The Fight 
by Diana the Valkyrie



It's great fun. I'm not allowed groin kicks, hair pulling, biting or
eye gouging but apart from that - anything goes. I'm six foot five,
290 pounds and very muscular, which means I get to fight in the
Super Heavyweight class. So I don't have to worry about "making
weight" for a fight, plus it means I get to fight the biggest,
heaviest guys. Which is how I like it.

You could call me an aggressive bastard, because I am. You could
call me a vicious fighter, because I am. You could call me a ruthless
wanker who will sail close to the wind to win a bout, because I am.
But you can't call me a girl, and there's a reason for that.

The official rules don't allow women to fight at anything more than
145 pounds, which is exactly half my weight, but I found a way to get
round that issue. I identify as a man! Yes, I have boobs. So what?
Yes, I have long silky blonde hair, and a full set of equipment down
below - vagina, uterus, womb, birth canal and XX chromosomes. So
what? I identify as a man and if you want to dispute that, I'll
see you in the ring. My pronouns are he, him.

Because if I'm a girl, I have to fight girls half my weight, which
is ridiculous. Half my weight and a foot shorter. Absurd. I want
to fight in my weight class, and that means that I have to identify
as a man.  My pronouns are he, him.

A bunch of us are drinking in a bar - drinking and boasting, as
usual. "I can do this, I could do that, in the ring, in the bed"
- especially in the bed. No-one takes these boasts seriously,
it's just part of the fun. I make boasts just like the others,
and then the inevitable arm wrestling begins. Guys square off to
each other.  Challenges are flung. Me included - my biceps are as
big as anyone else present, except the girls, and none of us care
about the possibility of a spiral fracture. So we win some and we
lose some, because in each arm wrestle, there's going to be a winner
and a loser, but that doesn't matter because it's all just for fun.

I've probably had one vodka too many, because I challenge Nigel to
an arm wrestle. Nigel is big, really big. His arms are some inches
bigger than mine, mine being 24 inches. Nigel has to be at least 28.
Although not all of that is muscle. Still, it's a large bite to chew.

Nigel laughs, "You don't stand a chance," he says. That's OK,
it's all part of the game, trash talk. I trash talk him back,
"Just because you're as fat as a hog, doesn't mean you're as strong
as an ox."  But then Nigel goes one step too far.  "You stick to
wrestling the other girls," he says.

Nigel has made the mistake of calling me "girl". So I tell him -
"You take that back!" He's not very bright, so I had to explain it
to him. "I identify as a man, so my pronouns are he and him, and
you don't call me "girl". He looks baffled. "But you are a girl,"
he says, gesturing at my boobs. So I throw my vodka and tonic in
his face. "And you're a moron," I explain.

He stands up and throws a punch, which misses by a mile, because
I move and I'm not where he's aiming. But he is where I aim, and
my slap to his left cheek leaves a bright red mark. Not a punch,
because I'm bare handed, and the old rule applies - "Hit the soft
parts with your fist, hit the hard parts with a utensil". I don't
want to damage my fist on his teeth, hence the slap.

My friends hold me back - I'm not really trying to get at him - and
his friends hold him back. "In the ring," I hiss, "unless you're
too chicken."  "No-one calls me chicken," he yells back. "I just
did, scaredy-cat," says I.  "So do we settle this in the ring,
or are you just a jellyfish?"

My friends and his friends get between us, and sort out a time and
a place. This is going to be a grudge match, so we could expect a
really big audience, and at $100 per seat, this was going to be a
big money maker, for the winner.

The way we work it out in our club, is that out of the take, the
expenses come first (hire of hall etc). Then the organiser gets
10% of what's left, the ref gets a pittance, the winner gets 80%
and the loser 10%. So if this brawl gets a 100 audience, I'll walk
home with $8000, and even Nigel will get a grand.

Nice work for a few minutes of dishing out grief.

So the appointed day comes round. I'm wearing open-toed sandals with
thick soles, because that's how I kick, and a good heavy pair of
gloves, so I don't hurt my knuckles on his solid bone head. I wear my
hair down because I like it that way, and it's against the rules to
pull hair, and a sports bra because even though I identify as a man,
I have a very full rack and I don't want them swinging in the breeze.

He's wearing a shin guard, because I'm well known for shin-breaking,
but he leaves his knees unprotected, which is a mistake. Shorts
and gloves, and that's all his kit. Bare toes and bare soles,
so he's not going to be able to kick worth a damn.

He's built like a two ton barrel of beer; he's over seven feet tall,
bald and bearded, with massive arms that aren't nearly as big as my
thighs, and if he's done his homework then he knows that my thighs
are my main menace.  Once I bring those into play, he won't stand
a chance, and if I can get them around his waist, I can almost cut
him in half, and he'll be impotent to stop me. But that's not going
to happen just yet.

We square off, and he starts like men often do, by insulting me,
my mother, my father and my friends. I start off with a side kick
to his right knee, which is going to be a problem for him for the
next few weeks. The knee is probably the most vulnerable part of the
body, because it has to do a lot of work to support his 460 pounds,
and it is planted firmly on the ground and can't move much. He hits
the deck, and bounces, still shouting his preliminary defamation of
my relatives, and that hurts me about as much as you might imagine,
meaning, not at all.

But he's not going to cave in. He gets up onto his two feet, stomps
towards me and takes a massive right-handed swing at my head. That
would have almost taken my head off except that I don't stand
to receive it, I step in to close the distance so that his swing
punches the empty space behind me. My straight jab at his chin,
however, connects solidly. His head rocks back at the impact, and
then, as if it was on a spring, rocks forward. This time, it meets
the heel of my hand with all the force of my right arm behind it and
his head goes back again, this time a lot further. And then I step
back so that when his head bounces forward again, I meet it with
a high kick to his face, driven by all the power of my mighty thighs.

He goes down, and I don't try to stop him. My high kick had
bounced his brain off the inside of his skull, and the result was
concussion. He is now unable to think clearly - unable even to
react to what is about to happen to him.



Read the full story at http://www.amysconquest.com