The air in "The Gauntlet" hung thick with the smell of sweat, cheap beer, and desperation. Not my usual Friday night vibe, but here I was, Vina Valencia, magical MacGyver and reluctant babysitter of one Hottmann Munich, infiltrating his underground magic fight club. Because, apparently, my life wasn't chaotic enough already.
Hottmann, bless his heart (and his ridiculously oversized ego), was currently getting his face rearranged by a dude whose magic manifested as sentient, and surprisingly flirty, hair. Seriously, the hair was winking at me. I needed a drink. Or maybe a vacation. Or a new husband. Preferably one who didn't consider "getting pummeled for sport" a healthy outlet for his emotions.
"Come on, Hottmann! Show him what you're made of!" some dude with a tribal tattoo screamed from the sidelines. Probably one of Hottmann's "bros." The kind of guy who unironically wears Ed Hardy. Ugh.
Hottmann, currently sporting a rapidly swelling black eye, grunted and threw a punch that looked like it belonged in a slow-motion training montage gone wrong. The sentient hair, naturally, dodged it with a sassy flip and then proceeded to wrap itself around Hottmann's legs, effectively tripping him.
"Seriously?" I muttered under my breath, resisting the urge to facepalm so hard I gave myself a concussion. This was my life. Dealing with the fallout of Hottmann's spectacularly poor life choices. He was like a toddler with a magic credit card and a penchant for self-destruction.
I scanned the crowd, looking for a way to get closer without drawing too much attention. The Gauntlet wasn't exactly known for its strict adherence to fire codes, so slipping through the throng of screaming spectators wasn't too difficult. I just had to avoid the beer spills and the occasional stray magical spark. You know, typical Friday night stuff.
Finally, I managed to maneuver myself close enough to the ring (more of a dirt patch surrounded by rusty metal fencing, really) to get a good look at the damage. Yeah, definitely broken ribs. Again. I swear, this man's skeleton was held together by sheer willpower and my magical first aid.
"Alright, hair-dude, you've had your fun," I muttered, discreetly reaching into my purse. Inside, nestled amongst my emergency stash of dark chocolate and a surprisingly effective taser, was my "Rib-Mend Kit." It consisted of a few enchanted bandages, some magically infused pain relief balm, and a small vial of… well, let's just say it was "magical muscle relaxant" and leave it at that. The ingredients were a little… unorthodox. Let's just say it involved a particularly grumpy gnome and a whole lot of chanting.
I waited for a lull in the fight (which mostly consisted of Hottmann getting his butt kicked) and then, under the guise of "cheering him on," I tossed a handful of glittery powder into the air. It wasn't actual glitter, of course. That would be tacky. It was a magical smoke screen that smelled vaguely of cinnamon. Don't ask.
While everyone was distracted by the sparkly cloud (including the sentient hair, which seemed oddly fascinated), I slipped into the ring. Hottmann was currently sprawled on the ground, groaning dramatically.
"Seriously, Hottmann?" I sighed, kneeling beside him. "Again with the broken ribs?"
"Vina?" he mumbled, his eyes barely open. "What are you doing here?"
"What does it look like I'm doing? I'm fixing your stupid ribs," I said, pulling out the enchanted bandages. They looked suspiciously like ramen noodles. Don't judge my methods. They work.
"But… the fight…" he protested weakly.
"The fight can wait," I said, peeling back his ridiculously expensive (and now thoroughly ripped) designer shirt. "Your ribcage, on the other hand, cannot."
As I started wrapping the ramen-bandages around his torso, the sentient hair, apparently bored with the glitter, decided to make a reappearance. It slithered over to us, its little hair-face (yes, it had a face. Don't ask) wrinkling in what I assumed was disapproval.
"Hey! Hands off!" I said, swatting at it with a spare bandage. The hair recoiled, hissing. Okay, maybe "hissing" isn't the right word. It made more of a "tsssk" sound, like a disapproving aunt.
"These are organic, you know," Hottmann mumbled, wincing as I tightened the bandages. "Gluten-free, even."
"Yeah, well, try not to break them again, okay?" I said, applying the pain relief balm. It smelled faintly of lavender and desperation.
"No promises," he said with a cocky grin. Even with broken ribs and a black eye, the man was incorrigible.
I finished bandaging him up and then, just for good measure, I gave him a quick zap with the muscle relaxant. He slumped back against the dirt, looking suddenly very relaxed.
"There," I said, dusting off my hands. "All better."
The sentient hair, apparently deciding that we were no longer interesting, slithered back to its owner. The glitter settled, and the crowd started to murmur.
"Did… did she just heal him with noodles?" someone whispered.
"I think… I think she did," someone else replied.
I gave Hottmann one last exasperated look and then slipped back into the crowd. I needed a drink. A strong one. And maybe a new hobby. Something less… rib-breaking. Maybe knitting. Or taxidermy. Anything was better than this.
As I made my way out of The Gauntlet, I heard the announcer's voice boom through the speakers.
"And… Hottmann Munich is back on his feet! Looks like he's ready for round two! Let's get this show back on the road!"
I sighed. Somehow, I knew this wasn't over. Not by a long shot. This was just the beginning of another long, chaotic, and utterly ridiculous night with Hottmann Munich. My life was officially a meme. And not even a funny one.