April 29, 1992 1:40 AM
Los Angeles, California
The shouting from the crowd quieted. The next two combatants approached the ring from opposite sides. Carlos Ramirez was the most punk appearing of the fighters left. Hailing from nearby San Diego, being known for his wild ways and his flagrant defiance of all authority. One of his people, an irksome bitch named Dawn (long since eliminated) played some angry Megadeath tune on a ghettoblaster she held over her shoulder. Ramirez looked tired, having fought a particularly difficult battle against an angry young Pennsylvanian named Bellamy. Ramirez had run into a couple of Gangrel in the early rounds, and several cuts still flowed freely. He staggered into the ring, trying to keep from falling over. Ransom was his opponent, a Boston revolutionary who had played a key role in the American revolution over two hundred years ago. He had not long been prominent in Anarch circles, and this was his first Tontine and he had done quite well, losing only one of his qualifying fights to the defending belt holder, Chandra.
The insults were critical to this fight -- a good morale shot might take Ramirez out. Ransom spoke first. "So, Mr. Ramirez, are you even going to last long enough to get into the ring? I've met a Toreador or two who could take your right now." A murmur arose from the crowd. Ramirez sneered, his lip curling into an ugly scar, from which blood trickled off his chin. "Yeah, Ransom, you might be right. I've heard stories about your sire's deadly aroma." Peals of laughter trickled off the walls, Ransom winced, suffering clearly the conquering insult in a move which would influence the crowd's emotions.
Carlos straightend up a little bit, inspired by hs own wit. Ransom circled silently around the ring, ignoring the hoots and hollers of the crowd. Ramirez just stood still, the silent warrior, waiting for the younger and quicker Brujah to make the first strike. And so he did. He came in low, faster than the untrained eye could follow. He slipped in with a feint low and a lunge high, finally flinging his fist straight into the space occupied Ramirez's abdomen and groin just milliseconds before. The contact between hip and thigh was relatively slight, but the levels of Potence and Celerity involved knocked spun Ramirez slightly, just enough that the Haymaker that was destined for Ransom's chin hit his shoulder instead. Ransom winced and pulled back slightly, surprised by the amount of strength left in Ramirez's blow. That's OK -- he had only so much blood left in his system to keep himself competetive.
The match raged on for several minutes, a long period of time considering Ramirez' condition. And for every minute it went on, Ransom grew weaker and lower on blood. Ramirez took a couple more hits but nothing seemed to shake his sneering snarl off his face. The blood continued to drip steadily off his chin and the ring was becoming slick with red. Other Kindred in the audience who were low on blood were becoming aggravated.
Ransom began to play a waiting game, trying to get Ramirez to expend as much of his blood as possible, but the Chicagoite wasn't playing that game. He'd done this too many times, too many fights. Too many young punks like Ransom. The crowd began to boo and heckle Ransom for being a chickenshit. A bottle got thrown from the crowd and hit Ransom. The referee issued a warning to the crowd, but the heckling and razzing just got louder.
Finally driven to action, Ransom made a penultimate strike, driving low and fast, pushing more effort into speed then ever before. Ramirez anticipated it in time to launch a massive uppercut. Virtually simultaneously, the two blows landed.
Ransom's strike hit Ramirez's right knee, shattering the cap and nearly severing the leg. Ramirez's blow landed squarely on Ransom's jaw, shattering the jaw and teeth. Ramirez tumbled to the ground, howling in pain. Ransom fell to the ground, unconscious.
The referee stood over the grimacing Ramirez. "Can you go on?" Ramirez nodded, aware of Ransom's prone condition.
"The winner: Carlos Ramirez!"
