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with his arm still squeezing tighter around my neck. He must be an idiot, he kept his face near my ear. I used the situation to my advantage by lifting my fist over my right shoulder and connecting squarely with the side of his right eye. He grunted and tightened his arm around my neck. I tried to get another swing to hit him again, but he moved his head out of my reach. I was already dizzy from the blow to my face and slamming my head against the mat earlier. Striker finally locked in the choke, within seconds began to see spots as he cut off the blood flow to my brain. Motherfucker was going to take me down.
    I barely heard the crowd as they started cheering excitedly. I was always able to block out the crowd during a fight. Once every month, I came into The Cage to fight. I rarely lost, which is why those fickle fuckers watching loved it when it looked like I was losing. It was a small crowd, just a handful of guys with aggression issues they needed to release, but they could get loud. Staying focused was getting harder by the second. However, Striker knew me in The Cage, we had been here before. The only way I would submit, the only way to win against me was to beat me unconscious. Striker knew it well; he was one of only three guys from the group to have ever defeated me.
    This was my twenty-sixth match, and fourth against Striker. I won two to one against him but it looked like we were about to be tied. I felt myself begin to slide into unconsciousness. My last thoughts were hoping I woke up without having lost too many brain cells, along with my pride.

    ****

    When I slowly came to, my head was pounding. I felt like I was waking up from a punishing hangover, or more like three hangovers simultaneously wreaking havoc inside my head. I think I groaned a little but didn't open my eyes, just wanted to lay there until my head stopped spinning.
    "It’s about time you woke up," I heard a vaguely familiar voice say all too cheerfully. I scrunched my eyes tighter and grimaced. Striker must have noticed my reaction. "Sorry, man," he said a lot quieter and more soothing. "You know, losing wouldn't hurt so much if you just gave up before being put to sleep. We might be a bunch of assholes that like beating each other up, but none of us want to beat a man unconscious just to rack up a win.”
    I knew what he said made sense but I fought to win. Just giving up and admitting defeat wasn't satisfying. It was not my way. I had to fight until I couldn't open my eyes. That’s why I worked hard to keep my body in great shape. I was quick on my feet, and had endurance to outlast almost everyone else I have come up against.
    I'm 5'11" and 170 pounds of solid muscle. I run five miles every day to keep up my stamina, and I hit the gym four to five times a week. I have midnight black hair that I keep short on the sides and just long enough on top to style, but not long enough for an opponent to grab onto during a fight. I have strong facial features with a square jaw, high cheekbones and a sharp small nose. I’ve been lucky, even with all the fighting, I’ve never had my nose broken.
    I was lying on the wrestling mat trying to breathe, but even small shallow breaths burned my throat like I had just done a round of battery acid shots. Even feeling this shitty, it was worth it to know I fought until I passed out. I don't quit. "Where's Buddy?" I managed to say without sounding too raspy. This was Buddy's group, his cellar which the guys called The Cage, was below his old farmhouse about 10 miles outside of Pittsburgh. Buddy was always here after the fights taking care of anyone that got hurt.
    "Buddy had somewhere to be, I told him I would make sure you made it out of here and locked the place up when we left." He knew what I wanted to ask and answered before I could open my mouth, "Buddy made all the guys leave with him so they wouldn't be hovering. You were only out for twenty-three seconds but you know Buddy, he had the guys leaving