The Grand Pugilist Hotel
Budapest, Hungary
The Grand Pugilist Hotel was a staple of Budapest. An institution dating back to the late 1800s that has seen its fair share of world travellers walk through its hallowed halls. Originally opened by Hungary’s self proclaimed “toughest man” using up the ample estate he had built on the back of a wildly successful career as a boxer. Hungary’s “toughest man”, named Albert Vadászrepülőgép, attracted guests with a spectacular challenge. He would stake ownership of the hotel in fights against any who considered themselves the strongest. Fighters travelled from every corner of the globe to partake in Albert’s challenge, all falling to his superior talents.
After an impressive streak of 143 victories and at the tender age of 54 Albert would suffer his first and only loss, as well as his death at the hands of the hotel’s second owner. For fifteen years Albert Vadászrepülőgép could comfortably call himself the world’s toughest man.
The second owner of the Grand Pugilist Hotel would quickly do away with Albert’s challenge, he was far too greedy and money obsessed to wager the hotel on a fight. Many considered his victory over Albert to be the result of mere luck rather than due to his own merits as many witnesses to the fight claimed that Albert had succumbed to a heart attack rather than to the coward’s fists.
The second owner of the hotel earned the title of world’s most cowardly man. Scores of challenges would appear at the hotel to try and claim ownership for themselves, they were all turned away. Until one day in the early 1900s, shortly before the war, did Albert’s son appear at the hotel his father had built.
Istvan Vadászrepülőgép has followed in his father’s footsteps. He had built a reputation as a pugilist, world renowned and on track to becoming a world champion like his father. But his boxing dreams were put on hold when he was informed of how the hotel’s reputation had been tarnished. Istvan returned home to Hungary to challenge the man who had defeated his father. Istvan was incensed when the hotel’s new owner refused his challenge. He gathered a lynch mob and was prepared to take the hotel by force if the owner refused to meet his demands.
The authorities ignored the hotel’s new owner’s pleas for aid. The entire city of Budapest was loyal to the Vadászrepülőgép family and were eager to see Istvan claim his birthright.
Istvan and the coward who had killed his father fought in the hotel lobby on January 4 1913. The coward was soundly defeated and his life spared. His name was expunged from all records as he was quickly exiled from Budapest. Istvan claimed ownership of the hotel and for a time neglected his pugilist goals in favour of honouring his father’s challenge.
Out of fear of time repeating itself, desperate to prevent another owner taking over the hotel like the second had, Istvan eventually did away with his father’s challenge. The fighting would still occur, the title of world’s toughest man was still up for grabs, but ownership of the hotel would be passed down from one generation of Vadászrepülőgép to the next. Additionally the hotel would host a yearly Kumite tournament, the participants of which would be personally selected and invited by the hotel’s owner.
The hotel still stands today, having survived two world wars and being passed down to two additional generations of Vadászrepülőgép before the family’s bloodline died out. Its current owner was once the concierge and protege of the last Vadászrepülőgép.
“As you know that man is I, Monsieur Allard.” M. Allard raised his glass of wine to his lips. He breathed in the aroma of the Earthy pinot noir before drinking and then savouring the taste.
M. Allard was a man in his late forties. Lightly tanned, suffering the early stages of male pattern baldness, with a well kept beard and sharp squared features. He was in tremendous shape as all owners of the Grand Pugilist Hotel are. A trained fighter in a variety of disciplines, of which his favourite is karate. Monsieur Allard was unlike the hotel’s previous owners who employed the best staff possible to take care of the day to day operations of the hotel so that they could focus on combat, he personally saw to the day to day operations of the hotel, combat was second to the institution of which he’d devoted his entire life.
“Isn’t the history of this hotel simply wonderful?” He smirked toward his dinner guest who was busy cutting into a medium rare ribeye.
“It’s enlightening to say the least. Who’d have thought a place like this actually existed? It’s some fight club-esq stuff.” An unmasked Alyster Black was enjoying his time at the hotel. Having been invited to stay personally by the man sitting across from him. Whilst the FWA was touring through Europe, it’s next stop being Budapest, it made sense to take up M. Allard on his offer.
“I’m not a fan of that one, it’s far too…cynical. Fighting should be about self expression and the beauty of competition. Not an excuse for mediocre worms to feel alive.”
Alyster picked up his wine glass. Swirling the contents as he mulled over Allard’s observation, “I believe that the beauty of fighting is that anyone can do it.”
“Sure, so long as the best are afforded the opportunity to rise to the top. Unfortunately so few are willing to embrace destiny. At the advent of this institution thousands of warriors sought us out themselves. Now? Our reputation is hushed, we attract the local colour, but as far as our international clientbase? Only the best of the best know what we truly offer.”
“Is that why you invited me to stay Monsieur? Am I the best of the best?”
“Perhaps. You’re the first of your kind to step foot in these hallowed halls since the sixties.”
“And by my kind you mean?”
“A professional wrestler of course.”
The unmasked man grumbled.
“Don’t be like that, if you weren’t impressive then I wouldn’t have sent you the invitation. And I must say, your first few nights here have not been disappointing.”
Alyster Black had been staying at the Grand Pugilist Hotel for the better part of five days now. His invitation promised excitement and did not disappoint. Alyster had gone incognito for his first few nights, not wearing his mask as he soaked in the hotel’s amenities. On his first night while drinking in the bar he was challenged to no less than three fights.
Three fights. Three knockouts. Three victories for the unmasked man.
By Alyster’s count there were ten fights in the bar that night. The hotel staff expertly attended to each combatant. Quickly offering medical assistance to both victor and loser. The first man Alyster fought was carried away by a team of four waiters while the bartender readied a rum and coke for the victor of the fight.
On the second night, whilst soaking in the bathhouse, Alyster met Monsieur Allard. At the time Alyster wasn’t aware of Allard’s identity, but Allard knew who Alyster was.
Sitting across from one another in the sauna Allard couldn’t help but to compliment Alyster’s fights from the previous evening.
“I watched you in the bar last night. That was a wonderful display. There’s a certain artistry to your fighting style. Like watching a great composer in action.”
“Thank you friend, you’re too kind.”
“I wondered if you may fight me tomorrow evening in the gymnasium? There’s a boxing ring just begging for someone of your calibre to fight in it.”
“I’ve never been much of a boxer.”
“Nor I. I’ve always favoured karate. But this is the Grand Pugilist Hotel, you can’t leave without at least putting on a pair of gloves and throwing hands.”
There was no arguing with that logic. The next night Alyster found himself sitting on a stool in his corner of the ring, boxing gloves on, headguard being affixed by one of the hotel staff whilst Monsieur Allard sat across from him being attended to similarly.
The bell rang and both men exited their corners and began pacing around. An official referee from the hotel officiated the match.
To say that Alyster Black wasn’t much of a boxer was an understatement. He found himself being overwhelmed from the get go. Eating punch after punch after punch. But no matter how hard and how often Monsieur Allard struck Alyster Black he could not put him down. In the third round Allard was exhausted whilst Alyster Black was still eager to fight. Alyster was relentless, unloading on Monsieur Allard like he was a walking-talking punching bag.
Allard had kept up the tradition of boxing from the Vadászrepülőgép family. In honour of his predecessors Allard had maintained an undefeated streak inside the boxing ring. Alyster Black was threatening to break that streak. Seeing white and without thinking, Allard threw a roundhouse kick that finally put Alyster Black down on the mat.
But not for long, as the referee was about to end the fight and disqualify the hotel’s current owner, Alyster Black sprung to his feet and threw a hook punch that put Allard down for the count.
Monsieur Allard reached up to his left eye, checking that his makeup was still concealing the massive shiner Alyster had given him. “No other man can claim to do what you’ve done in your short time here. Of course I’ve lost many fights since taking ownership of this hotel, but to honour the great family who had built this establishment I had never taken a loss inside that boxing ring.”
“If I had known I was allowed to kick then I’d have knocked you out sooner and spared you the shiner there.” Alyster flashed a toothy grin at his dinner companion.
“I honestly cannot express enough how embarrassed I am by my actions.”
The unmasked man waved Allard’s comment off, “Happens to the best of us. I just appreciate a good scrap.”
“Regardless, thank you for indulging me. We will have to have a rematch following your wrestling commitments.”
“Oh totally, can we drop the boxing thing and just go at it though? I’m a shite boxer.”
“I was always partial to karate.”
The FWA World Champion perked up, spitting out bits of steak as he spoke. “Speaking of which! You’ve got to tell me more about the Kumite!”
A wide grin formed over Monsieur Allard’s face. “And pray tell, why do you want to hear about our boring Kumite?”
“Let’s not beat around the bush here. You invited me to stay here to see if a lowly wrestler had the chops to participate, and regardless of whether you think I do or not, I want in.”
“Two men enter the arena, one walks out. There are no weapons allowed, and fights end when one fighter can no longer move. Our staff officiates and takes care of the medical side of things, intentional killing is not allowed. This is a recurring tournament, not a deathmatch.”
“This year’s tournament has already occurred. You’ve missed it by a month. And you’re right, part of why I invited you here was to see if a wrestler was worthy of participating. The last time we opened our hotel to one of your kind they were soundly defeated in the first round by a martial artist. The story is that the wrestler attempted to take his opponent down to the ground and was kneed in the face so hard that his nose was destroyed beyond repair. This occurred two seconds after the commencement of the match.”
“I can only imagine how disappointing that was to the previous owner.”
“Tremendously so, a professional wrestler hasn’t been allowed to fight in this hotel since.”
“So I’m the first?”
“At the risk of inflating your ego, yes, you’re the first professional wrestler to fight here since the sixties. However, you’re not the first to have been invited here. I sent invitations to two of your compatriots before I sent one to you.”
“No shit? Who’d you invite? Not Danny, please don’t say Danny Toner. It had to have been Michelle though. Come on Allard, who was it?”
“I cannot reveal that information. Just know that while you weren’t my first choice you’ve still exceeded expectations.”
“Enough to earn an invite to next year’s tournament?”
“Are you aware of the identity of this year’s winner?”
“Can’t say I am.”
“He was a complete unknown, a local boy who forced his way into the tournament. A simple Hungarian farmer who absolutely destroyed his competition. He introduced himself simply as Andre. He was a regular in the bar. Having been visiting the hotel for years. I’d never paid much attention to the local talent in Budapest.”
Allard’s voice trailed off. His attention turned to his wine glass as he swirled the wine inside.
“Andre had escaped my attention. I would not have been able to identify his talent even if I had witnessed it beforehand. He’d never fought anyone of consequence, to the average observer he was a simple farm boy, tough as nails, who was good in a bar fight.”
Alyster perked up, something had just clicked for him. “Sorry, did you say that he was a local boy?”
“Good in a bar fight was an understatement. If his talents were refined and directed toward competition, well, he’d be the second coming of Albert Vadászrepülőgép himself. Ferocious, barbaric, unstoppable. A juggernaut who is now able to call himself the undisputed toughest man in the world.”
“Listen Allard, that’s cool and all. But if the winner of this year’s Kumite is a local boy then I need to know where the hell he is and I need to know right now.”
Allard’s attention was snapped from his wine to Alyster Black, it was as if he was just woken from a trance. “I doubt you’d survive the confrontation, but… Andre will be here tomorrow evening, enjoying a few beers in the bar.” His voice trailed off once again, “I’m serious Mr. Black, do not try to confront Andre, he will tear you in half.”
Alyster was content, he thanked Allard for the information and the warning before the pair continued their meal. Trading stories, tales about travelling, and of fighting.
In the late night Alyster explored the hotel. The commotion had died down, the bar was empty, almost every guest had retired to their room. It was hauntingly beautiful. Alyster was immersed in the rich history of the Grand Pugilist. Everywhere he turned was a memorial to a great fight that had occurred. In the lobby he happened upon a bust of Albert Vadászrepülőgép and his descendents who’d owned the hotel. He noticed the similarities in their facial features, particularly one distinguishing feature they all shared which was a slight bump on the left side of their forehead just under their hairline. Every Vadászrepülőgép shared this feature.
Beyond the lobby Alyster found a memorial to the Kumite. Scrolls hanging off the walls detailing the history of the tournament which had a near 100 year history. In the centre of the room was a large book detailing the past winners.
Alyster skimmed through the book. The first winner bore that familiar forehead bump, no doubt it was the Vadászrepülőgép that had started the yearly tradition. Toward the end, after the beginning of the new millennium was a younger and less follically challenged Monsieur Allard, who had won the tournament three years in a row.
Andre’s page was the freshest, having been recently immortalised in the book. His picture was taken on his farm. Standing on the edge of a lush green field, barn in the background, leaning against a picket fence and shaking hands with Monsieur Allard.
“Big fucker…” Alyster grumbled. Andre was almost a foot taller than Monsieur Allard who was only a few inches shorter than Alyster was. Andre was built, he looked like he’d toiled on the farm every day for the last thirty years. The hand he used to shake Monsieur Allard’s was as big as a frying pan, Alyster was sure that if he wanted to he could crush the hotel owner’s head in the palm of his hand.
The FWA World Champion had found exactly what he was looking for. He took a picture of the book with his phone and some reverse image searches had given him Andre’s address. He would be visiting the world’s toughest man in the morning, then we’d see who really was tougher.
A farm boy was sure to be up at the crack of dawn, at least Alyster was betting. He slept in his rental car on the edge of Andre’s property. He was woken by the sound of a rooster crowing and exited the car. He put on his signature mask as he walked down the gravel laneway toward the house. He slammed his fist on the door rapidly, eager to meet and to beat the fuck out of Andre as soon as possible.
There was no answer.
Alyster sighed and began to wander around the property toward the barn. Andre was out in the pasture, holding a cow in a headlock and wrestling it down to the ground. Wearing a cowboy hat, plaid shirt and jeans. He looked like a good ol’ boy. A real cowboy.
“Come on Bessie.” His voice was deep and gravelly, “Do we have to do this every day?”
He let the cow up and escorted it inside the barn. When he came out he noticed Alyster Black up on the pasture fence watching him.
“Howdy cowboy.” Alyster greeted him with a salute.
“What the hell do you want, stranger?” Andre took an aggressive stance, puffing his chest out and closing his fists by his sides.
“Woah there, I just heard that you’re supposed to be the toughest man in the world. Well, that’s simply not true because I’m the toughest man in the FWA, and thus the toughest man in the world.”
The big man scoffed, “Wrestling?” He laughed heartily before spitting on the ground. “You seem to know who I am. I’m a fair man, I’m going to give you a chance to turn around and walk away before you get hurt.”
Alyster hopped over the fence and began marching toward Andre. Andre in turn marched toward Alyster, when they were within three paces of one another they began to circle.
“I told ya mate, I’m the toughest man in the world. I can’t sit around letting you call yourself that. Not without going through me first.”
“You’ve got a deathwish.”
“Nah fuckface, you got one the moment you tried to claim my title for yourself.”
“Whatever. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
Andre lunged for Alyster. For a man of his tremendous size he was quick. Alyster stepped back and caught Andre with a knee right to the nose. A normal man would have had his nose shattered beyond repair, but Andre was the toughest man in the world and shrugged off the knee strike without so much as a grunt.
Alyster pounced on Andre, holding him down in a front facelock and laying into him with wild haymakers.
Andre simply stood upright, lifting Alyster high into the air with only his neck strength. Alyster kicked his legs rapidly, trying to take Andre down with a DDT but Andre wouldn’t budge.
The kumite winner charged toward the pasture fence and lept, tackling Alyster Black clean through the wooden frame without effort. Andre mounted Alyster and began raining down punches to the head. The masked man covered up as best as he could but the big man was doing damage regardless.
Alyster reached up, clawing at Andre’s face. He reached under the hairline on the left side of Andre’s forehead and felt a bump. Hesitating for just a moment the big man took advantage, grabbing Alyster’s hand and biting into the side of his palm.
Alyster howled in pain but finally managed to push Andre off of him. He batted at Andre, kicking him in the neck and face before he finally released Alyster’s hand from his clenched jaw. Alyster got up to his feet, checking on his hand. Thankfully there was no blood, but the bite marks were deep.
Andre chuckled as he stepped to Alyster and kicked him right in the face, booting him with ease. Alyster stumbled back then ducked a follow up left hook. He elbowed Andre in the face then again in the ribs. Andre grunted from pain. Alyster immediately grabbed him around the waist and threw him over head, tossing him onto the gravel path with a German suplex. Andre landed on the back of his head, his huge frame folding in half. Alyster was sure he’d broken the man’s neck.
Nope. Andre stood back up, gritting his teeth and growling while brushing pieces of gravel off his clothes. Alyster swore under his breath as Andre charged him again. Alyster absorbed the impact, wrapped his arms around Andre’s neck as he was taken back down to the ground, and squeezed for dear life. Andre struggled.
“Come on cowboy, show me how tough you are? That’s all you’ve got? Huh? Huh?!”
Alyster squeezed tighter, arching his back and hyperextending Andre’s neck. The giant began to go limp.
“Yeah that’s what I thought fuckhead.”
When Andre finally stopped moving Alyster released him from the chokehold. He pushed the big man off of him and slowly rose to his feet.
Shaking his hand and hissing in pain, he turned around and lifted his mask slightly, enough so that he could spit on the ground beside Andre. “Who the fuck bites in a fight? God damn dude.”
Alyster kicked some gravel at Andre before limping up the gravel laneway to his car.
He slept off the fight in his hotel room and was back up for an evening drink in the bar. Tonight Alyster Black wore his mask outside his room. Inviting more than just a few looks. He found Monsieur Allard sitting in the back of the bar and enjoying a nice pinot noir.
“Who’s the toughest man in the world?” Alyster bellowed with outstretched arms as he approached Allard’s table.
“Andre, the last victor of the Grand Pugilist Hotel’s kumite tournament.” Allard responded without even a moment’s hesitation.
“Let’s say hypothetically a certain professional wrestler happened upon a certain cowboy this morning and beat him half to death?”
“Speaking hypothetically?”
“Well, let’s say it wasn’t a hypothetical.”
“I’d ask if he was sure about that.”
“What do you mean?”
Allard pointed behind Alyster. The FWA World Champion turned just in time to see the beer bottle smash over the side of his head, being swung by Andre himself.
The giant was pissed.
Alyster went down in a heap but Andre wasn’t finished, he picked Alyster up by the neck and arm and tossed him overhead, throwing him through one of the bar tables.
The masked man gasped for air as he stared up at the ceiling. Andre stepped on his chest, crushing him, preventing him from breathing.
“Okay Andre, that’s more than enough now. You can stop, you’ve won.”
“It ain’t over.” Andre growled. He and Alyster locked eyes, they understood each other as only gladiators of their calibre could. This fight was far from over.
Alyster picked Andre’s ankle and tripped him up, that wrestling training came in useful at times.
The FWA World Champion scrambled to his feet, sucking in air desperately as Andre also rose to his feet.
“You suckered me you bastard, you broke a goddamn bottle over my head.”
“So what, it’s a bar fight! Now right me you bitch!”
“Yeah yeah, I’ve just got a question first. Do you have to wrestle those cows down because they’re just not into being fucked by an overgrown redneck cunt like you or what?”
Andre screamed in frustration and charged Alyster. The masked man side stepped Andre and gave him an extra push, sending the giant stumbling head first into the bar wall, putting his head clean through the drywall. Alyster grabbed Andre and threw him back, headfirst into a metal column decorating the bar. Andre’s head bounced off the metal with a sickening thud. Alyster dropped down on Andre, putting a neck to his neck as he rained down with punches that were unprotested.
Alyster continued the barrage until he knew for sure that Andre would not be able to get up again. Until he knew for sure that he was victorious. Until this entire fucking hotel was forced to acknowledge him as the toughest man in the world.
It was his title for fuck’s sake. He’d won it when he became the FWA World Champion. He wasn’t about to let some chump in Budapest claim it for himself, let alone some asshole cowboy.
“Alright fuckheads, who’s the toughest man here?”
The bar had grown silent as Alyster stood victorious over Andre.
“Monsieur Allard!” Alyster screamed.
“You are the toughest man here Mr. Black.”
“Who’s the toughest man in the world?”
“You are.”
“And most importantly…who’s the toughest man in the FWA?”
“You.”
“Ain’t no multi-generational cowboy gonna take that away from me. You all hear me? This fuckhead,” Alyster bent over, brushing Andre’s hair out of his face. The distinct Vadászrepülőgép head bump was visible, clear as day. The crowd inside the bar gasped at the revelation. “I don’t give a fuck who this man’s family is, I don’t give a fuck where he came from. I don’t give a fuck what he’s won. I don’t give a fuck about who he hangs out with. He isn’t Alyster Black. None of you are!”
Alyster stepped off of Andre and limped over to the bar where a rum and coke was waiting for him. He rolled his mask up over his mouth and took a long drink.
“I’ll be back next year Monsieur Allard. You’d better find better competition than that piece of trash for me. But til then, I’ve got a way more important tournament to win first. The F1 goddamn Climaxxx.”
- Fin
