11-04-2023, 01:12 AM
(This post was last modified: 11-07-2023, 02:54 AM by Alistair Bishop.)
Warm water had been a close friend as Alistair had stood in the corner of a large shower area. Other fighters from the different combat rooms in the club had bathed nearby, each in varying states of post-fight bliss or misery. The room had been filled with warriors. Naked men, stripped bare, not just of clothes but also of their egos. Fighting can do that to a man. It can strip them of any pretense that they are in control. Reality often came in the form of a fist. All men had quietly contemplated their outcomes from the evening as the smell of soapy lather had filled the air.
Only hours before, during his prematch ritual, he had also stood under a shower, his mind filled with images of a dark-haired beauty curling her finger for Alistair to come and beg—the imagery of dominating his opponent in an easy victory and traces of mystery from a stranger. But now, the shower had served as a moment alone to lick his wounds. The water had warmed his bloody, bruised, and defeated body. A hard stream of water had covered his head, draping his body like a soft silk veil.
Streams of liquid had fallen from his hair to his brow, revealing exposed flesh from combat. Each water droplet entering a wound had sent a twinge of pain down his spine. The water had washed off seeping blood and dirt. It had flowed down his body, over his swollen bloody lip, and over his chin, which bore a swollen bump lightly covered with black stubble. Further down, the water had trickled, touching his achy and weak body warmly. With each breath, he had winced from the body shots he had sustained. Water had dripped down his hips, displaying exposed bruises. Every inch of him had been in pain. His body, while chiseled from years of hard training, was in this moment, used. He had spent every resource he had on that night's match, only to lose in a knockout.
Alistair had stood with silent resolve, replaying moments he could remember. A nagging feeling had consumed his mind. Something had been off with this fighter. He hadn't seemed human and had inflicted torture Alistair had never experienced before. Who was this man, or better yet, who had sent him?
Alistair's cell phone had started ringing in his bag. By the time he had reached his phone, the signal for a voicemail had been flashing. As he listened to it, a familiar voice had pierced his ears, saying, "Terrible match, Alistair. Let me make you feel better. I have a little gift for you. I have a car outside for you waiting. You need to visit Kallisti. Let your eyes enjoy a show. We also need to talk business." Mr. P. had said, followed by a deep Russian laugh.
Only hours before, during his prematch ritual, he had also stood under a shower, his mind filled with images of a dark-haired beauty curling her finger for Alistair to come and beg—the imagery of dominating his opponent in an easy victory and traces of mystery from a stranger. But now, the shower had served as a moment alone to lick his wounds. The water had warmed his bloody, bruised, and defeated body. A hard stream of water had covered his head, draping his body like a soft silk veil.
Streams of liquid had fallen from his hair to his brow, revealing exposed flesh from combat. Each water droplet entering a wound had sent a twinge of pain down his spine. The water had washed off seeping blood and dirt. It had flowed down his body, over his swollen bloody lip, and over his chin, which bore a swollen bump lightly covered with black stubble. Further down, the water had trickled, touching his achy and weak body warmly. With each breath, he had winced from the body shots he had sustained. Water had dripped down his hips, displaying exposed bruises. Every inch of him had been in pain. His body, while chiseled from years of hard training, was in this moment, used. He had spent every resource he had on that night's match, only to lose in a knockout.
Alistair had stood with silent resolve, replaying moments he could remember. A nagging feeling had consumed his mind. Something had been off with this fighter. He hadn't seemed human and had inflicted torture Alistair had never experienced before. Who was this man, or better yet, who had sent him?
Alistair's cell phone had started ringing in his bag. By the time he had reached his phone, the signal for a voicemail had been flashing. As he listened to it, a familiar voice had pierced his ears, saying, "Terrible match, Alistair. Let me make you feel better. I have a little gift for you. I have a car outside for you waiting. You need to visit Kallisti. Let your eyes enjoy a show. We also need to talk business." Mr. P. had said, followed by a deep Russian laugh.