<span style="font-style: italic">Get up.</span><br/><br/>The crowd cheered excitedly, a handful of spectators jumping to their feet in exhilaration, screaming until their voices gave out and they could do nothing but wave frantically. Hazily, he looked across the arena and noted that his opposition was lapping this up. The other fighter wasn't all that tall, but what he lacked vertically, he made up horizontally - all of his bulk seemed to be muscle, too.<br/><br/><span style="font-style: italic">Come on, get up.</span><br/><br/>Slowly, his opponent walked towards him, deliberately toying with the crowd, encouraging them to shout and yell as he got nearer. From the off, Manson had certainly felt like he might have been the weaker party, which was not common for someone with an ego as big as his. At 6'1", he was a fair bit taller than his ominous opponent, but his lean muscle had been nothing compared to this beast's raw rage. For a while, Mans's speed and wit had kept him going, kept him on his toes, but once his opposition got a hit in, he was down.<br/><br/>Suddenly, the beast's thick body came charging at where Manson lay, aching, on the floor of the arena. As if struck by lightening, fear coursed through his body in the form of pure adrenaline, shaking everyone of his sore muscles awake with its energy. With not even a second to spare, he rolled out of the way of the beast's way as he jumped into the air. The beast landed flat onto the floor of the arena, missing Manson entirely, save for his left hand, which cracked sickeningly beneath the big guy's weight. Without hesitation, Manson punched his opponent hard in chest and crawled away, clinging angrily to his hand.<br/><br/>"Damn, you're a heavy boy, aren't ya?" Manson teased breathlessly as they each stumbled to their feet, squaring off once again.<br/><br/>The crowd cheered triumphantly for him, and immediately the beast's face turned red in fury. Recklessly, he charged, head first. Manson did not move, not until the very last second. This was the way he liked to play; dangerously. If you didn't see your life flash before your eyes, what was the point in doing this in the first place? Mere moments before he was body-slammed out of the arena, he stepped aside. The beast would have flown past him, but Manson was faster than that, and caught his neck in his arm. In one, laborious motion, he used the beast's own momentum to throw him to the ground, slamming his elbow into the heavyset man's neck as he did. The opponent choked silently, then lay limply. Whether he was dead or just unconscious, Manson wasn't entirely sure, but he didn't exactly care; his opponent was no longer able to fight. He had won.<span style="font-style: italic">Just.</span><br/><br/>Exhausted, Manson ambled to the edge of the arena and spat bloodied spittle on the ground below. His face and body felt swollen, his hand was almost certainly broken and somewhere along the way, he'd lost a tooth, (<span style="font-style: italic">did I swollow it?</span>) but he didn't mind. In fact, he loved it in his own, twisted way; the pain was relieving, enthralling. It was proof of his existence, and of his victory.