April 29, 1992 1:30AM
Los Angeles, California
The din of the riots outside was reaching its crescendo as Jeremy MacNeil, fresh off his convincing victory over the young Caitiff from Seattle, strutted into the ring, smiling confidently. Upsets had placed two of his most powerful opponets on the other side of the bracket. Having sailed through his qualifying heat with a minimum of aggravated damage, he knew that his path to the final was clear.
His opponent was a Nosferatu from behind the Berlin Wall. He was very dark, very mysterious and very, very hard to see. Voshkov was the name he went by and he seemed more bothered by the Tontine than that he actually wanted to be involved. He had done very well in his heat, though, losing only to another quarterfinalist, while whupping up on a couple of punk LA Anarchs. One of these was MacNeil's newest progeny, Arturo, which made MacNeil that much more interested in smacking him down.
The initial insults were mild.
MacNeil spoke. "Your country is nothing but a poor attempt at creating this one, a country created for sheep by hippocrites."
Voshkov sneered. "Perhaps if you spent less time shoving your dick into an any mouth who'll take it, you'd find time to visit my country of sheep." Voshkov used the opportunity to drop his Mask, revealing a disfigured, hunched form that dropped MacNeil back a step. Chunks of skin sloughed off of Voshkov's peeling face as the crowd watched, fascinated as though watching a car wreck.
MacNeil regained his composure quickly, but not quickly enough.
Voshkov led off with an uppercut, connecting to MacNeil's unsuspecting gut, knocking the instinctive wind out of him. MacNeil used the opportunity to grab Voshkov's fist and throw him back over his shoulder. Voshkov slid across the ground on his belly, leaving a thin trail of gray slime behind him.
He rolled over just in time to avoid MacNeil's haymaker, which knocked a hole in the concrete floor of the parking gargage. A howl and an angry MacNeil recoiled from Voshkov's lashing fangs, his right forearm a bloody mess.
Now, MacNeil finally realized he was in a fight, the first time he had been seriously challenged in the tournament. He took a few steps back and changed his stance. His eyes narrowed and he turned so his side faced his opponent, who was struggling back to his feet.
"Good. Some practice." MacNeil grinned.
Voshkov spouted several curses in Russian and he lept for the Brujah, who sidestepped and struck the Nosferatu in the lower back as he sped past. The beast flinched and MacNeil was on him again.
Voshkov collapsed with MacNeil sitting on his scaly back and thrashed violently as MacNeil kindey punched him repeatedly.
Although the fight took a while longer, MacNeil clearly had the upper hand. Five minutes later, a bloody but victorious MacNeil raised his fist in triumph. Although his first blood had finally been drawn, MacNeil pulled Voshkov to his feet. "Not bad, Russian. Not bad. F'you were a Brujah, you might've stood a chance." Voshkov struggled off, limping on one shattered knee.
MacNeil, licking his wounds, turned back to the crowd and the referee. "Allright. Who's next?"