THE HIGH TABLE
Established: 2023-11-17
Chat room: #BARBARUS
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A worldwide organization of men trained for violent, bloody, and even deadly combat. Their competence is indicated by their qualifications, from the lowest to the highest, reserved for an elite.
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Starring
Gregory Stein
The excitement of the crowd could be heard from outside The Lights Out Lounge when I pulled up. There are other matches scheduled, but I think most of The LOLigaggers are just waiting to see The Professor and I fight.
I use the keys that Chokes left at my place a while back. I go in the back way so that i don't lose my focus by playing my usual antics with the other guys. I gotta stay focused on the task at hand. I'm early. That'll allow me time for a quick swim and shower before, what I've convinced Chokes to bill as 'The Crucible'. The ancient Greek vibe will highlight what this match is really about. A contest with the guy I consider to be one of the best all-around Fighters in The LOL. The Professor and I will push each other to the limit and beyond...
I walk through the corridors to the Changing room. Put on my trunks then leave Mauler of Souls's carrier on the bench by my locker.
I head off for the pool to get my muscles limber and ready to go....
Jason Lundquist
By the time my brother and I reach the locker room, you’ve left for a little while. Don’t know how long you’ve been gone, but I have a good sense when you’ll be back. I check Mauler of Souls’s cage, and he imparts to me no wisdom, though he does meow at me and attempt to boop me through carrier door.
MAULER OF SOULS
"Mew."
Jason Lundquist
I leave Mauler of Souls there, he would tell me if he wanted out.
The tension is different than usual. I’m used to the feeling before tournaments, before pro matches, before MMA fights especially. The nervous energy. The anxiety. The adrenaline. I’ve lived with it all my life. I’ve been competing all my life.
I’m wearing my gi over the stuff I’ll be fighting in, moving around lightly. Trying to keep warm. My brother Johnny—my youngest brother—is here with me. If you put the four brothers together, you’d guess he was the one with the different mom--he’s 21, six inches shorter and forty pounds lighter than me, bright blond hair. Great fucking grappler. More skilled than I am, probably. But not as good a fighter. Not just because of the size. He’s too kind. Too good a man to be a great fighter.
Danny and Drew see me fight all the time. It’s been a while since Johnny’s cornered me. He’s silent, and so am I—there’s nothing to say right now. He looks at Mauler of Souls for a little while, does some pummeling drills with me. Even if it isn’t usually Johnny, being backstage with a brother or two while waiting to be called out for a fight is pretty normal for me.
What’s different is who I’m fighting. Greg. A close friend. A friendly rival. A…mountain of a man, and not just physically. I have good reasons to want to fight you: Not to hurt you. Not to humiliate you. But to correct you, and to correct others, about the importance of training and skill, and its supremacy over size and strength in a fight.
I know you respect me as a fighter. That gratifies me. But…you’ve suggested in conversation that you think you can take me. That you think your 70 or so extra pounds of muscle and wrestling hobby outweighs my 20 years of training. Having beaten many men as big or bigger than you in grappling matches and fights, I know for certain that you are wrong. But it feels like a challenge anyway. Worse, it feels like you’re telling me I wasted all that time. That should have just eaten more protein and lifted more weights, and not bothered with all that pajama-fighting practice.
I know you don’t mean it that way, but that's the logical implication. If you're right, and I really can't take you, then what was the fucking point of all my training? I bet you think my insistence that I could crush you is smug and superior too, given how I otherwise conduct myself outside of fighting and the occasional fighting-connected discussion. Warm. Cuddly. Jokey. Self-effacing. Kind of a martial arts nerd--the kind who gets nicknamed "the Professor" by friendly giants like yourself. To you, that’s the real me. And that’s not wrong.
You’re not gonna see that today. But this, too, is the real me. Just a side of me that is hard to show friends. Hard for friends to understand. It’s why Johnny is here. He understands. I am both men. I have to be.
I'm having exactly that thought when you walk back in the room, fresh from your swim. My brother introduces himself to you with a smile. He's...like that. Pretty much always. I give you a cool nod.
Gregory Stein
I reenter the changing room, drying hair with a towel. See you and your brother. I've seen him before but never actually been introduced before. I take his friendly handshake. "Nice to officially meet you Johnny. I hope you won't hold what I'm gonna do to The Professor against me.". There's no malice in my tone, just flat and matter of fact. A marked difference from my usual affable demeanor.
I return your curt nod as Mauler of Souls whines to be released. 
I take him out and he struggles to get free, as if he's trying to get to you. I keep him in my grip and pet him gently before putting him back in his carrier.
I take him out and he struggles to get free, as if he's trying to get to you. I keep him in my grip and pet him gently before putting him back in his carrier.I close the door and tell him "It's okay Mauler of Souls... Unca Professor and I gotta take care of some stuff. You don't need to see this."
Without looking back at you I finish getting into my ring gear. Back to you. Keeping focused and expressionless as I look at the mirror to make sure all my gear is on right... I don't look at you. Just ask "So who is gonna step onto the proverbial sands first?"
Jason Lundquist
"They're gonna call you first," I say, low but clear. "Because I'm the favorite." I know how it sounds as I say it. But it's the truth. Part of me wonders if you're ever gonna forgive me after tonight. It's gonna be rough. I guess that can't enter my mind. I go back to visualizing the match.
Gregory Stein
I nod and then turn towards the door. Put my hand on the knob then look back over my shoulder in the same flat tone as before. "It was nice to finally meet you, Johnny. Maybe we'll have a drink after I knock Professor Favorite off his pedestal."
Jason Lundquist
'Professor Favorite.' I hear the annoyance. The contempt. Yeah. It's gonna be rough for a while after this match. There's a pang of aggravation. I spent my whole life climbing to get on that fucking pedestal you want to knock me off of, and I've got a long fucking distance to fall if you do. Did you think I was gonna be nice about it?
Gregory Stein
I get to the entrance to the Mat room. I can hear the LOLigaggers murmuring just inside. See Chokes standing in the middle of the Mats calling for the Guys to calm down.
My entrance music starts playing. I open the door. Very calm and focused. I give a few fist bumps to LOLigaggers as I pass but I don't look at any of them my usual smile gone. Just an emotion-less mask. I stride slowly to the mats and go to the opposite corner. Bouncing on my toes and shaking my arms out. Getting everything loose and limber. I look towards the entrance.
Chokeout
"First a man who needs no introduction, cause he never stops yapping... weighing in at 263 lbs let's hear it for Greg Stein."
Gregory Stein
I put my arms up in the air and turn around to the crowd. Mumbling under my breath "You fuckers ain't gonna see Lounge Greg tonight."
Jason Lundquist
I hear the signal from the other room. I gesture to Johnny to go first, to find his seat out there in the audience. No corners. No coaches. Just you and me. After a while I follow. I wear my gi down to the ring, tied with the black belt my father gave me a year before he died.
I tunnel vision for the ring, ignoring all my friends. The chords of my walkout music--Sultans of Swing--play, loud enough that I can't make out what anybody's saying unless they yell it.
I take off my belt, jacket, and gi pants as I reach the ring. I fold the gi carefully. I hold the belt for just a second. Feel its texture. Its weight. I fold it, deposit it inside the collar of my folded jacket. Slide the package under the ring. Kick off my slides and climb into the ring.
Chokeout
"And his opponent tonight, the man Greg calls 'Professor Goodnight' - you all know his skills because he won't fucking shut up about them - at 190 pounds it's Jason Lundquist!"
Jason Lundquist
I don't react, I just keep up the shadow-movement, waiting for the ref to get in and call us together in the center.
Gregory Stein
I stare across the ring at you as you enter. The ring shakes a bit as I bounce on my toes. I look directly at you. Any noise from the crowd is just background static to me now. Reminding myself 'That's not The Professor, that's some Guy named Jason.' I thump my chest like a gorilla. Not to intimidate but more to remind myself that I'm here to fight not make stupid quippy one liners with my buddy.
Jason Lundquist
We hired a referee for this thing from one of the pro organizations. Needed one that did pro wrestling and MMA because of the rule set. I’m calling it combat catch wrestling. Would have been unfair to make you fight MMA—you’ve got no experience there, and more experience with wrestling and pro. But this needed to be a fight. So MMA striking rules, pro win conditions. No gloves, though—limiting the power of striking. Or punching, at least, since we will not have hand protection. Maximizing the power of grappling.
He slides under the ropes and up onto the mat—middle-aged guy with a beard and long hair. He summons us to the center, explains the striking rules, then he explains the format of the match.
REFEREE
“The match will proceed in three rounds, no time limits per round, until a fall is determined by submission, by pin or by KO,” the ref explains.
Jason Lundquist
You probably think allowing victory by pin benefits you, given your size advantage. But I wrestled from middle school until I dropped out of college. I’m a black belt in BJJ. If you’re trying to pin me, you’re grappling me, and if you’re grappling me, you’re dead.
REFEREE
“The match will continue even if one fighter wins the first two rounds, unless a medical technician determines a fighter cannot continue. A Valiant Victory of 2-1 will entitle the winner to one choice from the pre-agreed list of stakes. A Dominant Victory of 3-0 will entitle the winner to three choices from the list.”
"Protect yourself at all times. Obey my commands at all times. If you want to shake hands do it now."
Jason Lundquist
I offer both fists to bump. Customary for MMA fighters. I don’t even think about it.
Gregory Stein
I return the fist bumps. That emotionless mask. Not glaring just observing. Without a hint of anger, I grit my teeth and snarl "These motherfuckers ain't getting Greg jokes tonight" I step back to my corner. Another gorilla chest pound. Two fingers beckon you forward "Let's do this Jason."
Jason Lundquist
I say nothing, but I hear 'Jason' and my heart sinks for a second. I don't remember the last time you didn't call me 'Professor.' I shake it off. That's not important now. The ref calls for the bell, and it rings. My hand go up. I drop into a fight stance. I come forward immediately. Because we don't have gloves, I'm firing palm-strikes for head shots. I'm not breaking my knuckles on that big dome of yours. I fire a jab and then a cross upstairs, then step in and pivot hard, making a fist, then changing levels as you bring your hands up to defend your head to deliver a blistering left hook to the body aimed right at your liver. With that much core muscle in the way, I might not get it the first time, but I'll get it soon. But I'm not done--I shuffle one step back and fire a brutal left side-kick as you follow, aiming straight for that same spot.
Gregory Stein
The quick succession of strikes keep me defending one spot only to have you attack an opening my defense created elsewhere. Your first kick throws me off balance some, but I know I can't just let you stay so close without doing something that might slow you down a bit. You go for that spot again, but now its time to show you that I'm not just gonna let you steamroll me. I know I'm not fast enough to avoid the second kick, so I pivot my torso just enough to move your intended target a bit. I know its gonna hurt like hell, but as your kick connects with my stomach, I drive upwards with my forearm towards your calf, hoping to maybe do it solid enough to send you to the canvas, but even if I don't it'll still hurt like hell and slow you down some. Anything that lessens your speed is gonna be good for me.
Jason Lundquist
The left hook and the side kick both connect solidly, but they don't do as much damage as I'd hoped. You are fucking big, it might take a lot more than I'm used to to cut you down. You fire your forearm up at my leg just as I'm drawing it back, hitting my calf with some force and almost knocking me off balance. An awkward angle for a strike, and without anything to stop my leg from moving, it doesn't to a huge amount of damage--some of the energy is spent on moving my leg--but it shows good reflexes, and suggests you may have a strategy in mind. Attack the legs. It hurts, but I'm not gonna let you see that. The only way to react to damage is to do more damage back. I move back in behind some straight palm-strikes this time finishing with a right hook, then a right uppercut, splitting your guard between the elbows, right arm sliding straight up your body, heel of my hand driving into your jaw from below with force, followed by a chopping kick to your inside thigh with my left leg.
Gregory Stein
Your speedy tactics have me off balance. I expected this to some degree, but its becoming increasingly apparent that, no mater how resilient I may be, I can't keep letting you do damage without impunity. Your strikes are intended to wear me down. My particular wheelhouse requires that I allow you to get close. To do that I'm going to need to take some damage. I need to wait for the opportunity to get my hands on you. That's easier said than done...You get inside my guard and land a solid hit to my jaw. My head snaps back, as you quickly follow up with a kick to my thigh. Thankfully the muscles are thick enough to absorb most of the damage, but I'm aware that I definitely don't want to take too many more of those. That thought gets my focus back. I can't take time to process pain. I have to funnel that pain into action. I take the opportunity that you've given me to drive an elbow to your face. Hoping for the chin or nose, but, at the moment, precision, especially after that shot to my chin, isn't really on the menu. You're close enough that I'm certain I'll hit something. Because of the awkward angle the best I can hope for is to throw you off balance. Almost immediately after the elbow, and displaying unexpected agility, I lash out with my arms. Trying to lock you in a bear hug that traps your arms.
Jason Lundquist
The elbow misses my head, but thuds hard into my collar bone. Not normally a good target zone, but you're not a normal opponent. At least, not a normal opponent for a middleweight. It feels sharp as it lands, but leaves a dull, throbbing ache. I fire back immediately, again to the body. Stupid. Your arms are immediately around me, locking around my arms. I try to change levels, drop through your arms so I can shoot for a take-down, but the bear hug is immediately tight and before I know it I'm off the ground, legs kicking in the air. My arms being on the inside gives me some room, reduces the pain, but it also makes it hard to work toward an escape. I have to start trying to extract my arms so I can try to frame against you and start to turn. But that's gonna put the bear hug directly against my ribs, which is gonna hurt like hell. I start fighting to get my right arm free first.
Gregory Stein
You struggle in my grip. I increase the pressure. Getting my hands firmly gripping the opposite wrist. My fists dig into the small of your back. I pulse my squeeze and when you attempt to push off of me with your body, in hopes of freeing your arms, I use the opportunity to drive my forehead into your chest and sternum. I pivot my hips slightly to hopefully reduce the likelihood of your knees striking vulnerable areas. Each time you rear back, trying to free your arms and break my grip, I headbutt your chest and pulse my arms, while flexing my chest to add to the crush of the bear hug...
Jason Lundquist
I knew you were strong but...fuck. You're holding me in the air like a child. It's fucking demeaning. I wonder what this looks like, then try to shake the thought off. The only thing within reach of my knees that would do anything useful is your groin, and that is both illegal and dishonorable. Same for a headbutt to the face. But I'm slippery, flexible, and I have a really strong core. I swing myself side to side, using my legs to create a pendulum-like force. Your pulsing of the bear hug wrenches at my back and ribs, and it prevents me from pulling the arm out, but I can use the motion to deepen my right under-hook and slide down, your grip migrating to my upper back. My feet hit the ground. No chance I'm gonna lift you back, so I shoot my right arm deeper, turning sideways relative to you, firing my hips across and in front of yours. My left arm, now loose, grabs your right as I turn, as you try to twist and drive me forward into the floor. Your weight loads itself on my hips. O Goshi. The big hip toss. You sail over my hips and crash to the floor in front of me, shaking the ring. I hear some gasps from the crowd. That's what I like to hear. Some redemption for being rag-dolled around in your arms. I have to let go of my controls as I throw, though--you're heavy and moving forward, if I held on, chances are you'd just keep pulling, and I wouldn't be able stop our momentum once you hit. You could roll me through and end up on top. That means you travel farther than I'd like and we're disconnected when you hit the ground--I rush to try to cover you on the ground, it'll be a race to see if you can get back up before I climb on top of you.
Gregory Stein
You get free after a squirmy struggle. I can't help but be impressed when you use my own momentum against me to hip toss me. Probably not something you could've done without my momentum helping you. I try to grab your arm as I go but you wisely release me before I can bring you down with me. I slide across the canvas a bit. That landing wasn't fun, but I know I gotta get back to my feet ASAP. I know from The LOL that you're like an octopus on the ground. I scurry back to my feet and try to knee you in the ribs before I step back, hopefully, out of range. I stare at you as I crouch down a bit in that fighter stance I saw you use earlier, waiting for you to come to me. Trying to assess if you're still feeling the effects of that bear hug. I don't speak but there is a voice in my head that keeps chanting 'Jason.Jason.Jason'. It's like a drumbeat that keeps me focused.....
Jason Lundquist
Fuck. You manage to make it back up. And you're dropping into something more recognizably like a fight stance. Up until now you'd been standing like a wrestler. It's appropriate. You are a fighter. But you're not a fighter like I am. I rush you, but you manage to stave me off for a moment with a knee at my ribs. I've got my guard in place, but the force of it still blasts through me, bruising my right forearm and testing my core--so far it holds. I respond with brutal and calculated straight palm strikes to the face, some landing, some being deflected, followed by a lead-leg front kick. I pivot to avoid counter-fire, then punish it with a combination of punches to the body punctuated by a baseball-bat style right body kick. Then I weave back in under a heavy return swing. Punches to the face without gloves can break your hand, but no such problem with elbows. I fire a hard left elbow at your face, smashing into your cheek, then pivot and spin for a spinning back elbow with my right, catching you square on the temple with a "crack" that can be heard throughout the room.
Gregory Stein
It doesn't take too long for me to thank Jebus that I took those few steps back and didn't over-commit to that knee. Didn't really expect it to do much, but as I'm learning... Sometimes those precious few seconds of avoiding a hit and readjusting can give you time to recover a bit. And in this case that window closed pretty quick.
You don't dive in like a madman, but you definitely know that you are by far the better fighter. You can afford to take your time to find an opening. And I may have mad crazy instincts but they definitely could use some refining. I know my only chance is to draw you in closer where my, lets just say, less than subtle, strengths will allow me to get in the one good shot I need. You gotta chop my ass down slowly but all I've got to do is get one big move. Ain't necessarily luck but it's kinda close to it.
You come at me throwing shots I'm pretty sure are supposed to wear me down some, but are more focused on keeping me on my toes and find the openings you need.
I take several shots to my pretty face,but I'm also getting a bead on you. My skills ain't sharp enough to really stand toe to toe with you, but I do manage to actually deflect a few punches.
You get me guarding against those palm strikes to my dome, but then you drive forward with a kick that lands solid and forces me to take a few steps back. Then a series of punches and another solid kick.
I throw a desperate haymaker that connects with the space where you used to be...then a brutal series of elbows that I'm too off balance to guard against.. two solid elbows, one to my face then the other immediately after catches me on the temple. I take a step back and to the side. My knee briefly touches the canvas but then that 'Jason.Jason.Jason' drumbeat reminds me where the fuck I am.
I get back into that guard stance I saw you using. Solid enough to withstand but open enough to allow for counterstrike that might present themselves. Still that drum keeps beating 'Jason.Jason.Jason.' I spit out some blood, but keep eyes on you...
Jason Lundquist
I force down the part of me that wants to hesitate--that wants to avoid hurting you too much. You're a big guy, you can take it. And I've got to demonstrate to everybody here, to everybody who sees this match, that the arts I train aren't a novelty. They aren't bullshit. You can't beat a trained fighter just by being bigger. I keep up the offense, mixing up my strikes. Heavy leg kicks, trying to take your base out from under you. Straight body shots, body kicks, knees. I've pressed you back against the ropes and I just tee off on you, finding every spot that isn't covered. Without gloves, it's hard to cover everything. I wear some return fire, and you hit impressively hard, but I evade most of it. You manage to circle back off the ropes and toward the center of the ring, retreating under my onslaught, and I finish this stanza of violence with a brutal flying knee that smashes into the right side of your face, the kind of hit that would normally end a fight.
Gregory Stein
I knew that in order to have any chance to beat Jason, I'd have to take a lot of punishment to find the opening I needed to take this Jason guy down. I hoped that my size and resiliency would be enough to endure that punishment. But now this Jason guy is just tearing into me with blinding speed. I may only need a few good openings to really hurt Jason-guy, but you can chop me down with so many little attacks that are just as, if not more effective.
I know that unless I do something soon, or find that opening I need, you're just gonna steamroll over me. I start thinking tactically, like it seems you are. I know I'm not gonna do anything effective with my wild swings, so I stop trying. Conserve that energy for other things. Besides I think you want me to throw those avoidable punches. It keeps me off balance. It creates openings for you.
I try to deflect your moves and don't try to answer back. I gotta wait for opportunities to present themselves. And hope that I can endure this onslaught long enough to capitalize on them.
Then you finish off your most recent attack with a knee to my dome. My eyes see sparks and I swear there was a loud popping sound inside my head. I stumble back and thankfully the ropes are there to stop me from falling to the ring floor. Still leaning against the ropes I try to shake out the cobwebs. Grateful for this reprieve, no matter how brief its likely to be... the drum keeps pounding 'Jason. Jason. Jason' ...
Jason Lundquist
I hesitate to chase you back to the ropes for a moment. Not out of mercy--at least I don't think that's why--but out of the expectation that the knee, in combination with a bunch of other hard hits up to this point, should have put you down. But it doesn't. The ring ropes keep you from falling down, but that's not what I mean. You shouldn't be reeling, you should be unconscious. At least, everybody else I've ever hit that hard ended up that way. But you're not a middleweight. You're not a light heavyweight. You'd struggle to make heavyweight. And...I think with some respect...you're built different. Well there's nothing for it but to do more damage, I guess. I stalk in, seeing you stunned but starting to recover. More body shots. More leg kicks. A big left hook palm strike to the same part of your temple I just kneed. I eat a clubbing forearm what pushes me a couple of feet. Fuck you're strong. But I come back with a massive right hand that flattens your nose. And then, because it worked so well before--dropped you to a knee--I end with one of my favorite little Muay Thai combos--left elbow, back spinning right elbow. The first lands, the second I'm aiming right at your cheek. No way you stay standing after another of these.
Gregory Stein
This assault is fucking brutal. I'm actually surprised I'm still able to fucking think after that jumping knee. Your expression seems to indicate your shock at my lack of unconsciousness. But you don't give me time to think about it. You know you've got me on the ropes in every sense of the word.
But a strange clarity and focus takes over ... that constant 🥁Jason.Jason.Jason.🥁 continues. Keeping pace with your strikes. I know a shark when I see one. We both know one more good shot will definitely put me on my big fat ass...
But I see subtle signs. I've been paying attention to how you fight. I see that first elbow coming, not fast enough to stop it from making those electric bolts return to my vision. But it does give me a strange moment of clarity… My world slows down. Almost slo-mo. That's either really good or REALLY bad. I cant do anything about the next few blows, but I see that pivot. That twisting. Same thing as before the first elbow. We both know that if this hits I'm done… The 🥁Jason.Jason.Jason.🥁 keeps me focused, hyper-focused. I know that all I need to do is avoid that hit. This shot’ll open you to that big opening I so desperately need… That split second of Promethean clarity helps me avoid it… With speed and agility you wouldn't expect from a behemoth such as myself I grab you during your turn, locking my body-lock from behind you in that split second I know it'll take a fighter of your caliber to recover. My fists lock in. Digging into your abs. You struggle…. I know it's now or never. Can't let this pass me by. I may not get the opportunity again. But if I'm able to do this, you'll definitely be feeling it for the rest of this test…. I push my hips in, lift, and fall back before you can do anything. I execute a nearly flawless German suplex. Your head, neck and shoulders impact the canvas with a bang. My momentum and yours being transferred to your impact points…. I know I'm not done… 🥁Jason.Jason.Jason.🥁drives me forward. I keep my grip. Twist and turn then deliver another one. Then another…. I feel your body going limp after that last one. Even if you ain't out, you're at least stunned. I scramble on top of you after I release. Locking my arms together. My bulk keeps you pressed down. Your leg and head trapped inside. Your shoulders flat against the mat. I catch a brief glimpse of your face. Stunned but not completely out. I just need to keep you down for a few seconds. The referee scrambles to check if the pin is legit. His arm raises for the first time...
Jason Lundquist
As I spin for the elbow I feel your arms shoot out and connect in front of me, your chest gluing itself to my back. I have my first moment of real worry in this fight. The bear hug was humiliating, but this--this is a threat. If there's one thing I know you do have training in, it's Greco, and this is...this grip is a problem. I try to fight your hands, to extend, then I try to throw myself with a Granby roll, but your grips are insane. I feel you pulling me up. I feel like when I used to wrestle a coach in kids class when I was seven or eight and they just decided to lift me. That same feeling of undeniable power. I feel my ribs compressing under the hug, then you arch back. SLAM. The first impact dazes me. Then you roll, get back to your feet. I struggle a little, but less than for the first one. SLAM. The ring rattles, I'm a grappling dummy in your hands. My only thought is how this must look, the trained fighter getting rag-dolled like this, then SLAM and I lose a second or so, the room is bright, slightly ringing when I come back to the world. I feel you closing up a cradle, driving my shoulders to the mat. Oh FUCK! I start to kick, but it's locked. You're massively heavy--I've felt heavier guys that feel less heavy, and that means there's at least some skill there, at least some training, in top control. And the cradle is tight, my knee in my chest, my head bent forward. I hear the ref shout "ONE!" as he slaps the mat. I grunt in pain and frustration as I uselessly try to kick out, to back roll, to bridge or get a shoulder up.
Gregory Stein
The drumbeat seems a bit more upbeat as I bear down even more. Try to really make this Jason guy feel all 260 lbs. Locked in tight. That first hand slap rings in my ear like an auditory version of manna from heaven.... only a few more seconds. My face a focused stare as I struggle to use everything I got to hold this fighter down....
Jason Lundquist
I know this position. Instinctively I know that by the time you secured it, it was too late to escape in the time I have. I'd probably tell a student not to waste energy trying to escape. I can't make myself follow my own advice. The shame is too intense. I keep trying to buck, kick, move. I emit what I was hoping would be a defiant roar but in my compressed position it just sounds like a long, anguished, wheezing grunt. But I can still feel the nauseating feeling of my shoulder-blades glued to the mat, unmoving. The ref's hand descends again, he slaps again, and it's like he's slapping me. "TWO!" he yells and my movements become more frantic, less efficient. No. No no no no! Fuck!
Gregory Stein
I hear the hand slap again and start to realize that that Greco training, that I used mostly to stay limber after years of training for muscle density, is finally paying off. This Jason guy is a great fighter, but I'm pretty sure he doesn't have enough time to get outta this shit before that hand hits the mat again. He beat me to fucking shit this round, but I knew all I'd need was one shot. I'm pretty sure I've got it. I bear down pushing my weight and squeezing my arms to keep you where I want you...the drum beats harder in anticipation 🥁Jason.Jason.Jason.🥁
Jason Lundquist
“Three!” the referee yells, and his hand comes down like a hammer on the mat. My shoulders haven’t moved. You keep holding for a second—probably just long enough to register that you did it, that you won the first fall. I keep struggling, pointlessly, more and more panicked, as though the fall hadn’t already been called, my body and mind just…unable to tolerate being held here. Despite that, I don’t move—I can’t move—until you release.
When you finally do, my leg shoots to the floor, I sit bolt upright, and I grunt. The reality hits me. You beat me. It’s only the first fall, but most matches only go one fall. If this were one of those, this would already be over. It’s no excuse that it was a pin, not a knockout or a submission. We agreed to that. It’s a valid measure of fighting skill. The crowd is strangely quiet. My friends...or the people who were my friends before this...are strangely quiet. Some whispering. Some indistinct talking. Some…laughter. Or maybe I’m imagining it.
I feel a lump starting to form in my throat. In terms of what I was trying to prove, what I was hoping to demonstrate to everyone, I’ve already failed—anything other than a dominant 3-0 in my favor fails to support my point. You shouldn’t even be competitive with me. My stomach contracts. I have…I have to win the next two or… I swallow heavily.
The referee gives us our one minute of rest between falls, sends us to our corners. I drink some water. I shake out a few remaining cobwebs from the slams. My shoulders hurt, my back hurts, my ribs hurt, but none of it is bad enough to interfere with performance. Not yet at least. I try not to look at anyone, not even Johnny. Especially not Johnny. I don’t want to see the embarrassment in his eyes. I can’t make this right, but I can avoid letting it get any worse. Just…back to work, I think, as the ref signals for the bell.
Gregory Stein
I go to my corner and shake me head and body trying to get my wits about me. Several LOLigaggers congratulate me and a couple try to talk about how they knew you weren't all that. I just turn and glare. I growl "Shut the fuck up. You're out there he's in here. That counts for something."
I go back to watching you, letting that drum beat in my head drown out my anger at their disrespect.
That voice constantly chanting your name reminds me why I'm here. I'm not here to humiliate you. I'm here to prove myself TO MYSELF. No one else. This fucking match ain't over yet... Not by a fucking long shot. Still got two more falls...
The drum keeps beating away. Drowning everything else out.
Jason Lundquist
I come out like a bullet at the bell, firing a few strikes to keep you off balance before cutting an angle and jumping sideways at your legs, my legs scissoring your hips and knee, dropping you immediately to your butt. In seconds I’m on the heel hook, the toes and ball of your right foot trapped in my armpit, my forearm hooking your heel and turning your foot while my legs keep your knee from turning, straining your knee ligaments. Even now, even in this fight, I don’t crank it. I apply it slowly with controlled pressure. It’s not mercy, it’s just…it’s what I was taught. You only crank a submission if you don’t have control. If you crank, they can’t tap before they’re hurt. But I turn it, slowly but surely, letting you feel as your knee ligaments reach their limit, wondering if you’ll tap before they start tearing like so much paper.
Jason_Lundquist: 
Jason_Lundquist: 
Gregory Stein
The fury of the initial attack at the bell catches me a bit off guard, but a small part of me thinks that maybe you're going so hard right from the bell because you're a bit nervous about letting this go on too long. That feels like maybe I've earned just a bit of respect from you. I can't help but smile. Even if it's not what's going on in your head right now… the idea that a fighter of your caliber might have some respect for me, pleases me immensely. I wanted you to respect me as a fighter, and if that's what's going on in your head… then I got what I came here for. I could lose the next 2 falls and still feel that I accomplished something. The 🥁 drum beat keeps me focused….
I punch at your leg as blinding pain blanks my vision. An animalistic part of me almost starts to panic. I feel pain already, but you haven't even locked it in fully, yet. The drumbeat in my head keeps me focused.
My sporadic Greco training allows me to grasp physical geometry almost instinctively. I know I've only got moments to act. Any longer and I'm done.
My brain flips and I see an avenue that might help me get out of this....
I rotate my torso towards you while pushing on your knee. I swing my other leg over towards the other one. These simple moves play your momentum against you. Freeing my leg from your punishing grip.
I have a very brief moment of elation that I was able to do this. Probably couldn't make it non-instictual without much more training, but it shows me that I am, in fact, capable of doing things I never would have thought possible before this match.
I use my greater bulk to roll us so that I'm on top of you. Somehow, not sure exactly when, I still have a hold of one of your legs. I try to redirect our momentum and lift your leg up, allowing me to get a firm grip on your lower back. Lifting you completely off of the canvas.
Instead of trying to slam you back down or squash you underneath me, the drumbeat in my head almost insists that I should create some distance between us.
I see an opportunity to use my strength to my advantage. I throw you towards the corner turnbuckle. Hoping the impact will increase that lingering back and neck pain from the suplexes...at least it'll buy me some time, long enough to shake out some of the pain from those brief moments of suffering.
Fuuuck!!! I know that if I had stayed in that move any longer, I wouldn't have been able to continue this match at all. I definitely would have tapped. Probably taking injuries that would have made me unable to continue. This Jason dude is good!!!
I drop into a close, but still inexpert, approximation of your fighter stance. Watching you. Waiting. That drumbeat continues. It reminds me of the most important lesson I'm learning here tonight.... I gotta think like a Fighter. Not a Brawler.
Jason Lundquist
This can't be happening. This isn't fucking real. I'm shocked as you're able to intuit--as far as I know without any formal training--how to unweave yourself from one of the most effective submissions in modern BJJ. To be sure, had you been anywhere near my size or strength, the sluggishness and imprecision with which you extracted yourself from attack would have bought you several torn knee ligaments and a useless limb for the rest of this fight, followed by surgery and months of recovery. But that doesn't change the fact that I had you dead to rights and couldn't fucking close the deal, with exactly the kind of submission attack that should work even against a bigger opponent. It feels... Unjust. Not right. I did everything right. I hold on to the attack too long, desperate to show my technique can conquer anything, so when I try to scramble back to avoid you getting on top as you roll us I'm too late, and again I'm lifted like a child. You essentially heave me at the turnbuckle, which I hit with a crash and a yelp, my back screaming at my as the ring shakes. I drop to the floor, heels skidding on the canvas, back spasming the first time I try to force myself to my feet.
Gregory Stein
I see that my bumbling bull approach did something. You spend a few moments trying to recover. The 🥁 won't let that happen. I rush across and the ring shakes with each footfall. I get to you as you're about to get upright once again. I shove you back into the turnbuckle. I vaguely see the LOLigaggers cheering and gasping. I hop forward. I drive a brutal knee into your inner thigh. First one then the other, hoping to do some lasting damage, but that's not my primary goal now. I start to pepper your chest and stomach with fists and backhands. Fists for the gut, back hands to the chest. No gloves. No straight punches to boney areas. I see gasps and sympathetic groans, cheers and shouting from the crowd, but that 🥁Jason.Jason.Jason🥁 is the only thing I hear. I gotta fuck this Jason guy up and fast, but there is a part of me, deep and primal, that feeds off the sick squish as my fists strike your gut. Getting lost in that primal need to destroy that we all pretend we don't have....
Jason Lundquist
Your technique isn't great, but you know how to throw your weight into strikes, and that's the main component of making them hurt. Your massive knees, accelerated by your hips and quads, smash into my left thigh then my right thigh. The one to my left thigh almost buckles my knee, and the impact smashes the muscles and tendons just above the knee. I've been kicked here by people my size--people who know to kick--many times. It's never felt like this. I can feel that there's real damage there, not just some blown blood vessels and bruised muscle, but I don't have time to think about it as the second knee nearly puts me on the floor--without the ring ropes I probably would have fallen. My knee is in a better orientation, so there's no risk there, but the placement of the knee is slightly higher and deeper, causing the attack to just smash my hamstring. It takes my foot off the ground for a moment. The pain isn't as immediate, but a second after impact I grunt involuntarily as I realize the damage. I drop my guard, not thinking about it, just as you start to hammer my stomach, your punches badly targeted but brutally strong. I brace, take a few, one manages to smash straight through my braced abs and still force the air out of my lungs. I can't take this. I can't take this kind of damage. My instinct is not to cover up or evade, it's to hit back. So I do. Brutal elbow to the face--just a straight elbow right at the cheekbone, nothing fancy. It gets your hands up. Then a perfectly targeted hook. I've aimed for the liver before, this time I find it. I dig in with my left fist, up and in, right at the right side of the interior arch of your ribs.
Gregory Stein
"OOOMMMPPPHHHF"
After that elbow, my guard instinctively goes up to protect my face. I'm still adreno-rushing from the fury of my assault, so the jarring strike doesn't hurt nearly as much as it could have, well atleast for now.
That, of course, is exactly what 'Jason' wanted. A very tactical mindset from you. Sure... you wanted to hurt me with the elbow but what you really wanted was my untrained instinctively reaction to pain.
That left me open to a precise, and targeted shot just below my ribs.
For a very brief moment it didn't really feel like much of anything. Just another in a veery loooong series of shots I've been taking throughout The Crucible. But then....
... then its like nothing I've ever felt before...my entire awareness suddenly focused on that singular point of impact. Then a jolt of lightning that radiates out from it causing my entire body to shiver... kinda like that time my buddy and I jabbed each other with electric cattle prods just to see what it felt like... but way, way more painful. Every muscle just slackens....the 🥁🥁 in my head stops. I hear a small, almost proud, voice in my head, or maybe it's came out of my mouth too..."Fuck, Professor. Nice shot." ... then its all autopilot. I cant move anything. I take a huge gasp of air. My knees buckle and I hit the canvas. Not a fall... Just a crumble....
Jason Lundquist
I hear you call me Professor and I hesitate for a second. I see the pain in your face as you crumple and I feel a pang. But...this is a match. I see the opportunity, and I have to take it. I wrap your neck up, elbow deep, in a guillotine choke, my left shoulder trapping your head, my left arm creating a deep V attacking both sides of your neck at once. I know it's tight--I've done this a million times. I pull up, keeping my upper body tight over your neck to stop you from pulling out. Go to sleep, Greg, I think. Just go to sleep.
Gregory Stein
What ..The.. Fuck!!!! Blanked the fuck out there .. waking up to Jason's arms around my neck. Squeezing like a motherfucker born to it. The 🥁🥁Is the entirety of my existence right now. I grunt and groan, feeling a steady thumpthumpthump in my ears. The blinding pain of that punch drowns out any awareness of actually being in the choke at all. All I know is that I gotta get up. Body on autopilot. Instincts alone... That is very dangerous with a fighter like Jason. Somehow I'm able to get to my feet...I'm surprised I'm actually able to move. I hope I can get some mileage out of whatever pain receptors the adrenaline is helping me ignore, before it wears off...from everything I've heard I shouldn't be able to fucking move if that liver punch is done right... And this fucker definitely got it right"
Jason Lundquist
You start staggering back up from your knees to your feet as I tighten the guillotine. What the fuck? I thought that liver shot was on the button. No, it was on the button. You're made of some...fucking tough stuff. But I've still got the guillotine. I push my hips in tighter, pull up harder, push my shoulder down more, squeezing the sides of your neck with even greater intensity. You should be feeling the increase in blood pressure in the capillaries in your eyes right now. Things should start to get dark any second. I just need to hold on and this round is mine.
Gregory Stein
I know that, against Jason and those technical skills, I have less than a few seconds to stop this. Instead of trying to pull my head out, I slide one arm up and over your shoulder the other between your legs. I don't bother trying to lock my hands, just enough to get you off the ground... the 🥁 drives me forward.... Through sheer force of Will, I lift Jason up and hold you across my chest looking for a nice place to plant Bou-Gi Bastard. Pounding in my ears grows steadily louder....
Jason Lundquist
I can't continue being surprised by your resiliency and strength. I briefly consider sagging back on the choke and throwing my legs around you, but if you don't pass out immediately that will get me slammed. Instead I let you lift me, then throw my weight in the direction of the lift--I shoot past your shoulders and, with some acrobatics and timing, land on your back. For a moment your massive arm--the one you put between my legs to lift me--is trapped by that same leg. I use the chance to thread in a rear naked choke. The chief killer in BJJ. My best move. Tight immediately. Chest pressing your head forward down into the choke. I have never been this deep and not finished. I bear down.
Gregory Stein
I'm still huffing and puffing as the 🥁🥁🥁 becomes more insistent.
I know that I only have seconds before this fall is over. I gotta do something to get out of this... fast!!!
In a surge of strength I didn't even know I had... I'm able to pull you forward over my head... an act of raw strength, especially given how I'm still feeling the, not-so-lingering, effects of that liver shot. One hand reaching back to your neck, the other gripping your elbow, pulling tight and leaning forward. ...
Jason Lundquist
A heavy hand clamps down on the back of my head, while your other hand grips my choking arm at the elbow. You pull your arms down and forward, leaning as you do. This isn't how one escapes this. When it's this deep, you don't escape it at all, but even if this weren't yet on deep, your best bet would be to fall back and try to scrape me off your back with the floor. But...you're so...fucking...strong...I feel my head being pulled away from your shoulder, forward past your head. I feel the angle of the strangle change, feel it losing its tightness. No. No, you can't be out of this too. Twenty years of training, my best fucking attack, on deep, and it's failing. My dead legs, still wrecked from those brutal knees, struggle to hold on to my hooks. I feel myself losing all of it. Being pulled forward. Fuck you, I think. FUCK YOU! As I drop past your head I grip the arm you latched on to my neck, both hands, abandoning the choke and my leg hooks, instead pivoting my hips around and throwing my legs around your arm and past your head and body, knees tight. One calf on your temple, the other on your flank, my hips in your armpit, knees tight, my entire body extends your arm. *Pop* I feel, then *pop pop pop* as the arm hyperextends at the elbow, as tendons in your arm strain and then tear. Tap you son of a bitch, I scream in my head. FUCKING TAP!
Gregory Stein
My muscles are used to being ripped during a workout but this is on a whole nother level. I almost tore a bicep way back when I didn't really know what I was doing but this..... This is fucking different!!
🥁🥁🥁
This pain is not just from the muscles themselves but mostly from the dam elbow joint, the actual joint that you never really think about having until you're experiencing something like this.
No one's damn body is meant to be bent like this once again Jason shows me the benefits of all those years of training.
🥁🥁🥁
Within seconds he's locked in and fucking dismantling my ginormous arm like a fucking surgeon.
🥁🥁🥁
Every muscle in my arm becomes almost like those muscles are trying to wrap themselves around my elbow so it can't be bent any further. "FUUUCCCCKKK!!!!" I hear the drum beat trying to get me focused on it and it alone. A white flashing heat in my arm. Agony like electric shock.
I know I've got to do something FAST my strength has to give me some option I just can't think about it right now I need the only thing my relatively untrained body can do under this torture I start struggling trying to get to my feet I can't shake Jason off. His grip and his form from years of practice, but he's used to opponents more his size maybe, maybe I can use that. he's still clinging to my arm as I summon all my strength to get to my feet I'm fucking shocked that, after the beating he's given me, I'm still able to do anything , much less this ...
Think I might have just heard a pop. That's no damn good. It probably wasn't audible but in vibrates my whole damn arm. The 🥁🥁🥁 somehow helps me actually get to my feet with you still holding on for dear life and tearing my arm apart....
🥁🥁🥁
But I do see an opportunity... If I can slam you down you'll probably mack your skull... but good. Maybe I won't be the only one walking away from this with lasting damage...
Jason Lundquist
I feel you lifting me as I hang on the armbar. Insane strength. Insane resiliency at this stage, after the hurt I know I've put on you. My head was already off the ground, but soon it's more than a few inches. I drive my hips in, pull my heels back, my hips forcing your arm further into hyperextension. The act of pulling up creates a pendulum force that swings me slightly past perpendicular to the floor, intensifying the armbar for a moment with the added force of gravity. I can feel things tearing. I think I've only pushed an armbar this far once--worlds when I was 20, still a brown belt, guy in the semifinal just would not tap. When he finally did, he was out for months after. I'm...doing that to my friend, and a part of me tells me to stop. To let go. That it isn't worth it. But I can't. I can't do that. I have to win this match. I don't know what I'll do if I don't. But you don't tap. You keep pulling me higher into the air, standing up straighter, making the pressure even worse on yourself. Now, a different part of me tells me I should let go--the part of me in charge of self-preservation. If you slam me here, it's on my head. That's dangerous. I could be stunned. KOed. Or if I get spiked at the right angle, I could end up paralyzed. But the part of me that has to fucking finish this, that needs to prove that my skill is real, that my martial art is real--the part of me that is terrified of what people are already thinking, already gonna say, about the outcome of this match--is in charge. I feel the weight shift. I become weightless as the pull up turns into a drive downward. I know I should have let go as my head hits the canvas. There's a flash of white, and for the second time in the night the world disappears.
Gregory Stein
Your head bounces hard on the canvas. Your arms go slack. I lose my grip on you. Fucking hell!!! Jason nearly tore my damn arm off. I look over, still a bit in awe of how I was able to pull that off. Didn't know I had THAT in me. I look over at you. Unmoving. I scramble over towards you “Prof???” but before I can finish the thought the drumbeat reminds me who that is… on the fucking mat… unmoving… I scramble over to mount you, pinning your hands to the mat above your head. A shooting shivering pain travels up my arm and back down…I barely hear the first slap, keeping that focus, but it's right after that that I start feeling you try to lift your hands. But if I know anything it's how to put my weight on a guy. You're not going anywhere. Can't have Jason squirming out... Just a few moments more....
Jason Lundquist
The world returns around the time the ref slaps the first time, and I hear him yell "ONE!" My head hurts. Dizzy. Neck hurts. I feel my shoulder-blades on the mat. Feel your massive weight on me, see you above me, looking forward into the crowd. I realize where i am, what's going on, just before the second slap. "TWO!" I try to force my arms up, to turn. My hands are pinned. I try to bridge, but my legs are weak and you're...so fucking heavy. I furiously try anyway, and I try to hip escape. Flailing. A frustrated, panicked yell escapes me. A third slap. Then..."THREE!" I keep fighting until I hear the bell, until you release my hands and sit up, starting to get off me. I lie there, staring at the ceiling. It's not just that I can't look at you, I can't...won't...look at anyone. You beat me. You won the match. I can't...I can't process that. It doesn't fit. It doesn't fit with who I thought I was. It doesn't fit with who I've told everyone else I am. After a long moment, I sit up. Force myself to stand. I probably do it pretty quickly, but it feels slow, like how you move in a nightmare.
I...I can't let you win the third round. Not because of the stakes--there's no stakes you could impose more humiliating than what has already happened. But because if I lose 3-0 I'm worried I'll never be able to come back from this. Never be able to trust my training, my skill, my...self, again. Never be able to look anybody in the eye again and tell them seriously that skill can overcome power, and that I can show them how. Somebody...Johnny I guess, offers me water in the corner, I don't notice. I'm staring across the ring, but not at you. Eyes open but focused on nothing. Trapped in the hell that is my own thoughts.
Gregory Stein
The referee taps my shoulder and tells me I've won the fall. I get off of 'Jason' and head to my corner. My fucking arm is pounding and electric bolts are flashing up and down it. Hopefully the adrenaline keeps cutting off most of my pain receptors or else its gonna be useless...
I bounce up and down. I see some of the LOLigaggers rushing ringside congratulating me on winning the match. I glare at them at snarl "Shut the fuck up you lot. This fucking match ain't over. There's still work to be done."
I turn back to face you as your brother gives you water. I let the 🥁 🥁 🥁 get me fucking back in the right mindset. Keep focused on Jason. Everything else starts to fade. Deep breaths... turn my body so that I offer less opportunity for you to attack my bum wing. Ill prolly need it later....
I try to copy your stance from earlier as I prepare for the only fall that really matters to me...
Jason Lundquist
The bell sounds for the fifth time this match. It'll sound exactly one more time--at the end of this fall. I come forward again, in a Muay Thai stance. Long guard, shortening as we tighten our range. Stalking into you, rather than running. Fists balled. No more palm-strikes to avoid breaking my hands because we're not wearing gloves. I need pure power. As soon as you're in range I attack. A jab/cross combo at the face, my knuckles hurt but I bet your face hurts more. Left kick to the inside of your shin, right above your left ankle. Hurts us both, but you more. You swing, something like a hook, and I ignore it, taking it on the body, feeling it bruise me, and giving you two shots back--a right body hook and a left uppercut. I stand in the pocket and bang with a guy who outweighs me by 70 pounds, all of it muscle, not because that's a wise fighting strategy, but because I believe I can knock you out, and I have to prove it. Not to anybody else, even, at this point. I assume everyone in this room has already written me off, already decided I'm not the badass they thought I was. But if I knock you out this round, at least I'll know my training was worth something--that it wasn't all a fucking waste.
Gregory Stein
And right out of the fucking gate Jason just rushes forward. Almost desperate in his attacks. I see those hands ball up and remember The Professor telling me he doesn't punch without gloves cause that's a good way to break knuckles. The 🥁 Jason.Jason.Jason.🥁 reminds me this ain't my buddy. Then those fists just keep driving forward. Trying to guard with my left and keep my right arm as far away from Jason as possible. Body takes some fucking serious shots. My arm is a bit numb from deflecting them....
But Jason appears to have abandoned most all of your previous guarding and is just trying to throw caution to the wind and really fucking effective punches to my damn body. Very little defense, but a fuck ton of offense. I see an opening as you stay in closer than you normally would. I stop guarding with my left arm. I lash out with a quick backfist to your chest then when my hand clears your chest I quickly grab your head with that hand pulling down as I drive my knee up into Jason's gut. Forcing you back a step or two, then firing another knee at that inner thigh I hit earlier... hoping to add to any pain you might still be feeling from that... then I shove your chest with my arm to try to create some distance ...
My face and ankle are throbbing from this latest exchange. But I think I can keep going long enough to not let it slow me down anymore than i already am... fuck Jason is a fucking artist when it comes to taking a dude apart...
Jason Lundquist
You batter me backward, then time your one-handed clinch well, pulling me into a brutal knee to the gut. The force of it smashes through my braced abs. I'm lucky I exhale in time, so that my diaphragm isn't hurt when the strike forces the air out of my lungs. As it is, the knee hits near where the ribs meet in my upper abdomen, bending them inward, bruising the whole area, stunning my lungs for a second. I drive back in anyway, trying to ignore it, but another knee finds me, this time your knee connects with my right inner thigh, blasting that leg out and away. The area is already badly bruised. The impact of your knee feels like getting hit with the iron face of a sledge hammer. The leg feels dead for a moment, then explodes in pain. I step with it and at least in that moment, it can't carry my weight. I drop to my butt in front or you, keeping my legs between us. Can't stop. Can't stop attacking. I fire my left heel at your lead knee, trying to buckle it, then roll back on my shoulders and fire my hips in the air, trying to hammer that heel into your face this time with a huge up-kick.
Gregory Stein
The strike to my knee sends me partially down but not quite fully on my knee. Then I see a little break dancing spin there and see the heel kick coming but not in time to actually prevent it from hitting but enough to move my head just enough to hopefully minimize the damage a bit.
I grab your leg, before you pull it back, with my right arm and try to send a punch to the knee with the left arm. Dropping as I drive forward with my knee into your thigh again. Trying to push off your foot in my grip to hopefully drive you back a few feet...
Jason Lundquist
I feel both strikes land, hard, but not perfect. You're still up. You catch my leg as I pull it back and punch my knee--not exactly orthodox, but it hurts, then you knee my other thigh again, sending another wave of stabbing pain through my right thigh, and provoking some mild spasms. You're still holding my left foot in your grip, so I try to yank it out, swinging my dead-feeling right leg, thigh still seizing, like a club at the side of your other knee--I can't stand back up until I get my foot out of your hands.
Gregory Stein
I keep a hold of your left leg with my right arm. You land a pretty solid, though obviously not full power, kick to my leg. It sends me off balance a bit. I give a quick ankle/knee twist as I grab that leg with my other arm ... then stomp trying to get another good shot to that wounded leg that I notice is hurting... then i release and back off to get some distance...knowing that anything that slows Jason down is a good thing. Gotta exploit whatever has got him so pissed, before he returns to the truly dangerous technician he is...the 🥁 seems to agree with me...taunting you as I beckon you forward with two fingers....
Jason Lundquist
You yank my foot sideways, turning it like a steering wheel. If you had control of my knee that would rip my ankle and knee apart--as it is it tweaks my ankle and knee hard and flips me up onto my side. Then you stomp my right leg again, sending another shock through it. The whole upper leg is red and swelling, particularly around the hamstring above the knee. More spasms. Then you back off. I try to force myself up and stumble back to my butt as my right leg quivers. I don't know if anyone in the crowd actually laughs, or if that's just in my head. I can't even fucking stand. I take another, slower attempt. Manage to get back up. The spasms slow down. Then I see you taunt me. Again I have a choice between shame and rage. I choose rage. It clouds everything. Fills me with adrenaline--though I've overused that already this match. I charge again, right leg barely stable as I do, then I launch off my one good leg into a massive superman punch, splitting your guard, cracking you hard in the jaw.
I land in front of you, my right leg nearly buckling as you stagger back, and blitz you back toward the ropes with strikes, and when your back is against the ropes, weight falling backward into them, I grab both of your legs at the ankles and drag you forward away from the ropes, dropping you on the canvas. I slide to mount. I should choke you, but all I can think to do is hit you. And hit you. And hit you. My hands hurt as I smash them into your arms and face, over and over. I'll have fractures all over my hands after this. I see blood, I see pain...maybe also fear, at least surprise. I yell--scream--as I deliver this beating, trying to fucking finish this, trying not to be erased in this match.
Gregory Stein
Fuck!!! For a moment I start to question whether or not taunting you was a good idea. Those fists are flying like pistons and hurting like a motherfucker.... I taste blood in my mouth and feel it on my cheek. The 🥁 keeps me from panic. You really are pissed as fuck. But strangely enough I don't think it's me you're mad at... Sumpin' else going on in your noodle.
My head constantly twisting back and forth as I try to prevent you from striking real dangerous spots. I vaguely remember Professor telling me once that he wouldn't chance breaking a hand by ,punching me in a dome without gloves. The drums seem to demand I test that theory. I turn the top of my head towards you as you send a fist down. Then right after you hit I take the Opening you've given me. Stop guarding with my arms and slide them in front of my chest. Quick thrust up to your chest then just bench you up and off to the side... Sending you flying across the ring...
I scramble to my feet and wipe my forearm across my face... Wince as I touch my eye. Shake of a bit of blood and sweat from my arm as I spit blood on the canvas. Two fingers beckon you forward...
Jason Lundquist
Your defense tightens rather than loosens as I continue to batter you, and then you tuck your chin, timing it well, so that my right knuckles plow straight into the dome of your head. Sharp pain. Broken knuckles for sure. I just keep punching. Then, unceremoniously, you launch me off of you with a mighty heave. Not technical. Not correct. And if I was thinking, a perfect opportunity to break your other arm with an armbar. But I'm not thinking. I'm just acting. I try to stay on but dropping my hips down onto your hands just intensifies the launching effect as you throw your hips into it too. You launch me several feet across the ring. You're on your feet before I get my legs back under me. I turn to face you and see that same fucking taunt. Stop, something inside of me pleads. Stop, this is...this is bad enough. Please. Another yell. Another charge. Machine-gun punches to the stomach. Knees to the quads, ribs, abs. Heavy turning kicks. Elbows. Everything in the arsenal. Everything to bring you down. I'm doing damage--and receiving it, as I'm hardly even reacting to return fire. But my offense is weakening. Weakening with every shot. Less and less power as the adrenaline engine sputters, as my cardio--which I train to be inexhaustible--fails me. The kid in me--the one who only earned praise through victory--refuses to stop. Refuses to try any other strategy. Refuses to take a break for even a second. I put you down, or I drop dead in front of you. That's all there is.
Gregory Stein
I see that rage in your eyes and on your face. It's obvious Jason did some real damage to his fists but he doesn't stop hitting me with them. The 🥁 almost mocks Jason. I start to see signs of exhaustion appear. The strikes become less powerful and slower. A little bit easier to defend against with each flurry. This is definitely not the Jason I started the match with. This is the guy who has allowed himself to be sucked underneath his rage, wherever the fuck it comes from, and he's no longer playing to his own strengths ... his tactical thinking and experience. The 🥁 pushes away all sympathy and tells me to keep it up. Keep you angry make you angrier. Your attacks are becoming slow and almost sloppy because you're not paying attention to where your strengths lie.
I use an opportunity that presents itself to drive a powerful fist into your chest. Then another knee strike to that aching leg. Grabbing a wrist before you can recover. I pull you towards me as I send a knee up into your stomach once again. I then step back and give you that two finger beckoning that seems to get your blood flowing...
Jason Lundquist
The punch to the chest hits, driving me back. I push back in, refusing to give ground. Straight into another knee to my right thigh. It buckles me, and I nearly drop, pain exploding through my leg. You grab my wrist, pulling me forward and up, into another knee, smashing the air out of me, my core not even properly braced. It feels like I'm getting stabbed. I drop to the floor as you back up. I stand back up, willing my right leg to hold any weight, fueled only by the dying embers of my rage and the adrenaline it gives me. I hear something. Johnny's voice. Johnny never coaches me during a round. He's four years younger. He never thought it was his place--he sometimes just gives thoughts at round changeovers. But today he's calling out in the middle of a round. His voice sounds strained. Worried. We don't even have coaches today--he's yelling this from the front row, where he's sitting.
Johnny Lundquist
"Recover, Jason. Circle. Back up and recover. There's no time limit to the round, hit and run, you can't trade with him!"
Jason Lundquist
He's right. I...know he's right. But then I see you gesturing. Those two fingers. That taunt. You're gonna do this to me, in front of everybody, in front of my baby brother, and taunt me while you do it. What kind of man allows that? What kind of man doesn't respond? So I do. I come forward again. I can't charge on my right leg, so I stalk my way in. On fumes. Throwing everything into every strike, and that everything is less and less. One good inside leg kick. A decent uppercut. A hook that slaps your side more than punches it. A knee that pushes more than pierces. Every part of my body screaming at me to stop. My brother is telling me the same. I can't.
Gregory Stein
A brutal kick to my leg followed immediately by a solid uppercut. Gets me stumbling for a second... But the strikes that follow are most definitely NOT what I would normally expect. They are weaker and slower. Barely causing any damage... The fire of your rage seems to be burning away all of your energy. You're slowing down. Even I can see that. ... I see Professor's brother shouting encouragement, but the drum brings my focus to you and not what's outside of the ring... I see the opening and I take it. Sliding my arms around your torso, lifting you off your feet as my hands clasp at the small of your back.. wincing from the pain to my arm, but biting through it because I sense that I can probably seriously worry about that injury in the not too distant future... The 🥁 reminds me 'Now is not the time to worry about pain. It's time to give it'.... ...
Veins pop out on my neck, arms and forehead as I start to squeeeeze...
Jason Lundquist
I feel your arms tightening around me again, like in the first round, and again you lift me off the ground like I weigh nothing. But this time, there's nothing left in me to fight for an escape with. I dig for under-hooks, but your grip is tight, and can't force any. I'm too weak. You're too strong. Twenty years of early mornings, late nights, training and perfecting technique, hundreds of tournament matches, fifteen MMA fights, and it comes down to that. My rib cage compresses, my lungs can't fill, my back arches, and the squeeze intensifies. I feel a pop in my ribs--in the back, middle. Sharp pain, like a knife being inserted. I try to force down any reaction--the yell is reduced to a grunt, but still escapes. Then a louder pop in my back that draws a real yelp--sharp pain down my legs from impingement on the spinal nerve. I can't escape. The rage finally dies, replaced with deep shame...and grief. I'm gonna lose 3-0. That's the truth. I should tap. I teach my students it's not brave to refuse to tap when you're caught--it's cowardly. It means you're denying reality to protect your ego, and forcing your training partner to hurt you. My right hand hovers over your back, ready to do it, ready to signal my submission to you. To admit to you that you're too much, and that I'm not enough. I will myself to do it--at least, that's what I'm consciously thinking.
My hand doesn't move. Something deeper, something darker, something broken at my core won't let me do it. On top of everything else, I betray myself, too ashamed to acknowledge what has happened, even though everybody can already see it for themselves. Another loud pop. Rib. Two more. Back. The pain is terrifying. I hear Johnny screaming at me to tap. He must have seen me getting ready to, seen my hand hovering, and just realized I'm not going to. This isn't one I can just let go and walk off with a few months of physical therapy. If you keep squeezing those pops in the ribs--intercostal tissue stretching and straining and tearing--will turn into snaps as ribs actually break. Then, eventually, several of my lumbar disks will bulge and maybe slip. I could be out for years. I could be paralyzed. My brother keeps screaming--pleading with me, begging me to tap. Another pop draws a pained wheeze from me. I can't see Johnny's face at this angle, but I know what it looks like when he's scared. I still can't do it. I'm sorry, Johnny, I think. That you have to see this. I'm sorry, Dad, that I still don't measure up. And I'm sorry, Greg, for making you hurt me like this.
Gregory Stein
Those pops combined with the only voice in the arena I can hear being Johnny as he pleads with you... the 🥁 stops beating as your struggles practically stop. I look down at you and it ain't Jason I'm hurting anymore.... I think to myself 'Damn it professor why? You're breaking your own fucking rules. Why you want me to hurt you?'.... I can't keep doing this to my boy. I decide this needs to end...NOW!!! I can't let you make me hurt you... an idea pops into my head... I just hope you'll forgive me for it later...
I let go of the hug. You're nearly done anyway, but I know that unless I end this, you'll force me to do shit I don't wanna do. I wrap my arm up and to the side of your head trapping your arm.. my other arm slides up and clasps the other one. My biceps press against that vein as my head pushes your shoulder against the opposite side. I know I got it right cause this is how you showed me how to do it......
I whisper in your ear "See Professor? You may not think I listen... But I do. You taught me this". I quickly am able to secure the hold then bring you to the ground where I have even more control ..... I look over and see Johnny...Mouth 'I'm sorry' ...
Jason Lundquist
I'm scared. Scared as another rib pops. Panicking for lack of breath, because I can barely inhale given the compression. But my hand won't move. Then I feel you loosen. I hear you say I taught you something. You call me Professor. I try to move as you adjust your grips, but everything fucking hurts, and I'm so fucking tired. I feel you lacing up a head and arm choke from standing. Perfect. On the button. You learned it well. I try to stay standing as you bring us to the floor, but my feet skid on the mat. You're mounted on me, choke laced up, tight. I have no control. I'm in your control. A gentle, merciful squeeze. No pain, just pressure behind the eyes. Then nothing.
Gregory Stein
The referee comes to check on you... my vision is focused entirely on Johnny. My eyes pleading as I keep mouthing 'I'm sorry.'
The referee taps my shoulder, an electric bolt shoots down my arm. "That's it Stein. He's out."
I immediately let you loose. I gently roll you into the recovery position. I stand.. knees buckle a bit as pain I've been pushing down with adrenaline comes rushing in... demanding i pay attention. I turn to the crowd... some screaming for me. Some screaming at me. I shout "Alright LOLigaggers, we live in a damn society. We got rules... water Now!"
The crowd erupts in chants of 'Choke a bitch. Hydrate a bitch' as several water bottles are lobbed into the ring.
I go to check on you, but the medical guys are already doing that better than I could.
The referee goes to raise my bummed wing. I snatched it away and let him raise the other one in victory. Patrick, a close friend and one of the EMS guys affiliated with the Lights Out Lounge checks out my messed up arm while that happens.
Normally I'd be getting another adrenaline rush from victory, but I'm too exhausted... too beat to shit to be able to celebrate... plus I gotta make sure Professor is okay. Make sure I didn't break anything for real. Body or friendship-wise...
Jason Lundquist
I wake up in a lot of pain, but I would double it not to feel the eyes on me right now. I hear Chokeout announcing your victory.
Chokeout
"And the winner of the Crucible of Ares, with a 3-0 Dominant Victory entitling him to three stake selections and dooming us all to endless stories about this match, Greg Stein!"
Jason Lundquist
There's some laughter, some cheering. A medical technician is checking on me, sees my eyes open. It's Scott. A medical guy affiliated with the Lounge. We've fought twice. We're...close. Really close. He cares about me, and I can feel his eyes searching for mine. I can't meet them. Don't want to see how far his estimation of me has fallen. He gets me to sit up. Shines a light in my eyes to check my pupils.
I hear some people in the front row whispering. Can't tell who. A few yell some generic encouragement at me. Johnny sounds like he's up next to the ring, I can hear him clearly, telling me it's gonna be okay. I can't look at him either.
I've dedicated my entire life to fighting. The people watching all know that. You haven't. This is...what? A hobby for you? And I don't even appear on the scoreboard. I feel exposed, because I've been exposed. My thoughts are spiraling. How do I teach classes? How do I hold myself out as an expert? How do I rebuild an image of myself it has taken my whole life to build?
My throat is tight. Tears are forming. One escapes. I furiously scrub it from my face. Force it all down. I have to... I have to be gracious. Do what my father taught me. Make no excuses. Accept the truth. Let your opponent have the moment they earned. I can't take this from you. So I try to get up. To...walk over, or something. Congratulate you. But I choke on my own breath as I start to stand--I catch it just before it becomes a sob. If I break in front of everybody it'll be worse, so I just sit there, staring vacantly ahead, trying not to think. Trying not to process any of this until I can do it where people can't see.
Gregory Stein
I see you sitting up. Scott, another of our medical guys, has given you a once-over. I limp my way over to you as I hold my arm tight to my side. I put a hand on your shoulder as you look down, and give it an affectionate squeeze "Hey Professor get up here. I wasn't the only motherfucker in this match" I spit out blood "This is your celebration too..."
Jason Lundquist
I feel your hand on my shoulder. Feel the squeeze. Hear everything you say. I know you want to pull me up, hug me, raise my hand with yours. I want to give you that. I want you to have that ending to this match. I'm so fucking sorry I can't give it to you. I don't look at you directly, but I do my best to get close. Enough to let you see how close the dam is to bursting. "Please," I whisper. "Don't." After a moment I feel you lift your hand, start to stand. I don't want that to be all I said to you. I turn, make myself to actually look at you, and force out "Good match, Greg," in a strained voice.
Gregory Stein
You finally look up at you... there's a look in your eyes, combined with the sagging shoulders it makes me doubt myself. I think 'I wanted to test myself against a bad mother-fucking fighter. Did I just destroy my friendship for some selfish desire to test myself? Fuck that's a price I don't wanna pay....' but that look and those saggy shoulders make me think this is about a lot more than post-loss bruised ego. No clue what. No clue why. No clue how to help. But I sense anything I do now will just make shit worse....
I remember seeing an old match of yours where you bowed to your teacher... I think maybe that's my only way here. You may not understand it now, but i hope you give me the chance to let you process, whatever THIS shit is and understand why I did it later...
I stand up making sure you're still looking at me then I give a very deep, respectful bow and limp out of the ring and get my accolades from the LOLigaggers ringside. My celebration is half-hearted at best. I'm in a lot of fucking pain and I have far more pressing worries on my mind...
Jason Lundquist
I see the bow. I turn away. I know what you're...trying to communicate. I know it's not mockery. And from you, I know it's not just an attempt to be polite or spare my feelings. You mean it. I can't make myself nod, but I watch until it's done, and only then look away. I look past Scott, who has kept silent--he knows what this means to me, and how useless anything he might say right now would be--and I ask "am I good to go?" He nods. I slowly stand. Fuck my leg hurts. I hear a couple of cheers. Can't make out who. I slide out of the ring. Johnny is there. Makes me put an arm on his shoulder. Some folks reach out, offer encouragement, consolation, I can't take that shit right now. I say nothing. About halfway to the door backstage I realize my gi and belt are still under the ring. I look back. The belt I wore out is my original black belt. The one my dad tied around me. I can't...I can't imagine even touching that belt right now. Johnny asks what I'm looking at. "Nothing," I say, turning back. We resume our way out of arena.
Gregory Stein
The LOLigaggers are excited congratulating me and saying it was fucking awesome... I cant stop from watching you leave. ... they say things like 'wow I'm impressed' or 'you're a bad ass'... I grumble under my breath. "You know I wasn't shadowboxing up there, someone else was in that fight too...."
That's when I notice your hands are empty as you walk out of the ring... I shift my gaze and extract myself from the boys... I go ringside and lift the apron... suddenly an inexplicable anger starts making my ears burn when I see your gi all nice and folded up where you put it before the match... I start grumbling and grab it. Holding it in my arms as I push away from the pressing crowd grumbling under my breath "oh this motherfucker DID NOT leave his special fucking jammies..."
I stomp back to the locker room. Every foot fall like I'm 'punishing the ground for the crime of being underfoot' i push open the door and see you and Johnny standing there.. I come over to you and almost reverently set the gi on the bench next to you....
"Hey Professor Favorite... you fucking left this. Don't know exactly why? But I know its important to you. The dude who fucked me up this bad don't get to just toss something like this aside like its a fucking dirty shirt."
Jason Lundquist
If I were less exhausted, I'd respond with rage. It threatens to well up in me anyway. This fucking idiot, I think. It's not the gi or the belt that's fucking dirty. But of course you can't understand it, you think they're special fucking jammies, not the holy objects they are to me. That black belt is my most precious possession. Maybe if I'm lucky I'll eventually feel worthy to put it on again. I imagine it'll be a while. I glare at your uncomprehending face until you walk away.
Gregory Stein
I go and start to gingerly disrobe. Wrap a towel around my waste. I head off, limping and sore to the showers....
Johnny Lundquist
I watch that interaction, see the misunderstanding, and I'm incredibly relieved that Jason doesn't say anything. I see Greg moving off and I move to intercept him. I put my hand on his arm to get his attention, and there I am, all 5'6" and 150 pounds of me, standing in the way of this freight train that just ran over the best fighter I know, my big brother. I look up at him, earnestness in my big, ice blue eyes. "Thanks...for protecting him in there," I say, "you didn't have to do that. And what happened wasn't your fault, it was his. He knows that too." I look at Greg wrapped in his towel and say: "I'd offer you a hug if that wasn't maybe a little too intimate at the moment."
Gregory Stein
Something about this dude and how he said what he said, and why he said it makes most of my irrational anger dissipate... Professor may be my brother, but this dude is his BROTHER. I make sure my towel is secure. I chuckle "y'know Johnny I'm totally hugging you in my head right now." I give a quick shoulder punch. I point to the bruises and cuts covering my swollen face... chuckle "well maybe next time I protect him... I'll wear a face guard or some shit." I smile in a manner that shows I am not in the least bit angry. "You're a good man Johnny. Maybe you should go back to Professor Bou-Gi though. I think he needs ya more than I do right now."
Johnny Lundquist
I walk back over to Jason, and look the idiot in his eyes. He finally looks back. "You're fucking lucky," I say. "That it was him and not some asshole who hates you out there." I let some of my own fear into my eyes. "You scared the fuck out of me."
Jason Lundquist
I keep looking at Johnny. I nod. He's right. The kid is...usually right. He's wiser than I am. Has been since he was about 12. I look up at the ceiling. "Yeah," I say. "I'm sorry." I keep looking up. I should talk to him. Unburden myself a little. But Johnny's carried enough of my bullshit for one day. And big brothers shouldn't dump their burdens on little brothers anyway. "I need to shower, man. Need to talk with Greg about stakes after. You can go. I know you teach Judo in the morning." Johnny looks at me skeptically. "I'm good, man. Really." Johnny keeps those interrogating eyes on me, not buying it for a minute, but I see him realize he's not gonna get anything more out of me tonight. He gives me a gentle hug, trying not to squeeze anything damaged, then leaves. I slowly manage to get out of my stuff and make my way to the shower.
Gregory Stein
I pass you on my way out. Still can't understand what the fuck has got ya so twisted. You walk towards me but don't look up at me. It's not anger in your eyes it's some other shit that I can't make sense of. I know that I only won because I found 3 opportunities to exploit. If someone was taking score my 3 wouldn't even compare to all the shit you did that I'm definitely gonna feel tomorrow. I want to tell you that but I know I can't. I got the emotional depth of a teaspoon, but I know anything I wanna say is gonna be the wrong thing. I decide to take the advice the Mama-in-my-head is telling me 'Just shut the fuck up Gregory.'... I let you pass by.
I get to the locker room and cave in one of the doors with my fist. Not in anger, but frustration and a gnawing fear. Frustrated that I have no clue how to help. Afraid that I might never be trading quips in the LOL with Professor again.
Mauler of Souls mewls from his carrier.... . I reach in and scratch his head. He swats me and digs his little kitty claws into my arm. I pull my hand out and shake it as I smile "yeah Mauler of Souls I guess I deserved that, but it does give me an idea..." I close the carrier and try to smile through all the pain of my swollen face.
. I reach in and scratch his head. He swats me and digs his little kitty claws into my arm. I pull my hand out and shake it as I smile "yeah Mauler of Souls I guess I deserved that, but it does give me an idea..." I close the carrier and try to smile through all the pain of my swollen face. I spit blood on the floor and start getting changed... Wincing as I do. "Yeah. Mauler of Souls, I think that might actually do something to help... I grab my phone and look for a specific contact--they work late, I know. This is probably doable tonight.
Jason Lundquist
I sit on the bench near the entrance to the locker room in my usual stuff. Shorts, olive LOL tank, flip flops, waiting for Greg. The rules don't obligate him to claim his stakes--any of them--right away. But if he wants to I don't want to be missing. I've already fucked this up enough for him by taking this so hard. Not gonna make it any worse by being a bitch about the stakes. Johnny's gone and for the first time since the match started I'm actually alone. It feels better to be alone--no judgment except my own. No sympathetic looks that only show me how far I've fallen in others' eyes. But I know from experience it actually is worse. The desire to be alone is self-destructive. And the fact that it feels good is what makes it dangerous.
Gregory Stein
I come out fresh and clean, but covered in bruises and scrapes and a few hastily bandaged cuts. Carrying Mauler of Souls' carrier. I nudge you with my foot. "Hey Professor Favorite, getcher ass up.". Playful grin that you've come to associate with when I think I'm being clever, but actually just end up being a big dork. "You ready for # 1 ?".
Jason Lundquist
I look up at you, then down at Mauler's carrier. I resist the urge to immediately ask what the first stake is. Whatever it is, I'm accepting it. I nod.
Gregory Stein
I push you towards my surprisingly nice car. You can see Nana in the Front passenger seat... "You might be Professor Favorite in there but in my car you ride in the back." I give you a big smile as I shove the pet carrier in your hands "Here you take Mauler of Souls"... I grin over the top of the car at you "Get in Professor... This is gonna be fun. Hope you cleaned all my blood offa your feet.."
Jason Lundquist
I hop in the back, honored to hold the carrier of the cutest little Dark Overlord in this plane of existence. The little orange death machine boops my finger through the grate. I buckle in, wondering what Greg could possibly have in mind.
"Hi Greg's Nana, I'm Jason," I say from the back, almost forgetting to introduce myself. "Your grandson just beat me up."
Gregory Stein
I slide in and give Nana a kiss on the cheek. "Don't listen to Professor, Nana... As you can clearly see from my not so purdy face... Well I may have won, but he was the one did most of the beating."
Greg's Nana
I cup Gregory's bruised up face and shake my head in disappointment: "Gregory, you sure have some strange definitions of fun." I turn around and smile at Greg's little friend. "Oh are you the WWE guy?"
Gregory Stein
I quickly correct her as I start the car "MMA Nana".
Greg's Nana
I look this young man in the eye and apologize. "Ohhh sorry. 3 letters. Fighting. I can't tell em apart sometimes."
Gregory Stein
I look at you in the rearview. "Buckle up there Professor...we gotta get Nana to her stories, then we got some punishments to distribute don't we?" I give you a playful wink.
Jason Lundquist
"Already locked in, man. I wouldn't risk Mauler of Souls. And 100% ready," I say, not quite sure if it's true.
Gregory Stein
From all the bruising and swelling it's difficult to tell, but you see the subtle signs around my busted lips and one good eye that are indicative of Greg Mirth. "You might not wanna be so flippant about it Professor... You don't even know what's happening..." I try to wink but my eye is too swollen to really tell if that's what I'm doing. "Let's just say you're gonna be walking funny for a few days."
On the ride to Nana's she chastises me for picking on a smaller guy. I point to my face "Nana, this look like the face of a man who was picking on anyone.? Shit if anything he was picking on me. Slapped me around like a big fucking dumb gorilla." She slaps my arm and chastises me for my language.
We pull up in front of Nana's place which has a yard sign that reads "Greg's Nana's place. Back off chumps". I help her out of the car...
Greg's Nana
I wave to young Jason and smile, then say "Nice to meet you Jason. And don't worry about Gregory's face... We've all wanted to do that to him at one point or another." Greg helps me inside. Once we're inside I give Greg a big ziplock bag of brownies. "You give these to that nice young man in the car. He looks like he needs them more than you do."
Gregory Stein
I come back to the car with the brownies and hand them to you. "Nana said you looked like ya needed a snack"
I pull away and start to play some music that sounds like a bunch of anime characters on Ayahuasca doing Mongolian throat yoddeling... "Ready fer this Professor?"
Jason Lundquist
I'm a little apprehensive after you suggested I'd be walking funny after. I don't...think you're gonna fuck me tonight, since you also mentioned that you hoped I washed my feet. I take a bite of one of Nana's brownies. I'm not fighting again anytime soon, I don't have to weigh in for a while. They're fucking incredible. I almost cry. "Yes, Greg," I say, my strength renewed by Nana's baked goods and the feeling of Mauler of Souls's cute little wet nose bumping into my finger. "100%. Like I said."
Gregory Stein
I change the music. Look back at you in the rearview "so I was thinking we can start off with a nice walk down by the lake then maybe a casual dinner and some nice little out of the fucking way bistro and see where the night takes us. Sound good Professor?"
Jason Lundquist
I look up at you like you've just revealed you're an alien: a mix of shock, dismay, and horrified curiosity. "That sounds like some basic bitch shit, but I'm at your command, dude."
Gregory Stein
I chuckle/wince "dude what the fuck you think I am a 13-year-old girl?"
Like the song says "yo soy un puta hombre de acero"
I laugh and wince in pain ... Pull up into the parking lot of a tattoo parlor... "Vivir para luchar otro día... Professor. I'm gonna make sure you never forget what we did tonight. Now grab Mauler of Souls and let's do this huh?"
Jason Lundquist
I unbuckle, grab Mauler of Souls, and follow you into the place. "Small tattoo of the winner's choice" is one of the stakes on the list you can choose from. But what, and where, I can't guess.
Gregory Stein
We walk through. Pretty much Everyone is covered in tattoos. They all seem to know me pretty well, which might be weird since you just saw me naked and I don't have a single tattoo. I greet everyone by name and say "This is Professor. Cal's gonna do us up right."
Cal, Tattoo Guy
I give a knowing chuckle..."oh yeah... The MMA dude?" Greg called about 40 minutes ago, must have been after the fight. Told me he'd just fought an MMA guy who now needed a tattoo. Kinda weird that Greg fought somebody so much smaller than him, but he looks like he got the worst of it, as far as I can tell.
Gregory Stein
I walk you over to a table and take Mauler of Souls' carrier from you. "Well get up there. Like I said I hope you washed my blood off your feet, cause I ain't gonna get all Mary Magdalene on ya."
I give a quick back slapping bro hug to the artist. "Hey Cal this is Professor. Do it up."
Cal, Tattoo Guy
I look at Greg as he plops the little orange kitten down on Jason's chest. "You're exact words were, 'in the style of a twelve-year-old girl just learning to cartoon,' that still what we're doing?" I'm a little surprised that the kitten just...stays there on the MMA guy while we talk. Greg confirms, gestures at the cat and tells me that's my guide. I laugh and start to wipe Jason's foot down.
Gregory Stein
I stand nearby with the closest approximation of my mischievous grin I can manage...
Jason Lundquist
I lie there, trying not to move as Cal wipes my foot. I am ticklish as hell. Another embarrassing quality I hope to avoid revealing. I jerk as an errant fingernail slides up my sole.
Cal, Tattoo Guy
"Oh shit, sorry man," I say. "Don't worry, the needle doesn't tickle."
Jason Lundquist
"Can I see the design?" I ask. Cal scribbles something out quickly. Hands it to me. Despite everything I'm feeling, I smile. Then laugh. Really laugh. Fucking miraculous. "Greg," I say, still chuckling. "You sure you want to spend a stake on this? I'd probably do it anyway."
Gregory Stein
"Abso-fucking-lutely Professor. You ain't never gonna forget tonight. And every time you mack some dude in the fucking face a little bit of tonight is gonna be there to show them what we did."
To be continued...
Published: 2026-06-24, viewed 145 times.
Little Jake
27 days agoThis was absolutely nothing like I was expecting. I’ve spent time with Greg before and have an idea of what he’s all about, and this really went so far beyond.
First and foremost, GREAT tattoo Jason! Absolutely something earned and that you’ll think back on and appreciate from now on. I was expecting a real and rough match, if not brawl, between Greg and Jason. And, they delivered!!! What I was not expecting was the absolutely draining emotional throughput of it all. As Greg pointed out, he’s got the emotional depth of a spoon, so all that heavy lifting was from Jason, and it’s masterful! I think there’s been a Part 2 teased, and I’m looking forward to seeing how you both take this even further. Absolutely masterful…
Jason Lundquist
26 days ago(In reply to this)
Thanks so much, man. Greg indulged me when it came to exploring the emotional impact of this fight. I wanted, for once, not to under-sell what it would mean for a life-long martial artist to come up short against the kind of person his skills were supposed to enable him to defeat, and show the wound as one to identity, not just to confidence. Really glad that came through. Part 2 is coming very soon, and hopefully you'll enjoy how we extend and resolve those threads, and also enjoy learning that if Greg's emotional depth is that of a spoon, it's at least a bigger spoon than you might have thought. It was a blast writing this whole thing with Greg, I couldn't have asked for a better partner to do it with.
Gregory Stein
27 days ago(In reply to this)
I don't know whether I should thank you for your comment and your appreciation of what we were trying to accomplish with this story, or be upset that you agree with me about the emotional depth of which I am capable of. I got real human emotions and stuff. But, you are right, I was not questioning myself nearly as much in this match.As the professor was. He did an amazing job with the fighting.And with the fighting himself internally.
And as far as the tattoo goes, that was actually the primary initial impedice for the discussions about this match.Well, before we ever even started writing. A well aged private jokeThat it was fun to finally bring to fruition.
Freaker
2026-06-25 06:46This is much more than a fight. it is a clash of philosophies. Gregory Stein represents raw power, resilience and instinct, while Jason "The Professor" Lundquist embodies decades of technical mastery and discipline. It is spectacular action. The emotional conflict is every bit as gripping as the physical one. A fight with outstanding character work, and a steadily rising tension . We can wait for the part 2.
The High Table.
The board members.
Jason Lundquist
2026-06-25 13:17(In reply to this)
Thanks Freaker, the intention was to produce something grounded in character and psychology, something where both the fight itself and the psychodrama feel real. Very glad it landed. It was a blast to write this with Greg.
Gregory Stein
2026-06-25 10:15(In reply to this)
And once again you deliver amazing feedback. Always appreciate it.
The Professor and I spent months planning, and then finally writing this, it would have pissed me off if we didn't produce something amazing. and I am definitely not pissed off.
Kad Royce
2026-06-25 05:56It’s a fight with real intensity, psychology, respect hidden beneath the violence. Jason who cuts in technique, Greg who sucks like a brick and finds the perfect opening... it sounds real, it lives, it hits. You feel two guys who know each other, who test each other, who push each other to the limit.
Honestly, well done to both of you—Greg and Jason.
You fought a powerful fight, clean, with heart and style. I like that.
Jason Lundquist
2026-06-25 13:22(In reply to this)
Thank you for the comment and so glad you enjoyed. Greg undersells his own contributions and oversells mine, but I echo his remarks on this being a team effort and very collaborative.
Gregory Stein
2026-06-25 06:22(In reply to this)
Thank you for your kind words.Very much appreciated. I absolutely loved the hell out of working with Professor. And for most of this part of the story, the fight, I heavily relied on his greater real life technical fighting ability. Largely, he gave me suggestions on what i could do to achieve what we are trying to do and I ran it through a 'Greg filter'. I don't think i've ever made a story that felt as cooperative as this one. So thank you for your kind words.