UNLEASHED

"Something to drink sir?"

Ethan shook himself hearing the voice of the stewardess whispering in his ear. He declined with a courtesy smile, quickly getting lost once again in his thoughts. His eyes inevitably fell on the gorgeous girl on his left, Nadja Ivanov. She was staring out of the window, watching the unchanging landscape as they were flying over the ocean.

"You should get some sleep Lady Russia" He said gently, wrapping an arm around her shoulder and brushing her long black hair."

"I am not tired." She kinda mumbled those words, looking at him. The truth was that flying made her nervous. "I can sleep once we touch down, right?" Giving him her best smile before leaning against his shoulder.

He looked straight in those blue eyes. "Whatever you want, Nadja." He kissed her forehead, moving his hand up and down her arm, caressing lightly. He still wasn't comfortable showing this soft side, but it was starting to become somehow a common habit with her, since their short trip to Las Vegas a week before, when she started opening with him, sharing her tragic past. Or at least part of it.  "I just thought you could use some sleep after... you know..."

He was referring to the assault she was victim of a couple of days ago.

For a long moment nothing happened. Or at least it felt very long to her. She was breathing in a slow and steady pace. Trying to keep every emotion down. Scared that they would overwhelm her. Instead she softly squeezed his hand. Briefly. Somewhat reassuring.

"Sleep will come. After a bottle of vodka. Maybe two." There was still this shaky smile. "I... try to survive... which I can't when I close my eyes."

"You don't have to worry now, I'm here with you". Just like where I was supposed to be that night... Again that sense of guilt, kicking in every time something bad happened to those he cared about. And he cared about Nadja, more than he wanted to admit to himself. Which he found funny, considering how they met. All that he wanted that night in New York was getting drunk. Forget all his problems, escape for one night. And then Lara Chambers introduced him to this girl.

Life had a funny way nudging you into a certain direction. That was something her mother used to say. Or so she thought. The memories about her parents became more blurry with every moment passing. You were just a kid. It was only then that her eyes fell back on him. That intensive observation that never seemed to bother him. Not too many people did withstand it.

"I know Ethan Thompson. That's my only safety right now. And guess what? I wouldn't want it any other way."

They were both smiling, a moment before their lips locked in a quick kiss.  "But since I'm not enough to calm you down..." He raised his right hand, getting the attention of the stewardess who quickly came back to his seat. "We changed our mind. Can we have some vodka?"

"Of course!" She replied with the same smile, before bending forward and reaching inside the cart, taking out a small bottle.

"Thank you." He said, wondering how tough should be for that girl to keep that smile all the time, even when she had to deal with total jerks like that guy who just pinched her butt as she was walking by. Shaking his head, he opened up the bottle and handed it to Nadja. "There you go. Suit yourself."

Something had changed inside of her when watching the scenario. Maybe getting a flashback from recent events. She heard Ethan talk, but somehow the rush of blood in her ears was deafening. Nadja clawed her nails into the seat before her. Her knuckles became white from how hard she held onto the bottle.

"Are you ok Nadja?" Ethan knew she obviously was still in shock after the recent events, but actually seeing her almost on the verge of a breakdown? That was something he didn't expect. Whatever she went through must have been way worse than he pictured in his mind. And he was about to find out, soon. As soon as he could get her falling asleep. His hand moved over hers, hopefully this would calm her down.

Her intense eyes still focused on the scumbag. The poor excuse for men. For a moment she thought about jumping up... but then she felt his hand. A warmth she wasn't used to. And she snapped out of it. Finally looking at him. The tension escaping her body. A smile.

"There are only two things that can calm me down." She sipped from the bottle. Then winked at him. "And option one is not possible right now."

"This leaves only option number two then..." He leaned in, finding her lips once again. The kiss lasted a bit longer this time, until he felt her muscles relaxing. "You taste like vodka, Lady Russia." With a playful smile, he grabbed the bottle from her hand, taking a sip.

"At least we know they don't hand us water, right?" She took the bottle back, sticking her tongue out. "Careful, don't want you to get drunk." She clearly was joking, her eyes shining.

"I'm not sure they have enough booze in that cart to get me drunk" He said laughing. "You, on the other hand, I'm not sure you can empty that small bottle without getting wasted darling" With a swift movement, he regained possession of the liquor, drinking a bit more.

"That calls for war." Forgotten were the gloomy thoughts. For now. She unfastened her seat belt, leaning over. Her gentle hands tickling him. "Hand it back."

He smiled at her attempt. Tickling had absolutely no effect on Ethan Thompson. Anyway, he handed her the bone of contention. He accomplished her goal, putting that beautiful smile back on her face. Now, he only had to help her relax more, so he could join Lara and finally find out what happened that night.

It was the first time in the past 48 hours that she yawned. Her body finally feeling the effects of the... assault. Nadja looked at him with bright but tired eyes. "Maybe a power nap. Ten minutes. Maximum."

He nodded, kissing her head as she rested on his shoulder. It didn't take long before she gave up, passing out. Ethan emptied the bottle, waiting patiently for a bunch of minutes before gently moving her head away from his shoulder, lowering her seat and sneaking away.

Lara Chambers was sitting a couple of rows behind. Walking down the narrow corridor, he saw the scumbag. He fell asleep, his mouth open, snoring loudly. The thought of driving his fist straight into his mush crossed Ethan's mind. For more than just a moment actually. But as tempting as it sounded, he had more important things to do right now. This didn't stop him from "accidentally" bumping on him, waking him up in the middle of his alcohol induced nap. Without even the smallest hint of an apology, he kept walking, until he reached Lara, thinking again how he ended up in this story. A bottle of whiskey with a friend, a dance, and then her. A ray of light breaking through the night. Beautiful. Unexpected. Unintended.

Lara had been observing the situation. Ethan 'accidentally' pushing against the dude. It was hard to keep down a laughter. Especially since Devon was fast asleep and she didn't wanna disturb him. It took another few moments before Ethan had reached her, she smiled. Motioning him to be quiet, sliding out of her seat. A gentle kiss placed on her husband's head before moving away. "Took you a moment."

"Yeah Nadja had some hard time calming herself down. I can't really blame her." He gave a quick glance behind his back "And I may have bumped into a huge piece of shit on my way here." They found two free seats a couple of rows ahead. Lara turned on her tablet, her eyes trying to hide a ill-concealed turmoil. "Is it THAT bad Lara?"

"You know I suck at playing things down." She looked at him directly. "But I have seen splatter movies less disturbing." She handed him a pair of headphones waiting for the laptop to load. All the time looking at him

He kept his eyes on the screen all the time. Her eyes and her voice were already giving him a hint of what he should expect. "Maybe I should get myself some drinks then"

She would call the stewardess over. The girl handing them those small bottles but Lara shook her head. A moment later a big one was resting before them. She handed it to Ethan before clicking the video. Leaning back while closing her eyes

He wore the headphones, staring speechless at the footage rolling right before his eyes. Four men barged into her apartment, turning everything upside down, pulling and pushing Nadja around, hitting her with shocking cruelty. Definitely an upsetting sight even for the usually stoic and imperturbable Ethan Thompson. Especially because the victim was someone he felt so close. He found some liquid courage to keep going through those disturbing images taking two long sips, straight from the bottle. A fire burning inside him, each and every frame increasing his desire of a violent revenge.

Lara was not watching. She had seen it before when getting the footage. Her eyes were closed, knowing what part would come next. Instinctively she reached out for his hand. Giving it a small squeeze. "You might wanna turn it off... it won't get easier from there on." Honest concern swung in her voice.

Lara Chambers was one of the strongest and toughest person he ever met. If she was that upset, the upcoming part must have been something savage. But never, not even in his worst nightmares he would have imagined something like this. More than all the abuses she suffered, the fallout was the part he could never forget. Once her tormentors left, Nadja was left alone, battered and bruised on her apartment's floor. Completely broken.

"I know." Was all that Lara said. Finally opening her eyes again, looking at the screen. The video had now turned into a frozen picture of Nadja Ivanov. The bruises weren't what gotten to her in the first place. From personal experience she knew they would heal. It was the look on their friends face. That emptiness in those big, blue eyes.

That loud, desperate and frustrated scream Nadja let out right before picking herself up pierced right through his ears, leaving an indelible scar in his soul. A drink. Ethan definitely needed a drink to shake himself off. But much to his surprise when he raised the bottle, his hand lost the grip. Luckily enough, the glass didn't shatter when hitting the plane floor.

Lara was quick to pick up, not causing a mess. The stewardess didn't notice. She handed it back to him, an uneasy stomach feeling. "You know only out of respect for you... I haven't ended them. It's in your hands."

"When?" As glacial as it sounded, that word held all his rage, his thirst for revenge and that sense of failure that always hit him whenever someone he cared about got hurt. Who, where and how didn't really matter to him. He learned that the perfect revenge takes time, it takes planning. The sooner they would start gathering information, the better it would have been.

"Currently I have my contacts investigate. We will know more when we get back." She took the bottle and took a sip. "The question is, how far are we willing to go Ethan?"

He gave one last look at the screen, starring in Nadja's eyes. Those blue eyes he used to get lost in in their moments of intimacy now looking so desperate, empty. He never replied, he just glanced at Lara.

"Go back. We will keep talking once we are alone again." Lara looked a few rows ahead, where Nadja slowly began to move. Maybe having a dream. "We got this Ethan. Together."

He nodded, handing back the tablet to her and stepping out if his seat. The same guy he poked earlier looked at him as he was approaching, expecting an apology. The look on Ethan's face was far from sorry. Intimidated, the man turned his head away. Nadja was tossing and turning in her sleep, possibly reliving that night. Her long black hair were covering her face. After moving them away, he kissed her cheek. Softly.

Her eyes fluttered open. She was sweating a little. Looking at him. "Sorry."

He smiled at her, his hand looking and finding hers. "Sorry for what?"

She interlaced her cold hand with his. "I think I woke you."

"No, I was just watching you sleep. You started fidgeting.. A nightmare?"

"Yeah. Something stupid." She seemed disgusted. Mostly with herself. Nonetheless she would try to smile.

He moved his hand to her face, caressing her cheekbone with his thumb. She felt comforted by his gentle touch, and by his smile. He grabbed his hand, her eyes locking with his. They both shared the same thought at the same time, leaning forward, finding each other's lips.

Death.

Death occupies your thoughts more often than life and it's killing you, isn't it? When you're born, you don't even have a concept of what life really is. You're so new and you're absorbing too much to even be cognizant of how precious your 'life' is. Especially when you're young--you don't take that pacifier out of your mouth and get existential, you just babble. Then, when you're old and smart enough to really start considering life and your own existence, all you can think about is when you're punching your ticket the fuck out of here. Death. You're so far away from that initial point where your life began, now all you can focus on is death as it rushes towards you.

You're rushing so fast towards death that you're pushed back into your seat and your cheeks are rippling like you're sitting in NASA's 20G Centrifuge.

It's ok to be afraid.

Where I come from--where I live--death is pretty common. No one is tight lipped about death around here. You can smell it on the streets when a smoker wheezes and coughs up a half a rotten lung full of cigarette smoke. You can hear it in the bars in the raspy laugh of a drunk who is already half in the bag before five o'clock.

Death occupies your thoughts more often than life and it's killing you, isn't it? If you're lucky, you're able to compact yourself down to fit within the little box that our various faith systems create. You complexify your existence with a number of archaic rituals as you try to convince yourself that there's something on the other side. You desperately want to convince yourself that there's something beyond death. You become Bob Ross and you paint a portrait of it--the happy little beyond. You believe that god is larger than life itself, probably bearded, and is reaching out to hold your hand. Unless you're into the Old Testament, in which case, he probably wants to fucking kill you. Fuck it though, you don't want to read, you just want heaven. You want to believe that every dead member of your family is there waiting for you and you alone. Somehow that makes everything in your fucked up and wasted life ok. You close your eyes and you imagine whatever version of 'heaven' you settled for and you hope beyond all hope that you're right. Then you open your eyes quickly because you're still slightly worried that the darkness is all you're going to see when you finally run straight into death.

Not all of the faith systems have a heaven, some are clever enough to just assume that we become insects, but who said we aren't insects alread?

Heaven would be an eternity of being around your parents and loved ones and that would be magical, wouldn't it? Are you sure about that? What about all of those people you despised while you hid behind your chosen religion? What if they come calling on you during your 'eternity' in heaven? They're just as welcome to it as you are. Now you're fucked and annoyed for eternity. Escape to limbo.

Death occupies your thoughts more often than life and it's killing you, isn't it? You're young yet, so maybe the idea of planning for your death seems foreign to you, so we'll go slow. Imagine a wrinkled version of yourself sitting down at a table to get 'your affairs in order' which really means 'decide how to divide responsibility for your pile of shit when your heart stops beating'. Go ahead, take the time to think about who should end up with your record collection. Maybe sort out who will delete all the porn off of your computer, if you're thorough. Done? Ok. Now that your niece will be the recipient of your much-lauded bug collection, you're a step closer to being prepared for death. You're so far away from life that you can't even remember what it looked or felt like. Life has long since slipped into the vanishing point in your mind's eye. You're a step closer to death and those notarized and witness signatures on your will just serve to seal the deal. Now you're ready to slide into the casket you've been considering since the moment you lost sight of what 'life' really meant--assuming you even really knew. You've got the makeup on and the suit or dress of your choosing. You know that suit or dress, the one that is split up the back so it's easier for the mortician to dress you? Yes. Now you're dead. Now your loved ones are crying over your corpse. That's if you're lucky. Some of us don't have anyone. Some of us end up cremated in a box left on a shelf.

This is where you should tell yourself that Death isn't an exit and is merely an entrance. It will help, especially if you come back as a larva of some kind.

I'd want to be a grasshopper.

Death occupies your thoughts more often than life and it's killing you, isn't it?

Dyspathy.

I found myself picturing Mariska talking to her thugs. They would share ideas of how they could hurt me for hurting her. Really, all I did was push her hand away when she tried to tug one out of me. I did her a favor and saved her a few minutes of clean up. She didn't like it though, so she told her thug friends to beat me up good and then steal whatever they could steal. She wanted me to know how powerful she was beyond the scent of mangos I didn't try to clean out of the sheets on my bed.

Hell, for all I knew, she was still in bed with me. Bathed in perfume, that woman.

Regardless of what she told the thugs, there would be no way they could beat me into believing that her given name was 'Mariska', it wasn't happening.

I woke up in bed alone, but beyond the perimeter of my bed I saw three men. One at the foot of my bed and the other two flanking it. The one at the foot of my bed was brandishing a filthy baseball bat and the other two had brought only their fists. I wondered if they had plans for the baseball bat. Maybe they were just checking to see if I wanted to go outside and throw some pitches.

My fastball is kind of rusty.

I asked them 'to what' i owed the honor and the one I assumed was the leader pointed his bat at me like he was Babe Ruth calling his shot. Let's just call him Babe Ruth. He informed me that Mariska was in fact his sister and I had disrespected her. I tried to tell him that respect had nothing to do with it. I told him that he could bring her back over and i'd let her jerk me off if it'd make him feel any better.

I had decided to throw in the Barnes & Noble gift card by that point, anyway. She was a good memory.

Back to the 'letting her jerk me off to make him feel better' thing: When a thug hears some asshole talk about what his sister can or cannot do with her right hand, he gets upset. His brain sends a quick and snappy 'kill' message to his extremities and he's immediately needs to destroy something. In my case, it was the lamp on the night table next to me. I ducked--narrowly missing his attempt to take a chunk of my head with it. The lamp which used to illuminate my night time reading was turned into shrapnel rather quickly and sent across the room.

I like that lamp. It was my only fucking lamp.

His two thug friends pulled me up out of bed and I felt somewhat underdressed in my boxers.

I asked if I could get dressed and the three of them wanted none of it.

That's when I heard Mariska's name again. Babe Ruth told me that he wanted to knock all of the teeth out of my mouth with his bat, but she asked them to merely rough me up. He kept talking, but honestly, I lost track of what he was saying while I thought about mangos and stale cigarette smoke.

That ass of hers. Those eyes of hers.

I needed a drink.

His two helpers pushed me down to my knees and held my arms behind my back. Babe grabbed my chin and made me look up at him. He told me he should make me suck his cock. I laughed and told him I wouldn't be nearly as a proficient cock sucker as his sister was.

I caught a punch for that statement. I saw stars erupting like fireworks in my peripheral vision.

It made me smile--knowing that I had left a lasting impression on Mariska, Edith, or Flo.

I took my opportunity to ask if Mariska was her real name and earned another punch which busted my lip open. I just found it far too hard to believe--Mariska as a name? Absolutely made up. Had to be.

The only thing left for me to figure out was how long I was going to let the three of them think they had control of the situation.

He drew back his fist again and told me that my place was a dump. He was angry because there wasn't anything worth stealing and he had already decided that I was all wrong for his sister. I just laughed again and took his third punch. He tried to break my nose with that punch, but failed to do so.

Lucky nose.

I pushed myself to my feet and ripped my hands free and pulled Babe Ruth into a clinch and drove a knee right into his mush. He went over like a fell tree and I wasted no time driving an elbow into the guy flanking my right side and then continued my motion to blindside the other with the same elbow.

All three of them were down when I collected my slacks and pulled them on.

I returned to Babe Ruth--he looked pathetic and surprisingly bloody. I collected his bat from the floor and told him I was going to keep it. The three of them slowly started to stir as I headed to the bathroom to assess the damage and probably brush my teeth. Babe Ruth decided he was a hero and confronted me a the bathroom door with his horribly broken nose.

I couldn't keep a straight face.

I told him if he tried anything else that I'd break something that would fuck him up, permanently. I grasped his shoulder and assured him that it wouldn't end well. I assured him that I'd take really good care of his bat.

He believed me, at least on the first count.

I told him that I had very little sympathy for people like him. I told him that the world had even less sympathy for him. It was true. Good people died from stupid shit every day so that had to mean that an asshole like him was on borrowed time.

It probably wasn't true. That asshole would live forever for all I knew.

I told him to tell Mariska to drop by sometime.

Despair.

Maybe her name really was Mariska. Regardless of her title, she hid a special kind of insanity behind her pitch black pupils. Maybe she was right to steal my money and send thugs after me. Yeah, I didn't let her spill over into my life when I slapped her hand away from my cock when all she wanted to do was jerk me off. Had I really done anything that deserved such a harsh retaliation?

I'll save you a very long and somewhat contrived explanation and inform you that Mariska was a Gypsy. Well, she probably still is, but we'll get to that. Anyway, she was a Gypsy and they're known for putting a great emphasis on relationships and family. By batting her hand away from my cock, I essentially slapped her and her whole family in the face and told them to eat shit.

Or something like that.

Apparently when she allowed me to penetrate her, it wasn't just a passing fancy. For her, it had meaning. For me, it was, well, pleasent, but not something I thought had much meaning.

Define: Meaning.

The thugs had been gone for hours. I had just returned from the shitty little Medi-Clinic a few blocks up with some fresh stitches and a couple band-aids I didn't have before. I had been sitting down with a drink for what felt like ten minutes when there was a knock at the door. The lip of the bottle of cheap whiskey was inches from my mouth. I debated answering the door.

I told whomever it was that I wasn't interested. I added that if they were of any particular faith that I didn't want to hear about heaven or reincarnation or any of that other shit.

Waste of time I just don't have.

I took a swig of the whiskey and let it burn from the tip of my tongue all the way down to my gut.

Another knock at the door told me this Mormon or Jehovah's Witness wanted to film the sequel to 'the beating Babe Ruth'. I took a heftier swig of whiskey and kicked around the idea of giving whoever it was a good beating while I washed down the empty feeling in my chest and gut.

I told the knock to fuck off; it didn't listen.

I had enough of it. The knock was persistent and had a kind of mad urgency to it, like a heart ready to explode. I cleared the bottle of cheap whiskey and rose to my feet, pitching the empty bottle into the trash as I headed to the door and threw it open.

It could have been a few people. It could have been Babe Ruth, back for another go. It could have been that pint sized Harvey Lohman back to wow me with a new hip ensemble and a new pair of glasses I wasn't sure he needed. It could have been President Trump thumbing away at his phone preparing more Twitter profundity. It could or should have been anyone other than Mariska.

Mariska
Marika
Edith
Flo?

I let the name thing go.

Her eyes--those eyes reeled me in before and they reeled me in again. I stepped to the side and let her walk back into my apartment and in doing so--my life. I knew it was only because I was drunk, but when she stepped past me, all I could smell was marijuana and raspberries. As she passed me, I focused on her ass. The way it struggled with the tight jean material got me hooked quickly and I really knew it was only because I was drunk.

She walked straight into the kitchenette and stepped right back out of it with my last bottle of liquor. This time--cheap Vodka. She spun the cap off of the bottle with her thumb and pulled the lit cigarette out of her mouth. She held the cigarette out like an offering to the gods as she took a swig of the cheap shit vodka. She didn't even wince. She'd been down that road enough times. She set the bottle down on the counter and ashed her cigarette on the carpet and closed the distance between us.

She wrinkled her nose when she complained about what I had done to, what would turn out to be, three of her brothers. She told me they were all in the hospital, but had all gotten the message. She went on to tell me that no one had ever put up that kind of a fight against her brothers and she wanted to check on me.

I just smirked.

She said it turned her on and grabbed the bottle and took another swig. She set the bottle down, but it fell over on its side, belching up the remaining cheap vodka, but neither of us seemed to care.

We were drunk enough?

I told her that she made a poor gamble thinking I was going to be a pushover. I told her that she'd better not steal anything from me again or her brothers wouldn't get away with minor injuries the next time we met. With every word I spit, she seemed to draw in closer. Her eyes became wider and wider and soon they were glowing like twin moons at midnight.

She told me she was sorry. She told me she that she didn't want to feel used. She told me she was jealous of anyone else I'd end up fucking. She said she'd make it up to me as she started unbuttoning her blouse.

It was only because I was drunk and in despair, but I didn't stop her.

I didn't know and didn't really care what I had gotten myself into, but my face hurt, and I knew she'd make me feel better.

So with logic dripping from the cheap bottle of vodka on its side, Mariska and I fucked. We fucked hard. The kind of fucking where you're rigid and experimental and don't care who might hear.

Hello despair, did I mention I was drunk?

End.

[div class="odds-wrapper"]
[div class="bovada-logo"][/div]
[div class="odds-event"]UNLEASHED 2: Spiral vs Chambers 2
Ice Palace, Saint Petersburg, Russia[/div]
[div class="matchup"]SPIRAL vs CHAMBERS[/div]
[div class="divTable"]
[div class="tableBody"]
[div class="tableRow odds-headline"]
[div class="tableCell name"]NAME[/div]
[div class="tableCell height"]HEIGHT[/div]
[div class="tableCell weight"]WEIGHT[/div]
[div class="tableCell record"]RECORD[/div]
[div class="tableCell country"]COUNTRY[/div]
[div class="tableCell odds"]ODDS[/div][/div]
[div class="tableRow fighter-odds-list"]
[div class="tableCell name"]Spiral[/div]
[div class="tableCell height"]6' 3" (190 CM)[/div]
[div class="tableCell weight"]205 LBS (93 KG)[/div]
[div class="tableCell record"]13-4-0[/div]
[div class="tableCell country"]DEN[/div]
[div class="tableCell odds"]-120[/div][/div]
[div class="tableRow fighter-odds-list"]
[div class="tableCell name"](C) Lara Chambers[/div]
[div class="tableCell height"]5' 3" (160 CM)[/div]
[div class="tableCell weight"]105 LBS (47.6 KG)[/div]
[div class="tableCell record"]3-0-0[/div]
[div class="tableCell country"]UK[/div]
[div class="tableCell odds favorite"]-115[/div][/div][/div][/div]
[div class="odds-spacer"][/div]
[div class="matchup"]JACKSON vs THOMPSON[/div]
[div class="divTable"][div class="tableBody"][div class="tableRow odds-headline"]
[div class="tableCell name"]NAME[/div]
[div class="tableCell height"]HEIGHT[/div]
[div class="tableCell weight"]WEIGHT[/div]
[div class="tableCell record"]RECORD[/div]
[div class="tableCell country"]COUNTRY[/div]
[div class="tableCell odds"]ODDS[/div][/div]
[div class="tableRow fighter-odds-list"]
[div class="tableCell name"]Jackson[/div]
[div class="tableCell height"]6' 3" (190.5 CM)[/div]
[div class="tableCell weight"]217 LBS (98.4 KG)[/div]
[div class="tableCell record"]24-11-2[/div]
[div class="tableCell country"]NL[/div]
[div class="tableCell odds favorite"]+120[/div][/div]
[div class="tableRow fighter-odds-list"]
[div class="tableCell name"]Ethan Thompson[/div]
[div class="tableCell height"]6' 3" (190.5 CM)[/div]
[div class="tableCell weight"]230 LBS (104 KG)[/div]
[div class="tableCell record"]1-1-0[/div]
[div class="tableCell country"]USA[/div]
[div class="tableCell odds"]-115[/div][/div][/div][/div]
[div class="odds-spacer"][/div]
[div class="matchup"]PETROVA vs VORON[/div]
[div class="divTable"]
[div class="tableBody"]
[div class="tableRow odds-headline"]
[div class="tableCell name"]NAME[/div]
[div class="tableCell height"]HEIGHT[/div]
[div class="tableCell weight"]WEIGHT[/div]
[div class="tableCell record"]RECORD[/div]
[div class="tableCell country"]COUNTRY[/div]
[div class="tableCell odds"]ODDS[/div][/div]
[div class="tableRow fighter-odds-list"]
[div class="tableCell name"]Kitty Petrova[/div]
[div class="tableCell height"]5' 6½" (169 CM)[/div]
[div class="tableCell weight"]125 LBS (56.7 KG)[/div]
[div class="tableCell record"]12-6-0[/div]
[div class="tableCell country"]CAN[/div]
[div class="tableCell odds favorite"]+250[/div][/div]
[div class="tableRow fighter-odds-list"]
[div class="tableCell name"]Anton Voron[/div]
[div class="tableCell height"]6' 1" (185 CM)[/div]
[div class="tableCell weight"]205 LBS (93 KG)[/div]
[div class="tableCell record"]7-2-0[/div]
[div class="tableCell country"]RUS[/div]
[div class="tableCell odds"]-300[/div][/div][/div][/div]
[div class="odds-spacer"][/div]
[div class="matchup"]BELANE vs KENNEDY[/div]
[div class="divTable"]
[div class="tableBody"]
[div class="tableRow odds-headline"]
[div class="tableCell name"]NAME[/div]
[div class="tableCell height"]HEIGHT[/div]
[div class="tableCell weight"]WEIGHT[/div]
[div class="tableCell record"]RECORD[/div]
[div class="tableCell country"]COUNTRY[/div]
[div class="tableCell odds"]ODDS[/div]
[/div]
[div class="tableRow fighter-odds-list"]
[div class="tableCell name"]Jove Belane[/div]
[div class="tableCell height"]6' 2" (187.9 CM)[/div]
[div class="tableCell weight"]205 LBS (93 KG)[/div]
[div class="tableCell record"]0-0-0[/div]
[div class="tableCell country"]USA[/div]
[div class="tableCell odds favorite"]+110[/div]
[/div]
[div class="tableRow fighter-odds-list"]
[div class="tableCell name"]Bugs Kennedy[/div]
[div class="tableCell height"]5' 11" (180 CM)[/div]
[div class="tableCell weight"]220 LBS (99.7 KG)[/div]
[div class="tableCell record"]0-0-0[/div]
[div class="tableCell country"]USA[/div]
[div class="tableCell odds"]+100[/div]
[/div][/div][/div]
[div class="odds-spacer"][/div]
[div class="matchup"]DUNN vs RAAB[/div]
[div class="divTable"]
[div class="tableBody"]
[div class="tableRow odds-headline"]
[div class="tableCell name"]NAME[/div]
[div class="tableCell height"]HEIGHT[/div]
[div class="tableCell weight"]WEIGHT[/div]
[div class="tableCell record"]RECORD[/div]
[div class="tableCell country"]COUNTRY[/div]
[div class="tableCell odds"]ODDS[/div][/div]
[div class="tableRow fighter-odds-list"]
[div class="tableCell name"]Jennifer Dunn[/div]
[div class="tableCell height"]5' 7" (170.18 CM)[/div]
[div class="tableCell weight"]115 LBS (52.1 KG)[/div]
[div class="tableCell record"]0-0-0[/div]
[div class="tableCell country"]UK[/div]
[div class="tableCell odds"]-175[/div][/div]
[div class="tableRow fighter-odds-list"]
[div class="tableCell name"]Fizz Raab[/div]
[div class="tableCell height"]5' 6" (167.6 CM)[/div]
[div class="tableCell weight"]103 LBS (46.7 KG)[/div]
[div class="tableCell record"]0-1-0[/div]
[div class="tableCell country"]UK[/div]
[div class="tableCell odds favorite"]+210[/div][/div][/div][/div]
[div class="odds-note"][span class="favorite"]      [/span] DENOTES FAVORITE[/div][/div]
[div class="odds-spacer"][/div]

The card for the second show has been announced, along with the preliminary odds. It shouldn't come as much of a surprise that the gap between Spiral and current champion Lara Chambers is razor thin. Currently, betters are split nearly down the middle on who to back. Voting on social media seemed just about as tight until the last moments when Chambers pulled ahead with a landslide. Honestly, given both fighters' track record in the past, it could go either way. Putting them in the main event was brilliant booking.

In the undercard, we've got a few debuts. Newcomer Anton Voron is a complete unknown, opening as a HUGE underdog due to his lack of experience in the public. In fact, I couldn't find any video of any fights, sanctioned or otherwise, that would justify his record. Rumor has it that he fought while incarcerated in the prison league so I can only assume that's where his record comes from. Outside of Russia, bets are flowing pretty heavily for Petrova, being the former multi time champion earlier in the year as well as 2015's Queen of Sin. Most of the bets for Voron seem centred in Russia – perhaps from people who have seen or heard of his skills in the cage? Will it move the money line by fight night? I guess we'll have to wait and see.

Fizz Raab is a big favorite over former fitness model Jennifer Dunn in part due to the fight she put up against Lara Chambers. Dunn comes in with a bit of hype from her training history but without any real public fight experience either. This should be an easy win for Raab to soothe the chafe of her debut loss.

Jackson and Thompson are close, but Jackson seems to be getting the early bets – surprising since Thompson's decisive win over Petrova could certainly be called a career-making upset. It'll be interesting to see if Jackson can keep pace with the much younger Thompson or if we're due to see the man called EMT add another upset to his record.

Kennedy and Belane are practically dead even as both look to make their mark with a strong debut. 'Any man's game' truly applies in this fight but Belane comes in with a lot of hype thanks to his mouthpiece Harvey Lohman singing his praises all over social media.

Unleashed 2 looks like a barn burner of a card from opening bout to the double main event. On paper, it's got all the makings of one to remember but I'm not in the business of counting chickens before they hatch. We'll see how the action plays out. In the coming weeks, I'm sure there will be more to report and I'll do my best to keep everyone informed if there are any changes, additions or developments in the meantime.

[div class="blackbird"][div class="blackbird-headline"]1[/div]
[div class="blackbird-body"]
20 DECEMBER 2016
MOSCOW, RUSSIA

THE BLACKBIRD SLUMPED IN THE FRONT SEAT OF THE ROLLS-ROYCE PHANTOM with his head cocked back against the headrest. A pink iPod sat in one of the cup holders in the center console. It was well worn, evidenced by the nicks and scratches and the places where the finish was flaking away. The screen, dull but working, flashed when the next track started to play.

[div class="ipod"]SHE'S GONE
HALL AND OATES
ABANDONED LUNCHEONETTE[/div]

The music spiraled out of the iPod through the jack plugged into its base. It then shot up the length of white wire that curled about the knobs and switches on the console and into the AUX input of the car stereo. As the song filled the car, he looked down at the iPod and for a brief moment allowed himself to remember the girl it belonged to. "Mila," the Blackbird said. Then came the pain, that familiar ache in his chest when he thought about her.

He twisted the cap off a miniature vodka bottle—one of those bottom shelf brands that could strip paint—not the kind the owner of a Rolls-Royce Phantom would drink. He brought it to his lips and downed it, letting the vodka slip past his tongue and down his throat. Everything it touched was set afire.

His phone started buzzing in his jacket pocket. He flipped the clamshell open and on the screen was the message, TWO MEN ARE COMING TO KILL YOU. A second later, another message comes through. 60 SECONDS. The Blackbird's eyes scouted ahead of the vehicle. His was the last in a line of luxury sedans that sat parked on the street out front of of an upscale restaurant named Café Pushkin.

There was a valet attendant freezing his ass off by the entrance under the canopy. His hands were stuffed in the pockets of his big coat and its hood was pulled over his head, making it hard to see his face. Not him, the Blackbird thought.

He looked at the rearview and side mirrors, darting back and forth between the three. Just a few feet beyond the car, the bleak night swallowed everything in black. His heart was pounding fast, too fast, and combined with the alcohol it was making him lightheaded. He nearly threw up when a set of headlamps broke through the gloom and shined in the driver's side mirror. Few cars were on the road tonight. The heavy snow was keeping most people inside. It could be another rich asshole without any sense coming to eat with the other fat pigs, but the headlamps didn't look right to the Blackbird. They were dingy yellow and the shape reminded him of the old Soviet clunkers.

That cold thing returned to his gut like an old friend and made him move quick. He stuffed the iPod under the seat, out of harm's way, then opened the glove box. Empty liquor bottles spilled out of it onto the floor, and more followed after he seized the SIG Sauer P220 from the inside.

He racked the slide and returned his eyes to the side mirror. The lights grew bigger and brighter. He could feel sweat on his brow. He tugged at the black tie, loosening the knot, and released the top button of his collar.

Light filled the interior when the clunker moved from the street to just behind the Rolls. There was an uneasy stillness. The headlamps didn't shut off. The Blackbird went back and forth between the two side mirrors. The lights made it hard to see, but he caught a flash off the metal trim when the driver side door swung open. In the opposite mirror, he could just barely see the outline of the vehicle's passenger door sitting ajar, then shut closed. The lights flickered as two silhouettes walked past the headlamps.

The music faded out, and for a moment his ears were overwhelmed with the thump of his heart and the air sucking in and out of his chest. One outline was holding back by the rear tire on the passenger side. The other crept closer and closer, up along the driver side of the car, with a small gun held out front. That's when the Blackbird heard the building guitar feedback clawing out of the speakers. It was Mila talking to him.

He took one long, deep breath to settle his nerves and then leaned to the side, arching his back over the center console. His head was pressed into the leather passenger seat, angled so he could see down the sights of the SIG Sauer and out the back driver side window. He waited, till the silhouette of the first shooter's head appeared on the other side of the glass.

The downbeat of Magic Carpet Ride hit and the Blackbird pulled the trigger. The muzzle flashed when the .45 ACP bullet sped out the chamber. It blew a hole in the window and tore into the target like it was a melon, spraying the insides into the air. As the that outline dropped out of sight, the Blackbird had to move fast, because the rear window exploded in a hail of supersonic bullets came ripping into the car from a machine pistol. Glass sprinkled through the air and stuffing exploded from the seats as he ducked out of the door and landed on the street in crunching snow.

He twisted on the ground to kick the door shut just as the second shooter moved up to the passenger side window. Bullets peppered the door and whizzed over him into the street, sending sparks flying when the lead skipped across the asphalt.

The rattling shots ceased while the shooter reloaded. The Blackbird rolled to his side as an empty magazine hit the sidewalk. He aimed his gun under the chassis and fired two shots. The first careened off the concrete curb. The second blew through one of the man's ankles. Bullets rattled off, spraying aimlessly into the sky as he collapsed to the sidewalk. His painful screams carried down the block after the echo of gunfire dissipated.

The Blackbird got to his feet, but stayed low, moving along the side of the Rolls-Royce to the body of the first shooter. The man laid by the back tire, face buried in red slush, with an apple-sized hole in the left side of his head. His leg was twitching and dancing to the Steppenwolf blasting out the car's blown-out windows. He was still clutching a MAC-10 in his hand.

The Blackbird tucked his SIG-Sauer in the waist of his pants and picked up the machine pistol. He brushed the wet snow off the gun and moved to their vehicle. The old engine was still rumbling and pumping dark smoke out of the tailpipe. He checked the front and back seats of the car and found it empty. That's when he heard a voice coming down the block. He turned on a dime to catch the valet rushing to help second shooter. Automatic shots cut up the valet's torso, staggering him backward until he fell out of view.

Frost exhaled from the Blackbird's lips as he put a shoulder into the car's fiberglass body and eked his way around to the its rear. He neared the curb and rested his head back against the tail light, then slowly craned his neck left to peak around the car. The shooter was pulling himself up on one leg, using the Rolls-Royce to carry his weight. His other foot was hanging lifeless from his bent leg. Blood was seeping through his sock and sneaker, and dripping to the ground.

"Tell me who sent you and I might let you go," the Blackbird shouted down the sidewalk. The shooter wheeled around. He fired off his hip a wild blitz of bullets that went wide from the recoil and riddle the side of the building. He spat into the air and shouted words that the Blackbird didn't understand, but he recognized the language. It was Chechen.

"Have it your way," the Blackbird said through clenched teeth. A far out guitar solo wah-wah'ed from the busted-up Rolls-Royce as the Blackbird bent around the tail light and stood in the open. The shooter flashed a satisfied smile and directed his gun, but when he pulled the trigger, the pistol didn't fire off ear-screaming bullets. Instead, it gave a soul-crushing click.

His hopeless eyes dropped to the end of his gun. He kept pulling the trigger in dismay. "You should have kept track of all those bullets you wasted," the Blackbird said of the pathetic sight while he made his way coolly toward the shooter. He snatched the empty gun and flung it into the street, then grabbed the Chechen by the shirt and threw him easily to the ground.

"Fuck you, I won't talk," the shooter said, this time in Russian. The Blackbird clicked his teeth and said, "I know." He aimed his gun at the man's face and squeezed the trigger, unleashing the entire magazine of the machine pistol in one and a half seconds. Skin and muscle tore away, then bits of skull splintered and burst like wood in a chipper. Blood and brain matter sprayed on the wall above like a Jackson Pollock painting. The Chechen still had one eye, and it was staring up at the Blackbird, blinking uncontrollably, as the body slumped over to the left and spilled gore on the sidewalk.

The MAC-10 dropped to the ground and the Blackbird said, "It's been many years since I killed a man." He was fishing a cigarette from a crumpled pack. "After Mila went missing, I murdered many, many people trying to find her. Men, women, children—anything that walked or crawled in my way. But eventually, I accepted that she was dead, and so I left that world behind."

He lit the cigarette with a gold zippo. "I knew one day someone would come for me. Part of me wanted to die. I could have let it happen. I'd be in that car right now, looking like you, but Mila would not have wanted me to die like that. She would have wanted me to fight, and now that I stand over you, looking at that dumb expression on what's left of your face, I realize how much I have missed this."

Music was still pumping out of the shot-up Rolls-Royce when the Blackbird turned his back on the Chechen. What glass was still clinging to the passenger window frame shook free when he yanked the door open and went inside for the iPod. It was safe, still under the seat where he had left it. He pulled the aux cable, killing the music, and left the wire behind. As he stood from the car, he felt his phone buzz again in his pocket. He took it out and looked at the message.

GOOD WORK.

He typed WHO ARE YOU? and waited.

Voices pulled his attention toward the restaurant. A few foolish people were coming out into the snow to see what had happened. All of them in their expensive suits and lavish dresses, with their hands over their mouths in horror. It was the bodies that pulled their attention first, but there was a moment where all eyes were suddenly locked on the Blackbird.

He dropped his cigarette and crushed it under his shoe, then started to turn, but a familiar voice stopped him from leaving. The old man's name was Symeon. He was short and overweight, with a horseshoe of white hair the circled around his bald head. The Rolls-Royce belonged to him. The Blackbird was his driver.

Symeon pushed through the gawkers and rushed to his car with panic in his eyes, paying no attention to the dead valet he had to step over the kid. He screamed seeing the car, putting both hands on the top of his head, and wailed.

The Blackbird said, "Symeon, go back inside where it is warm and safe. You do not belong out here."

The old man looked at him with red in his eyes. "I want fucking answers, Anton. That car cost me five hundred thousand euros."'

"They wanted to steal the car," the Blackbird said. "I said no. Should I have let them have it?"

Symeon pointed at the machine pistol on the sidewalk. "What is that, a fucking uzi? What car thief carries an uzi?" Then he started shouting. "And if they wanted to steal it so bad, why did they shoot it to fucking pieces?!"

"It's a twisted world we live in, Symeon."

The old man jabbed a fat finger at him. "When I hired you, you told me you were out. You lied to me. These men came for you and destroyed my fucking car in the process—that makes you responsible, Anton. And so help me, you will fucking pay to get that car fixed...or else. I know people, too, you fucking kogut!"

Idle threats didn't concern the Blackbird. Instead, he was focused past the old man, to the bystanders retreating back into the restaurant. Several of them were on the phone, reporting information to operators on the other end. The Blackbird was considering his exits when his own phone vibrated. The message read, POLICE ON THE WAY. ROYAL AURORA HOTEL. SUITE 702. He slipped it back into his pocket and said to Symeon, "This has been fun but I must go now. Me and police, not a good mix."

Symeon barked at him. "Don't you walk away when I am talking to you." He took a swipe at that pink iPod the Blackbird was always carrying around. The reaction was swift and violent. He grabbed Symeon by the throat and squeezed hard. His eyes bulged from their sockets and saliva started to bubble from his lips behind hisses of air as he tried to pull the hand away from his neck. All hope drained from his face as it turned plum purple.

The Blackbird said, "Rich pig is still pig, and I am a butcher." Symeon's heavy body was thrown aside like it was nothing and he skipped across the sidewalk before sliding next to the dead Chechen. When he rose up, gasping for air, it was with a face full of bloody slush.

The Blackbird went quickly to the clunker car and climbed inside. He pulled a set of earbuds from his jacket and slipped them in, then plugged them into Mila's iPod and hit play. It dropped on the seat next to him as drums thumped in his ears. George Harrison crooned, "I got my mind set on you," as the car pulled out into the street and squealed down the road away from the scene. His heart raced and his fingers white-knuckled the steering wheel. He let out a big horse laugh when the police lights appeared as tiny flashing dots in the rear view mirror. At the end of the block, he made a hard right. The car fishtailed in a quarter circle, but then the tires caught traction and it roared forward to disappear down the side street.
[/div][/div]

If you've been living under a rock the last month and missed all the hype surrounding the launch of something new in MMA, welcome to your crash course in all things UNLEASHED. Let's assume you weren't able to crawl out from the winter hibernation in time to see your shadow or even roll aside that rock you've been sleeping under like a certain religious figure leaving the tomb - here's what you missed in a nutshell.

Spiral, arguably one of the most controversial fighters in pro wrestling, came back with a vengeance, dominating his side of the grand prix tournament bracket. If that's not enough to get you hyped, former Deathcore Wrestling superstar Lara Chambers swept her bracket as well, looking like she hadn't lost a step since the controversial promotion closed its doors over a year ago. If that doesn't sell itself, you don't buy much of anything in MMA. Later on in the evening, the two collided in the main event in a match that screams for a rematch.

And those are only a select few of the evening's fights. As usual, the final stats only reveal so much. These are the real winners and losers from the premiere live event in Russia.


For her first attempt with making the transition from quasi-retired wrestler and stay-at-home mommy to MMA fighter, Raab did a hell of a job. The wife of infamous wrestler Konrad Raab has never really been known for her stamina or endurance - that is until now. She ate everything thrown her way by Chambers and came back for more. Definitely one of the fights that could have gone either way. Don't give up, Raab. You've got a future in this sport for sure!


Jackson versus Spiral almost hit the fifteen minute round time limit and probably would have gone to judges' decisions if not for the dirty eye rake that ultimately cost Spiral the final bout against Lara Chambers.

The bad blood between these two was over the top, the hatred palpable in every blow swapped. I'll preface this by saying that I've known Jackson for seventeen years and Spiral for twelve - the rivalry between these two has played out over numerous wrestling companies over the years. I was there reporting on the Terrordome match in PCW that almost crippled Jackson. I was there when Spiral put Jackson through a glass table and almost ended his career. I watched their Terrordome rematch in HiWF that ended in an absolute bloodbath and the company closing its doors soon after.

Nothing has changed. If anything, I'd say that the years have added fuel to the fire and I can't wait to see what happens the next time these two clash.


Rust: absent.
Dominance: asserted.

When the odds-makers in Vegas caught wind of the fights, they had her marked down as a favorite for good reason. That didn't change when she passed through the first round opponent in Fizz Raab only to collide with a relative rookie, the most recent graduate from Jan Van Der Roost's Squires Academy in Ethan Thompson. The two had been cozy earlier on in the week over social media and some (myself included) were expecting the tattooed beauty to falter against a friend. Instead she showed the same ruthlessness that reared its head against Raab, coasting through to the finals as the only undefeated fighter. Some might say that the first two matches were an unfair gauge of talent or ability, given the opponents. This reporter disagrees and I'll tell you why. It's no easy feat to fight three matches in one night. There were no rest holds here and given the punishment unleashed during the Raab fight, a lesser fighter would have been gassed. Her dominance becomes even more apparent, more impressive given that she was in the cage for a total of 27:27, fighting the entire time against not one but two seasoned fighters in Raab and Spiral. To be fair, Thompson is untested but his dominance of veteran Kitty Petrova should be noted here. Watch that kid. I predict good things.


First Round Fights
Spiral defeats Amber Wheeler via technical submission at 2:15.
Jackson defeats Aria Powell via knockout (punches) at 4:11.
Ethan Thompson defeats Kitty Petrova via knockout (punches) at 5:01.
Lara Chambers defeats Fizz Raab via technical knockout (punches) at 4:03.

Second Round Fights
Spiral defeats Jackson via submission (triangle choke) at 11:11.
Lara Chambers defeats Ethan Thompson via knockout (punches) at 8:12.

Main Event
Lara Chambers defeats Spiral via technical submission (rear naked choke) at 15:12.

SKILL BREAKDOWN
98% Striking, 1% Takedowns and 1% Submissions.

YOUR CHARACTER'S NAME
Jennifer Dunn

NICKNAMES
Jennifer

TWITTER
@jennidduunn

PICTURE BASE
Amy Jackson

HEIGHT
Height 5' 7"

WEIGHT
Weight 115 lbs

REACH
68"

DATE OF BIRTH
01 February 1992

PLACE OF BIRTH
London, England/UK

FIGHTING OUT OF
Las Vegas, Nevada

FIGHT TEAM
N/A.

SPONSORS
N/A.

ENTRANCE THEME
Song by Artist
I Will Not Bow - Breaking Benjamin

PORTRAYED BY
N/A.

STYLE SUMMERY
Mixed Martial Artist.

STRIKING BASE
Boxing.

GRAPPLING BASE
Freestyle Wrestling.

FAVORITE STRIKE
Quick Jab.

FAVORITE SUBMISSION
Kimura.

STRENGTHS
Moves quickly, doesn't quit.

WEAKNESSES
Over confident, heavier opponent's can have a huge advantage on her.

AWARDS AND ACCOMPLISHMENTS
N/A

PRIMARY STYLE
Always goes for the first strike, uses her quickness to her advantage.

TENDENCIES
Always focused.

APPEARANCE
Twitter @jennidduunn

CAGE GEAR
Black sports bra, Black shorts

ADDITIONAL CHARACTERISTICS
N/A

ENTRANCE DESCRIPTION
Jennifer poses for the crowd, then makes her way into the cage.

BIOGRAPHY
Jennifer is a model who always had a passion for fighting. Living in Vegas, it wasn't hard for her to find ongoing boxing/mma events. As time went by, Jennifer realized it was time to add fighting as one of her careers and so she did.

Life.

Life leaves a bad taste in your mouth, no matter what you do. Even when you're happy, you're only in between terrible moments. You might get lucky and get born into a happy household and for a solid eighteen years, you might get to live off of your parents. You might get to smile then. That's if you don't decide that High School is going to ruin it for you. Perish the thought. Me? I didn't get that. My folks were gone before I even got out of the gate. I'm not crying though. I'm just telling you--life leaves a bad taste in your mouth.

When you were going to high school and playing grab-ass with your friends, I was face to face with a guy in the mirror that I wanted to tell, 'fuck off' but had no choice but to accept. Yeah, that was my upbringing. If you needed to know more, I'd tell you, but for now, that's all you get.

You really wouldn't care, admit it.

Life leaves a bad taste in your mouth, no matter what you do. You'll see some success, but someway, somehow, reality is going to smack you in the mouth and remind you that you're mortal. Say you're working that job you spend thousands of dollars and many sleepless nights earning a Degree to get. Now you have a career and you're working away and you're not taking care of yourself. Soon you're sitting in a doctor's office and that guy's telling you that you have 'only so many' days to live because you've got a cancer sucking the life out of you. You're fucked and you're going to die. There's a silver lining, though: You don't have to keep paying that student loan.

When you were living off the fat of the land with your perfect shit and your legions of fans, I was scraping the bottom of the barrel. I'd sit at the 'bottom of the barrel' with my 'bottom of the barrel' friends and we'd laugh about the folks who thought they had it so good. Soon all those optimistic fools would join us.

I basked in my existence in the darkness. It didn't sway me from the goals I had.

They were simple goals.

Life leaves a bad taste in your mouth, no matter what you do. Imagine for a moment that you've been married for two years and your wife is about two months pregnant. You've been sent to the corner store to pick up some chocolate because she's having a 'craving' and you want to make all of her dreams come true, no matter how simple they are. You want to get yourself a sixer of beer and splurge maybe and grab some whip topping and try something new in the bedroom. You're happy and you're hopeful. Then three days later you're cleaning blood off the bathroom floor because your wife miscarried the baby due to a blood clot which caused her to bleed out. She couldn't get to the phone and died while you were choosing between Cadbury and Lindt chocolates.

The doctors say it's rare.

When you were getting ready for your big title match in your spandex and bright colors, I was working a shit job for shittier people and I had to take extra time out of my evening to clean beneath my fingernails. It wasn't because I was a janitor, it was because I was punching nobodies like I was Rocky Balboa hammering sides of beef.

Life leaves a bad taste in your mouth, no matter what you do.

Love.

I didn't know her and I didn't plan on pursuing a longer relationship. I had seen her a couple times at this dive I'd go to when I was bored and wanted to people-watch. She had seen me a few times and she had these eyes. Like, Anime eyes. They stood out and so did her tits. She'd carry those tits like it was the sixties and she had something to prove. I didn't mind it. She smelled like mangos so that helped me get over the stench of cigarettes she was covering up.

I didn't smoke.

Like I said, I didn't know her, but she called herself 'Mariska' and I thought she made the name up.

I woke up with Mariska naked in my bed. She followed me home with a stomach full of alcohol. I should have thought better of it, but my cock was doing all of my thinking for me. She didn't even try to play around when we got into my shitty apartment, either. She didn't comment on my decoration decisions, she just started unbuckling my belt and swore up and down that she'd suck the skin clean off my cock.

I didn't mind.

Mariska, as she wanted to be called, ended up being a pretty righteous fuck. Until she passed out, we had the sweaty and raunchy sex. The kind where you're rigid and experimental and don't care who might hear. I remember, halfway through, I knew I'd need to have a shower, because regardless of how good the mango smelled, she was using it to cover more than cigarette stink up. Whether it was a smell unique to her or just one she couldn't own up to, inside, I wasn't sure.

Still, she had those eyes and those tits and her ass turned out to be ample to grab.

I never claimed to be a gentleman.

She woke up and rolled over to the night table and collected her cigarettes. She pulled one out and stuck it between those lips that, the night prior, had done some amazing things. Come to think of it, those lips also formed some foul language. She liked it, all of it. She asked me if I wanted a cigarette and I shook my head. She lit the cigarette and took a long drag and rolled over on her side and the sheet slipped off of her, revealing her nude form. She had a little tattoo of a devil on her hip.

A devil with a devil tattoo, sucking on a nicotine flavored cock.

She told me I was different. She told me that she liked it. I feigned like I gave a shit. I was still unwilling to turn what we did the night before into a 'thing' to be honest. She took another drag off the cigarette and let a lump of ash fall off onto the bed. I just scoffed and laid back in bed with my hands behind my head.

She reached out with her free hand and started jerking me off.

I asked her what she was doing and she just smiled and took another drag off her cigarette. I told her to stop and she didn't listen. Her abundant tits jiggled as she worked me like a pile driver. I let out a sigh and pushed her hand away and that pissed her off.

She took her cigarette and put it out in the night table and rolled out of bed and stood up. She pulled on her panties and started telling me what kind of 'fucked up' person I was. She admitted that she thought I was weird and that it was a 'sympathy fuck' and all kinds of other things I really didn't care about.

I wondered where that sweet pre-jerk off pillow talk went.

'Women scorned' was the appropriate cliche.

Hell, she was probably right.

Regardless of whether or not she was a talented soothsayer, she fucked right off and I was able to go get my shower. I washed her and that mango scent off of my person. Then, for the hundredth time, I tried to convince myself that there wasn't a bullet somewhere with my name on it. I felt like the only time I could stop and think was when I took a shower. I tried to get clean, but I could never be truly clean. I knew my time was coming and it wasn't that optimistic 'my time is coming' thought. It was more of a 'the sound of nails driven into a casket' kind of 'time is coming' thought.

Fuck it though, you don't want to hear that.

Laughter.

Mariska had a made up name and sticky fingers. When I got out of the shower, I found that my wallet had been emptied of the few bills it contained and she even took a Barnes & Noble gift card I was never going to use. I laughed and it felt surprisingly good. I figured in the act of stealing money from me, she had turned herself into a prostitute. She had accepted that her pussy was worth about forty bucks.

Cheapest fuck I'd had in a long time.

There was a knock at the door and when I answered it, I found myself looking at a mousy little shit with black horn rimmed glasses making his eyes look like saucers. His suit said he didn't belong in my neighborhood and his grin made me uncomfortable enough to check my fly. He reached out his right hand and I assumed he wanted a handshake. I peeked at my right hand and honestly wondered if I had managed to clean Marika off of it.

Marika? Or was it Mariska? It was made up, so who cares.

I shook his hand and he introduced himself as 'Harvey Lohman' and reminded me that we had discussed my 'future in fighting' over the phone 'some time ago'.

I didn't remember.

He laughed and gave me a little push in the shoulder that made kind of want to hit him just hard enough to break his glasses. His glasses were, you know the kind, the ones that maybe he didn't really need. His slacks were narrow enough to tell me he might be a 'poetry reading' pretentious little hipster fart.

I didn't want to admit to myself that suddenly all of my hopes were pinned on him.

I just couldn't believe him because of the tone of his voice, though. His words came across about as sincere as Mariska did when she swore that 'Mariska' was her given name.

Her name was probably, like, fucking Flo or Edith. Something obtuse.

Her pussy was tight though.

Harvey told me he had been 'working tirelessly' to find a 'good fit' for my style and that he had narrowed the selections down to two different 'brands'. I really just wanted to ask him if it meant I would get some money for fighting, but I wanted to maintain a stylish reserve. I just nodded and smiled and tried to stay distant. Harvey though, he had 'plans' for me. What he lacked in, well, everything, he made up for with his eloquent speaking patterns. I felt like I was being buttered up by the guy who first broached the idea of a game called "Scrabble."

Harvey had big plans for me and he laughed a lot. He was light hearted and I wanted to vomit on what looked like expensive Italian shoes on his feet.

Then again, I thought that maybe soon I'd have some expensive shoes on my feet.

I didn't vomit.

End.

Also, Jason Schwatzman is the pic base of Harvey, please add that to the list of "takens" so no one can do a face/off and I end up looking like John Travolta. 

(Obviously delete this bit of jive, just wanted to make things clear.  )

SKILL BREAKDOWN
40% Striking
40% Takedowns
20% Submissions

YOUR CHARACTER'S NAME
Jupiter "Jove" Belane (His given name is Jupiter, but he prefers Jove.)

NICKNAMES
None

TWITTER
@harvey_lohman (Manager's account)

PICTURE BASE
Ryan Gosling (Images from 'Drive' or 'Only God Forgives' if possible)

HEIGHT
6'2"

WEIGHT
205lbs.

REACH
77"

DATE OF BIRTH
August 16, 1992

PLACE OF BIRTH
Louisville, Kentucky (USA)

FIGHTING OUT OF
San Pedro, California (USA)

FIGHT TEAM
NB Fight Team (Represented by Harvey Lohman)

SPONSORS
None presently

ENTRANCE THEME
Turbo Killer by Carpenter Brut

PORTRAYED BY
Andrew

STYLE SUMMERY
"This man is a Mixed Martial Artist"

STRIKING BASE
Jun Fan Kung-Fu (Modified Wing Chun)

GRAPPLING BASE
Brazilian jiu-jitsu

FAVORITE STRIKE
Spinning back head kick

FAVORITE SUBMISSION
Standing Guillotine Choke

STRENGTHS
Counterpunching
Elusiveness
Leg strength

WEAKNESSES
Sometimes lowers his fists inviting strikes
Overconfidence

AWARDS AND ACCOMPLISHMENTS
"There are no belts in Jeet Kune Do or Wing Chun"

PRIMARY STYLE
Primarily a stand up fighter. Uses counter punching and close combat to break down his opponents. He prefers to try to score a knockout over a submission, but will take the fight to the ground if his opponent proves to be a powerful striker.

TENDENCIES
He wants to invite an assault and gain the opportunity to return fire. He does play to the crowd and considers himself a showman.

APPEARANCE
Typically clean shaven, no tattoos. Blonde hair & blue eyes. Scar over right eyebrow and left cheek.

CAGE GEAR
MMA gloves & Black Nike Pro Combat Hyperstrong Slider Shorts

ADDITIONAL CHARACTERISTICS
Nothing at present

ENTRANCE DESCRIPTION
'Turbo Killer' by Carpenter Brut hits the PA system and drowns out the sound of the crowd. Just as quickly as it entered, it quiets down for a section of organ music before Jove Belane steps through the curtains. He's wearing a hooded sweatshirt and has his trainer right behind him. To his left is his representative, Harvey Lohman. The group head down the long cooridoor towards the ring. Jove ignores the attention of the fans who reach out for him. Harvey grants them a wicked and somewhat insincere smile as he goes. Finally they make their way ringside and await further instructions.

BIOGRAPHY
Jove is a very private person and not much is known about his upbringing. What is known is Jove's extensive fighting experience. He is well versed in Wing Chun, Taekwondo, Muay Thai, and Jiu Jitsu. Ultimately his styles combined when he became a student of Jun Fan Kung-Fu and ultimately a follower of Jeet Kune Do. He has been very successful in amateur rankings, but now, having been 'discovered' by Harvey Lohman, he will enter Unleashed as a very much untested fighter. Soon we will embark on the career of this young man.