Apocalypsis 01 - Kahayatle

weaker fighter’s favor and the stronger man went down.   I was hoping that wouldn’t happen here - I was the one with the better skills.   I knew that with every fiber of my being.
    I knew he was going to come for me at any second.   His hand and shoulder positioning told me he was going to slash at me, stomach-height, from his left to his right.   He was holding the knife in his right hand and it had already started swinging ever so slightly, showing me the plans he was making in his mind.   I doubted he even knew he was making them consciously.  
    He came at me in a mad rush, leaving me little time to prepare my response.   I did what came naturally to me, after years and years of practice with guys much bigger than me or him.   I waited until the last second - when he thought he had me and started his arc - to jump back and curl my body into a u-shape, allowing the blade to slice the air where my belly had just been.
    The momentum of his strong stroke meeting nothing of resistance caused his arm to continue its sideways motion, leaving his abdomen open and unprotected.   His legs were spread for balance, and I took advantage, kicking high and hard, intending to check him in the balls.
    He swiveled at the last second, causing my kick to go into his thigh instead.   It didn’t destroy him like I wanted it to, but I knew he felt it.   He struck me once hard in the face with his open palm and then danced back, putting some distance between me and his precious parts.
    “You bitch.   You’re gonna pay for that.”
    “Not if I can help it,” I said, breathing heavy not with the exertion, but with the amped up reaction to his threats and the chemicals in my veins.   My face stung where he’d gotten a piece of me.   I took some deep breaths, calming myself for the battle that was to come.   I could feel blood dripping down my face from my cheek.
    This was the hardest part, when the opponent realizes he’s underestimated your skills.   He’s more careful now, more studied in his decisions.   There would be less weaknesses for me to exploit.   And I hadn’t managed to relieve Trip of that knife, or the other one I was sure he had in his other pant leg.   Now was when I had to be exacting in my work.   No mercy could be shown and no quarter given.   It was do or die right now, and I chose do.
    I’d been on the defensive for the whole time so far.   Now it was time to attack.   I approached him, praying that he’d take the opportunity to try and use that knife against me and that he’d try a lower stroke this time since he knew the higher aim hadn’t worked out so well.
    He didn’t disappoint me.   He pulled the knife back and then leaned over, bringing it forward to slice up under my arms.  
    I bent over in half again, making sure that knife couldn’t make contact with my body and crossed my arms in front of me, throwing them out, connecting at their juncture with his knife arm, about four inches up from his wrist.   As soon as the forward motion of the knife swing was stopped, I slid my right arm out of its crossed position, up to his elbow, pulling it towards me while simultaneously using my other hand to twist his wrist around and bend his arm up around his back.
    Now the knife was in his hand and pointed at his own back.   One shove from me on the bottom of the handle and I could take out his kidney, making it game over.
    Instead, I just pushed a little.   One pop from my fist, enough to sink the blade in a half-inch, before I grabbed it out of his semi-limp hand and tossed it out of our circle.   I pushed his bent-over form away from me and backed up.
    I heard gasps around the circle as I danced back and forth on my toes.   He had blood running down his back, smearing his paint, making his injury look way more gruesome than it really was.   He was going to be pissed, but I had to try and end this without someone getting more hurt.  
    “I didn’t push the knife all the way in, but I could have.   Fight’s over.   I won.”
    He stumbled one step before standing up most of the way, a murderous look in his eye.
    “Bullshit!” he yelled, before he charged me, hands out, ready to choke the life out of me.
    I let him come.  
    As soon as his hands locked on my throat, I reached up, my hands facing down in a cupped and hooked position, coming up and over his arms to meet in the center in front of my throat.   I used the couple inches of space between my hands and the