First Blood Match I

My brother and I were huge fans of the WWE back during the Cena and Edge days. I guess it’s safe to say that that was the reason why we grew up fighting as frequently as we did. So much so our mom had to call us up separately to put our clean clothes away after she did our laundry. If we found ourselves in the same room together, it was on, and all hell would break loose.

I wouldn’t say I hate my brother in any way, but there’s just something about him that makes me always get this urge to beat him up. He’s my younger brother and all, so I need to make sure I remind him of it every chance I can. I will always, until the end of time, be able to keep whooping his ass and pinning him down for the count of three. It’s my duty as an older brother to do so. Except for that one time in our basement.

We went all out WWE that day. Dad wasn’t home so we knew that the worst trouble we would get into was our mom yelling at us to stop fighting. Which we were fine with because we decided to have our very own first blood match. We had just watched Kurt Angle and John Cena duke it out in a first blood pay per view, and we itching to have one of our own. We wanted to find out who the superior brother is.

We shut the door to the basement, pushed the table out of the way, dropped the cushions on the floor to make some softer landings, and started the match. We weren’t messing around, he came at me right away with a close line that knocked me on my back. He than tried to drop an elbow on me but I evaded it and was able to lock him into a submission. Which was absolutely pointless to do in a first blood match.

So I tossed him to the side and climbed onto the arm of the couch. I could hear Jerry the King Lawler in my head screaming, “Ba God he’s on the top rope!” I stood on the arm, with my head bending over so it wouldn’t hit the ceiling, lining my brother up for a good ole fashion elbow drop from the heavens.

That’s when I realized how far we were going to go with our match. We never threw punches so how one of us was going to bleed baffled me. When I leaped from the couch and raised my arm to give him an elbow drop from space, I scraped the top of my hand on the popcorn ceiling in our basement. It ripped the skin off of my knuckles. Neither of us noticed until we both noticed the blood stain on the couch cushion laying right where his head was before he moved out of the way.

We both looked at each other completely shocked. We figured we’d get in trouble before we made it to the end of our match, and here I was sucking the blood out from my knuckles to hide the bleeding. That’s when my brother broke the silence and yelled, “I won! I won!” He got up from the ground and ran a couple laps around our basement screaming in excitement for officially winning our first ever first blood match.

It was the first time he’s ever beat me. If you can call it that, in reality I beat myself. Why do you think he’s always so proud to announce that he’s beat me in a first blood match? He knows that’s the only victory he’s ever had on me. Let’s get round two going and see who the true superior brother is and how much of a fluke that first match was.

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