Scrapper
MMA Bad Boy Romance
Chloe Ellison
Scrapper
MMA Bad Boy Romance
Chloe Ellison
All Rights Reserved ©2016 Chloe Ellison. First Printing: 2016.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
Author's Note: All characters in this story are fictional, and 18 years of age and older.
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One - Angela
If I was going to write a piece that caught any traction, it would have to be soon. My New Year's resolution had been to make serious progress in the world of MMA journalism, or give it up by the following annual tick. Working for free at my age wasn’t cutting it, and my second job as newspaper editor barely covered the bills. I was twenty nine, and couldn't keep dream chasing at thirty.
It wasn’t the life I would have envisioned for myself, but I was maintaining happy.
The timing gave me a hopeful undertone. The largest fighting organization in the world, Tao Fighting Championships, was having its next four events in my region of the country. In a three month period, I would be covering all four events with at least some level of press access. The time to hustle and make things happen had arrived.
I had my own website to maintain and worked for another. Both had a small following but neither was making money. It was always about work, and trying to get something big to happen that would direct traffic in our direction. The TFC coming through could lead to a foothold on the niche we were looking to capture if things were done right. If not, I would be falling back on my degree and trying to find a proper job.
My tools were humble. A tape recorder, good pen, press pass, notebook and clipboard. The pass hung at my neck, the rest stayed in my backpack. The TFC was a big show, and brought with it a media circus. It was a huge thing as far as I was concerned, especially because I had assignments at all four events.
The first show was a two hour drive, so I got a hotel room. The site had premium access to the weigh ins I was covering. I would be attending the fights as well, but not as press. I would return to work after the event, standing in on the post fight press conference. I would be considered press but wouldn't be allowed to ask questions to the fighters directly. Still a fine opportunity from my point of view, a chance to be there live and in person.
A fighter's innate ability to garner a public interest in his fights is known as moving the needle. Something like the X-factor when it comes to being a famous performer. The main event at TFC 261 featured one such athlete, recently crowned middleweight champion Cage Edwards. The 23 year old was the youngest champion in the organization, and with every dominating performance, he forced heads to turn in his direction.
Put simply, the kid came out of nowhere. Before turning professional, he had been an amateur with an undefeated record of 15-0. All of those fights took place within one year. He had toured around the country destroying over matched opponents, but somehow flew mostly under the radar as a prospect. After turning pro at 19, he reeled off 6 straight wins before losing a fight by submission. His speed and power carried him to another six fight win streak that scored him an opportunity in the TFC. As they often say, the rest was history.
Cage was a fearless and aggressive competitor, attacking relentlessly with precision kicks, knees, elbows, and punches from the opening bell. No one in the TFC had been able to withstand his assault. After only three fights in the world's premier organization, he stepped up for a title shot when the original opponent had been injured, and made quick work of the long time champion. A second round head kick KO, brutal and decisive.That man was Forrest Arnold, and he hadn't lost a fight in over three years before that. When you have seen enough fights you can become jaded to certain aspects of the sport, but seeing Forrest Arnold crash face first into the mat unconscious made me cringe.
With a near perfect 16-1 record, Cage Edwards was the champion of the world, and stood on top of it. Winning the title at such a young age in electrifying highlight fashion was enough to garner attention, but there was more to it than that. Cage was the complete package, ripped to the bone, and plenty confident in his abilities.
The superficial world would have no problem at all with Cage Edwards as champion. In another lifetime he would have been a model, fitness or otherwise. His torso matched the first search result for beach body, and his smile brought to mind toothpaste ads. No one knew a whole lot about him though. As far as MMA fighters go, he was an enigma. Instead of pursuing interviews and sponsors, he shunned them. Even at press conferences he answered in three words or less, often using the phrase “fuck that”. Kru Walker was his coach, another one who avoided the spotlight. Because Cage was a shooting star that rose quickly up the rankings by fighting more often than other pros, there were little more than quick post fight blurbs about him online. All that was known was where he trained, and that the man could fight.
“You'll have to ask Cage about Cage. I just hold the pads.” Kru Walker would say when asked. He chewed constantly on a toothpick, replacing it often. “The kid sure can crack though, kicks like a fuckin' mule.”
“Ask coach.” It was a typical Cage response. Tight lipped and effective, but not enough. The world wanted to know more about him. His secretive nature made people wonder, and kept the public salivating. All high level interview requests were denied, although he would occasionally appear on a local kid’s blog with a quick one or two minute interview. The only other form of contact between him and the rest of the world was his social media page. He used it rarely but was good at stirring up controversy.
His title shot was granted hours after he referred to then champion Forrest Arnold as a “pussy”, for not taking on another opponent when his was injured. Arnold foolishly took the bait, fired shots back at Edwards, and accepted the fight. He ran headfirst into Cage's left shin two months later. From that moment forward, he was in high demand.
Cage would be making his first title defense against a ten year veteran of the TFC, Tazz Armenin. The oddsmakers in Vegas saw it as an even money fight, and everyone was pretty split on it. The event was expected to sell a lot of pay per views.
Armenin was a rough looking fighter, who viewed a broken nose the same as a stubbed toe. His strength was his resiliency, and his granite chin made people wonder if Cage had the power to knock him out. Cage was untested in the grappling department of fighting, and with his only loss being by submission, some critics suspected Armenin's submission fighting background would be enough to dethrone the young king. Others saw Cage as an untouchable phenom who might well push Armenin's nose clear through to the back of his head. You never know. This is the hurt game, ya gotta wait and see. A massive world title fight, and I would be there to see it unfold live.
Weigh ins were fun. There wasn't much for me to do besides soak it in and let my tape recorder roll. Well muscled men in their underwear flexing on a scale, it was easy to enjoy. The thing they don't tell you is that many of the fighters look near death while making weight. They dehydrate themselves before the weigh ins to meet a weight requirement and then have an IV or drink a few gallons worth of fluids in the next 24 hours so they can enter the cage weighing fifteen or twenty pounds more than the contracted weight of the fight. I've seen it, again and again. Men have died while tryi
ng to make the limit.
In this case they were all fine. Oh so fine. Bulges, abs everywhere, and one very happy girl. Seeing them all strip down had me thinking a little dirty anyway, but I was full on salivating by the time I saw Cage for the first time.
The roar of the crowd was insane when they announced his name, and all for a weigh in. Cage wore an all black hoodie and sweatpants, no logos or emblems at all. His coach and a few training partners stood around him while he stepped out of his clothes.
“I love you Cage!” a woman yelled, breaking through the crowd. He perked up, and blew a kiss in her direction. There were about five hundred people jam packed into the weigh in area, and they were locked on his every move. Random wolf whistles, and a constant mumble of crowd noise that hadn't been there before. The reason he was the main event, the reason he made big money. Beneath his black sweatpants, were lime green and pink boxer briefs. The revealing of which, elicited yet another eruption from the anxious crowd. As a journalist, I admit to indulging in a brief professional glance.
“185 on the dot.” the inspector said into the microphone. Cage smiled wide, and lifted both arms for a double bicep flex. Cameras were going off everywhere. I rolled my eyes, but could feel myself blushing. There was no way to deny that I felt it too, the same attraction that the rest of the world was going through with the new champion. His dimples added to his charm. He stepped off the scale and began chugging a Pedialyte, his deep cut abs contracting with every gulp.
Next up was Armenin. He encountered his share of boos and less crowd reaction, but made weight all the same. Immediately following the weigh in, fighters meet for a quick stare down and photographs. Things have a tendency to get heated between two very hungry men who are slated to compete in a sanctioned fist fight the following night, and Cage immediately let the insults fly.
“Puss-ay!” he called out, laughing and pointing right in Armenin's face. “Old slow ass. So slow it took you ten years to get here!” security held him back, but he continued to press against them while shouting insults. “And still poor! No business sense. Who wants to see you fight? No one! Boring ass. I'm the main event!” Cage pounded his chest, and turned to smile and wave at the crowd who was eating it up. Armenin mostly kept his composure, and said little in return. The fuss died down when everyone was pulled off stage, but it had been an interesting thing to see. The champ was bold, and had already won the crowd.
All the fighters made weight and cleared out of there. Twenty four hours until the fights. That night I went to a steakhouse, and sank my teeth into the only meat I would get on that night. A craving spurred by the sight of Cage Edwards in neon colored boxer briefs.
It had been a while since I had attended a high level pro MMA event live. The TFC was the biggest of them all, with twenty thousand plus in the arena, and plenty of production value. It was more than the aura, the fighters were the best. The action was fast paced, and the competitors were well prepared. Eight dollar beer night limited me to one. There were drag out fights that were slow paced and went all three rounds, as well as a few knockouts and submissions. The night built toward the main event.
Looking around the packed arena was a testament to the buzz around the fight, and to Cage in particular. The twenty thousand plus in attendance was a stadium record, a sold out show. All gathered to witness the spectacle of highly trained men in the art of hand to hand combat, competing to a hypothetical death match where a tap out signifies defeat. There was nowhere that I would have rather been on a Saturday night.
Armenin was the first to enter the cage, and appeared confident, carrying with him a quiet intensity as he paced back and forth on the mat. The lights shone down on his bald head, and he waited for his chance at the belt. A moment he had worked for over a lifetime.
The lights went dark for the moment of Cage’s introduction, the roar of those in attendance moved in waves. Spotlights scanned the crowd and his music kicked in.
“The middle weight champion of the world! Cage Edwards!” The announcer screamed, and Cage sprinted down the aisle toward the cage. Many fighters took a slow walk, high fiving fans and enjoying the moment. He skipped all of that, eager for action. He was electric, bouncing around and full of energy. Kru and his other cornerman lagged behind, jogging to catch up.
Kru was the one who applied the vaseline to his face, and used the opportunity to whisper last minute advice to his prized pupil. Cage breathed deep, and nodded his head. Walker had trained him from day one, and they were quickly becoming known for their chemistry. They hugged, and then Cage stepped into the cage with his waiting opponent.
All eyes were on Edwards while the announcer moved through introductions. He wore an all white pair of his trademark vale tudo style shorts, the spandex kind that hugged the cheeks of his well developed backside. The two men stared at each other from opposite ends of the cage, waiting for the moment to arrive. My own heartbeat was pounding, I could only imagine what they were going through.
“Fighter, are you ready? Fighter, are you ready? Let’s go! Fight!” The referee signaled for the start and then got the hell out of the way.
Some fights begin with a feeling out process, where the fighters circle around and throw feints, while gauging their opponent and looking for openings before committing to any major attacks. Some fights have no such periods of inactivity. Cage made sure this fight was the latter.
“Ooooh!” The crowd reacted to the first kick of the fight. Cage launched his trademark left roundhouse into the body of Tazz.The blow was blocked, but still knocked Armenin back against the cage from the force alone. The sound was reminiscent of a whip cracking. “Ooooh!” He threw the same kick again, driving Tazz back into the fence. Armenin threw a few wild haymakers in return, both of which were off mark.
The crowd was in a frenzy by the time Cage backed off, and circled to the center of the mat. Tazz followed, and then attacked with a leaping left hook. Cage easily pivoted off of the punch, and unleashed five of his own in quick succession. Boom, boom, boom boom boom. And then he was gone, moving too quick for Armenin’s wild counters to come close.
The precision of Cage’s punches was on full display. Everything he threw found a home somewhere on the face of Armenin, and he added kicks for good measure. Armenin landed a counter punch occasionally, but the damage was adding up. You can’t eat five shots to give one, and he knew it. It was a left uppercut out of nowhere that first put him in trouble. He didn’t stumble or fall, but you could see the momentum drain out of him when it landed. His eyes went wide and he moved away. Cage followed, hyper aggressive and riding the fine line between that and being out of control.
“Oooh!” One of his kicks found the mark. A shin on rib collision that made me look away. The crowd was on its feet, they could sense the end.
Armenin was a skilled fighter who had been through his share of wars. He had a few final tricks up his sleeve before accepting the loss, and grabbed hold of Cage to attempt a takedown. Cage defended flawlessly, and unloaded another three punch combination after shaking himself loose. This went on for a few more exchanges, each one working out in the favor of the young champion. Armenin displayed the heart of a true fighter in standing in the pocket, and continuing to attempt takedowns. Each attempt was more telegraphed, more desperate. The feeling in the air was that the fight would be stopped at any moment. Edwards was dominating and the fight had quickly devolved to a showcase instead of a contest.
It could have been in slow motion. Everyone saw it coming except for poor Armenin, who tried to duck down for a takedown at the exact same time that Edwards leaped into the air and landed a flying knee flush on the chin. There was no controversy, just the limp body of another Cage Edwards knockout victim crashing into the mat. I joined in with the screaming crowd, it was so loud that I couldn’t hear my own voice.
It’s hard to say who went more bizerk, Cage or the crowd. He flexed and backflipped, and then climbed up onto the side of the cage for more posing.
“I
told you! I’m the best in the world!” He yelled while staring and pointing directly into the camera. “Where you at middleweights?” There wasn’t a scratch on him. The end came at a little over four minutes into round one. Enough work to break a sweat and make a cool couple million when you add in the pay per view bonus. I had a new favorite fighter to watch.
Tazz slowly advanced from the coffin position to being crumpled over a small wooden stool. Watching on television, they cut away from the dark side of the sport, the aftermath. Being live at the event you saw it all. As painful as it was, I tried not to ignore the realities, the price the fighters sometimes had to pay.
“What happened?” He asked, as if the white arena lights he had been staring up at moments earlier weren’t evidence enough. The flying knee gave him a concussion, and wiped away all memory of his failure to bring home the title. It must have been odd to watch the man who had beaten you celebrate victory, and accept a defeat that you don’t remember.
The referee was in between the two competitors, and lifted the arm of Cage Edwards when the official decision was announced. Tazz was visibly disappointed, but humble in defeat.
“Congratulations, congratulations.” He spoke little English, and bowed his head. “Very good. Strong kicks.” They shook hands, and exchanged a few pleasantries. The fight was over, the animosity gone. It’s easy to forget that MMA isn’t a schoolyard brawl over a keyed car, it’s a professional sporting event. Cage and Tazz smiled for a photo before exiting the cage. Tazz went to see the doctor, and Cage headed to the hotel for the post fight press conference.
I had a pass to get in, and was on assignment. The post fight presser was good for some quotes and a time to speculate on what was coming up for the winning and losing fighters. The hotel was a few miles from the arena, and I had to go on foot. The whole downtown area was so packed with traffic I would never have made it in time had I taken a cab. On foot I managed to make it with two minutes to spare. After flashing my credentials, I stepped into the press area right as the TFC president issued his opening remarks, and announced the official gate numbers.
Scrapper: MMA Badboy Romance Page 1
