Sevan Samurai

Sevan Samurai

By

Peter Morris

Published by Peter Morris at Smashwords.

Copyright 2012 Peter Morris

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

CONTENTS LIST

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

CHAPTER ONE

One good thing about a headlock is that, if it’s done right, it can encourage your opponent to do most of the work for you. The Bulldog Beast, good name but a true novice had, up to this point, shown plenty of heart but no solid experience. He would have more success on a seventies disco floor, ground and pound, ground and pound, like John Travolta on a loop, all that was missing was the white three piece suit, the platform boots and the gold medallion. Initially Roger played with him, treating the encounter as more of a workout than a bout. But Bulldog kept coming, another trait of the inexperienced amateur. He had guts, all eighteen stone of them, solid. It was like getting slapped with a warm, wet, dead pig, and he was hairy, little black hairs, like wires, all over his body.

The Bulldog Beast appeared to have one plan. Many fighters make use of many different skills, but the Bulldog Beast seemed to employ only one. Get Roger to the floor, try to hold him in an inferior position and then beat, punch, knee, slap, chop, strangle until one of you tapped out. Roger had had enough. Twenty seconds was no amount of time but when a six-foot-two, eighteen stone, hairy, sweaty beast of a man was trying to rip your head off, twenty seconds was long enough for anyone. Roger knew the Beast would run at him. He did. Roger waited, sidestepped, twisted and felt that he was more like a bullfighter than a mixed martial arts athlete. The Bulldog Beast kept coming, charging and snorting, grabbing and sweeping his arms like giant pinchers. Then his arms began to churn the air, like he was swimming the channel. His legs forced him forward like a prop in a scrum.

It was a simple move. Sidestep. Twist. Block with the right leg, place you right arm around his neck and now, lock and squeeze. Lift your opponent, slightly, move his centre of balance so that you control the man, like playing a fish, balance him on your knee. The Bulldog Beast was a wrestler, Roger knew this from his style and the way he simply charged forward trying to grapple and grab and pull Roger to the floor. Now that he held him, Roger knew the Bulldog Beast would try anything to break the hold. Most novice fighters were quite similar in style. They had the guts and the drive, they thought, and often believed, that brute force would be enough, but they didn’t understand that this wasn’t simply fighting. This was technique, this was control, strategy, conditioning, impact, and this was mixed martial arts.

For the briefest of seconds Roger switched his attention to the crowd. Baying and roaring, some in support for him, some for the Beast but most for blood. He could feel a smile begin to pull his face. His trainer, Jeff, was watching, knowing exactly what Roger was up to, and knowing that he was playing with his opponent. It was a positive bout, Roger knew he had to perform, he had to give the audience what they wanted, beat the man, but there was no need to hurt him, no need to humiliate him.

The referee was paying closer attention now to the Beast, his face was moving from pale pink to a dark purple. The arm movements were becoming more erratic, soon they would drop. Roger began to lower the man. The crowd were going mental. The arms flapped about again and one found the floor. Like tapping a sandcastle from a bucket the Bulldog beast rapped the floor with his last gasp of energy.

Roger dropped him and stepped back. The Beast immediately raised his hand to his throat and curled into the foetal position, when he should be stretched out trying to get as much air as possible into his lungs. The referee was kneeling beside the Bulldog Beast, nervously looking back and forth to the medics who were poised by the entrance gate. The crowd were ecstatic, the home boy had won again, he had given them what they wanted, he had fought their fight, made them happy, and gave them something to talk about and be proud about for another week. But this was only the semi final.

Jeff Baines grabbed a towel and bottle of water. The referee opened the gate and indicated to the medics that they should tend to the Bulldog Beast who was edging himself up on his left elbow, looking like a large dog that had escaped drowning by seconds. The referee raised Roger’s right hand and the roar from the crowd rushed, like an evening flock of city centre starlings, around the arena before crashing out through the open windows and releasing the pressure of the evening.

Jeff escorted Roger to an alcove, in the back wall of the arena, where he could rest and check his wounds. Not that there were any. These open competitions attracted fighters. Men who needed to get something out of their system, men who needed to prove themselves. Brawlers, rugby players, boxers, wrestlers, men who knew they were tough and who knew they could get up the following morning and take themselves off to work no matter how bad their injuries. But this was a sport, this was not brutal, this was the essence of fighting, men who had trained and studied and selected technique, who tested themselves against a worthy opponent. Opponents like Roger.

Roger felt that his breathing was back to normal. He rinsed his mouth out with some cold water, his skin burned in places where the Bulldog Beast had managed to grab him; it was similar to having fifteen Chinese burns all over your body. They all pulsated together, like wearing a dressing gown made of jellyfish. Jeff fussed about, Vaseline on the eyebrows, ears, rubbing and massaging the legs and arms, it was like keeping an engine ticking over before a race except this race was more demolition derby than formula one. The other semi final was in progress. Roger couldn’t see anything; the crowd were on their feet, supporting and applauding. There was a London fellow a third dan, back belt, taekwondo versus a kick boxing hard nut from Liverpool. Both styles were pretty much based on striking with kicks. It didn’t really matter who won because one of them would be in the ring next with Alex.

Jeff fussed about, they couldn’t talk, it was far too noisy, and then the crowd erupted. There had been a definite build up, the oohs and aahhs grew, the sharp intake of breath from five hundred people indicated that someone had received a devastating blow, felt by each and everyone in the audience and that someone may have been injured.

Then the sound of the crowd going apeshit as the winner’s right hand was held high. Jeff stood on a chair to see who it was. He stepped down and gave Roger a quick smile. The smile didn’t tell him anything, well; it did. It wasn’t a frown. There might not be that much to worry about. Whoever had won would be led away, given time to recover and perhaps, within fifteen minutes, would know if they were a better athlete than Roger Collins

It was twelve minutes, not fifteen. The crowd were agitated, they were impatient. Betting was frantic. Roger was up against the Liverpool lad who called himself Thunder. Mainly a kick boxer, Roger had seen him fight once or twice before; the lad was good, wiry, quick and powerful, but still learning. He had guts. Not just to fight in the ring but to fight a London lad in front of a London crowd. Roger stood and checked himself, gloves, shorts. He started to control his breathing. The compare brought Thunder into the ring. Not many cheers, perhaps fifty or so, a coachfull. Not that it mattered; they weren’t all going to pile into the ring. The compare called for Roger.

It was as if someone had flicked a switch. The crowd were singing and crowing. The security men bustled round Roger, walking him to the ring. He stepped in and immediately felt better that Thunder was about the same height as himself. He didn’t like looking up at an opponent, they did, like the old saying, fall far too easily and it didn’t feel right when your opponent was much smaller than yourself, although some smaller opponents did prove to be dynamic, to say the least.

Thunder began to pace to his right while Roger walked to the cage wall and sliding his fingers through the chain links, like a tiger flexing its claws, he leaned back, stretching and pulling out, the noise of the crowd melting into one lump of sound that thankfully sat outside the cage. Inside it was quiet. In through the nose out through the mouth, in through the nose out through the mouth. Roger turned to see the referee and Thunder waiting for him in the centre of the cage. There was a blur behind them where faces and colours and noise melted into something that wasn’t really there. They shook hands.

Both men stepped back; Roger presented his right shoulder towards Thunder. The referee checked both men. They nodded. The referee dropped his hands and the contest began. Thunder moved straight in for an attack. Roger waited. An experienced fighter like Roger could expect their opponent to move in a way certain style just from the way they began to position themselves and Roger noticed that Thunder was preparing to drop. Sure enough as Roger pulled back, Thunder dropped and swung his right leg out, his foot flashing past Roger’s face. Thunder sprang back. He had shown Roger his speed and agility; he was pleased with himself, and with his move, because he smiled.

Roger took three steps to his left. It was an old trick. Move to the right and your opponent thinks you are attacking, move to the left and your opponent think you are retreating, thinks that you are trying to put some safe distance between you and him, they will attack. It’s a natural instinct, the most basic human instinct and Thunder was human. He moved forward but as a kick boxer Roger expected another kick and sure enough it came. Thunder feigned an attack with the left but followed with his right foot, an old taekwondo move, however it didn’t fool any opponent especially when they were waiting for it.

Roger grabbed the right foot and clamped it between his left arm and his torso. By the time Thunder had realised what had happened Roger had brought his right fist back and then launched it forward in a jab so forceful that for approximately one millisecond Thunders eyes, once he realised what was happening, opened wide in amazement. The punch was a beauty. Every ounce of weight, every second of training was behind it. It mattered. As Thunder fell, Roger released his left leg and watched him crumple to the floor.

For a second he lost his composure and the sound of the crowd bellowed into his mind. He looked up to see the crowd jumping and waving, applauding, and then he looked back to the floor where Thunder was writhing in agony. Roger stepped back and waited. Thunder stood but you could tell from his eyes that he was defeated. Strategy. Cage fighting could be like a game of chess with each contest set by the first move. Thunder had made the first move; he had revealed his strategy and Roger had moved against it. Now they had used up all their pawns, now was the time for check mate, or the cheque please. Roger knew he smiled at that one.

Thunder would be confused. He would have been telling himself that he was magnificent at kick boxing, so would his trainer, his partner, his friends even a dog in the street. Now he knew he wasn’t that good. A more experienced fighter would adapt and adopt a new technique, they would use strategy, but Thunder was showing his lack of experience. This was one of the big differences between people like Roger who trained and trained and when they finished training, trained some more and the people who thought they were tough and could fight because they hit somebody once. Thunder began to move. He was unsteady, Roger picked up on that. Thunder could be a dangerous opponent, he was an injured animal fighting for survival, Roger was the predator. This was no time to play with your food. Time to finish it.

Roger took two steps forward directly toward Thunder. Thunder immediately lashed out with his left foot, but he wasn’t committed. His last kick had been caught, he had lost all his confidence, and he was now running on training and fear. He was like a jet fighter with no control, going forward with only one inevitable conclusion somewhere in the distance, when the fuel ran out or when it hit something hard. Roger followed Thunder who was now like a ballet dancer spinning and kicking and constantly moving away from Roger although hoping to appear to be attacking. Roger got closer. The harder Thunder kicked the more energy he would use up. Thunder was visibly tiring.

Thunder stopped kicking and adopted a boxing stance. Roger knew that the fight was over. Thunder was still dangerous. Roger was waiting for Thunder’s eyes to shoot open. That’s when Thunder would think of his new strategy. That’s when Thunder would decide how to defend himself, how to attack, he might even have a chance of winning. The training, the motivation everything would come back in one short flash. Roger had seen it so many times; he had even experienced it in his early days. And then it happened. Thunders eyes shot open. It had come to him and so did Roger.

With a move that would have pleased Cassius Clay, Roger stepped forward, but as he did he twisted and sank. Thunder followed him but didn’t react quickly enough. He was still planning his next move, his new strategy and he was probably still thinking with his feet. It was knight to bishop and Roger landed a clean left on Thunder’s jaw, then queen to rook and he followed with a swift right hook. As Thunder crumpled, Roger continued his attack, stepping forward. Roger pulled Thunder forward, down and into him, by grabbing him behind the head, then drove his right knee up into Thunder’s chest. It was a clean and efficient end. Thunder lay on the floor gasping for breath and Roger felt the referee force his right hand up into the air.

The cage filed with sponsors and media. Flashguns erupted in his face, the crowd were signing and chanting, and someone shook his hand and presented him with a cheque which Jeff secreted away. Microphones were pushed in his face, but Roger wasn’t settled or happy until he saw Thunder walk, albeit slowly, from the ring. They couldn’t shake hands but Thunder did manage to nod to Roger. This was all that Roger wanted. Jeff was answering questions for him; the crowd in the cage were like piranha feeding. Reporters were interviewing pundits, who were quoting reporters who were talking to cameras.

Roger nodded to Jeff who cleared a path and managed to get the four security guys over to escort them to the changing rooms. From the ring to the changing room door, friends and followers slapped him on the back, touched his arms, offered congratulations and praise, it was only as the door sung shut and they were able to move back through corridors and rooms to Roger’s changing room that the peace and quiet settled on him.

Jeff closed the door and came behind Roger who had sat himself down on a bench in the centre of the room. Jeff placed the towel across Roger’s shoulders and moved off to the shower.

There was a ‘pisst’ as he turned on the shower, then he walked back and stood in front of Roger. He caught his chin and inspected his face.

Tough? he asked.

Yeah, said Roger, not wanting to tell the truth. It would make him sound big headed.

I had a phone the other day.

Oh yeah?

Yeah.

Roger stood and grabbing an edge of the towel pulled it from his shoulders then wiped his face. He checked the towel for blood then threw it in the basket that was beside the door.

Some people want you to put on a display fight.

Roger tutted.

You know I’m not into that Jeff.

You’re not into fighting either, judging from tonight’s performance.

Roger didn’t react. He knew Jeff was unhappy with the whole performance, but what else could he do? He could have hammered the poor Liverpool lad into the mat. But what would that have achieved. It was a quick and clean fight; every ounce of experience had been brought to the fore. But Jeff was right, he had to move on, this couldn’t go on.

What do you want me to do?

You’ve gotta push yourself Roger, you’ve gotta stop all this messing about and concentrate on your career.

So how can a display fight improve my career?

Ever heard of Erdine?

No.

It’s in Turkey somewhere, you must have seen those Turkish guys, short leather trousers and covered in olive oil?

Yeah I’ve seen that.

Well, they want you to go to Turkey and fight one of their top fighters.

What! Covered in oil?