Gut wrenching pain from the fist that just slammed into Johns gut combined with the mix of alcohol sent a bucket load of spit and vomit towards the ring floor. He'd been scheduled to go down on the third, about 30 seconds in, 2000 pounds in his pocket for the effort. John had smiled at the prospect, no knacker bare knuckle boxer had taken the fall before him and he sure as shit wasn't about to be the first. He ducked and weaved around the ring as the big fucker in front of him snarled and launched forward with his two hefty fists and almost took the head of him. John tapped him on the jaw, trying not to send him to floor. 

He was the first man since the north-south split to make the journey across the border, Dublin accent in tow for reasons other than blowing the shit out of the place, he was there for his own interests. He'd fought hard during the rising of 1916 and the civil wars that followed but for John Daily those times were past and America was the new hope, America over a free Ireland. Or so the story went.

UDA men lined the cat walks around the ring, armed to the teeth, attempting the official look as the two men grabbed and clawed at each other.

'Look at you, yah protestant fuck, lay a decent bleedin hit would you?' John said before following through with a nose shattering punch. The bones crunched and his opponent stepped back before charging him, fury in his eyes. Time slowed down, it was halfway through the third round, it was time. The angry cheers from around the ring couldn't be heard by John as he focused on the man rushing towards him. He ducked the punch, built up force and followed through with a right hook that sent the man to the floor, his head bouncing off the concrete three times. The crowd went silent as the referee stepped forward and began the countdown.

'Ah for fucks sake's John, we were leaving anyway, without two grand now you ejjit, hell we'll be lucky to bloody leave at all' a cork man by the name of Jackson Murphy yelled from the ringside. He was a close friend and had been around for as long as John could remember after moving to Dublin during the rising. 

'Alright, grab your shit and head for the exit, were off before these fuckers can stop us' ​​​​​​​John said as he hopped the side of the ring to the surprise of the spectators. Yells came from behind as his 'employer' a Belfast man by the name of Charlie Thomas called for 'that fucking knackers head'. The basement was tight but that meant it was compact and the guards by the rear exit hadn't quite copped onto what was going on. Just as John gave him a friendly nod and layed a hand on the door it burst open and a group of the Royal Irish Constabulary rushed in, Lee En Fields in hand. It was dangerous enough been a dub among the spectators but these fuckers were the lads tasked with hunting down IRA and sniffing out their plots. 

As they charged through the doorway they took one look at the shirtless John and pinned him against the wall before bounding his hands and continuing on to the main ring. Spectators scattered and the nerves really did start to kick in as both men knew they had about two minutes to get far away from the place.

'Sir' John said to the young lad left to guard him as Jackson flipped up his collar and walked out the exit. 'We really have to leave you see, it isn't exactly...' The kid raised his eyebrow at his accent before taking a step back and yelling for his sergeant. 'Woah, woah easy now, it ain't safe here, we have to get outside' He didn't budge and waited for the first group of beaten spectators to start been dragged towards the waiting trucks before exiting the building with John. There wasn't as many people inside as originally hoped but when the bomb went off it was safe to say, it was catastrophic. 

'I had nothing to do with that officer, swear on me da's life' John said in a childish tone.