No cock for you today, my little shitboat friends. Only Underground PitFighting!
*I originally intended to post this on April Fools, but I decided to include the part about the Face-Cake.
Regional Qualifying Match #7
During the day, the Englishtown Auction of Manalapan, New Jersey is like a bustling city. People dart to-and-fro down the lines and lines of tables, intently searching for the best deals they can get on illegal firearms and Cam Neely trading cards. By the time dusk rolls along, however, the metropolis is empty. No people. No tables. Just an expanse of dirt large enough to be a desert. The only thing that stands out in this sea of dust is a deteriorated adult video trailer near the edge of the woods. It sits on the sand like a beached whale, rotting more and more with each passing day. A casual passerby would likely just assume the building is abandoned and then walk by without a second look. Little would anyone suspect that stepping through the front door of this hideous mobile home would transport a person to a world unlike any he has ever seen before. A magical world, a world of excitement and intrigue. A world... Of PitFighting.
Greg Frazier: Delta's gonna be awful pissed off. I hope he doesn't come down here and lay on one of us.
Bearing his Herculean physique for all to see, Underground PitFighting chancellor Greg Frazier lours furiously as he bangs out his last set of squats in the back of his decrepit metal fortress. Sweat pouring through the chasms of scars on his chest, he polishes off another pitcher of whole milk from a line on the wall as he had done each time prior in between reps. Every fiber of this man's being bleats violence, from his unapologetically black flesh to the grizzled stubble that lines his chin like barbed wire. Even the vacant socket where his right eye used to be seems dangerous, like a bullet could burst from it at any time and blow your head clean off. God knows, it might be able to do that.
Greg Frazier: Has that weasel Tank returned our calls yet?
Frazier's three companions do their best not to make eye contact with him. Upon his inquiry, tech guys Thaddeus Killmore and Kevin "Nanny" McPhee shrivel up in their chairs and frantically hammer buttons on their telephones, something they had been doing for a half hour already. Frazier scowls as he hangs his Mjolnir-esque barbell up on its rack, nearly tipping over the entire trailer as he does so. Wanting a bonafide answer, the walking brick wall shoots a glare over to his gopher, Bayan Bayar.
Greg Frazier: Nothing at all?
Bayar, a greasy dude with a Fu Manchu mustache, just shrugs and folds his arms.
Bayan Bayar: The jerk-off must've been high when he accepted the fight. I'll bet he's hiding in a spider-hole somewhere in Kuwait right now.
Greg Frazier: Same old ****. I wouldn't have even let him OR Champoux into the tournament if I didn't want to see Tank disemboweled and shoved down a drainpipe.
Bayan Bayar: Sadly, he'll probably just die alone of OD in some vacant tenement he was using as a toilet. Do you think we should start looking for a replacement?
Greg Frazier: Yes, it would seem a high time to get one in the bullpen. Better break out the crank file.
Bayar struts over to a disintegrating cabinet on the windowless side of the caravan and pulls out a stack of dusty VHS tapes. Wiping the grime off the pile, he brings them over to a great big Zenith television in the middle of the trailer and begins fiddling around with the wires in back to set up the VCR. Frazier, meanwhile, leans up against the back wall and starts spit-polishing the chain gun he always keeps mounted on his right shoulder.
Greg Frazier: Any video you've been wanting to look at?
Bayan Bayar: As a matter of fact, last month we got a tryout video from a dude who looks like a real solid prospect. He's a Filipino kung-fu fighter named Mike who's fought in Vale Tudo and was once offered a spot in UFC 7. From what I've heard, his head's like a brick of kevlar. I mean, the bastard can take punches for days. He can also shoot plasma out of his hands.
Greg Frazier: I know Mike. Might as well just skip over him. He's on the West Coast right now.
Bayan Bayar: Ok, how about this Universal Japanese Shoot Wrestling highlight tape from Indian kickboxer Sanjith Kumar? I heard he cripple a guy so badly that the dude had to negotiate with Jesus right in the middle of the ring not to cast his legs off to Hell.
Greg Frazier: Pass on that one, too. I have a hunch the ShootFighters want to muscle in on our business. Don't want to give them the edge by letting one of theirs inside the tournament. What else we got?
Bayan Bayar: Hmm...
Bayar scrounges through the pile.
Bayan Bayar: Well, the newest video we got came in just the other day. It has no label, but looks like it's covered in blood and a little bit of offal.
Greg Frazier: Pop that sucker in. This one feels right.
The grubby Mongolian chips some of the dried fluid off of the cassette and forces it into the player. The two watch intently as static fills the screen for several moments before a gangly-looking man pops up on screen accompanied by a concrete backdrop.
The wispy-haired nebbish, an Ip Man logo adorning the shoulder of his t-shirt, is looking off into the distance somewhere while the camera rolls on. His emaciated frame doesn't even come close to filling the black outfit he's chosen to garb himself in, despite the fact that his tee is almost certainly a children's size. When he turns to the camera to speak, a wrinkled monogram of two crossing words can be discerned on his (non-existent) chest.
The Chunisher: Chunisher War Journal Entry 418: Continuing my quest to prove my hybridized style of Wing Chun and Krav Maga is the greatest combat system developed by man. I have three experts lined up today willing to risk their lives against me, the first of which has agreed to meet me in this alley.
The Chunisher shifts the focus of his camera to a homeless wino curled up in a ball behind a dumpster.
The Chunisher: This is Ilias Kokliaris, Greek Judoka and Pankration expert. He'll be representing his country soon in the European games, but as you'll see right now his SPORT style is utterly useless when matched up with a streetfighting virtuoso like myself. Watch how easily Wing Chun and Krav Maga will bring me victory!
The wino shifts in his sleep and pulls a yellowed newspaper over his head. Warily, the pale-fleshed kung fu expert bows at his adversary and assumes his street-stance. Keeping his body low to the ground like a cat about to pounce on a loose gerbil, he seung mas his way over to the inebriated "Judo master" and stops just a few feet short of the dumpster. Observing his foe as if he's trying to size his task up, the Chunisher holds his breath for several seconds while standing frozen in place. Without warning, the dweebish Wing Chun stylist lets loose with a blood-curdling war cry and cuts into the homeless man with a barrage of flailing slaps.
The Chunisher: FOOM! FOOM! FOOMFOOMFOOM! FOOM! FOOMFOOM! FOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!!!!!
The Chunisher looks like an octopus having a seizure as he spastically tries to pummel his opponent into the dirt. The delirious wino confusedly springs up on his trash pile, completely at a loss as to what's happening to him. With a panicked yelp, the kung fu expert dashes away from his adversary before the vagrant can get to his feet. The camera cuts out as he makes off with his camera and tripod, the screen faded to black for several moments before the Chunisher suddenly appears on screen once again.
The Chunisher: Chunisher War Journal Entry 419: After a successful victory earlier today, I now make my way across town to face my second opponent. Tome Morais, a 6'7" Mundials champion in Brazilian jiu-jitsu, has agreed to cross hands with me at this impromptu fruit market near the town center in Old Bridge, New Jersey. In my last fight you saw me effortlessly defeat a Judoka using basic Wing Chun principles. Now, however, I think I'll utilize my Krav Maga experience to enlighten this cocky BJJ fighter. You'll have to excuse me if I'm particularly vicious in this battle: Morais has been insulting my style over the phone, and I intend to straighten him out in order to make him truly understand the gravity of his mistake.
The Chunisher shifts the camera's focus to an elderly Cambodian woman hunched over behind an open-air fruit stand in the middle of a mostly deserted strip mall court. Creeping across the weed-strewn sidewalk on all fours, he slowly edges his way towards his oblivious adversary while she mindlessly swats away the flies trying to devour her produce. After getting within a few feet of his opponent the Wing Chun experts halts his crawl and shoulder rolls behind a trashcan, pausing for a moment to look back at the camera. A second later... And he strikes!
The Chunisher: IF YOU HIT ME I WILL DEFEND MYSELF! PLEASE LEAVE THE PREMISES IMMEDIATELY, SIR!
The startled woman doesn't have time to react before she feels her outer thigh gently grazed by the Chunisher's embarrassingly flaccid front kick. The lanky Kravist loses his balance and stumbles backwards from his attempted attack, almost knocking an apple off the table in the process. He freezes in place after regaining his composure, stunned that his assault did not produce the results he desired. Unaware that the strange young man at her table is trying to fight her, the befuddled old woman asks him if he wants to try any exotic breadfruit. The Chunisher pauses for a moment before bolting back to his tripod and switching his camera off once more.
A second later and we see the sunken-chested Chun monkey panting in front of a mossy concrete backdrop, twin streams of tears running down his beet red cheeks. Despite his panicked exhaustion, an indisputable aura of smug satisfaction and pride exudes from his being. He takes a moment to compose himself before addressing the camera.
The Chunisher: *Cough* Chunisher... War Journal Entry 420: I now arrive to meet my final challenger for the day. Dave Sefo, world-class kickboxer and Canarian wrestling legend, has agreed to fight me in this boiler-room underneath a partially operational warehouse on the outskirts of town. If I haven't proven my style's superiority yet, this victory will quell all doubters. For this match I will showcase to the world my most potent fight-ending technique... The Chun Bomb. The battle will be over before it even starts, much like the previous ones.
The camera loses focus as the Chunisher limply picks up his tripod and hauls it through the dank, grey corridor. Indefinable machinery echoes throughout the hallway, it's soul-crushing droning interrupted only by the occasional sound of the kung fu fighter's outdated Sony Handycam banging against the pipes overhead. The doofus eventually stops and plants his plastic stand in the middle of a doorframe, aiming his camera into a mildew-plastered room that's roughly the size of an indoor Jacuzzi. Here, on a mound of sheets that look like they had been used by the cleanup crew for Mr. Creosote, a burly goon in a custodian's uniform lies sleeping with a trilby hat pulled over his eyes. The mangy-haired cretin only stirs slightly when the Chunisher ducks under a pipe and creeps into the miniscule room besides him.
The limp-necked warrior shakes out his wrists, readying himself for his assault. He takes time with his warm-up, wanting his body to be as limber as possible before dropping his most devastating of weapons on this helpless fool. Finally, after sparing a moment to turn and wink at the camera, he faces down his enemy and assumes his pigoen-toed stance. The blitzkrieg is coming in...
Janitor: SURPRISE, MUTHERFUCKER!!!
Without a hint of warning, the ramshackle bum on the floor suddenly springs to life and lets loose with an incomprehensibly powerful upkick to the Chunisher's tender genitalia. The soft-bodied kung fu wanker unleashes a high-pitched yelp and falls directly into the low-hanging pipe behind him, smashing his skull on the lead cylinder in a shockwave of blood. Not a fraction of a second after he hits the ground and the mysterious derelict is already flinging himself on top of him with a furious howl and maniacal sneer. A barrage of meaty thuds erupts out of the camera's range, sending blood splattering everywhere in the tiny utility closet cum bedroom.
The Chunisher: OW! OW! STOP, I THOUGHT WE WERE JUST SPARRING!!!
The blows do not cease. As the Chunisher's crying grows more and more pained, the janitor bellows with a kind of otherworldly rage.
The Chunisher: You're lucky this isn't a REAL fight! I'd be winning right now!
The bone-on-bone pounding sounds suddenly deepen, as if someone is getting his head smashed against the cement ground. A few minutes of this pass by before the hulky custodian finally stands up within the camera's range, his tattered blue uniform now covered in spatterings of red and strips of mangled flesh. Displaying almost superhuman strength, he lifts his whiney Chun bunny opponent off the floor by his throat and pins him against the rotting wall behind his makeshift bed. Despite looking like he's near death, the Chunisher doesn't cease to continue spitting out excuses and pseudophilosophical condescension.
The Chunisher: You have natural power, I'll give you that much. But the elephant isn't the king of the jungle. I could notch another win under my belt if I wanted to make this a real fight, but unlike mooks who fight for sport I don't feel a need to fuel my ego.
The slab-armed janitor placidly ignores his opponent's ramblings as if he's been specially conditioned to block out mindless bullshit. Holding the Chunisher against the wall with his imposing girth, he pulls a pair of stakes from a rusted shelf in the corner of the room and begins stretching one of his victim's arms out as far as it can go. As the wide-eyed Ip Man worshipper helplessly looks on, the janitor starts winding his own arm up with one of the jagged, grimy nails in his hand. The Chunisher doesn't even have time to void his bowels before the blunt stake has been forced straight through the tendons and arteries in his right wrist and into the soft plaster wall behind his body.
The Chunisher: BABY FUCKKKKKKKK!!!
Oh, you are SO lucky this isn't a real fight!
The janitor hammers the nail in tight with a solid steel mallet. He stoically gazes upon his handiwork before stretching out the Chunisher's OTHER arm to repeat the process. The second time around he takes things a little more carefully and uses the hammer from the get-go, no longer burdened with having to keep his opponent pinned to the wall himself. With tears streaming out of his grotesquely swollen eyes, the Chunisher whimpers with each little tap of the nail through his bones and muscle. After several painstaking minutes, the sinisterly gleeful caretaker kicks the mound of sheets out of the room to reveal to the camera his gloriously crucified victim.
The Chunisher: Groundfighting doesn't work in a real fight. Somebody would've kicked you in the head if you tried to ground-and-pound me in the street like you did here.
The maliciously grinning janitor walks out of the camera's frame. The feebly whimpering Chun bitch sighs with relief and uses this as an opportunity to address his audience.
The Chunisher: Chunisher War Journal Entry 421: As it stands, I only had two real fights today. It appears as if Mr. Sefo just wanted to go over some light drills and then call it a day. You'd be surprised how many challengers back out like that after you take the trouble to come to their dojo. I don't blame him, though. Fear is natural for people not experienced with street-centric disciplines. You'll have to wait until my next video until you get to see me really unleash... OH DEAR GOD, NO! NO!
With the swiftness of a panther, the enigmatic custodian suddenly rushes back into frame accompanied by a menacing glint of metal at his side. A fraction of a second later and the terrified Wing Chun man's face is ripped off his body in a blazing flash of steel, the janitor's Korean military sword cutting clean right below the dermis of his victim's sickly flesh. For a precious moment, surface tension keeps the gory insides of the Chunisher's head from spilling down his shirt and onto the already revolting ground of this dimly illuminated basement. One would almost think he was a prop for some sort of 1980's B horror-comedy the way his eyeballs just stay in place inside his meaty but skeletal countenance. A second later, however, and everything comes out. Blood, bones, and fat pour down his chest like waterfall of red wine sediment, painting the floor with a viscous layer of carnage.
The Chunisher: You're REALLY lucky I'm willing to play by the rules! If you let me fight dirty like I'm used to, you'd easily be dead by now. I know pressure points.
The janitor ponderously searches through the flooding ground to find the Chunisher's face. With a composed look on his face replacing the malice he formerly displayed, he picks up the wretched clump of skin and takes it over to the drier part of his closet. While wringing it out, he kicks over a box on the floor to reveal an impromptu stove in the corner of the room. Meticulously setting up a pan over his personal range, he lights his stove ablaze with a chunk of flint and plops the face into the skillet. As the freshly sheered skin begins to sizzle, he carefully wraps the face around a stack of vending machine pancakes he had kept in a wrapper under the box. Finally, after thoroughly slathering his macabre dish with half-a-can of cappuccino Nutrament, he sits back and patiently waits for his meal to cook through.
After several minutes pass, he pulls the steaming pan off the range and gently stamps out the fire. Apparently not interested in waiting for his supper to cool, he peels the bubbling Face-Cake off the skillet and begins carefully nibbling on his concoction. The Chunisher, meanwhile, tries to make more excuses but can't seem to enunciate anything clearly at this point. The janitor calmly looks upon his handiwork with pride, methodically chewing on his bulbous grey biscuit while the floor continues to become more and more saturated with blood.
The camera suddenly blacks out and cuts to the janitor once more, this time outside on a park bench and sans Face-Cake.
The Janitor: Greetings, my name is David Sefo. If I am lucky, this tape has come into the hands of the great men who organize the prestigious Underground PitFighting tournament. If it has, then I hope you were impressed with the heart and tenacity I displayed in the preceding fight. It would truly be an honor for me to take part in the beautiful tradition of combat that you govern. After my kickboxing and Luch Canaria careers started faltering in Spain, I traveled to America to get a new lease on life. It's been difficult for me to find my place over here in your country, however, which you could probably tell by the fact that I'm living in a boiler room.
I truly hope you let me into the PitFighting tournament. If not, though, then vanquishing the menace known as the Chunisher was a noble enough mission for me to fulfill. No more will innocent civilians be plagued by the near-incessant barrage of Chun Bombs he drops on this city almost everyday. It took me a long time to bait him into my home turf, but I knew his head would be worth the wait. Unlike he, I know the difference between justice... And chunishment.
The video cuts to static.
Bayan Bayar looks back to his boss, a mix of confusion and astonishment in his eyes. He's totally at a loss of how to proceed. Frazier, who is now smoking a cigar and in the middle of sex with a Russian concubine, gazes back at his minion with an unexpected look of placidity and detachment. It's as if he already has everything figured out. He speaks to Bayar just as his mistress begins to have her first orgasm.
Greg Frazier: It would seem we'll need to track down Mr. Sefo and congratulate him on making it to the quarter-finals.
The fair-haired Russian woman grasps the edge of the kitchen counter as firmly as she can while reality-shattering waves of pleasure cripple her ability to think and function.
Bayan Bayar: You mean, you don't want to put him against Champoux?
Uncontrollable screams burst from the whore's lungs like a bombardment of artillery shells exploding on a battlefield. Frazier suddenly interrupts these shouts of delight, however, with an inappropriately vicious flurry of donkey punches to the back of the woman's head.
Greg Frazier: No. Sefo's audition tape alone will be a worthy addition to our DVD release. We�ll count his victory over the Chunisher as his qualifying bout.
The Russian tries to tell her partner to stop, but it�s only a matter of seconds before her skull is completely smashed like an egg that had been dropped off the top of the Sears Tower.
Bayan Bayar: So does the Frenchman get a bye?
Before blood from the woman's mouth can run all over the table, Frazier pulls his Rhinoceros of a penis from her anus and tosses her out the window like a balled-up piece of paper.
Greg Frazier: HELL no! There ain't no easy rides in PitFightin'! We'll find someone to thump with that snail-suckin' bitch. If not Tank Kaman, then someone who actually has a shot at beating him. Once we get that fight out of the way, the stage is all set for the greatest Underground PitFighting tournament the world has ever seen!
Now that we've bought ourselves some time, however, I think it might be prudent of us to take a break from work and kick back for a little bit. Too much stress and violence isn't healthy for a man. Let's hit the town and have some fun.
Bayan Bayar nods in concurrence. Pulling an almost comedically large Magnum revolver out from a shelf, he begins loading his weapon while signaling to the tech guys to take a breather and come outside with them. A look of relief in their eyes, Thaddeus Killmore and Kevin "Nanny" McPhee take off their huge 90's headset and haul several boxes of grenades through the front door and into the warm night air. Bayar follows them, making sure to take the car keys and Molotov cocktail with him as he steps outdoors. Frazier is the last to leave, his exposed penis and minigun still in tow as he locks up his beloved trailer.
Once outdoors, the four men begin arguing whether they want to go to Applebee's or the Rainforest Cafe.