The Monster flips her opponent across her hip, slamming her to the floor.

    "What a take down!" the announcer shouts. The medium sized crowd rises up out of their seats to better see the fight on the ground. The Monster moves into side control with her opponent attempting to guard. The announcer watches with the crowd, unable to look away. "It looks as if the Monster's opponent is losing the will to continue late in the first round."

    The Newcomer completes a portion of her guard and manages to trap one of the Monster's legs. In response, the Monster starts landing punches. The Newcomer guards as best as she can, but is unable to stop the unrelenting onslaught. The Monster passes the Newcomer's guard into full mounted control. The crowd roars and the announcer rises out of his chair, bellowing into his microphone, "And that's our university Monster! Using her skinny yet toned figure to pass the Newcomer's guard!" The Monster starts hammering and throwing punch after punch onto her opponent's face. The Newcomer, now practically helpless, tries her best to use her arms and hands to protect herself. Blood starts to stream down her face a single drop at a time; gashes and cuts appear more frequently with the successful landing of each blow.

    The Monster thinks to herself, if you don't give up your back, you're about to lose via TKO. A smirk erupts on the Monster's face to accompany her fists. She grabs the Newcomer's right wrist and prepares to sweep her left leg up and over the body of her opponent.

    "This could be the victory right here!" the announcer shouts excitedly. Just as the Monster is about to sweep the Newcomer into an arm bar, she gives up her back and rolls onto her stomach. The Monster immediately wraps her arm around her opponent's neck. The headlock exerts pressure and the Monster squeezes, adding even more. The Monster digs her feet in and under the waist of her opponent.

    In one swift motion, The Monster pushes up with her feet and rolls. The Newcomer, realizing the bad position that she is in, fights, squirms, and struggles against her opponent that lies underneath her. She tries to tuck her chin up and under the arm around her neck, but to no avail. She looks up at the ceiling, since that is the only place she can look. Desperately, she yanks at the arm around her neck to create any chance of freedom.

    Once the Monster has her opponent humiliatingly exposed on top of her, she locks her ankles together, arches her back, and squeezes the Newcomer's neck harder, enjoying every second of it. She feels the carotid pulse in her opponent's neck racing. Flexing her arms, the pressure skyrockets. Using her free hand and arm that is not supporting the typical headlock, she reaches around the Newcomer's face, placing her palm on her opponent's cheek. It looks as if she intends to break her opponent's neck in addition to the humiliation and unconsciousness sure to follow.

    I jump out of my audience seat and sprint towards the octagon. I leap up onto the outer platform of the ring to get an overhead view. Grabbing my camera from around my neck, I snap multiple photos for my newspaper article.

    I see the Newcomer wearing a fierce expression on her face full of anger, rage, and determination. The Monster, however, does not look phased at all; even considering she literally has her opponent's life in her arms. Hell, she is not even breaking a sweat compared to the Newcomer, who is soaked in it.

    I watch through my camera lens as the Newcomer taps the Monster's arm repeatedly. The bell rings; though, the Monster does not let go. The referee attempts to pull the Monster off, but the Newcomer passes out. Only then does she release her grip. One thing is for certain, I think to myself. Everyone, no matter who, no matter where, love to uphold reputations.

     The Monster pushes her opponent off of her, flipping her unconscious body onto her stomach in the center of the octagon. She stands up and looks down at her opponent, who is now regaining consciousness and the color in her face.

    The referee looks up, "I can't even count the number of times we've warned you about this behavior. The next time you do this, you're suspended from this club for a time to be determined by the director."

    The Monster shrugs. "You nor the director wouldn't dare suspend your number one star. Without me, this little MMA club of yours is nothing and you know it. So how about you settle down and let me do what I want? Your threats are meaningless. Perhaps you should actually do your job and pull me off my weak opponent at the sound of the bell." She pauses and cocks her head to the side. "Or are you afraid I will kick your ass, too?" A light frost crosses her irises.

    Jim glares at her. "You have quite the mouth."

    She gives him a thumbs-up with both hands. "You're quite the perceptive one, aren't you slim Jim?"

    Jim's face turns red. The newcomer stands up, still coughing at a moderate rate. He helps her find her balance, but she shrugs him off. "I don't need your help," she hisses.

    The Monster laughs, "Maybe you should take the help that's offered to you."

    "Maybe you should shut your mouth," she retorts.

    The Monster steps closer, now face-to-face with the opponent she just choked out. "Yeah? And just what are you going to do about it?"

    Jim steps in and pushes the two of them away from each other. He pulls the Monster to his right side, and the Newcomer to his left. The announcer steps into the ring and begins bellowing into his microphone. "And the winner of this match via a submission due to a rear-naked choke, Vanesa "The Monster" Perez!" Jim raises her arm into the air.

    The crowd bursts into a roar, followed by a chant, "Monster! Monster! Monster!"

    I don't partake in the chanting. I am too busy writing down and recording the after match drama. After all, college students love drama just as much as high school students, right?

    Normally, it is exciting to be the victor of a match. Happiness, a smile, laughter, something should cross the victor's face into the form of an expression. But nothing crosses Vanesa. Her facial expression is just as cold as her remorseless stare. For a college sophomore, she is quite tall. She stands just under 5'10". Her light brown hair barely extends past her ears. Her body itself is pretty tan; though not from sunbathing or numerous tanning beds like many men and women use. Rather, she is tan due to her nationality. She is of Cuban descent, born in Miami, Florida. Her facial features do well to bring out her cold, frosty features. Her frosted eyes match well with the color of her short hair. From a distant eye, you would never expect a girl like this to be competing in a MMA club or fighting in general. She just doesn't fit the profile. She's thin, but athletic. She's skinny, but strong. She's a mean one, Miss Bitch. I am not sure if that last one is a compliment or not.

    Vanesa always wears the same MMA attire during her matches. She is sporting her typical black trunks that are covered in strange red symbols. Her black top is the same, covered in red symbols that alternate in a different pattern than her shorts.

    While her physique may be misleading, her skin tells a different story. It is covered with bruises, cuts, scrapes, scars, and other various injuries that vary in all shapes and sizes. Using my own judgment, I say she has been fighting for the majority of her life. Though, no one really knows since she always has one or two bodyguards following her wherever she goes; not like she really needs them to be quite honest. Her story is a mystery, and that intrigues me.

    Vanesa rips her arm away from Jim's grasp. She looks out at the medium-sized crowd as the cheering continues. The Newcomer, who apparently goes by the name Ana, Jim, the referee, and Vanesa all still stand in the center of the octagon. It is hard to hear my own thoughts let alone someone talking right in front of me due to the continual chanting of the crowd.

    From my current position outside the octagon, I turn away from it and face the crowd. The majority of the audience are standing, arms thrashing wildly in the air. Some of them are even doing fist-bumps, or is it fist-pumps? I do not even know. I scan through the crowd with my camera, peering out at them through my lens. I snap a picture every few seconds to capture different angles, light, and positional settings. As I complete my 180 degree sweep in front of me, the crowd goes silent. I stop looking through my camera lens and scan the crowd with my own eyes. "Huh?"

    I turn back towards the octagon only to be face-to-face with Vanesa through the cage, her face less than an inch from mine. She pounds the cage with her open hands. "And who are you?" she demands.

    I lose my balance and fall off the platform. The platform is elevated about a foot off the ground surface. My back hits the cold, hard floor with a thud. My camera lands off to the side, but I cannot tell if it's broken or not. I lean up to see Vanesa hopping up the octagon. She pauses, crouching on top of the cage like a predator stalking her prey. I push my glasses up that fell down my face from the fall. The Monster jumps, completely bypassing the platform and lands on her two feet, standing over me.

    I look directly up at her cold stare. God she gives me the creeps. I start to scoot back and squirm away, but she moves her right foot to my chest and presses down hard. She freezes me in place; unable to continue my backwards attempt at escape. Breathing becomes near impossible as I struggle to intake air, gasping for breath, secretly hoping that I wouldn't have my asthma re-emerge. She bends over a little, hunching her back slightly. "What do you notice about this club and the paparazzi?" she asks.

    I lean up and scan the room as best as I can from this position. As I lean up to look, the pressure exerted by her foot decreases, only to increase again after I stop moving. There are no other cameras, photographers, or reporters in sight. Hell, there isn't even anyone taking pictures or recording with their smartphones.; which is no doubt surprising. "Huh," I express.

    "How did you even get in here?" she demands. I notice portions of the audience moving closer and surrounding the two of us.

    I pause for a moment. There is one thing you should know about me. When I am uncomfortable in a social setting, I resort to smart-ass and sarcastic remarks. "Through the front door?" I answer.

    Chuckles and snorts can be heard from the surrounding audience. Vanesa squints her eyes. "We do not allows reporters in here."

    "Well, that's good. Since I'm just a freshman journalism student. I wouldn't consider myself a reporter."

    Vanesa moves her foot off my chest. She bends her knees and moves down, hovering over my stomach on her tip-toes. She grips the front of my shirt and pulls me up like a school bully about to steal my lunch money. I'm all too familiar with that. Using her free hand, she grips my jaw hard with enough force that she could snap my neck with the twist of her hand. As if this wasn't enough, I feel her feet press against my hips to keep me stationary and prevent movement. Our foreheads practically touch, not even an inch separating them. Up close, I notice that her eyes are various different shades of blue, alternating in circular patterns like an encroaching thunderstorm.

    I gulp and try to speak, "I-"

    "Any preference on which arm you would like broken?" she interrupts.

    Is she joking? "Uhm," I stutter, "My right arm I guess." Subtlety, I wrap my hand around the camera that fell just within arms reach. I point it towards us and snap multiple images assuming the camera isn't broken. God I hope not. "Can you get off me?"

    Vanesa glares at me. "Oh? Not used to having a woman on top of you?" she retorts.

    I blush. Honestly, I'm a virgin. This is the closest to human contact I have ever had with a girl. I'm just too shy, lack confidence, and have little to no social skills or support. For crying out loud, I don't even have a wing man. "Well," I begin.

    Vanessa interrupts me again, "Are you a virgin?" she asks directly.

    "No!" I immediately shout into her face.

    "Oh my God. You are aren't you? The glasses, the lack of muscles, the like of journalism. I am assuming you have no friends, too. You're just a waste of a human being. You're useless. Pathetic. And you view the lives of others through the lens of a camera instead of actually doing something with your life."

    The last person to tell me these things were my family. Not just a single family member, but my entire family as a whole. I'm the outcast, the reject, the weird loner that some families are all too familiar with. My eyes start to feel watery. I am not sure whether the building tears are due to anger, sadness, or a combination of both. "Get the hell off me," I demand.

    "Are you seriously about to cry?" she asks. "Really?"

    The surrounding audience members start to whisper and mutter to one another. I cannot tell what they are saying. Some of them start pointing and laughing. Some are even rolling their eyes and making crybaby faces. I'm used to all forms of humiliation. Of course it still fazes and affects me. But not to the degree that it previously did. "I said get off," I repeat.

    "Or what?" she threatens.

    I feel the pressure exerted by her hands increase. She grips my shirt tighter. She grips my jaw harder. Her feet start pressing harder into my sides to the point of pain. Still holding the camera in my right hand, I swing it at her head. The crowd gasps simultaneously.

    She blocks it, still maintaining direct eye contact with me and grabs my wrist with her left hand. "You shouldn't have done that," she says coldly. She moves and extends her left leg, hooking it around my arm. In one swift motion, she moves my right arm in between her legs as she transitions herself to the right side of my body. My right arm is pressed and held tight inside her legs, which are now extending across my body. She pulls on my arm.

    I scream out in pain. "Stop!" I yell. The water in my eyes begins to overflow against my will. I don't have a high pain threshold.

    The crowd erupts with laughter. "Break his arm!" one of them shouts.

    "Do it! Break it!" screams another. The crowd beings to chant. "Break it! Break it!"

    Vanesa talks over the roaring crowd. She leans her head up and looks at me. "Tapping won't save you here. I've been too nice with so-called reporters and journalists. This time, none of you will come back to this club. Especially after I break you."

    I turn my head and look at her. "Please, don't," I beg. "I won't come back. I swear!" Vanesa is right. I do sound pathetic.

    The Monster doesn't listen. Rather, in response, she moves her left leg behind my neck; pressing the lower portion of her leg against it. Her right leg moves up and under my chin. She squeezes my neck between her legs at the same time she extends my arm even further. I feel my arm fracture, but not break. I only have a few seconds before I pass out. I try to scream but nothing comes out. Colors start to collapse on my vision. I see Jim, the referee, jump in and pull the Monster off of me, but it's too late. Just as she is forced to release her hold on my neck and arm, I pass out.