â€œCome on! Hit me!â€ Dirt laughed as he circled the other man, his fists raised though his guard was loose at best. The other man had yet to hit him, even once and Dirt doubted that he will before the match ended. â€œYou're not just a pretty face are you? Use them widdle fists of your's and actually hit me!â€ he continued to taunt other man, whose â€œpretty faceâ€ was bruised and battered. An eye was swollen shut and his nose no longer faced the right way.<br/><br/>Dirt's memories of the past were clouded and broken. The time before, he barely remembered though the earth liked to talk to him. She would whisper to him at night, while he slept wrapped within her arms deep in the earth. It was there that she spoke to him, about change, about the past and about the future. Often Dirt just thought himself crazy and so it was ignored for the most part, yet sometimes he thought that he could feel when people were near. Could almost feel the change that was to come and yet, at the same time he could care less.<br/><br/>He was a warrior, a fighter, a man born to hurt and spill blood. As long as he could do that, then Dirt was happy. The man he fought came staggering toward him, and threw a couple of sloppy punches, but Dirt boobed and weaved out of the way without much care.<br/><br/>â€œAlright, Princess. Time to say good night,â€ he said as he used one hand to push the man's block out of the way so that he would come in low and throw a powerful uppercut. The poor man was hit so hard that Dirt took him clean off his feet and knocked back several feet, where he landed flat on his back and was out cold.<br/><br/>The crowd roared as Dirt threw up his gloves, the tremble of the earth drowned out by the roar of the crowd. Another victory for him, though it was hardly fair, when anyone ever hit him it was like they punched a brick wall. Did this matter to him? Not at all.<br/><br/>â€œAlright, whose next!â€