A month later, Gabe had a ragged gash extending from just above one eyebrow to the cheek, over his right eye. He let it heal badly, because it told everybody we was willing to fight rather than just bend over and take it..

Three months into his nine-month sentence, he was pulling his fists up to his face, looking at an opponent over his knuckles in a quiet corner of the yard. The guards liked to turn a blind eye to it, because boredom was very real and this was more fun than betting on the horses.

Gabe had learned to fight on the streets, where if you didn’t know how to get yourself out of a scrap, you would die. Sometimes from a beating, sometimes from starvation. If you couldn’t defend yourself, you couldn’t keep your food, your bed, your life...

After Mr. Xero had left, Gabe realized that he would have to kick his survival instincts into high gear. This was hammered home when he was transferred to a new wing the next day, with the kinds of guards who preferred indifference over action. His protection had run out.

Part of the problem was that he was pretty. He knew it in a way that wasn’t vain, only factual. Gold blonde hair that fell in lazy curls, blue eyes and a lithe frame. Outside it made his Friday nights fun, inside it made him a target. It didn’t matter if he shaved his hair off, that he wore an oversized jumpsuit, the perverts still found him. They wanted to taste. So he decided that hiding it wasn’t worth the effort. He wore muscle tops and stared anyone who came close in the eye, never smiling, never backing down. And unlike other fems that he shared his wing with, who were more than happy to offer up their asses in exchange for protection, he made it clear he would fight, every time.

Instead, he immediately set to pulling in what favors he could from the outside; there were precious few but it was a start. He had made some promises, and he found some useful ‘friends’. He used whatever leverage he had; cigarettes, chocolate and the promise of work post-time served. It was meager, but he was a resourceful kind of person.

The next thing he did was start bulking up. He could fight, but he needed to look the part. And compared to some of the muscle he saw stalking through the rancid corridors of the jail, he had catching-up to do.

Somehow, he managed to win. He had some people he was paying to be on his side. He made sure he wasn’t alone. But it wouldn’t be enough; bought loyalty was unreliable and the nature of his company was fickle at best.

So he entered into combat with purpose. His little fight club had the guards’ tacit approval, as long as it stayed small and not too messy. Through clandestine arrangement and the exchange of hushed words, he arranged matches for himself and the other inmates. The rules were sparse but simple; you weren’t allowed to kill anybody.

It was ripe soil; a confined collection of the kind of people who only understood a world where your ability to cause pain and injury determined whether you got on your knees, bent over, or told someone else to..,

Fighting honed his skill and built his muscles. He paid for them in scars, bruises and a broken bone or two. But, he was becoming a person people thought twice before confronting. Being a ring master also meant he had some power. People wanted the chance to fight, to burn off excess rage, which they had in copious amounts.

So, if anyone wanted in on a fight, they only had to ask. Never pay though; blood was enough currency, but a man could earn a reputation, which Gabe found useful and exploited shamelessly.

He circled his opponent, a man built from lard and cheap tattoos, grinning at him hungrily. He recognised this one from poisoned looks shot at under locked brows, an angry buzzing presence in the showers, accidentally-on-purpose shoulder bumps in line-up. He wanted to beat on Gabe. Gabe’s ringmaster status didn’t make him immune; he was priming for a fight.

Gabe was glad to take on anyone who asked. He very rarely came off worse, but his reputation was growing in such a way that people wanted to take him on, just so they could say they had, and in their minds, winning would give them power. Gabe did grant it to some. If a fight had been good, he could do favours. They might find a cigarette on their bed the next day, they might be lucky enough to get another helping of bacon. Gabe could do this. He had the pull, now.

He could tell this guy wouldn’t be one of those. This guy wanted to kill Gabe. Gabe never asked why people wanted him dead, you didn’t ask that sort of question here. He would beat and kick at Gabe until he was a wilted mess on the floor and blood dripped from his ears. The crowd shifted eagerly; they didn’t care who won; they scented madness and it made for good sport. As much as Gabe had the seat at the top, there was always a grim satisfaction in seeing power smeared into the dust. They wouldn’t help him; it was in the rules. Not even his bodyguards could step in if he was gasping his last.

Gabe had fought this sort before. He would have to end it quickly if he didn’t want the other to get the upper hand. People like this were similar to pit bulls; they latched on and would only let go when they were dead. They didn’t know what losing looked like.

Tattoo guy lunged forwards, more force than finesse and Gabe easily side stepped his clumsy assault, planting a quick and painful jab right in his jaw as he passed. There was an answering jeer from the audience. The guy stumbled into the space where Gabe had been, hissing and grabbing his chin. Gabe danced away, with an unnecessary twirl that kicked up the dust around his feet. His opponent worked his jaw, then spat a wad of saliva and blood into the ground.

“You should have saved it, pinto. You could have used it to glaze my cock before you suck me off.” Gabe jeered, and the comment got a laugh from the crowd.

His opponent however, did not appreciate the joke. He turned back to Gabe, and there was a wildness in him now that was bordering on insane.

“I’m gonna beat the pretty off your face.” He said before launching at him once more.

The fight didn’t last long after that. Anger made him clumsy, and Gabe wasn’t angry at all. He might joke and grin, but his mind was cool and calculating. He saw every messy blow before it landed and darted away before trading hard, bruising punches of his own. When they guy dropped to his knees, Gabe kicked him over so he fell onto his side. As expected, tattoo guy didn’t know when he was beaten, so Gabe swept his leg around in a well-placed kick that landed on the collar bone, and it earned him a satisfying crack. The audience was happily enjoying the show, showing their appreciation with approving groans, words flung out in a-sympathetic cries, laughing at the mess that lay now on the ground before Gabe, spitting blood but lacking the strength even to do that. The saliva and blood dribbled over his chin and down his convulsing neck.

Gabe went to stand on his chest with both feet, ignoring the ragged screech of pain it caused. Hands came to scrabble at him, but there was no strength left now. Leaning down, he bounced a little, forcing the breath out of the loser in a thin, pathetic wheeze.

“Aint no one taking my pretty.” Gabe said, then slid his feet down over his ribs and leaned closer, voice now low and menacing. “And I do the beating, pinto.”

He punctuated his remark with a final kick to the head. He left the unconscious body for someone else to clean, before walking away.