Five will come, only one will leave.

The arena itself is a cinder covered yard about 20 yards by 12 surrounded on all sides by tall buildings. The only access is via a small ramp and narrow passage to the side of Giacomo's Italian restaurant and takeaway.

Giacomo's delivery van is parked in the dimly lit back left corner, it's huge red roof mounted telephone catching the moonlight as it flits through the wispy clouds.

Leaning against the van is the Pacifist. Two others are also here.

The Fatman stands in the centre of the arena, arms folded across his ample chest, seeming to dominate the scene.
The Twitcher skulks in the shadows watching intently.

The Pacifist had been first to arrive, he'd wanted to survey the scene and take any possible advantage from the terrain. His positioning made perfect sense, he could see perfectly all possible entrances and exits: the rear door of the Dog & Partridge, the steel fire escape from Giacomo's first floor and the dimly lit passage to the side.

Suddenly the rear door of Giacomo's flung open and there were four. "Ciao Giacomo" uttered The Wise One as he stepped out into the dark. All eyes were on him as he descended the slippery steel staircase.

Now with four men in the arena the tensions mounted. The air was bristling with anticipation, but they knew the rules. The fight must not commence until all 5 are present.

To the Twitchers right a door opened. Out from the Dog & Partridge stepped Whiskey, along with a hooded accomplice!

Whiskey whispered something to his associate who then withdrew to a corner, eyes bulging menacingly from under his hoodie.

All eyes were now on Whiskey, and he new it. He took a long slug from the bottle he was carrying and placed it gently on the floor. Then he exploded into life.

Rushing out from the gloom he lurched headlong at the Fatman and sent him reeling backwards with a flying headbutt to the midriff. The Fatman was dazed, but Whiskey chose not to follow up his assault.

He now beckoned the others to join in. "Come on you bastards I'll take the lot of y..." A size 12 moccasin floored him before he could finish speaking. The Pacifist's well aimed right foot was a shock to everyone, and all were now wary of him.

The Twitcher now sensed a moment to take some advantage and turned his attentions to the Fatman, who was groggily rising to his feet. Twitchy threw his coat over the stout ones head, bundled him back to the deck and began aiming kicks to an unprotected midriff. The Fatman curled and rolled away from the assault, desperate for respite.

The Hooded one now went to the aid of Whiskey and dragged him of out of the melee, giving him the comforting bottle to help his revival.

The Pacifist now fixed his eyes on the Wise One, who met his gaze with interest. Both strode meaningfully towards each other, then stopped about a yard apart. They shook hands.

Then, as one, they turned to face Twitchy.

A barrage of blows rained down on the Twitcher, and although he managed to dodge and deflect many of them, too many were hitting home. The Wise One was producing fast combinations of punches and elbows while the Pacifist preferred to use his gangly legs to good effect. The Twitcher was now backed up against the wall with nowhere to go, taking a pummelling.

His end was nigh.

Back on his feet, the Fatman hurtled into the fray and pinned the Twitcher to the wall with a rhino charge that also floored the Pacifist and the Wise One. Twitchy didn't stand a chance. His meagre physique was no match for that of the robust Spaniard and his spine was snapped like a twig.

Whiskey was now back on his feet, tottering back with bottle in hand. His hooded friend was nowhere to be seen.

The Pacifist and the Wise One, again working in tandem, set out to quell the rage of the Fatman. While the Pacifist kept him busy with a frontal assault, the Wise One positioned himself behind the gargantuan Fatman and wrapped his scarf around his neck. The Fatman was soon on his knees and blacked out through lack of oxygen.

What happened next was both unexpected and shocking.

The Pacifist ripped a length of cast iron drainpipe from the wall and set about the Fatman's head with it. A needless act of violence on the already incapacitated Fatman. Now there were three.

Whiskey now faced what seemed insurmountable odds. He smashed his bottle and held the jagged kneck of it at arms length. Both The Wise One and the Pacifist advanced.

The Pacifist aimed a high hitch kick at Whiskey while simultaneously the Wise One went low. All three tumbled into a heap, but surpsisingly it was Whiskey who rose first. The Wise One was now exposed for the first time as Whiskey sank a knee into his back, drawing a squeal of pain.

The Pacifist lay motionless. Whiskey's bottle was imbedded in his neck. The old street fighter could fight dirty, make no mistake.

Whiskey's assault on the Wise One continued, a right to the jaw, a headbutt to the nose and a kick to the shin all drew blood. The Wise One fell backwards, but had the presence of mind to keep moving, scrambling away from the madman and underneath the steel staircase.

Instinctively he grabbed a handful of grit and scattered it into the face of the advancing Whiskey. It did the trick. For a moment the impetus was with the Wise One. His attack was swift and decisive, a straight arm jab to Whiskey's throat sent the old man backwards onto the steel steps.

All the wind was knocked from Whiskey's sails and the Wise One moved in for the kill, his right arm raised high above his head ready to deliver the final blow.

He paused for a moment as if pitying the older man.

Whiskey saw his chance. "Now Roy" was his order and the hooded figure descended from above latching onto the Wise One's back. The hoodie sank his teeth into his prey's neck and inflicted a fatal wound.

The Wise One crawled off under the pizza van to die.

Whiskey rose to his feet and surveyed the scene around him. Four men lay dead. "Better them than me" he said to his manic accomplice. "Yes Boss" came the reply from under the hood.