Private THE GRAVITY OF VIOLENCE // Man vs Hutt Shockboxing Thread

[Whottoomuzz Chantin]

Drystan Creed​

The air crackled with anticipation, thick with the scent of ozone and sweat. Neon lights flickered overhead, casting erratic shadows across the arena floor. The rhythmic thump of bass-heavy music reverberated through the walls, syncing with the heartbeat of the crowd.

Hefty Hutt Shockboxing and Fitness Center
A monolithic structure nestled within the industrial sprawl of Nar Shaddaa's underbelly. This was no ordinary gym; it was a crucible where legends were forged, where warriors tested their mettle against the unforgiving embrace of electrified combat.

The ring stood elevated, encased in a lattice of durasteel and humming with latent energy. Above it, a sign blazed in both Huttese and Basic:

“PAIN IS JUST FAT CRYING.”

Tonight, fat would weep a tidal wave of destruction.

The audience, a motley assembly of gamblers, mercenaries, and thrill-seekers, buzzed with excitement. The lights dimmed, and a hush fell over the crowd. Then—

BOOM.

Spotlights ignited.

Announcer droids blared:

“SENTIENTS OF THE GALAXY, PREPARE YOURSELVES FOR A CLASH OF TITANS!”

“IN THE LEFT CORNER: THE UNYIELDING COLOSSUS, THE MAESTRO OF MAYHEM, THE HEAD OF THE CHANTIN KAJIDIC—THE INDOMITABLE WHOTOOMUZZ THE HUTT!”

The ground trembled as he entered—not only slithering, but advancing with purpose. Towering at nearly four meters, his jade-green and obsidian-black form exuded power. Scars crisscrossed his visage, each a testament to battles survived. Silver piercings glinted along his upper lip, symbols of victories claimed. His golden eyes scanned the arena with calculated intensity.

Opposite him stood a figure shrouded in mystery. Clad in unassuming attire, their presence was nonetheless commanding. Movements precise, breathing controlled—a stark contrast to the Hutt's overwhelming force.

An undercover Jedi.

This was more than a match; it was a convergence of philosophies.

The Force versus Flesh.
Discipline versus Dominance.
Mysticism versus Muscle.

The arena pulsed with energy as the combatants faced off.

Let the shockwaves begin.

 

[Drystan Creed]

HEFTY HUTT SHOCKBOXING AND FITNESS CENTER

WEARING

Why was he here?

Every reason Drystan threw at the wall refused to stick.

Was he here to cut the head off another Hutt family snake? No. Assassinations and wanton killings didn't fall under his jurisdiction. He was a Jedi, after all—even if his path as a Shadow walked him perilously close to the line.

Was he here to infiltrate the underworld undercover? No. As a master of subterfuge, this "cover" drew more attention than it concealed. All eyes turned toward him as the droid announced his introduction.

Clad in a simple black robe, Drystan moved to his waistline, untied the cloth, and tossed it out of the ring.

"IN THE RIGHT CORNER: MAKING HIS DEBUT...THE BLACK DRAGON...DRYSTAN CREED!"

Beneath the black satin was a form forged through a lifetime of conflict—a body built like a warmachine. Humanity's physicality pushed beyond the brink, shaped for a singular purpose.

Combat.

Scars webbed his chiseled musculature, a harsh contrast against pale skin. His left arm was a jarring sight—a sleek yet powerful blackened prosthetic, plated with cortosis and designed to mimic the muscle fibers of real flesh to brutal perfection.

Drystan began to step and slide in place, hands raised, taped and bandaged but bare-knuckled, shadowboxing as he warmed his already sweat-slickened body.

In reality, he had no cover. No mission. No motive. No good reason to be here as a Jedi. As a Shadow.

But he was exactly where he was meant to be.

Ready to throw down. Ready to bleed and be bled. To bruise and be bruised.

Beneath the Shadow. Beneath the Knight. Beneath the man. Beneath everything he stood and fought for—

He was a fighter.

And in this arena, he was home.

Whottoomuzz Chantin

 

[Whottoomuzz Chantin]

Even before the bell rang, the arena belonged to him.

Not through charisma.
Not through bravado.
But through presence.

Whottoomuzz of the Chantin Kajidic did not merely enter the ring.
He redefined its geometry.

Where others saw ropes and rails and durasteel mesh, Whottoomuzz saw terrain—a battlefield of constraint made malleable by mass. The moment his coiled body undulated through the cage gates, the floor began to bend. Not figuratively. Literally. The plastcrete foundation warped beneath three thousand pounds of corded hypertrophic muscle wrapped in epidermal fortification two inches thick. His presence was not weighed in credits, nor measured in meters. It was felt in pressure.

600 years of warfare.
3,200 pounds of engineered aggression.
One purpose.

The crowd had fallen silent.
Not by choice.
By survival instinct.

For the first time in recorded history, the phrase “cut weight” had wept and fled Nar Shaddaa.

Anatomical Analysis: Subject — Whottoomuzz the Hutt

Species: Hutt
Designation: Megafaunal Apex Brawler
Musculature: Unnatural. Abnormal. Unholy.

Where the average Hutt evolved for social manipulation and gluttonous insulation, Whottoomuzz had diverged. Somewhere between traditional Kajidii opulence and intensive warfare—trained biology, his cells made a choice.
Adipose? Rejected.
Fibrous hypertrophy? Embraced.

His lats alone could shelter a herd of banthas.
His arms, legally met the metrics to qualify as speeder chassis under Nar Shaddaa traffic law.
His hide, evolved to resist planetary radiation, now served as natural armor against blasters, blades, and most certainly the electricity of shockboxing gloves.

Hutts were already known for regenerative capacity, hemocyanin-rich blood, and resistance to poisons. But Whottoomuzz’s neuromuscular adaptation—the result of centuries of gladiatorial “conditioning”—meant every shockbox strike that hit him... cost you.

“BEGIN!”

The announcer’s voice cracked across the intercom, but the echo fell short of reaching the ring.

Because Whottoomuzz moved.

Slow. Silent. Inescapable.

Like tectonic drift.
Like the thought of violence before it becomes action.

The shockmitts on his arms whirred to life, surging with voltage. Not for flair. For compliance. It was law that they be shock-regulated. None present truly believed they would stop him — they would shatter on first impact. They were afterthoughts. Formalities. Polite gloves over destructive intent.

He slithered forward, bulk undulating in segments. Each movement displaced air, heat, tension. The ring groaned under him. Every bounce of his muscle sent tremors through the canvas. And with eyes narrowed—not cruel, not angry, but judging—he stared across at the Black Dragon.

A Jedi.

A fighter.

A man who had walked into the eye of the storm with bare hands and a warrior’s will.
Whottoomuzz did not roar. He did not taunt.

He simply approached.
And in that existence was the declaration:

I am the ring.
You are already within me.

The fight had begun.
The arena—and the Galaxy—would be forever changed.

Drystan Creed​

 

[Drystan Creed]

HEFTY HUTT SHOCKBOXING AND FITNESS CENTER​

Well before the bell rang — and in the lingering few seconds after — Drystan's eyes were already analyzing, his picture-perfect replication and breakdown of physical movements and traits working in overdrive as his mind began to develop a strategy to ensure victory. Immediately, the weight, size, and reach differences came to mind.

Weight would be a hard wall to overcome. The Hutt was tens of times heavier than he was — and most of that mass was muscle. A promise of raw power behind each swing from those huge arms. The durability that density guaranteed would make Drystan's blows less effective than usual. He'd have to avoid those power punches or, at the very least, find a way to deflect them. Precision would be his priority — random shots would yield no progress.

Size was another factor to consider. Harder to reach the chin when your opponent was several feet taller than you, and the traditional strategies around ring generalship were useless. There would be no feasible way to work the angles of the ring to his advantage. It would be better to stay nimble — never get boxed into a corner or pressed against the ropes.

Reach was the final concern. Being at range would be a disadvantage for this fight. He'd have to close the distance and work from the inside. Otherwise, he'd have no way to land clean hits.

All in all, this would prove a difficult matchup based on physicals alone. One clean hit could mean the end — unless he augmented himself with the Force. And he'd need to draw from it throughout the entire fight to maintain a fighting chance.

However, Drystan knew not to drink from a well already drained. There were other aspects to fighting that didn't rely solely on brute strength.

He began to shift in his stance, shoulders loosening as his body started to move to an inaudible rhythm. It was his own little dance — swaying and tapping as he circled the ring.

Sharp gaze locked behind the guard of his gloves. Surveying. Waiting. Watching.

Whottoomuzz Chantin

 

[Whottoomuzz Chantin]

There was no feint.
No stance.
No flourish.

Whottoomuzz advanced.

Like a flood.
Like a mountain moving under its own volition.
Like something older than malice. Designed before morality.

Each coil of his hypertrophic frame rolled forward with obscene biomechanical coordination—a locomotion somewhere between serpent, tank, and an avalanche of meat. Folds of muscle compressed and expanded like hydraulic pistons, layers upon layers of cross-woven fibers sliding with mechanical ease beneath that two-inch dermal shell. His body did not move around the ring—it reshaped it. With every step, the plastcrete canvas popped, microfractures webbing under his unfathomable weight.

Three thousand pounds of pressure.A slow advance—and yet it bent the air itself.

Drystan circled, fluid as mist.
The Hutt did not follow. He cornered.
He didn’t try to cut off the ring.
He was the ring.

Physiology Report: Category 11 Apex Combat Organism

Hutt Biology, Annotated by Witnesses Who Survived:​

Three redundant hearts. Each capable of operating independently. One pumps blood. One oxygen. The third? Adrenaline.

Tri-layered stomach. Acidic enough to liquefy phrik in three hours. Also used to store weapons, enemies, and in one recorded instance—a political rival.

Gluteal impact stabilizers. The immense posterior is not for comfort—it’s a biological crash-absorber, evolved for seismic impact dispersal. He can suplex a tank without falling over.

Lung bellows. Capable of sustained underwater breath retention for 3 standard hours. In combat, they serve to oxygenate muscle in bursts—allowing bursts of acceleration in seeming defiance of physics.


Whottoomuzz wasn’t designed to exist.
He was designed to survive everything else.​

---

Flashback: Age 100 – The Pit of Rattatak

A full-grown Wookiee berserker.
Seven feet of primal hair and fury.
Unarmed.
So was Whottoomuzz.

It lasted thirty-six seconds.

The Wookiee screamed. Whottoomuzz didn’t.
He ate him alive.
Claw by claw. Limb by limb.
Not for nourishment. For dominance.

---

Flashback: Age 300 – Kashyyyk Siege Training

An AT-ST warwalker crushed beneath him, legs kicking in hydraulic death spasms as Whottoomuzz’s grappling arms wrenched the cockpit downward like a fruit press.

Whottoomuzz flexed his back, revealing the devil-face of muscle that left onlookers with lingering heart problems from sheer fear—and suplexed the machine into the dirt.
The crew inside screamed.
The cockpit caved in.

---

Ongoing: Gen’Dai Slave Pit – Chantin Kajidic Private Dungeon, Nal Hutta

There’s a Gen’Dai beneath his palace.
A being of immortal flesh and writhing regeneration.
Captured, collared, and stored in a pit with no exit.

Whottoomuzz climbs down twice a week.
No words. No gear. Just fists.
He beats the Gen’Dai into meat slurry. Leaves.
Returns when it has reformed.
It is his bag work.

---

Back in the ring, Whottoomuzz’s eyes flickered—not with emotion, but calculation.
There was no strategy. No adjustment.

He was not fighting Drystan.

He was testing him.

Would the man shatter at the first blow?
Or would he endure?
Would he evade?
Or offer up a limb and see what a Hutt’s bite strength truly felt like?

Either way… it would be earned.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t blink.
Didn’t posture.

He just raised one arm.

It was like watching a crane lift a durasteel slab.

The muscle rolled, twisted, ballooned outward in obscene geometry. Triceps surged like hydraulic cables. The air howled as tendons audibly stretched to full extension.

And then the first strike came.

A slow, deliberate haymaker—meant not to land, but to reshape the space. The kind of blow that, even if dodged, told the bones in your legs that death was near.

Whottoomuzz grunted.

Not a roar. Not a word.
A declaration. The words of truth that were demise to any in the Hutt's warpath.

"Uba ateema een noleeya rangoo."

The fight had begun.

And the creature attacking Drystan was no fighter. It was inevitability.

But even inevitability, if pushed far enough…

can bleed.

Drystan Creed​

 

[Drystan Creed]

HEFTY HUTT SHOCKBOXING AND FITNESS CENTER​

When throwing a punch, where does the power come from?

The fist? The hand? The arm? The shoulder? The back?

In truth, it's none of these.

The quality of a punch originates from the feet. One could argue that the feet play a more important role in the punch than the hand that delivers it. Proper foot placement—one's stance—is the foundation. The rear foot, in particular, is used to push off the ground, initiating the transfer of energy upward. The legs—especially the rear leg—generate force through a bottom-up approach, rotating the hips and twisting the core to maximize impact.

This phenomenon is known as the kinetic chain: energy transferred from the ground, through the legs, hips, core, shoulders, and finally, the fist.

With this in mind, a quality punch does not come from strength alone—but from timing and technique. A punch, then, is not just a movement of the arm, but a concerted effort of the entire body working in harmony toward a single purpose: power.

And Drystan used this in textbook fashion.

As Whottomuzz swung a massive haymaker with his enormous hand, Drystan ducked beneath it—fighting every primal instinct to flinch or crumble in the face of such overwhelming force. There was no question: had that strike landed, the fight would have ended. In the ring or out of it, it would have broken him.

Instead, he pivoted low, using the push of his back foot to launch himself forward, slipping into an interior position inside the Hutt's guard. With the extreme height difference, an uppercut to the chin was out of reach. So he adapted. He pivoted, twisted, and unleashed a devastating body blow—angled precisely toward where he hoped the Hutt's liver would be.


If Hutts even had livers.

Whottoomuzz Chantin

 

[Whottoomuzz Chantin]

There was a sound.

Not the crack of flesh on flesh. Not the reverberation of force through fat.

No—this was wet.
Internal.
Cellular.

It was the sound of something bursting.

As Drystan’s fist connected just beneath the mountainous curvature of the Hutt’s ribline—if it could be called that—he hit with the kind of perfect kinetic transfer that would have folded a rancor at the midsection.
Twist. Pivot. Deliver.
The technique was flawless.

And yet—

Whottoomuzz did not move.

He simply stood.
All three of his hearts beat once—synchronized.
His three stomachs clenched in unison.
And one of his twelve auxiliary torque-glands ruptured.

The crowd couldn’t hear it.
But Drystan could feel it.
Something inside had popped.

Hutt blood—viscous, dark, the consistency of old engine grease—oozed from the corners of Whottoomuzz’s toothless, gargantuan mouth. His lips peeled back in a slow, terrible expression. A bloody grin.
No teeth.
Just gums.
Dark and spongy like volcanic stone.

A smile that had no business smiling.
Pain that would have crippled a lesser Hutt. Whottoomuzz simply measured it. Logged it. Stored it. “Pawa gootu ta crusha Jee.” he said, with something between respect and delight.

The electroshock flare from Drystan’s glove hissed against his skin—did nothing. The epidermal layers had evolved for plasma resistance during the birth of Hutt physiology. Electricity danced over the surface, searching for nerves that were sunken beneath inches of muscle and glandular armor. A lesser being would have taken frozen as muscles siezed, a powerful being would take a step back. Whottoomuzz leaned forward.

And then—

He moved.

Fast.

Too fast.

Like a landslide deciding it no longer obeyed gravity. Like an avalanche abruptly tumbling sideways against gravity's pull — it starts choosing where to fall.

One massive arm—bigger than most men’s torsos—whipped forward in a piston-straight jab, arcing barely an inch shy of Drystan’s nose. A feint. But the wind alone slapped sweat from the Jedi’s forehead. The ring lights above shivered.

And before the moment could register—
Quarter-circle. Dash. Lateral movement.

A strafing glide that made no anatomical sense. A creature this size should not have this neural response time, this muscular cooperation. His entire bulk slid clockwise around Drystan in a smooth, arching pivot.

Only an afterimage remained before the sudden awareness that Whottoomuzz was now beside him. At his flank. Inside the guard.

The uppercut came from below the waistline—a full-body extension that turned Whottoomuzz’s entire frame into a rising arc of devastation. The glove glowed. Muscle surged. Every fiber of hypertrophic supremacy from fist to tail, pushing a vicious curve of mass.

It was not a strike. It was a verdict.

And it came crashing up—aimed for Drystan’s serratus, lower ribs, and solar plexus.

Impact was imminent.

Drystan Creed​

 

[Drystan Creed]

HEFTY HUTT SHOCKBOXING AND FITNESS CENTER​

Drystan found his mark with the hook—it seemed effective, based on what he saw and heard. Perhaps something to exploit as the rounds carried on into the night. He began to conceptualize a strategy to hone in on that weakness.

But before he could put it into action, his eyes widened—an enormous uppercut was already coming his way. Fast. Much faster than he could have ever expected.

The sheer size of the fist made it too risky to dodge. One wrong move could mean the loss of his head. Instead, he twisted his body, exposing the shoulder of his prosthetic arm and using it as a makeshift shield. The uppercut slammed into the limb, sending the Shadow flying back into the ropes across the other side of the ring.

If that arm had been made of flesh—unplated by cortosis and unreinforced by the Force—it would have been mangled beyond repair.

Drystan bounced off the ropes and landed on his feet—at least, he thought he had.

His body buckled. He dropped to one knee, forced low by the backlash of the blow. The count began as the sensation of control slipped from him. That single strike had done more damage than he would've liked. His body felt numb, the force of the hit crawling up his legs like a million ants. It was as if he had slammed a metal rod into the ground at full strength—and taken the recoil in full.

He cursed silently. A knockdown, scored against him in the first round. Points lost. Not good—not when his path to victory relied more on the judge's scorecards than landing a near-impossible knockout against his towering opponent.

He used the full extent of the count, rising before the ten. This was going to be harder than anticipated.

Cautiously, he advanced.

There was no point in trying to keep Whottomuzz at bay with a jab—the reach differential was too great. So he pressed in, hunting from the inside, working the body.

This time, he amplified his speed, launching a flurry of strikes meant to manipulate his opponent's guard and expose that one spot—where his earlier hook had found success.

The Shadow was resolute. He would claw back the points he lost.

Yet as he pressed his assault, a smile crept across his face. He would never admit it, but the prospect of a strong opponent stirred the fighter's blood that surged through his veins. That instinctual pull toward the powerful—overriding the tranquility he had worked so hard to cultivate as a Jedi.

It was a selfish desire. A vice, some might say. But he could not deny it.

And that was why he was here—courting death in the ring with an opponent who could kill him in a single blow if he wasn't careful.

Whottoomuzz Chantin