They fucking love me.

  They cheer, and bow, and rage whenever I enter.

  They worship the ground I spit on.

  And how could they not when I am everything they ever wanted? I am the perfect Ringmaster. They come to me to watch a man lose faith in himself. They come to me to see true despair. They come to me, not because I am any better than any other champion, but because I am worse. They come to me because I know exactly what they want. Sure, some fools care for the sport, but I give the junkies who truly love the game what they crave. I throw them my best meals. Dishes that I've handcrafted into masterpieces. Those who love me eat well, and I eat because of them.

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  The rook walking towards me looks like a fanboy who grew up to be a man. I've watched countless hours of his film, and his work is so fucking clean. He has no tricks, but can spot them from four moves away. He throws like a dart and hits like a jet engine. He's a carbon copy of any great fighter he needs to be. He jabs like Liston, hooks like Ward, sways like Dempsey, and has stamina like Frazier. His only weakness is his footwork. He just barely loses his stance on the cross, but if it so much as fucking grazes me I'm done. I'll take him through to the ten, ring him through the eleven, and pick him in the twelve.

  I just need to deliver a show that has never been seen before.

  We've both fought great men before.

  Now we each fight the best.