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The stadium was booming with roars of celebration and disappointment. Pokemon from all over gathered around, swinging their fists around either in approval or protest. At the center of all this noise was the source of the frustration and fanaticism.

Four Corners. Twelve Ropes. Three Pokemon. One laid out on the floor. One standing proud. One just there to watch.

Lying on the canvas floor was an Excadrill, draped with brown fur like any other. His skin, normally red and white, was peppered with shades of purple. His belly, heaving with every breath he took, was almost entirely plagued with bruises which his leather-gloved hands struggled to soothe. However, all he managed to do was spread the white liquid splattered all over his torso, a holdover from the climax that ended his fight. Between his spread legs lay his manhood, already drained of its contents as seen on not only his body, but the ground he lies on.

The perpetrator flexed his gloved arms at the audience, feeding off of the strong vibes from fans and detractors alike. They called him "The Striped Bandit" after the patterns strewn throughout his body. A set of flames gathered around his waist, forming a belt of sorts while his own shaft stood proud for its owner's victory, and although his own upper body was strewn with bruises, the Incineroar continued to gloat as if he hadn't taken a single hit. A stripe-shirted Grumpig, who was holding The Bandit's arm at the time, was at The Bandit's mercy as he dangled helplessly in the air. When the Psychic Swine's captor roared out in triumph, the noise startled him enough to make him let go, and he fell unceremoniously to the floor.

The referee got back up and dusted himself off like nothing had happened. "Cap'n! I'm gonna need two bottles up here, pronto!" he shouted, leaning over the bottom rope while he called out to a Gogoat. The bulky grass-type reached down into a wooden crate, snatching two glass bottles of his specialty-milk and tossing them over to the referee. The pig's gem gleamed a bright purple as the containers sailed through the air, slowing their flight and pulling them towards his hands. With a grateful salute, the Psychic returned his attention to the fighters, getting one bottle ready for the barely-conscious Excadrill.

The Striped Bandit, true to his name, swiped that same bottle straight from the referee's hands. "Thanks for the drink, but I could've opened it myself, y'know," he mocked, pounding back the creamy-white liquid in mere seconds. He wiped any milk left on his muzzle with his arm, and dropped the glass down by the already annoyed Grumpig before returning to his corner to wait for his next opponent to reveal himself from the throngs of able-bodied fighters.

Fed up with the Bandit's conduct, an Infernape stepped up to the challenge. He leaped over the steel barricades, silencing the watchers behind him with his sudden appearance. The abrupt drop in noise perked up The Striped Bandit's ears. When he turned to check out its source, a spiky-toothed grin formed on his muzzle, and he stood up to greet the new challenger. "Ahh, look who it is. One of our long-time fans. Have you come up to ask for my autograph, señor?"

The Infernape snorted a puff of steam before bringing himself up over the ropes. He landed on his feet without so much as a thud on the canvas before rising up to confront the cocky competitor. His mind lingered on The Striped Bandit's question all the while, and his head shook it off before he addressed the Dark-type. "You wish," he murmured, trying to avoid eye-contact with the heel, and the other 1000 Pokemon gathered around them. Coming to terms with its futility, he took a deep breath before psyching himself up. "You've been long overdue for a lesson in manners, Bandit!" he shouted at the cat, pointing his finger as if to give an objection. "If I have to be your teacher tonight, then so be it!"

By now, the defeated Excadrill had left to lick his wounds, freeing up the ring for another match. "I'd be happy to learn a thing or two from you, little fuego, but..." the victor started, pointing a glove at the new challenger. "As an avid watcher, you should know that you're a little too modest for a match here." At that, The Striped Bandit turned to the Grumpig, who had just returned from escorting the loser from the last fight. "Ref! Get our teacher his proper gear while he undresses!" he shouted at the Psychic, eliciting an exhausted sigh from the latter.

The Bandit's callous disregard for the fatigued ref ignited a new flame of anger in the Infernape's eyes, but rules were rules. No words came out from the monkey while he stripped out of his shirt and pants; a hard glare sufficed as his silent threat to the selfish tiger. When he was done, the Infernape's naked muscles shivered, both from the air conditioning and the perverted stares from the spectators. "He wouldn't last a second with The Bandit," he heard a Sneasel pair snicker amongst themselves, making him shake his head once more. When he looked back at the Incineroar, the Dark-type urged him to finish the job. Another steamed snort escaped his nostrils, and he slipped out of his boxers. The fans howled in approval of his rod, even as short as it was in its flaccid state.

Under his skin, the Infernape's face was glowing red, but the heavy pants from the returning Grumpig reminded him why he was up here in the first place. "H-here's your gear," the Psychic huffed, sliding a pair of gloves and boots under the bottom ropes while he leaned against the apron, trying to catch his breath. After a second's rest, the ref tried to pull himself back up to the canvas, but his efforts were in vain. The Fighting-type gave a sympathetic sigh before helping the swine back up through the bottom and middle ropes. "Thanks.. uhh, what's your name?"

Unwilling to have this kind of company follow him too long after tonight, the simian was reluctant to give up his real name. While he scrambled through his mind to think up a suitable pseudonym, he picked up his rental gloves and saw his flames reflected off their yellow leather surface. After lacing up his boots and slipping on the gloves, the Infernape rose to his feet, clashing his leather-clad fists together before making his formal introduction. "You can call me The Blazing Fist!" he shouted, letting his sharp voice pierce through the crowd's conflicted cacophony to hit his opponent's ears.

The Bandit merely laughed at the challenger's announcement. "A big name for such a little monkey, eh?" he gloated, marching toward the center of the ring as if he had already won the match. As he waited for his opponent to follow suit, he massaged his now-softened package, pulling all eyes front and center. The tiger's opponent was not immune to his crude charms, even as he met The Bandit in the middle. The Incineroar took advantage of this momentary distraction to throw in another dirty joke. "My eyes are up here, amigo~ I hope you're not intimidated by my size."

Immediately, The Fist looked back up at his opponent, trying to shake off the fact that he let himself fall for such a base trick. "I've faced bigger," he declared without a hint of dishonesty in his voice while he got his mind back into the imminent fight.

Almost instantly, the Incineroar's smile dropped, and flames leaked out from between his scowling teeth. "Oh, that's it, Cabron," he growled, tapping his gloves against those of the Infernape's, the only act of respect he ever shows in the ring. "I'm gonna make you wish you stayed in the peanut gallery."

With that, the Grumpig gave a signal to a Marowak to ring the bell, and The Striped Bandit's second match of the night was under way. Both fighters assumed defensive stances while they circled around the ring, looking for their a-range while avoiding the corner as best they could. As they maneuvered, their flaccid members swayed in turn. As with his match against the Excadrill, the Incineroar took advantage of his greater reach, safely throwing jabs out at the Infernape with little fear of counterattack. The Infernape, so far only able to dodge and block, studied the tiger's body as he weaved through his offense, mentally noting possible openings in the offense. Every weave made his package swing, while every block made it recoil. If there was one thing he knew about The Bandit besides his reprehensible attitude, it was that he wouldn't be going down in a single punch. He needed to fight the long fight if he wanted to come out on top.

A hard punch to the face reminded The Fist that he also needed to actually fight. The force of The Bandit's strike knocked the monkey back several steps, and the shock of impact ran down his spine, sending sparks of life down to his sack. A second look at the Incineroar revealed a set of bruises along his torso, leftover from the prior battle. After glancing off a one-two combo, the Infernape stepped in and aimed a left hook at a particularly purple spot, drawing a surprised gasp from the tiger.

The Gogoat's milk had worked wonders on mending the tiger's bruises, but the damage from before remained. The tender nerves under the Dark-type's abs screamed with pain when The Fist dug into his flank, and he stumbled as he backed out of his opponent's range, growling while he shook off the stirring of his loins. Trying to keep the monkey at bay, The Bandit threw a punch out, not looking to hit anything. "Having trouble with a Little Fuego, Gatito!?" he heard a watcher jeer, tempting him to growl back at whoever said that.

The Blazing Fist tried to pull his head out of range, but the horizontal stripes made him misjudge his opponent's reach. Just like his right cheek, the monkey's tip also swelled from the strike, and right at the tip, a drop of pre was drawn out. But that first strike was all he needed to shake off his stage jitters; now, he was ready to teach The Bandit his lesson. While the tiger was distracted, the monkey rushed in, living up to his name as he unleashed a flurry of punches aimed all over the cat's torso.

"Mierda!" the Incineroar roared, putting up his guard just time to block the first strike, but his opponent didn't relent. In spite of the tiger's defenses, a great deal of hits found their mark, and their marks howled out in redoubled pain. Each strike knocked a breath out of his lungs, and a drop of drool out of his muzzle. Within seconds, the force of the strikes knocked The Bandit's dagger out of its sheath, whether he wanted it or not. More flames leaked out through his snarling teeth, and he started throwing punches of his own.

For every one hit The Bandit landed, The Fist dealt two. Both boxers were feeling the effects of their opponents' strikes. The Incineroar's abs, the Infernape's head, their chests and shafts all throbbed, aching for some sort of relief from this match. However, the tiger was quickly losing ground, and in another desperate attempt to escape his disadvantageous position, he threw a heavy straight at the monkey, expecting him to block and retreat.

Instead, The Blazing Fist leaped over The Bandit's attack, somersaulting in the air before sending his tail crashing down on the tiger's shoulder. Another pained roar came out from the cat, and the monkey would have pressed his offense... if he had landed.

The Infernape scanned the arena, trying to figure out why his feet hadn't touched ground when he saw the ref reaching his arm out towards him. The purple gem on the Gumpig's head was glowing, and the monkey realized where he went wrong. After the Psychic-type set him back down in the ring's center, The Blazing Fist calmed down from the high of the fight, trying to hide his embarrassment towards his momentary lapse in discipline.

The Striped Bandit rolled his injured shoulder, making sure he could still move it. When he got back to the middle with the monkey and the pig, he caught the latter giving a lecture on the rules of the match to the former. "How do you expect to teach me a lesson in respect when you can't remember one simple rule?" he asked, his pained snarl already replaced with another grin. "Don't tell me you were too distracted to remember it, little fuego~" When the ref asked if the Incineroar wished to continue, he gave a single nod in response. Looking back at his opponent, he gloated, "It'll take a lot more than that to put my arm out of commission, amigo." Even as the tiger said this, however, The Blazing Fist could see that he was forcing himself to take shorter breaths.

"Hit a few sore spots, I see," he thought to himself.

A shuffling of his boots was The Fist's only response to his opponent's arrogant growling. Looking back down at the Incineroar's waist, the Infernape noticed a ring of striped fur wrapped around the former's midsection, something he hadn't seen the big guy do in his other matches. With a begrudging sigh, he followed The Bandit's example and wrapped his own tail around his waist. At the Grumpig's command, both boxers tapped gloves, and the fight continued with another ring of the bell. Once more, the monkey felt the chilling stares from the audience boring into his soul, making him shiver a bit while he got into his stance. His entire body was aching with overuse and abuse, and he wondered whether he would be able to go on for much longer. However, he knew that the tiger wasn't too far from falling over either. All he needed was a little push.

Of course, The Bandit wasn't just going to let him do that unopposed. While careless at times, he wasn't an idiot. He could see that the monkey couldn't take much more than a few punches either, if that. With this in mind, the Dark-type unloaded another series of jabs and hooks, raining black leather down on his smaller opponent. Without any clothes or even a cup, the tiger's shaft was free to bounce about with each swipe, as many watchers were eager to point out with their free hands, if they had free hands. Even as exhausted as he was, the tiger's strikes still had the strength of a wrecking ball behind them, and he intended to use this might to break down the yellow wall. After several agnoizing moments of weary offense, The Bandit saw The Fist drop his guard, and wound up a punch to take advantage of the lowered defenses. A heavy thud tingled his ears, and he thought he had landed the finishing blow.

Between the tiger's black leather and the monkey's face, however, a pair of yellow gloves were raised. With a second wind that ignited his body like a phoenix's flames, The Blazing Fist had managed to catch what would've been The Striped Bandit's fight-winning punch and throw his hand down past him, pulling the Incineroar off-balance. The Dark-type stumbled forward from the momentum, right into his opponent's range. His eyes bugged out when he looked at the monkey; had he the time, he would have swallowed the spit pooled in his mouth. Instead, all that saliva was splattered along the canvas by the first punch.

At least twenty more followed; not even the toughest Metagross could have withstood this barrage of yellow leather. The Bandit's awkward positioning left his face vulnerable to the Fist, who made sure no part of the tiger's body was safe from his wrath. Breathless moans were beaten out of The Bandit's lungs with each punch, mixing Spanish and English together into some sort of BBQ Burrito Word Salad. After the match, some specators even swore they saw the Infernape's fists catch fire during that merciless assault.

When the Infernape finally finished his burst of Close Combat, The Striped Bandit fell to his knees, then to his side, clutching his tenderized torso with both arms. The Grumpig moved in to begin a count, but before he could even say "1!" the tiger let out an earth-shaking roar. Before it ended, pearly-white liquid burst out from his shaft like a raging volcano, splashing on his chest to form islands of crusty seed on his body. The crowd fell silent as the ref gave the signal; the dull clanging of the match bell was the only sound that could be heard.

"And your winner!" the announcer shouted after the bell's ringing ceased. "THE BLAZING FIIIIIIST!" And with that, the crowd resumed with their uproarious applause and boos, as if someone has just pressed pause and play on their noise. The fanfare, however pleasant it was to hear their praises, was not endgame for the Infernape. The Bandit's lesson wasn't over yet.

Though a good head shorter than his opponent, The Blazing Fist's shadow still loomed ominously over his fallen rival. When he finally opened his eyes, The Striped Bandit looked up and saw the victor's face. He shuddered under the Infernape's fiery gaze, which pierced through the bruises and swells around the monkey's eyes. Still writhing from the assault on his abs, all the Incineroar could do was pant pathetically while his tongue lolled out of his mouth, begging for something to go inside.

Seeing as his opponent was a branded thief, the victor thought a stream of liquid gold would fit perfectly. Holding his cock steady as best he could with his restricting gloves, The Iron Fist unloaded his bladder all over the once-proud Bandit's mug. The sheer stiffness of his shaft made it difficult to aim, causing a few spurts to splash onto the loser's swollen chest, extinguishing the flames of his pride for the night.

Reflexively, the red-furred loser shut his eyes to avoid any of the stuff from getting in his eye. However, he was still too exhausted to spare his mouth from salty defeat, and the warm liquid quickly began to pool inside. Within seconds, his body grew desperate to avoid drowning, forcing him to swallow every last drop that fell in, gulp after shameful gulp.

When his tank finally emptied, The Blazing Fist was confronted by the Grumpig referee. "You might not know this just from watching Rob's matches," the swine snorted after clearing his throat. "But since you are the victor, his body is all yours for the night. You can even take him home if you want."

The Infernape looked back down at his fallen opponent with a pang of regret smeared on his face. He closed his eyes in momentary-reflection, and his remorseful frown grew into a smile of relief.

"I guess he wasn't such a bad guy, after all."