Brother, Fighter.... Lover?

Editorial by Birthday Ballantine

Brother, Fighter.... Lover?

By Birthday Ballantine

I recently came to manage two fighters, William "Bill" Williamson and Rupert "Sex Panther" Singh. Both will be making their professional debut in Amsterdam this week for QFC Tournament 60, but our story doesn't begin there, it begins in Rio....

The gym was old, older than the slum that surrounded it, older than Rio itself. The sweat of a thousand-thousand fighters had soaked the dirt of its ancient courtyard over the years, and before that, the blood of warriors. It was more than just a gym, it was a temple. Consecrated in blood, it's god was the god of righteous battle, and his worshipers had been legion. Now there were only two.

The unmistakeable sound of two behemoths clashing resounded off the walls of the cramped tenements. I hadn't been looking for fighters, I was in fact, looking for a hooker. Thoughts of sensual libation fled however, as I stood transfixed at the door to the decrepit gym. The audible groan of the mat, the thud of meaty fists upon chiseled flesh, the thundering of breath through flared nostrils... These were not men, they were Titans. 260, NO! 270 lbs apiece if my ears could be believed. What my eyes would confirm a minute later, my brain still struggles to accept.

Stripped naked in the style of wrestlers of old, they worshiped at the alter of their god. Their prayers were fists, psalms the rasp of skin as they grappled. One, a hurricane, the other a monsoon, the ensuing maelstrom consumed the ring as their god basked in the chaos... And then the levies broke.

Muscles bulging, Williamson had Singh in a rear naked choke. His eyes burned with fire as the light in Singh's slowly dwindled, and then went out. Three words hung in the air as the triumphant gladiator gently lay his compatriot down on the mat...

"Goodnight sweet prince."

I signed them both on the spot.

***

Months passed, the two went their separate ways. Williamson to New York, and Singh here in Amsterdam. The three of us are meeting in my hotel room “office” and I can still smell the vanilla body-spray of the two Nigerian prostitutes, even though they left hours ago. Williamson and Singh sit cross-legged at the foot of the bed as I recline against the headboard.

“The odds were 16:1, but even long-shots come in sometimes.” I hear myself say, my throat tight as I force the words out. “You're fighting each other in the first round.”

Bill's icy blue eyes narrowed, lips tight as he bit out a single word: “No”

“Whaddaya mean, No? You've fought a hundred times, for free!” My mind reels at the thought of these two promising young fighters blacklisting themselves, forever.

Bill's mascara is running, as tears well in his eyes. “That was different, that was.....”

“Private.” Singh finishes for him, steel in his voice.

I notice now, what I've always noticed, just refused to register... The two are holding hands.

“Goodnight sweet prince” The words echo in my mind, their meaning finally clear.

***

I can't go into the details of the tear-stained argument that followed. What I can say, is that a lot of money changed hands, I am now managing the first interracial-homosexual-265 lb+ couple in MMA history, and QFC tournament 60 is going to be FABULOUS!

-Birthday Ballantine, is a budding manager, owner of nutrition company “Not Steroids”, and (in another life) is a bestselling erotica author.

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