"Well it ain't exactly Gleason's" Frank thought to himself, but the smell was the same, that musky scent of dried blood and sweat from gladiators who had left only the ghosts of fights once fought. His muscles tensed as he walked through the door his ghosts were awakening as he entered this archaic shrine to a forgotten art.
Frank saw this place was deserted,"perfect" he thought, with nobody here there would be nobody to ask questions, he could relax. Frank rang the service bell and shouted "Hey buddy, how much for a couple rounds? live or bagged?" He hadn't fought anybody for sport in a long time and was hoping he could still control himself.