Raul Tejada vs Drake Fond: No Rules? No Problem!

He supposed there were pros and cons to getting needles to the back instead of to the leg... Pro numero uno: YOU DON'T STAND ON YOUR BACK! One could be quite surprised how life wasn't like some of the cartoons here in Japan (or los Estados Unidos to a lesser extent) where one could have their entire chest cavity blown out their back and still walk around like it was a mere paper-cut. Indeed, he sometimes saw little girls cut each other to ribbons whenever he was at the Japanese equivalent to Radio-Shack, their T.V's playing some of the most graphic and bloody things Raul had ever seen since his time back in Mexico City... AND PEOPLE WALKED AWAY FROM IT MORE OFTEN THAN NOT!

...He wished life worked that way.

...But it didn't.

As the Mexican struggled to rise, Drake was already on his feet and RUNNING RIGHT at his foe! Before Raul could even fall to the side to try and avoid Drake's charge, the man simply SLAMMED his knee into the side of his head, knocking the Mexican to the floor, disoriented and stunned!

He fell on his side once again, trying to blink the stars out of his vision, raising a hand to the place his head had been struck... as if that would do any good...

Drake’s knee made quite the impact with Raul’s skull, and though Drake wasn’t the strongest man around, the strike was still enough to knock the taller man back down to the floor. The stunned look on his face was nice, Drake would admit…but in the end Drake harbored no ill will towards Raul. He harbored nothing at all towards the man who had pushed so many of his buttons. This was all simply business, at least to Drake. Get in, have some fun, get out with a nice, sweet check. So what if Raul was bleeding all over the ring with his wounded leg? That simply meant the fight was beginning to lean towards Drake’s favor.

Still, Drake eyed the fallen Raul carefully, looking for any signs that he could be playing possum to lure Drake closer. His eye only needed a split second to look for any tensed muscles in his foe’s legs or shoulders. After a quick lookover Raul’s face to make sure there was no suspicious eye movement, Drake approached. The smug smile had found its way to Drake’s lips again, though he didn’t really mean it to.

Drake thought it poetic to start stomping Raul as he had done to Drake moments before, but decided against it. Drake was a petty individual, but he learned from mistakes, both his own and from his opponents. Rather, Drake decided to go for a more effective approach. With a soft kick, Drake would nudge Raul onto his stomach, leaving his back exposed and ultimately defenseless.

The man with the eyepatch couldn’t remember what he called the move anymore…something stupid and silly, like Sing a Song or some such nonsense. Essentially, Drake was looking to grab Raul’s wounded leg and put it in a Boston crab hold. The kicker was the angle Drake took with the hold. Rather than pull straight back, Drake intentionally went at an angle, looking to put more force on the leg and hips rather then the leg, hips and back the standard hold provided. He gave up damaging the back in order to seriously work on the limb, hoping to earn himself an easier foe for the rest of the fight.

Oh, and to insure Raul’s blood keeps flowing down his leg, of course.

Nope. No possum here! Raul might've been one tough bastard but getting a knee to the temple was not a healthy way to start they day for anybody. He wasn't the kind of person that could just... get up after being whacked over the head with a chair or struck across the face with a bat. This wasn't one of those luchadore matches where everything is perfectly rehearsed and timed to make the match as safe for the wrestlers as possible while as showy and authentic for the audience as possible. Nope! This was an actual match where the blood was as real as the pain, where the move were as functional as the tacks sticking into Raul's leg and Drake's back.

...It fucking hurt.

With all that being said, he wasn't down for the count just yet. Raising a hand to the wounded side of his head, the mexican began crawling to his knees... Even disoriented and with his head pounding to the steady beat of bongo-drums, he knew that he was PROBABLY not in the best position laying on his stomach while his enemy was slowly approaching. But even though he was aware of the oncoming danger, getting up so soon after that kick-to-the-head simply wasn't compatible with human physiology!

...Boy did he wish it would've been, though...

Drake SAT on on Raul's back as the man took his wounded, tack-filled leg in hand, doing EVERYTHING he could to strain and damage it more than he already had! Oh boy, who would've saw that coming! Even while the Mexican gritted his teeth, clenched his eyes shut in some desperate attempt to bare with the pain... he couldn't help but make a sarcastic jab in the moment!

"Ggg...." He groaned, blood running down from the wounds across his legs... "Eye... See... What you did there..." He muttered through gritted teeth, his lips curling into only a partially forced smile. "S-so strong... I guess they call you... 'Cyclops...'"

Raul’s pants were beginning to get soaked with his own blood. The stress on his leg was like wringing out a wet rag, the warm liquid gushing out faster and faster, the tacks and pins moving about to rip wider holes in the Mexican fighter’s leg. Sadly, the wet fabric did nothing to Drake’s grip, his own gloved hands holding on tightly with a pincer grip. The warmth of fresh blood would quickly cool, and Raul seemed to be bleeding to the point the Drake began to feel it ever so slightly. A bit gross, but nothing new to him.

The businessman was perfectly content to just pull on Raul’s leg until either he gave up or his leg gave out. Either way was an acceptable ending for Drake. He didn’t much care for titles like “winner” or “loser”…so long as he got the twisted of manipulating other to his bidding, he was happy. Sadly, Raul was too much of an unknown to derive such pleasure. Drake didn’t know what made him tick, what fears were hiding underneath that cocky smile and careless attitude. Worse, the man gave no hints besides what was given at the beginning of the fight. He considered his silver tongue to be one of his sharpest weapons…but the puzzle that was Raul was far too frustrating to try and solve.

After all, a puzzle is only fun if you solve it.

So, there Drake sat. Pulling further and further on Raul’s spinal femur and hip, secretly hoping something would crack audibly so he could at least tell some sort of progress was being made with his submission. A noise would come, but it was not the crack he was expecting. Rather, it was Raul’s voice piping up over the crowd’s adulation.

That specific noise ironically told Drake more of his lack of progress than anything else.

Raul’s insults were petty, probably spun more so from pain then actual spite. Once again, they centered on his eye…an emotional weak point for sure. The yellow and red iris looked over its bleeding shoulder to give a look towards the smiling man. There was a hint of anger burning at its center, but also assurance. Drake was in the dominant position for now, and he was going to take advantage of it.

“Hmmm…your bleeding quite a lot. If I didn’t know any better, I would say you wet yourself, Señor Tejada~ Your leg is so very damp after all, but I’m sure none of your cohorts are watching this fight anyways, so it should be fine.”

Drake would eventually give up his Boston Crab, getting ick of his pant leg getting damp from Raul’s blood. He would let the torn apart leg fall to the floor with a wet smack, before standing up and stepping on it, looking to drive a red tack further into the leg. If he succeeded, it was simply a manner of kicking an opponent while they were down.

"Cohorts...?" Raul questioned genuinely, raising an eyebrow. "What... are you even talking about...?" it seemed that Drake was losing his mind to his own power... or perhaps the blood-loss and pain from the tacks borrowing into his back because he seemed convinced that he was part of something larger than himself. Despite there being no evidence to the contrary be it within his file or without, this man was just DETERMINED to get Raul to spill something that had no baring in reality... For all it was worth, this guy could've been trying to get him to confess that he was a giant, fluffy unicorn! He wondered... if it frustrated him how his assumptions would turn up empty...

It was a LONG while to bare but eventually Drake, whether through exaustion, disgust, or other reasons would let go of Raul's legs, letting them fall LIMPLY too the floor... and tear his pant-leg in the process! Damn it... those were only one of 3 pairs he had brought over with him from Mexico! One of the few reminders of better times! Alright... now he was mad... Yeah, he was bleeding from the various needles sticking in and out of his damned leg and yeah, he was bleeding a lot more than any healthy person should on an average day but damn it...

Those were his PANTS, man!

Drake raised a leg to stomp upon Raul's... but his foot would only connect with the floor, the Mexican ROLLING to the side HARD the instant he was free! Just as quickly he slipped up to one knee, his other leg, his HEALTHY leg shooting out to SLAM into DRAKE's knee-cap, the force of which possibly enough to CRUSH IT! Whether or not it did and if his attack got Drake to buckle, Raul's would quickly JUMP atop his opponent, locking his arm between his legs at the shoulder... and taking the wrist in his hands as he would LOCK Drake in for an utterly devastating ARM BAR. He spared no strength in this hold, actively seeking to dislocate that limb and make it as UTTERLY useless as possible. The jokes were just about over, he reckoned. He only had a few mementos to his past with him... and he wouldn't tolerate one being damaged!

“Ugh…” Drake groaned in a dismissive, almost annoyed manner, “Why am I reduced to a language teacher at a time like this? Yes, Cohorts! Companions! Friends! Even acquaintances! A group of people you usually hang out with! Or are you going to tell me that despite having all of these jobs and family members back from Mexico, you just decided to up and leave to a brand-new country with no prospects and nobody you knew living there?” The one-eyed man sneered at Raul, a glimmer of his dagger like teeth catching in the overhead lights, “You are either lying, or you’re stupid.”

Drake seemed to stew to himself as he tugged on Raul’s leg, annoyed at what was either a slight language barrier or Raul’s ineptitude. Drake knew something was up with Raul, but stopped caring by that point. If he was on the run, or here for some rather shady circumstances, Drake would eventually find out…and possibly use It against him, if need be. Of course, Drake had a long list of shady business partners he worked with. One more made little difference.

Raul’s leg impacted lightly on the canvas floor, with a wet thunk. Drake was never one not to probe an obvious weak point, and at the moment, the big, bloody tear in Raul’s leg seemed to be the chink in his armor. Drake didn’t think it would cripple him if he tampered with it a bit more, and it would make thing ultimately easier for him the rest of the match. So, he went to give it a nice hard, but quick stomp.

He missed. Drake’s eye was already tracking Raul’s tumbleweed impression as the man quickly rolled away. He was oddly fast, giving Drake pause to give chase. He still had a few tricks in his pant pockets…but was now the best time to use them?

As Drake was considering such Dark acts, Raul suddenly popped up and threw a violent looking kick at Drake’s knee. Perhaps it was Raul’s leg that made him sluggish, or Drake’s overall suspicious nature of others, but by some miracle, Drake managed to panic and jump backwards just in time to avoid losing the mobility in his left leg for what could have been forever. Unfortunately, the panicked jump was to concerned with avoiding the attack, and not with what came next. Namely, landing. Drake stumbled and fell onto his back, and before he knew it, Raul was on top of him like a wild mountain lion mauling a hiker.

Raul quickly wrapped up Drake’s right arm at the shoulder with his legs, grasping his wrist and pulling the entire limb into a rather violent arm bar. Drake’s shoulder cracked twice within seconds of the hold, and already the tendons holding the shoulder in place were being stretched to their limits. Drake wanted to scream, the force on his entire arm felt as if Raul planned on breaking every bone from the wrist down with his armbar.

Drake’s eye seemed panic, manic even. It glared at the little bit of Raul it could see as the body it possessed thrashed about like a fish out of water. Drake’s free arm swung around quickly, and like a bird of prey, began to claw the open wound on Raul’ leg in hopes of freeing itself from his deadly trap.

"Why do you think I came here, estúpido?" Raul would fire back the moment he had gotten this guy entrapped in his arm-bar. "There is no jobs in Mexico and there is no family there either. Everything is in the United States... and that place had been backed up for years." He jerked and pried at his opponent's arm and he could hear the bones within it groan and give... A little bit at a time, most certainly, but only a few more moments of this hold and Drake will be down an arm... Fitting compensation for what he had done to his leg...

"Perhaps you need to get your head out of your ass... before I rip both your arms off."

Both...?

Indeed, Raul intended to do the very same to Drake's other arm once he was done with the first... And Drake's thrashing was only making it worse for him! Every time he convulsed, his shoulder would suffer even more strain! Every shift in weight was a fight against the force prying his arm and that could only deal more damage to him! Drake, for all his big talk, couldn't keep himself calm in the face of such pain... and he would suffer for it as a result...

...But not before taking a fresh bite out of Raul! Crazed, scared, the gangster began clawing at Raul's wounded leg, trying to get him to relent the hold! What was the Mexican's response? How would Raul respond to an already torturous wound being tortured!

"Hmph." He grunted, gritting his teeth as he YANKED down on Drake's arm, aiming to completely dislocate it at the shoulder! If he succeeded, Raul would roll away...kneeling a yard or so back to nurse his leg... knowing there was little he could do without proper bandages and disinfectant.

Drake scratched and clawed at Raul’s wound as the man pried his arm out of is socket. Drake could put on the face of a man with confidence, someone who knew perfectly well what he was doing and that you were being led by a man with sharp cunning and unbeatable strategy. It was a gift, a man of many faces. Each one faker then the last. Sadly, they were only that…faces. Drake was not the type to fight anywhere close to fair, nor alone. He would always prefer to divert the combat to someone else, his pleasure coming more from control then victory. This armbar he was in, where he was totally trapped and unable to escape, ripping any sense of control from him…well, it was needless to say, but he absolutely despised everything about it.

And when Drake got mad or panicked…his silver tongue struck indiscriminately.

“You brain dead moron! Keep your shitty story straight before you forget it completely! You said you were a bouncer!” He growled, trying to think of something other then his arm snapping in multiple fracture wounds, “Y-you….GAH! If you can’t make a single friend in your own grubby little town…You won’t make any here, you tiny little-“

At that moment, a few things happened. Drake had been clawing away at Raul’s wound, desperate to loosen his grip in any manner he could. He managed to find a pin, one that had been stuck in Raul’s leg rather deep. The gloves on Drake’s hands made it difficult to tell exactly what it was, but he tugged on it all the same. The pin would bury itself even deeper into Raul’s leg…but it would also be pulled down violently, ripping deep flesh and breaking inside his leg. The next thing that happened was Raul jerking backwards, and a loud, sickening CrAcK rang out through the ring. After that, it was a blood curdling scream.

Drake had never had his shoulder dislocated…and it was the worst feeling he had ever had. His shoulder was on fire, while simultaneously feeling as if it was being stabbed with a dozen needles. Ever small movement simply made the agony worse, and slowly the pain began to travel up his neck and arm. No longer was Drake concerned with the tiny pins in his back. Now he felt like he couldn’t even move.

He tried rolling over…and his dislocation erupted. Drake whimpered quietly, practically falling back to the floor as his body slowly went into shock. It hurt…it hurt so very much that Drake almost ordered his group to get Raul…until his brain remembered he was alone in this fight.

Fresh hot tears rolled down Drake’s cheeks as his body shook slightly, his one good eye burning with anger and hatred as he slowly tried to sit up and find his jacket…perhaps he could fashion a sling or a caste out of it, something to take SOME pressure off of his fresh wound. He wasn’t even looking at Raul…just holding his shoulder and scanning the environment for his jacket.

"NNngh..." Raul grumbled, pushing himself up to his feet as his opponent writhed and sobbed upon the ground. For all intents and purposes, the man should've been incapacitated and very well might be, considering his visceral reaction. The tables had turned once more where the Mexican stood over his opponent, his expression being that of a polite... if pained smile.

"Some would say the truth is just an excuse for a poor imagination." He muttered, lifting his foot and STAMPING it down hard upon his opponent's wounded shoulder! If the shock of the first dislocation was bad enough to put this guy on the floor... a stomp would more than surely take him out of the fight! Especially since he was now sitting up, trying to fiddle with his jacket, the man would have a VERY bad time if Raul's boot-heel dug into it's target! Whether it did or not, he would simply move in on his foe, his movments admittedly uneven and slow... dragging his bleeding leg behind him. He was already starting to feel a LITTLE light-headed... Just a bit... After all, he wouldn't want to see what kind of trail the blood pouring over his boot would leave upon the canvas. He would leave THAT particular sight to the janitor and the Audience.

"I was also a gardener, you know. Grew roses and sold them to independent flower shops. Still have my old tools and everything." Without his polite little smile ever leaving his face, Raul would raise up his boot again... and SLAM it on Drake's stomach, aiming to SMASH the air out of his lungs. Gangster-boy could call it quits whenever he wanted, to submit and this would all stop immediatly... no more pain, no more suffering... Not too much permanent damage... They could both walk away feeling better from all this... Well... one of them would walk away, in any case.

"Also a cobbler. And a plumber. It's amazing the skills you can pick up."

Drake had actually managed to find his precious jacket, and seemed to cling to it like a security blanket. His shoulder continued to stab and bit him with even the smallest of movements, highlighting ever shift of his damaged shoulder with an electrical volt of pin. Drake pulled his heavy jacket over towards him while doing what he could to cradle his right shoulder. Gods it hurt so bad, and Drake was biting down so hard his teeth threatened to crack. He had seen others get their shoulder dislocated, even knew a guy who had it done so much he could pop the thing in and out easily without any kind of suffering. How Drake envied him.

Sadly, Drake’s jumbled mind was interrupted when he was violently kicked in his bad shoulder, doubling the already debilitating pain.  He howled once again, and whatever progress he made climbing back to his feet was gone in an instant. Drake held tight to his jacket and shoulder, using the heavy cloth as a sort of cushion to try and alleviate any kind of feeling. He soon felt a kick to his abs, but it only made him feel light headed. Compared to his newfound weak point, the aching stomach was nothing.

By some miracle, Drake was able to keep from vomiting on the floor due to the pain induced stress of it all. Perhaps year of being in high risk business deals had finally paid off, at least a little bit. Drake quickly rolled onto his good shoulder and began to scoot away as fast as he could from Raul, quietly cursing and mumbling as he did so. The pain may have been intense, but Drake still seemed to have some cognitive thought running around in his skull.

“H-hey! Calm down a bit! I’m sorry! I’m so sorry!” Drake’s eye looked manic, clearly in the midst of panicking as he seemed to be somewhat delusional by the pain, “You seemed like a scum- LIKE YOU KNEW THE GAME, like me! Your p-part of that gang, right? Right?! The one high up in Mexico? I-I can help! Let’s make a deal!”

Drake continued to scoot back all the way until his back it one of the corner posts. He had draped his jacket over his wounded shoulder, as if, in some childish way, he thought the jacket was a shield of some kind that would protect his shoulder from harm. It hid his entire right side away, but that just helped hide hi shaking shoulders.

“You know business, right? Try to s-s-s-start with the best hand? I’m sorry, just don’t! You’re the boss! You’re in charge! Just tell me what you want an-an-and- I can do it!”