Leeroy apparently didn't expect her to actually take a swing at him because the blow landed and he subsequently vomited directly on the canvas.

Wait, back up. Yes. He just let rip a big ol' spew in the middle of the ring. (Thankfully, it wasn't pointed at Ember.)

"Hurk. Wha'd I ever do to you...? Go easy on the gut, chiclet..."

And apparently, they weren't stopping the fight to clean it up. The crowd was full of some mixture of laughter and general sounds of disgust, but it seemed to be entertaining people, so they let it roll.

"See?!" he blurted pathetically as he stumbled forward (through his own mess), slipped, and came dangerously near to falling on her. He grabbed her shoulders, if given the opportunity.

"I'm good to fight, I don't drink that much, I wanna do this competition thing, I can do this," he rambled, "but I can't hit a giiihhhrrrlll. C'mooon..."

He gave her such a sweet look out the tops of his big, blue eyes. ... along with a blast of breath that not only smelled like booze, but now barf as well.

"You two fight or you both forfeit!" the ref warned, clearly frustrated. "No more talking! No more talking, fight!"

The stocky tiger frowned pathetically at the girl, but didn't back down. His eyes had "you don't wanna hit me, do you?" written all over them.

—Until he shot out a sudden, cheap gut punch, that is. It wasn't as hard as he could hit, though, so even though he was being a low-down scuzzball, he was still holding back.

He still looked a little dazed (probably from the whole being dead-drunk-on-his-feet and barfing thing), but Ember's punches to the face did... little to alter that state, for better or worse.

"I don't wanna hafta hurtchoo, missy," he cautioned in a slobbery-sounding slur, his eyes squinted as he made clumsy, slow, ineffective moves to block and bat her punches away. Those uncoordinated movements ultimately morphed into a sort of rolling, swatting series of counter-punches, in which he made broad, telegraphed haymaker swings at the bird's head. He stopped after just a few, though, and looked markedly ill again, clutching his side with a boxing glove and heaving his breath

"That Night Train's a mean wine..."

This guy was a trained fighter, if his introduction and record didn't make it clear, but he was laughably off his game. At the same time, it didn't look like anything Ember was doing yet was particularly hurting him at all. His skull was just too thick—literally.

The chest wasn't a particularly great place to punch any man, being a generally bony, gristly place, but on Roy Li, beneath his thin padding of fat and fur was a sheer barrier of muscle and very thick bone. (This was his permanent excuse for his mild obesity; claims of his big-boned nature actually held some truth, though.) A tremor likely reverberated back through the poor bird's fist and arm as she struck what might as well have been a lightly cushioned cinder-block wall.

Perhaps if she had aimed at his jiggly belly just a little bit lower, the results would have been different, but she'd never get to know for sure, for, as Leeroy cackled some drunken laugh at her efforts and rared back for another barrage, there was... a thud, and a... jangling noise?

A pair of dragon-print nunchaku had dropped out of the back of his shorts. (He seemed to have no idea.) It was soon followed by a butterfly knife, and a liquor bottle. ... and a half-eaten jelly pastry of some sort, wrapped loosely in a ripped-out centerfold from a girly magazine.

The ref's expression was one of tormented disbelief. He soon waved, the bell rang, and security stormed the ring. Leeroy looked around in confusion, only to notice the offending items on the canvas right around when the guards grabbed the drunken tiger up under his arms to drag him off.

"Hey! No! Nonono! I don't—those aren't mine, man, le'go! I never seen'em before! They were planted! Against my will! I was framed! I wanna talk to my lawyer! HEY DON'T TOUCH ME!"

The rest of his departure from the arena was spent yelling everything from random, irrelevant constitutional amendments, to cries that he needed an adult.

The announcer quickly took the stage to settle the uproar.

"We apologize for the interruption. Ember will be moving on to the next round! Please stand by for our next... exciting... bout."

The next introduction began as soon as the crowd settled, the barf was cleaned from the canvas, and the contenders were entering the ring. ... or were being forced to enter the ring by their friends and/or the promoters, whatever the case may have been.

"Wearing orange trunks, his official weight, thirty-eight and a quarter kilograms, hailing from South Island, a new contender with one victory, no losses, no draws: Marcus 'Mako' Gale!"

The crowd was silent.

And then... at the other end of the ring was the hulk that very nearly caused the platform to tilt in his direction.

"And in this corner, weighing in at an incredible two-hundred and thirty-three and a half kilograms, former three-time Global Wrestling Association Heavyweight Champion of the World, and former Asociación Mundial de Lucha Libre Campeonato, it's the Prince of Pain, the Duke of Demolition, the King of Carnage, the Flesh Mangler, the Heavenly Million Striker, the Unstoppable, Undeniable, Invincible Demon of the Ring, the one, THE ONLY, Alfonso Luis Garcia Aguirre 'EL TANK' Maaarrrtiiineeeeeezzzzz!"

The crowd cheered almost as passionately as it had for Sonic. The announcer meanwhile went to go get a drink, as he desperately needed one after that introduction. In the meanwhile, the two boxers were ushered to the middle of the ring, as before.

One instruction would doubtlessly stand out in particular, as Mako stood at about crotch-height versus Tank:

"... no kidney punches, no rabbit punches, and keep it above the belt..."

Logistical issue.

After some attempt to make the boxers touch gloves (probably unsuccessful with Mako), they were sent to their corners. Then, with no further ceremony...

Ding!

There was the bell. It was go-time. A quarter ton of turtle versus a fillet of fish.