A King, Trenton I, sat atop his thrown, in his illustrious castle. A most exceptional work of architecture; housing an abundance of women, drinks, and good times.

Trenton looked around, pleased with his accomplishments and those which he’d overcome. But a commotion before him caused his eyebrows to peak in wonder, rising and stepping down from the thrown. He quickly walked across the vast room, his robe swaying at his feet.

Almost to the source of disruption, a servant came running towards him quickly, her mouth screaming the words, “Your Highness, Aphrodisia has arrived ”

The King looked up at Aphrodisia, standing in the tall doorway. His crown glimmered in the daylight pouring in. And he knew what she was here for.

It’s a little known fact that in the days of mass monarchy, King’s partook in the drinking of poison. A King, who especially had many enemies, would swallow the sometimes bitter, sometimes sweet substances, in small doses, to build up a resistance to much more lethal doses. Immunity.

Aphrodisia had another dose. The King had built a strong resistance to most poisons. Upon induction, he’d received a pretty hefty dose of Ian Walker. He’d overcome the poison, with the title of Supreme. Afterwards, he took many insignificant types of poison, which had little to no effect. A time came when a new poison had been developed, Stu-E Price. This poison had wheedled its way through the streets and somehow become more lethal. It was brought to Trenton and he took it quickly falling ill and needing rest for many days, but he persevered, and was awarded yet again.

The King found that these Supreme poisons were much too easy and Aphrodisia brought him something new: Malice. The King was poised for poison and felt he was as ready as he would be. But, he wasn’t and he had succumb to the spiked substance that was Sid Frankenstein.

Trenton lied upon his deathbed, his servants gathered around. They knew that in a matter of days, he’d perish and no longer reign.

During Trenton’s sickness, there was talk of a Queen, Bullzeye, taking the thrown. These rumors amongst the peasants enraged him and his anger subdued his sickness. He rose from his bed and immediately took another dose of that which had almost killed him. But, he survived, and was dubbed a Legacy. Bullzeye disappeared, roamed the streets and plotted on retribution.

But, today was not about Bullzeye. It was about something new, something Aphrodisia promised him would be the most challenging to defeat: Draco, along with Casanova, for one had no effect without the other and was merely juice without its counterpart.

Aphrodisia sat the flask on the table, labeled ‘D&C’. She looked up at the King, his eyes fixated on the flask. Just the sight of it made him cringe and as he raised the flask to his lips, he got a mighty whiff of the poison; it made him sick to his stomach. He wanted to gag at this point, but he was determined.

He drank the poison in a single gulp. It was bland and unlike the previous poisons, it lacked any distinct flavor. The King slapped the flask down on the table and said a simple, “Hmm.”

Aphrodisia watched in amazement. She’d expected it to kill him instantly and her eyes followed him with dedication, as he charmed a young lady in the ballroom and took her into the King’s Chambers.

Natasha sat, eyes staring off into the distance while the engine inside her brain overloaded.

Trent shook her, “You okay?”
Snapping out of it, “Yeah...” She looked down. “But I really don’t think you’re ready,” she whispered.
“Ready for what?”
“Come on. Get out.”

It’d been a long day for both of them. Natasha had been training Trent, for what he thought was his match with Draco, but she had another thing in store for him.

They exited the car, Trent still confused as to what was going on. She instructed him to follow her and he did so, as she walked into a small shop. A bell rang overhead as they entered and a cashier looked over to Natasha. Noticing Trent standing behind her, he smiled and told her that Ether was waiting.

They walked around a few aisle-ways until they reached a plain, gray door. Natasha gripped the knob, twisted and swung the door open. Women, sitting on milk crates and dingy couches, looked over towards the door. Trent smiled, greeting the ladies. Some smiled back.

The reality that he wasn’t here to have a massive orgy set in as he and Natasha walked down the rickety steps to a cold, damp basement. A crowd of shirtless men stood on the opposite end of the basement, screaming and banging the walls as Trent walked in.

Finally, Natasha turned around faced him, “You can do this.” There was the faintest hint of sadness in her voice. She stood next to Ether’s desk and Trent walked slowly towards the crowd.

Ether approached him, “Put ‘er there.” Ether gripped Trent’s hand with a nice squeeze and shook it.

They walked and Ether talked, “Now, I know this will be ya first bout an’ all, but give these men a good show, yeah?”
Trent nodded, “Okay...” He finally realized: this was an underground fight club.

Bare Knuckle, to be exact. Everyone knew about his match tonight–everyone except for him. There were thousands of dollars riding on this match and he knew what all the training was for. He looked back to Natasha, her arms folded and eyes staring back at him. He noticed a few women, sitting on the steps, waiting for the action.

He took a deep breath as he stepped into the Square.

“Alright, calm down.” The men quieted at Ether’s request. “We have the fight ya all been waitin’ for. Standing, here we have...” Ether’s eyes squinted at Trent and he whispered, “What’s your name?
“Trent.” He answered, to which a few men got a laugh out of.
“The Pretty Boy.” Ether thought of on the spot, which got a bigger laugh than ‘Trent’.

Trent laughed along, slightly; it seemed like the thing to do.

He was told to take off the shirt and shoes, unless he wanted them fucked up. He quickly pulled off his button-up shirt and Air Force One’s, handing them to Natasha. He figured he’d better take off the socks too and he stuffed them into the shoes.

He stood, clothed in only a pair of jeans, and he was ready as he’d ever be, for something he had no idea of how to approach. He knew it would be nothing like wrestling in the ring. He’d probably find himself trying to Irish Whip his opponent or try to pin him, but this was different. This was fight till your opponent could fight no more. This was not SSW.

The fight started and Trent came in, arms up to shield his face. His opponent, Pitbull, came in much more fierce though, swinging and kicking mercilessly. He hit Trent in the abdomen with a right, causing Trent to stumble, quite breathless. But, he didn’t have time to recover, for Pitbull lunged at him quickly in hopes of another devastating shot. Trent quickly dodged and gave Pitbull a nice shot to his side–it did some damage, but not enough. Trent followed the shot with a knee strike and a few punches to the faces.

Pitbull stepped back, realizing the Trent wasn’t just going to let him beat the shit out of him.

They circled each other and everything drowned out of Trent’s mind. There were no men screaming around him, there was no Natasha praying for his well-being, there was nothing else except him and his opponent.

Pitbull quickly faked a right hook, enabling him to deliver a lunging kick and an uppercut. Trent stumbled back into the wall, tasting blood and sweat upon his mouth. He looked into the eyes of his attacker, void of remorse. Using the wall as leverage, he pushed himself back into action and he knew just fighting would not be enough. He had to incorporate what he knew.

In a desperate attempt, Trent leaped and dropkicked Pitbull, landing on the cold, unforgiving ground. His pain was irrelevant and he’d done some damage to Pitbull. He quickly got up and ran towards his rising opponent. He delivered a few kicks his side and a few punches to his face, but most of the hits were thwarted by Pitbull’s blocking.

Pitbull kicked at Trent, forcing him to back up and allowing him to get back up to his feet. He was mad, having been knocked down. He was going to show Trent what he knew about wrestling.

He advanced towards Trent, grappling up with him. He locked Trent’s arms and started delivering a chain of headbutts. Trent tugged at his arms, but he soon became dizzy and stumbled, falling to the ground. Pitbull mounted him and viciously punched away at Trent’s face, delivering elbows, hooks, and straight shots.

Trent, at first, blocked, but he weakened quickly and in a slow-motion kind of fashion, his head collapsed onto the ground. It was over and Ether broke the fight up, holding up Pitbull’s arm up in victory.

Natasha hurried to Trent’s side, helping him up.

The men cheered and Pitbull mocked Trent with, “Get the fuck out of here, Pretty Boy.”

Natasha quickly escorted him up the stairs and into the backroom. He didn’t smile at the women and none smiled at him. They walked out of the store and the bell ringing overhead was only a distant sound to Trent’s ears.

“I’m sorry,” Natasha said in the car.

But, she didn’t have to be. Trent was happy, excited, and now more knowledgeable. He was ready to face Draco, for Draco was only a small obstacle at this point.