April 29, 1992 1:54 AM
Los Angeles, California
Grendel.
One of the definite favorites in the Tontine, and clearly one of the crowd favorites, this Brujah leader strode confidently into the ring. The lights above gleamed off of his bald cap, shining into the crowd, many of which were chanting "Grendel Grendel Grendel". He was holding his arms up in triumph, as though he had already won. Set up with a potential semifinal date with Chandra, he was feeling confident and strong with little or no active bleeding. "Time for the mystery man to get exposed."
His opponet was the talk of the the tournament, a mysterious Caitiff from the Carribbean. Never having given a name, he had been referred to by the announcer as "The Jamaican." When pressed for a name, he said that the Jamaican would do fine. Nobody knew who he was or why he was here, but some whispered that Ransom knew something. Others whispered that he had some deal with the Tremere. Nobody knew for sure, but everybody wanted to go. The only vampire to advance with only one win in their initial heat, he had shocked everybody by beating New York Brujah Xenon in the first elimination round, and then trumping it by barely defeating local favorite Salvador Garcia in the second. He was weak and limping, looking uncomfortable and out of place. Grendel sensed victory.
The two got into the ring, Grendel sneering. "Looking weak, aren't you there, Jamaican? You sure you don't want to drop out now? You barely got past Garcia, and he's part faerie."
The Jamaican crouched in pain and looked up at Grendel out the top of his eyes, hissing. "If one needs insults to make one feel big, they should be playing with the rest of the Toreador."
"Ooooooooohhhhhhhhh." The crowd bristled. It was one thing to fight Grendel, but another thing entirely to call him a Toreador before he kicked your ass. It was rumored he could keep a vampire out of torpor for weeks while using only the power of his fists. As far as they were concerned, the Jamaican was a grease spot.
The fight commenced -- a flurry of movement and Grendel was standing where the Jamaican should have been, his claws and fangs fully exposed in a killing position. The look on his face was confusion, for where he had expected to find the Jamaican's neck was nothing. At least for a half second it was empty, shortly before being filled by the Jamaican's curled fist.
Grendel's nose was pushed backwards at least an inch before the rest of his face followed. The crowd gaped in awe as he stumbled back from the tremendous blow. The Jamaican went it hard and fast, clearly stronger and faster than previously thought. Grendel fell back under an onslaught of blows that he hadn't thought possible.
The crowd heard rib after rib crack, eventually watching the Brujah's right arm follow suit as he raised it to fend off the Jamaican's blows. The Jamaican just grabbed the arm with both hands and twist in opposite directions. Grendel gaped in horror as his forearm ripped open from the inside.
He never recovered from the initial onslaught. Although he mounted a brief counterattack, it was halfass and more face-saving than a geniune counterattack. Some would in fact say that the Jamaican had let him make it, perhaps not to rub it in so bad. Sort of like a coach who puts in his third string in the fourth quarter when up by 40.
But there was never a doubt who was going to win this fight. The crowd watched in stunned silence as the elder Brujah finally slumped to the ground, only held off the floor by the Jamaican's grip on one of his exposed ribs. The Jamaican stood up straight for the first time and looked to the referee, Grendel's blood splattered on his face.
"The winner: The Jamaican!"