In the amateur fight circuit—-the one made of up the seedy clubs and strip joints, the high-end frat parties, the private matches sponsored by wealthy but slightly perverted “gentlemen” with too much time and money on their hands—- as a fighter, one tends to bump into the same group of opponents. Some you look forward to, either because they’re a good, competitive fight, OR they’re an easy victory. Others you loathe, usually because either they have really hurt you in the past, or they cheat.
But sometimes, you meet an opponent who appears to be your ideal match, as if some all-powerful Rocky VI in the sky had specifically created you for each other to fight for eternity. That was Cara, or Cara_Terrah, as she was known in the circuit. I had met her five fights ago—-five grueling, blistering, bruising battles ago. Same height—-which, at 5’2’, was rare in the circuit—-roughly the same weight; Cara’s 10-lb weight advantage over me was definitely all in her tits. And while many considered me cute, many considered her hot. As our fights progressed, crowds would get bigger, as word of the two tough cupcakes meeting up drew them in by the hundreds. The first two fights I won—-barely—-the bruises taking weeks to heal. Then Cara came roaring back with 2 of her own, one a very definitive victory in my first-ever pit fight. And a few months ago, I kicked her ass in a club-ring.
There was never a shortage of offers to match us up—-it was always a brawl, always sexy, and always a surprise. And I think we both enjoyed the match-ups—-at least I knew I did. So even when the purses grew to staggering amounts for a pit fight rematch—-the very venue where I had been handed the quickest, and most brutal loss I had ever had, I smirked and jumped at it. I certainly could use the money, and SO wanted to show that little bitch that her victory last time was a fluke, and there was a reason that I continued to have the lead in our rivalry. It was billed as the "Thanksgiving Thrashing", the way each of us, and the hundreds who paid to watch, would be spending our holiday this year.
The rules were simple. Two of went into the pit on our own. Rules were very few; no low blows, no breaking of bones. One of us would emerge from the pit under our own power, and $10,000 richer. The other was usually carried out by hand or stretcher. Little mid-fight bonuses could also be floated down, which made it even more exciting.
My bare feet press down on each rung of the rope ladder as I climb down, jumping the last few feet onto the hard-packed dirt that makes up the floor of our fight venue. Ten or so feet below the surface above, in a literal pit that was about 15 x 15 feet, with rough-hewn walls of soil all around us, and the crowd above peering down ready to watch the carnage. Wearing nothing but a thin tan thong, my 5’2” 100-lb body paces the perimeter of the pit slowly, replaying our last pit fight and trying to remember where I went wrong and what I’d do differently this time. My shoulder length chestnut hair is tied back loosely in a ponytail, my tight, toned body sporting goosebumps in the chilly pit, I await your arrival.
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Cara 5'2" 110 lbs
Cara
Mish 5'2" 100 lbs
Mish
