I can do whatever I want in the beginning, I have to make it convincing after all. My only real restriction is that I just don’t knock my opponent out until the signal where, then I let him hit me in the dome and I take a dive, then I’ll have the money to pay back the debts I pushed myself into to get this body of mine that i fought so hard to have, and to keep. I grab my wraps from the table and begin securing my hands in their soft cotton embrace. Breathing in through my nose I steel my nerves against the imminent onslaught of noise and pain I am going to have to experience. One last check in the mirror to make sure my braids are tight and he won’t get a grip on them.
On my way through the curtain to the arena I suddenly feel hundreds of beady little eyes, hungry with an insatiable lust for blood and violence, turn to face me with a burning glare of disgust and hatred. Pushing past the people reaching out to try to grab at me on my way to the cage, I can hear a chant of jeers and slurs begin at one end of the arena and rise in volume until the entire inbred audience is working in unison to try to throw me off my game. I have learned to ignore them but they still cut away at my psyche a small amount. Once I am done with this fight I am done with these subhuman imps, miserable dicks who cannot stop jacking off to poor people forced to fight for their survival. They only stop at the next fighter coming out of his room. Almost immediately every single voice in the crowd begins to cheer and shout in glee as the fighter they actually came to see walks into the room. This fighter is the big strong man who will beat the shit out of the filthy tranny for their grotesque sense of entertainment.
The mouth guard sits uncomfortably in my jaw, I try to not let the discomfort show on my face as my opponent has crossed the arena and made it to the cage. I finally get a good look at who I’ll be fighting today as he stands across from me, the bastard who has the pleasure of winning a rigged fight against a person who has been on estrogen for a few years and therefore has less muscle than the steroid addled roidmonkey with daddy issues who usually find themselves in these underground pits after mainstream fights kicked them out for being too dumb. As we are approaching each other and sizing each other up I now realise exactly who it is I am up against. He looks like me. Rather, he looks almost exactly how I did all those years ago before I started hormones and before I got my brow and jawline shaved down. Of course my final fight is going to be against him, how did they even find this scrawny asshole, though he isn’t as scrawny as he used to be, the bastards in charge of this event clearly knew what they were doing and decided to use everything they could to sell the narrative they wanted to sell to their mongoloid audience. They also obviously wanted to torture me for having the audacity to be a fucking tranny, and the best way they could do that was by souring the earth to find my good for nothing twin brother and training him, turning him into a monstrosity, just to beat the shit out of me.
God almighty, I hate that fucking brow ridge, protruding like a neaderthal’s over his eyes, our eyes. His hair buzzed into a shitty skin fade that doesn’t really work because we’re both blonde in a desperate attempt to make him look more manly and dangerous than the unkept, tangled mop he used to have last time I saw him. He doesn’t seem to recognise me, a good sign that means I have made it far enough into this life to no longer look like the twin brother who he used to love. As he readies himself for the fight, I stay loose but bring my arms up to defend my still slightly puffy face. We slowly circle each other waiting for the bell to chime, letting us know that we can fight, staring into each other’s eyes with pure malice. I can’t wait to beat him senseless.
And there it is, he lunges at me clumsily, leaving his guard wide open. The bastards who picked him out of whatever life he was living before this clearly thought all he needed to beat me was muscle mass, his awkward and uncertain movements mirror those of our father. Sidestepping him I let my elbow catch the side of his ribs, a jolt goes down my arm, but it’s just a tickle. Spinning on my heel I find my footing again, bracing myself for another sloppy haymaker to come careening towards me. Just as I predicted, he tries to knock me out with another horribly executed punch. I sidestep this one too, but this time I ram my fist into his kidney as he stumbles past me, I am not going to pull my punches against him.
After a few more failed attempts to take me out in one hit, my brother has finally learnt the lesson that he needs to be careful with how he approaches me after too many missed haymakers, he can’t get too overconfident over the fact that his big fight of the night is against a failed man who proclaims to be a woman, and who is definitely not as jacked as he is. Unfortunately for him I’ve decided that this lesson is one he is going to have to learn repeatedly tonight. My first true offensive is a quick and definitive kick to the kidney I hit earlier, his defenses are horrible. I angle my foot to catch him with a perfectly distanced kick just as he is getting his balance, and I make sure it hurts. His arms lower to defend his mid section as my foot returns to the ground. I don’t want him thinking he is any safer just because he is now defending his midsection. My right hand jabs towards his face.
His reaction time isn’t half bad, as he manages to adjust the position of his face so that instead of me getting to experience the satisfying crunch of the cartilage in his nose snapping under my fist, my hand rams into his tensed jaw at a terrible angle. My knuckles sting, but the hit is still satisfying. Another punch comes his way, an uppercut, designed to catch him off guard and strike him in the gut. He splutters, I fucking hate his splutter, it’s the exact same sound that used to come out of my mouth all those years ago.
He lifts his head again, bringing up his guard once more in an inadequate attempt to defend himself from me, pathetically open. I feint with a quick jab of my left hand to push him into position before swinging hard with my right to catch him in his already bruised liver. He immediately buckles in half, hands dropping to his sides just for a second, leaving his face completely open. Planting my foot solidly underneath him, I bring a knee up into his face, hitting him in the cheek, just under his eye. I hear a loud crack as something gives way, my knee doesn’t hurt, a good sign that it is his face shattering and not my kneecap. I refuse to even consider giving him a moment to recover, as soon as I have my balance again I sweep my other leg behind him and pull his weight out from under him, forcing him to come crashing to the ground. A pathetic little whimper escapes his lips. Looking away from him for just a moment, I catch the eye of the fixer who set up this match sitting in the front row of the crowd, he scratches his nose, the not-so-covert signal that I need to start letting my brother beat the shit out of me and win this fight.
Ignoring the signal I get on top of him, pinning him in place beneath me with my one knee as I lift my fists up to pound him into the ground. The first strike is against his back, he twitches with pain, he probably hasn’t been at the receiving end of a beating like this before. He’s desperately trying to keep his head covered as I follow up the first of the barrage with another punch to the back, and another. Something cracks beneath my fist, probably a rib, and his hands lower from his face for just a moment, letting me get a good left hook in and finally getting the opportunity to feel that satisfying crunch of a nose’s cartilage breaking under my fists. Another fist lands on his head and I hear him begin to wail in agony, with heaving sobs of pain exactly like the ones I would let out as a child.
Our dad was a piece of shit, he would kick me in my gut until I threw up. All for the crime of being a bit faggy, nothing was worse than a faggot to our father. And my useless brother would just stand by and watch, doing nothing but crying and wailing as I got my regular punishment, and afterwards, after our dad would be done punishing me for my transgressions, my brother would beg me to be normal, to stop doing whatever it was that would get so mad at me, like playing kitchen. Eventually he stopped crying when watching my regular beatings, and whilst I was lying on the floor of our unfinished basement crying my eyes out he would be upstairs playing the latest video we got as a present from our mother who was smart enough to divorce the piece of shit we had for a father. If only she had taken me with her.
I wonder If the pathetic excuse of a man lying on the floor in front of me enjoyed watching me take all those beatings towards the end, if our dad’s brainwashing got to the polished dorodango that this asshole has for a brain. He would just watch and do nothing, even when we were teenagers, when the two of us were strong enough to fight back against our father together. I wonder if that’s why he just got up and left the room when I came out to him, he didn’t want to be around the shameful faggot that was his brother now that it has very clearly said that it is a tranny and won’t become the normal and proper man. Fuck, maybe he was the one to text dad so that he would race home from work to kick the shit out of me, forcing me to jump out of my bedroom window with what little belonging I had stuffed into a backpack.
A suffocating silence sweeps into the world around me, the audience isn’t saying anything anymore, no cheering or jeering, just the susurrus of hundreds of people waiting to find out if they bet their money on the wrong fighter, and if that disgusting pervert of a tranny actually won a fight. The only break from this uncomfortable silence are the pained wheezes and sobs of my brother as he struggles to crawl out from my pin. I wonder if this bruised and beaten creature deserves my revenge? He was a child just as I was.
This is version 2 of Punch Your Friends and Loved Ones, here’s Version 1