by boxing Arseniy's ears. Rather then just hitting them, he actually grabbed the big man's earlobes and tore down, rupturing cartilage and blood vessels. The big man hollered in pain, the sides of his head visibly darkening with bruises.
Arseniy's charge was diverted and the big man shouldered into the wall. His chest was streaked with blood and slick with sweat, and he was panting heavily, while White had barely broken a sweat. He'd have a few bruises come morning, but nothing a beer or two wouldn't keep at bay.
White stepped in, and Arseniy struck out at him, leaving himself open. Too tired to swing with any real speed or accuracy anymore, White actually took the blow, in a sense. He stepped in to the Russian's strike, catching the man's wrist against White's ribs, then pinned the extended arm there. A downward chop onto Arseniy's extended elbow buckled the limb painfully, and White kept his grip as he closed in, driving a foot into Arseniy's knee, forcing the man to kneel.
White spun and twisted Arseniy's pinned arm, forcing the big man to hyper-extend at the elbow. Another blow caused the already weakened joint to give way with the sound of breaking bone; White put all he had into the strike, and grinned as he saw bone protrude from the Russian's arm, adding a fresh spray of the man's blood to the stains already coating the walls and floor.
Arseniy screeched in pain, grabbing at his ruined elbow and hunching over in defeat. White stepped clear of the broken man, watching him for a moment longer to be sure the man was indeed done, then rose his arms in victory. A brief moment of 'show boating' before walking out of the pit, calmly rolling down his shirt sleeves as he went. Arseniy needed to be helped out of the pit, and left a dangerous trail of blood from his ruined arm. The man wouldn't be fighting again any time soon, if ever.
White had participated in a few 'underground' fighting pits in his day, but tonight was his first in Moscow. His first where he stood the chance to make quite so much money, that is. Of course he bet on himself; why wouldn't he?
He'd arrived an hour or so earlier, and as always, appearances were important. White had arrived in a simple black suit, white dress shirt. Off the rack, but, again, tailored to fit. It had drawn a few looks when he'd arrived; he was by some written off as some common mob thug who had earned a fat paycheck and knew just the right people to find his way into a club like Almaz. Certainly not the lowliest of scum to be sharing air with in the room, but far from the highest.
That changed as he was occasionally greeted by some of those on the upper rungs of the ladder. Men and women for whom White, through Pervaya liniya Security, had held contracts with in the past. They shared words and greetings, and some showed great interest to learn what Hood's reason for coming out that night. White wouldn't be the only one betting on himself.
A quick round to get folks talking, then he made his way to where the nights' entertainment was kept, away from the guests and their 'delicate sensibilities.' Pack of degenerate fucks if one were to ask Hood for his opinion, but he was perfectly willing to take their money. And, of course, to measure himself up against the local professional toughs.
What passed as managers, or in some cases, outright owners, saw him as little more then some idiot in over his head. Of course, it hadn't helped when he made a joke to one of the rich snobs that outright owned his fighter. Something about Ukrainian underground shovel fighters. It helped that the slaver in question was, of course, Ukrainian.
Most of the fighters wore something they could toss in a dumpster (or wear into a dumpster if their fight went badly enough), but it quickly became obvious that Hood hadn't exactly brought a gym bag. When his time came, Hood emerged into the pit in question in white dress shirt and leather shoes. The sleeves were neatly rolled up above his elbows, the tie sat below with his jacket and, of course, his revolver.
It had taken some finagling, but his opponent for the night was a bit of a local champion; a known winner, someone most of the crowd would bet on over White. Mostly, it was for the challenge, and of course the few in the crowd that knew Hood and the company he worked for, would expect him to win. And be happy with their winnings, guessing by the odds he heard from outside the pit.
Arseniy Demidov, aka the бак (Russian for Tank), was a mountain of a man. The iconic Rocky Balboa eating Russian monster. White was a large man by most standards, but the Tank had a full foot over him, and easily a hundred pounds. Not all muscle though...the man was a professional fighter, after all. Thick slabs of muscle were to be found under a thick layer of insulating fat, the better to cushion a blow.
Arseniy was one of the local power-houses, and his arrival in a pit drew a crowd of onlookers and betters. Money changed hands as White finished adjusting his shirt sleeves, then stepped forward to shake hands with Arseniy, raising an eyebrow slightly as his hand was easily encompassed by the large Russian's bearclaw of a hand.
"You are a brave one, little man. You look as tasty as a little piece of Ptichie Moloko. White and creamy and soft."
Arseniy growled the threatening words in a thick accent, grinning down at White.
"бак, yeah? Norwegian for 'behind' too. You look like the type that likes men playing with his back door."
White's tone was dispassionate, almost entirely dissinterested really. Arseniy had already let him down; the guy relied on veiled threats and insults to try and soften up his opponents. Taking him down a few pegs would be a challenge, sure, but it would be a fun one at least.
Arseniy growled in irritation and threw White's hand free before stepping back. The big fellow wasn't used to people actually talking back to him in such a manner. The calm and cool manner. White stepped back, and then it began. The bets continued to flow over their heads, with onlookers leaning in to get a good view of what was about to happen. Most weren't even betting that Arseniy -would- win, but rather for how long it would take for that inevitable conclusion.
Arseniy surged forward, and through sheer weight and size was able to got his hands on White's torso, driving the smaller man back into the wall of the pit. White took the wall on his shoulders; Arseniy's arms were too long for him to get a blow in with his own arms, so he went with his legs instead. White's back met the wall, and his dress-shoe'd foot met Arseniy's face.
The big man grunted in anger and let White go while stepping back to press a hand to a broken and bleeding nose, and White took the opportunity to regain his bearings; the Tank had earned his name, at least for raw power.
By the time White was standing again, Arseniy had recovered, although a thick river of blood had stained the man's chin and bared, hairy chest. Arseniy came forward again, one powerful arm swinging in a wide ark meant to smash White into the wall again. White was the faster of the two, and wasn't one for being hit though, and rather then try to block or back-step, White lunged forward in a roll to get clear of the wall, narrowly avoiding a follow-up kick/stomp in his wake.
He came up again and was met with one of Arseniy's hands grabbing a fistful of White's collar. He twisted to face the big Russian, then brought both arms up to take a blow to his forearms instead of his face, as Arseniy again made use of his superior reach to land a punch at White.
Arseniy pulled back for another swing, and rather then just take it again White twisted further into the Russian's grip, and put a knuckle-led jab into the Russian's inner-elbow, buckling the big man's grip and freeing himself. Arseniy let out another annoyed growl and gave his arm a shake, and flexed his hand once, before looking back to White.
In the moment's distraction, White gave his own arms a single quick shake then he closed on Arseniy. Body shots would be wasted on the heavily built, and heavily padded, man, so White went for weaker spots. Limbs and joints, to be exact. The Russian looked up to find White right in front of him, and let out an angry howl as White drove his heel into Arseniy's ankle. The Russian was forced to draw his hurt foot back and away from White, and the American transitioned to a sharp kick to the Russian's leading knee.
Arseniy staggered back and to the side, nearly lost his balance and almost recovered before White was on him again. The Russian threw an arm out to catch himself against the wall of the pit, and was lower to the ground for it, and White capitalized with a palm strike to Arseniy's ear, then was driven away as the Russian swung out his other arm amidst a yell of pain.
The Russian pushed from the wall, chasing White with a series of vicious, sloppy blows, which White would duck, back-peddle and otherwise avoid, for the most part. Some landed, knocking the smaller American a few feet in one direction or the other, but he weathered the storm until a new opening presented itself.
A wide swing and White ducked under then surged forward, and grabbed at the tendons behind Arseniy's knee, and crushed and twisted with an iron grip. The Russian let out another angry, pain-laced yell and delivered a solid punch to White's ribs, staggering White away.
The fight continued like that; give and take, and White seemed to take more blows, the ones he gave to the Russian were far more devastating. And to a skilled eye, White was just drawing it out. A risky venture, but worth it for the effect it had on the crowd. Bets surged; to most watching it seemed like White was on the ropes, but Arseniy was limping, his swings were slowing, exhaustion and pain were setting in.
It all came to a sudden head. Arseniy tried to pin White to the wall again, and White responded by boxing Arseniy's ears. Rather then just hitting them, he actually grabbed the big man's earlobes and tore down, rupturing cartilage and blood vessels. The big man hollered in pain, the sides of his head visibly darkening with bruises.
Arseniy's charge was diverted and the big man shouldered into the wall. His chest was streaked with blood and slick with sweat, and he was panting heavily, while White had barely broken a sweat. He'd have a few bruises come morning, but nothing a beer or two wouldn't keep at bay.
White stepped in, and Arseniy struck out at him, leaving himself open. Too tired to swing with any real speed or accuracy anymore, White actually took the blow, in a sense. He stepped in to the Russian's strike, catching the man's wrist against White's ribs, then pinned the extended arm there. A downward chop onto Arseniy's extended elbow buckled the limb painfully, and White kept his grip as he closed in, driving a foot into Arseniy's knee, forcing the man to kneel.
White spun and twisted Arseniy's pinned arm, forcing the big man to hyper-extend at the elbow. Another blow caused the already weakened joint to give way with the sound of breaking bone; White put all he had into the strike, and grinned as he saw bone protrude from the Russian's arm, adding a fresh spray of the man's blood to the stains already coating the walls and floor.
Arseniy screeched in pain, grabbing at his ruined elbow and hunching over in defeat. White stepped clear of the broken man, watching him for a moment longer to be sure the man was indeed done, then rose his arms in victory. A brief moment of 'show boating' before walking out of the pit, calmly rolling down his shirt sleeves as he went. Arseniy needed to be helped out of the pit, and left a dangerous trail of blood from his ruined arm. The man wouldn't be fighting again any time soon, if ever.