April 29, 1992 2:10 AM
Los Angeles, California
It had all come down to this. 67 fighters had started this evening with visions of being one of these two, fighting for the belt. 65 of those fighters were losers.
Jeremy MacNeil was the hometown favorite, the crowd's darling, and easily had the largest support of any Kindred here. He had attempted to rile the crowd up into a frenzy of emotion. Several of his closest allies were chanting "Mac-Nee-Ell" as though they were rooting for their alma mater at a football game. The crowd was very, very definitely in MacNeil's favor. MacNeil seemed to be confident of his ability to capture this belt.
Talking to the bookies, however, would have gotten you a different result. 95% of the gambling had gone for the Jamaican, and the odds had shot up to 20:1 against MacNeil. MacNeil may or may not have known, but the crowd had clearly been influenced by the Jamaican's crushing of Grendel and defeat of Chandra, the defending champion.
Jeremy MacNeil was riding a sea of anger into the fight. The Jamaican had pulled him off of the prone body of hated rival Carlos Ramirez, denying him of the chance to put an end to their bitter antagonism. Ramirez was now under the care of the Jamaican.
"Caitiff," MacNeil was practically spitting. "As soon as I finish pounding you into the ground, I'm finding Ramirez and finishing off you both. You don't come into this city and disrespect me!"
"Of course, *Prince* MacNeil. Since this is your city, you may do as the Traditions of the Camarilla dictate. However, you are a pathetic little man who speaks not to intimidate me but to impress your disciples. You are no Anarch, Jeremy MacNeil. You are exactly the opposite, in fact worse, for every Prince I've ever claims his title and responsiblities. Of course, that would mean you aren't to blame for this.....fiasco." The Jamaican waved a hand to indicate the chaos outside caused by the L.A. riots. "Perhaps Prince Lodin would be happy to instruct you?"
"Bring it on, Jamaican."
The fight was much quicker than the last one, for MacNeil was no match for Chandra, much less the Jamaican. MacNeil came in fast and strong and powerful, landing an undefended uppercut on the Jamaican's jaw, a blow that would kill any mortal man and fell most Kindred.
The Jamaican stepped back and lightly massaged his jaw. "This is most amusing, Jeremy MacNeil. Should we continue or do you wish to be humiliated further?"
MacNeil could not be pressed upon to stop. Again, this time with wolf's claws, he slashed at the Jamaican, who caught his wrist and spun it back around upon itself, snapping it with an audible pierce. MacNeil's wrist bones were clearly visible.
"Fuck you, Jamaican!" The Jamaican's only response was a sad smile.
The other hand this time, and the Jamaican didn't just break it, but took the hand clean off with claws of his own.
MacNeil's screams of anger filled the room and he leapt after the Caitiff with all the menace a man with no functional hands could muster. The Jamaican wasn't going to let this fight last long enough to let him heal them.
Within two minutes, the fight was over. MacNeil's arms and legs were all broken or missing, his guts were spilled onto the floor and blood was everywhere. The Jamaican didn't seem to be even scratched, looking stronger than at any point during the night. MacNeil's jaw had been pulverized and he couldn't talk other than to blather out syllables like a baby. He was fully aware of what was happening, however, and his alert eyes shown with the hatred of a thousand sons.
"Jeremy MacNeil, you are petulant, disrespectful, arrogant, and vindictive. You want all the power but none of the responsibility. You are, in so many ways, Jeremy MacNeil, reminiscent of a teenage boy. I look forward to the day you become an adult, Jeremy MacNeil."
The nervous referee took the Jamaican's hand and raised it above his head. "The winner and new holder of the belt: the Jamaican!"