STERLING vs ROSWELL

Roswell comes in cocky. Big mop of curls, “Loyal” inked across his chest, a full sleeve down his right arm and a body that looks carved — stacked shoulders, cobblestone abs, thick legs filling out purple trunks. He’s alone on the mat first, fists up, throwing double biceps and side-chest shots at the camera like he’s already won something. Then Sterling walks in. Tall, long, every ab cut, the left-arm sleeve, red trunks, and that same smirk he wore when he put Tiger to sleep. Fresh off his first win, and he’s not here to pose. Roswell flexes in his face. Sterling flexes right back. Roswell shoves him. That’s all it takes.

They crash into a lock-up and Sterling wins it, yanking Roswell down into a side headlock on the mat and cranking it until Roswell’s face goes dark. He slides behind, snakes an arm around the throat, and gives him a taste of the sleeper — just enough to let Roswell know what’s coming. Then he gets up and goes to work. He grabs Roswell’s wrist and wrenches the arm back until Roswell is screaming. He grabs his face, shoves it into the mat, stomps on him, and hauls both legs up off the floor — splitting them wide, Roswell’s whole body stretched out and helpless on his back. Sterling drops a knee on him. Sits him up. Hooks both arms behind him and pulls them back in a double-arm stretch, Roswell’s chest pulled open, his mouth hanging. Rear choke. Grapevine on the legs. Sterling stands over him, drags him up by the hair, and bends him back by the curls.

Roswell is not done. He fires a leg around Sterling’s neck and slams on a head scissors, those thick quads crushing Sterling’s skull until he’s red-faced and clawing at the mat. He rolls into a body scissors, grinding his legs into Sterling’s ribs, then flips him over and cradles him, Sterling’s knees jammed to his chest. Now it’s Sterling on his back and Roswell flexing over him.

Sterling bridges out and the fight gets ugly. He plants Roswell face-down and grinds his cheek into the mat. Arm bar. A surfboard that bends Roswell’s spine the wrong way, both arms hooked and pulled, abs stretched tight. Back on their feet they shove chest to chest, Sterling claws at Roswell’s face, and they drop to their knees trading gut punches — Roswell’s abs taking shot after shot. Roswell answers with a body scissors from behind that puts Sterling flat and gasping, then climbs on top and goes to work: pins Sterling’s arms over his head, kneels on his chest, flexes in his face. Head scissors. Headlock. Sterling’s face twisted up under those curls, legs kicking. Roswell sits on his chest like a throne and hits a double biceps over the beaten man. He thinks it’s over.

It isn’t. Sterling rolls him, gets behind, and locks on the sleeper — seated, then standing, those long arms wrapped around Roswell’s neck, a full nelson in between to keep him upright. Roswell’s hands slap at the forearm. Sterling grabs his trunks, hauls him down, hooks a leg lock, and hits a double biceps standing over him. One more squeeze. Roswell’s eyes roll. His arms go wide. He’s out — spread-eagle in the middle of the mat, chest heaving, nothing left.

Two wins for the new guy. Roswell talked. Sterling put him to sleep.

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