Lights, Fights, and Fast Cash

[Misfire]

M7W2D5- open. Undisclosed location currently set up as a fighting ring.

---

The crowds part automatically as the young fighter is led through them by his handler for this meet. A few people waves signs that proudly read Pop 'em Papago and other supportive messages. Others shout their encouragement as he passes by. A pretty brunette in a polka-dot sundress slips up from between a couple of shouting fans and into the young man's arms.

"Lots of people for a supposedly unadvertised pick-up fight," the girl observes in a voice reminiscent of Fran Dresher, "You sure this one's on the up and up, sweetie?"

Reid McClaren, aka the Papago Kid, smiles down at his girl and gives her a squeeze. He waits until they are both behind the curtains which divide the ring from the crowd before he answers.

"Eh, it's just slicker than we're used to is all," he says, his voice still holding a heavy hint of Irish brogue, "Lookit that ring. That's some top-work there, no boards on cinders or gravel pits for this crew. It's made for easy tear down and set up. Bet half an hour after the last bout, you won't know anyone was here."

His eyes wander around at some of the assembled fighters. Some folks he knows, some he doesn't. "They got them a good mix a' folks for this one. It won't be easy matches for sure. But it's a heavy purse, even for my weightclass. I get that, I can get you that ring you've been eyein,' make things legal."

His escort has moved on, so Reid looks around for the check-in table. Spying it, he gives Rosa a peck on the cheek (and a pat on the bum) and urges her back out of the area.

He walks over to the table. "Hey-o, Reid McClaren, Papago Kid, middlewieght class. Anything goes," he says, rattling off the usual answers to the usual questions.

Reid does have his invitation in his shirt pocket, if it's required of him.

[Swerve]

Some minutes after Reid comes a fighter new to this particular setting; he's been invited up from the back-alley gatherings, the ones where the only ring is the bodies of spectators hemming in the fighters, due mostly to his reputation for sheer refusal to back down when he probably should. His greying auburn hair and the deepening lines around his eyes and mouth make him look a fair piece older than the average fighter here, but those eerie amber eyes of his are as bright and fierce as ever, warily taking in the scene from under a deeply furrowed brow.

It isn't the purse that brings Willard here; it's the promise of better, tougher fights. More chances to blow off all the steam of passing the days in the wrong body, going by the wrong name, living the wrong life. He tenses his hands enough to pop his knuckles as he approaches check-in.

[Fleetwind]

Less than a week from now, Fletcher Payne will make a fight prediction that upsets someone enough that he'll be forced to go into hiding.

But that hasn't happened yet, and so now he's here instead. The delicate looking man appears extremely out of place as he stands off to the side, rather near the check-in table. He watches the fighters as the approach to check in, making notations on his tablet. His gaze settles on McClaren for a moment, then moves on to one of the other fighters. A lot of new faces this time... that'll make the estimations tricky.

[Swindle]

The Dealer is wearing a black pinstriped suit with amethyst cufflinks today. And a bolo tie, of course. He's hovering near the check-in table next to Fletcher, making small talk and working the crowd. "Who do we like tonight, Fletch?" he asks. He doesn't wait for an answer though, sidling away before the other man has a chance to answer to go aggressively shake hands with The Papago Kid.

"McClaren! Good to see you! How are you? How's the accent? Still adorable?"

[Misfire]

Reid's hand is shaken rather more enthusiastically than he was prepared for. He looks a little puzzled at the rapid fire greeting, but just nods his head up and down.

"Oh I'm fine, mister. Thanks for the invite. I guess you're the one I should be about thanking, at least," he says distractedly.

He's distracted because he's rather openly staring at the very pretty gi- man. That is a man by the check-in table and that means that Reid shouldn't find the man the least bit pretty, much less be having the types of thoughts he is suddenly having.

He shakes his head sharply. Those thoughts are gonna cost him a pile of Hail Marys at confession this Sunday. Guys are not supposed to think like that about other guys.

"Anyways, yeah, so how many fighters you expecting?" Reid asks as he pulls his hand back. He gives Willard an appraising look when the older man walks up. That one won't be easy, and Reid hopes he doesn't pull him in the draw. You don't get that old and stay on the circuit unless you are one tough bastich.

Reid nods respectfully and steps aside so Willard can get to the table.

[Swerve]

"–Name, I said," and Willard snaps back to reality, glaring at the guy seated behind the table. "You losing your hearing, old man?" Willard bristles and very nearly throws a punch. He reins himself in only because he knows he'll have real fights in just a little while.

"Sw– Swanson," he says, muttering through his clenched jaw. "Willard Swanson." He watches while the guy skims down a list and checks off his name.

"Weight class?" comes the next bored question.

"…You guys have weight classes?" Willard blinks, bemused by this, and gets a snort in return.

"Small-time," says the guy as if that explains everything. "How much you weigh, pops?" Willard blinks again, because he's never weighed himself, and the rings he was in never bothered separating the fighters by weight, so it didn't matter. This gets a disgusted sigh and he's pointed to a scale off to one side. "Get on. What's your preference?" There's a question Willard can answer.

"Anything that don't involve gloves," he growls at the same time the guy checking the scale pronounces him a middleweight. He isn't precisely a boxer – more of a brawler, really, and an acrobatic one at that.

[Fleetwind]

"Sorry, sir, can't answer that until I have the match-ups," Fletcher answers, examining his notes. "It's not just about who's best overall, it's also about the individual strengths and weaknesses."

As Willard approaches the table, Fletcher studies him, making no attempt to disguise this. Sizing up fighters is his job. Then he turns his attention to Reid, conveniently late enough to miss the fact that Reid had been staring at him moments before.

[Swindle]

"Yes, still adorable!" the Dealer gushes, attempting to put an arm around Reid's shoulder. "Oh, no thanks are necessary. When I heard they were throwing this little shindig together, I just knew you ought to get an invite. We're expecting a good number of fighters. Should be a fun night!" he says, flashing a grin and perhaps giving Mr. McClaren a fatherly pat on the back before weaseling his way back through the crowd to Fletcher, picking up a drink somewhere along the way.

[Misfire]

Reid allows the arm and the pat, giving the Dealer a rather bemused look as the other man continues to gush and the wanders away. Once the Dealer isn't looking his way anymore, Reid shakes himself. He's been around many a slimy worm during his time on the circuit, but this is the first one that's made Reid feel like he needs to hit the showers before he hits the ring.

He frowns as he hears the desk jockey deriding the old fighter. Reid steps back up. "Hey now, don't be giving the man grief just 'cause he don't know all your particulars. Not every show is run the same way, ya know."

Reid was raised to respect his elders. Sure, he and Willard may be beating the tar out of each other in short order, but that doesn't mean Reid won't respect the man.

"Don't let 'im get you too worked up, man," he says to Willard. Reid thrusts out his hand. "Name's Reid McClaren. Looks like you've been knuckle and skullin' it a long time. That's a rough circuit to be working. You must be a hellava good fighter!" he finishes, grinning.

[Swerve]

Willard just eyes Reid's hand for a while, not quite sure he should take this at face value. There isn't much camaraderie in his usual circles, and a handshake is likely to end in a sprained wrist or broken arm. But then, this isn't his usual circle and this McClaren guy seems almost decent. Seems, Willard keeps in mind as he cautiously takes Reid's hand in a firm grip.

"I'm decent enough," he says, stiff. He's more stubborn and fierce than skilled and he knows it, accustomed to fighting with pipes and cannon before fists. He sizes up Reid while he's at it; built a little more solidly than Willard, with quite a few scars of his own. Probably no pushover. But too slagging amiable; it's sort of grating. Willard's gaze flicks to the Dealer and his scowl deepens. "Who's that guy?"

[Fleetwind]

Fletcher frowns as Dealer returns. Reid and the new one are pretty fairly matched, in his estimate, but he still doesn't have the line-ups. For the moment, though, if those two end up facing each other... well, it'll depend on the prior fights, but Swanson has a roughness to him that leads Fletcher to favor him. He leans over the shoulder of the person working the check-in table, looking to see if they've started setting up the match-ups.

OOC: Do you two want to assume that you guys are the dramatic final match up in class, or are you a trope-subverting early match?

[Swindle]

The Dealer sips idly at his martini, watching the crowd. "Should be a profitable night tonight," he remarks idly to Fletcher.


OOC: Skippable unless there's more for him to do.

[Misfire]

Reid's main failing is the same as Misfire's really. He's overall a genuinely nice guy who just also happens to play for Team Evil. Reid is less Evil^tm than Misfire, maybe, but he isn't good.

He gives Willard's hand a good firm shake and answers, "Him? Of he's been seen on the circuit for a while now playing the number's game. Heard him called The Dealer. Not sure if he's the one behind this fight or is just reppin' it." Reid frowns, "He's one smarmy, blarney-filled, poncy guy, that he is."

Reid bounces on his heels slightly and twists his head, trying to look over the crowd. "Ah, yeah, there it is." He jerks his thumb back over his shoulder. "Warm up area's back that way. They usually got drinks and snacks for those what like to fight on a full stomach or tipsy." Reid snorts, "Think it's stupid, myself. But I could use a water and a session on the bag before things get crazy."

He starts to thread through the crowd. Willard can follow or not as he chooses. Reid did the nice thing and introduced himself and all, but he isn't taking Willard on to raise, as they say.

---

OOC: I'd vote for final matchup. This whole thread is a walking trope. Might as well keep to it! Shall we skip to the fighting?

[Swerve]

Willard doesn't immediately take himself to the pit with the other fighters; he hangs back a moment, eyeing the Dealer suspiciously. Most of how Reid described the guy doesn't parse well, but smarmy goes through clearly enough, and he's reminded of a few promoters and announcers back home. He didn't really like them; too backhanded about things.

Eventually, Willard does head back, after watching people a bit longer and committing faces to memory even if he has no names to go with them. Scarface for the security guy with the ragged seam running across his cheek and Pinhead for the willowy guy with the tablet at check-in tag as neatly as any name would, and he finds it easier to pair descriptives that way. He doesn't know these people, and by token he doesn't know who might or might not be an Autobot they haven't found yet – or who might be a Decepticon.

He keeps that fact in mind as he powers through fight after fight; if he happens to beat another Autobot bloody, he can apologise later, as much as he ever apologises. If he beats a Decepticon bloody, all the better. He hears more than one remark about his apparent age, and it starts getting him hotter under the collar than simply being human. He isn't that old; he can clearly still fight and put down men who have half the apparent years he does; why do people keep poking the issue? To tick him off? That must be the case, he assumes, cracking some greaser's jaw with his knee. Like others he's fought, the guy found out the hard way that the wide spans of scar tissue on Willard's flanks aren't all that sensitive. His ribs still ache, but it isn't as though a punch to the rippled, too-shiny skin will buckle him.

Nevertheless, by the time he's through the last couple of fights, he's nursing a split lip, a bloody nose, a cut in one brow where somebody's fist opened the scar there, and more than a few new bruises. And he's still not ready to quit.

[Fleetwind]

Fletcher watches the fights with interest, taking notes now and again. While it takes a round for him to get a proper feel for the newcomers, it's not that long before he has his report. He moves up alongside Dealer and says quietly, so as to avoid being overheard, "I wouldn't be surprised if it comes down to Swanson and Reid tonight. I'm leaning towards Swanson. They're both at pretty close to the same level, but he's... hungrier." Of course, Fletcher could be wrong. It's not that he's never wrong. He's just rarely wrong.