Bat Segundo and the Gay Cagefighter
At the sound of the bell Bat Segundo advanced, wary of The Wisp. A Crucifix by the Brazilian in the semis wrenched Segundo's shoulder, and in his second fight, repeated kicks to the Samoan's thighs caused a bunion to flare. Segundo was banged up. The Wisp was fresh, though. In his opener he moved like a galleycat, camel-clawing the Turk into submission without breaking a sweat. Next up, Tank Johnson, former marine, swore he'd make the sissy tap out. He was gonna break the will of The Wisp, but The Wisp had other ideas He let Tank take him down on his back, then locked Tank in the missionary position. The crowd roared with delight.
"He loves you, Tank!" someone yelled, prompting a collective laugh. Furious, Tank tried to escape but The Wisp made him pay. Fashioned a Triangle Choke around Tank's head and locked it tight until Tank collapsed. The Wisp wouldn't put him to sleep, though. Like an anaconda, The Wisp sunk a Terrapin-- intent on exploring the line between extreme pain and submission until he could hear Tank's tendons stretching and tearing. Tank wouldn't quit but his corner did. The final straw was The Wisp lovingly, mockingly wiping a bead of sweat
from Tank's forehead after a brutal stretch that left Tank groaning and gasping for breath. They threw in the towel and The Wisp sprung to his feet, bowing royally to the crowd--the rugged former marine spent and shamed on the canvas.
Segundo circled now, talking trash. "Your mother wears Army boots," he mumbled through his mouthpiece. The Wisp's eyes lit with rage. A gorgeous and mysterious woman had attended the pre-fight press conferences, mingling with scribes in her stilettos. She'd been seen in the casinos, and promenading poodles on the boardwalk --fancy dogs with names like KY and Ramses. She had to be with him. But his mother?
Segundo connected with another jab that drew blood. The Wisp dabbed at his nose and became livid.
"Army boots," Segundo said again, and The Wisp pounced, arms flailing.
"Those are Manolos, you dumb bitch!" he screamed, scratching Segundo's face.
Segundo sidestepped, then sprung from the muddle to pin The Wisp against the cage. He prepared to sink the Guillotine that would end it. But something happened. Segundo'd been lured into a deadly trap --a hold so rare and so final, there were only rumors of its existence. Could it be? Segundo attempted an escape, but it was too late. The Wisp wrapped his thighs around Segundo's head. Squeezed hard until Segundo was lightheaded. A blur of twinkling neon, the sequined broad and her poodles in front, the roar of the greasepaint, smell of the crowd. Inevitable darkness. The Wisp had sunk the dreaded Snark. There are no survivors.
As Segundo later wrote, "The last thing I remember was the referee drop and give me ten ... books would be written about The Wisp, but the Snark remains a mystery.”
Miss Snark is in awe.
Scoring to come