Tonight will be easy. Let his meaty fist rattle my brains and put me to sleep.
Tomorrow will suck.
Tomorrow, I’ll need a scan on my brain, but no way to get it.
One day, eventually, if the thugs and drugs and bullets don’t end my life, it’s likely I’ll die of a brain tumor, or stroke, or flat out stupidity as I drive the wrong way up the interstate because assholes kept punching me in the head over the years and knocked all my brain cells loose.
Stepping forward in high-top shoes and sweaty shorts, I bring my wrapped hands to my face to swipe dribbles of blood and sweat from my eyes.
“Brochov. Bishop.” Taking my hand, the referee studies my eyes, then takes my opponent’s and does the same. “The fight ends on a tap, or when one of you are out or can’t defend yourselves anymore. Don’t tap.” His dirt brown eyes come back to mine. “Trust me, go to sleep. Don’t tap. The people paid for blood; tapping will get you in big trouble with bad people.”
I look to my green-eyed opponent and nod. This asshole’s gonna knock me out less than ten minutes from now. Awesome. And there’s not a single soul on the premises who’ll keep watch and make sure no one fucks with me while I’m out.
Like I do so often, I wonder how the fuck my life ended up here.
Because my boss is an asshole. That’s how.
Stepping back, the referee whose name I don’t know picks up a whistle that hangs around his neck and brings it to his lips. “No rules, guys, except your fans want a show. Win, and make it spectacular.” He looks to Brochov. “Are you ready?” When the seven-foot yeti nods, when his body says one thing, but his eyes say he’s scared, the ref turns to me. “You ready?”
This isn’t like the fights we watch on TV. It’s not a respectable crowd, not a respectable organizer. People die in this ring. And when they do that, when they’re so inconsiderate as to die, Abel’s people –me– lift them up and put them out the back.
Dead bodies offend the women. They get a little shocky and start to turn green.
When the women ask to leave, the men leave.
When the men leave, the money leaves.
Abel’s a businessman through and through, so hiring a cleaning crew was a small price to pay to keep the money here.
If I die tonight, my ass will be thrown in a dumpster by none other than Lance’s fuckbuddy, Chad. And he’ll probably shove the barrel of his gun up my ass first.
“Let’s go.” Blowing the whistle, the referee’s white shirt brings me back to sharp reality. The crowd holler until they’re hoarse. The men toss money at the women-bookies that move through the crowd.
They have until halfway through the first round to lay down bets, then the women with the money disappear and Abel swaps out the good cash for the counterfeit. The winners receive their cut, but in counterfeit notes that pass bank inspection – for now. Abel gets his cut of the winnings, but then he gets the whole cut of the real money.
Double dipping motherfucker.
My fresh-faced opponent circles. Long legs help him eat up the space so his stride is my run. Hands up. No gloves. No padding. No mouthguards or cups. Just wraps on our knuckles to hide razor blades if we wish to be pricks.
Sandy blonde hair hangs over Brochov’s too-big forehead. His jaw juts out, and his thighs act like tree trunks. I’m not a small man, but this fucker’s thighs are gonna snap mine.
And yet, the money tonight is still on me.
The reputation I’ve built for myself at Infernos in the last year and a half makes me proud. Makes me wish I went into pro fighting rather than this shit. Promo tours, money, endorsements, ring girls walking around in panties hoping I look their way.
I know this town is home to badass fighting champions. I know this town has a whole lot of money tucked away behind closed doors, where the owners still drive regular cars, they eat take-out more often than not, and they work out every day rather than pay a surgeon to make them look the way they do.
They’re regular people living regular lives, but they don’t live in shitty apartments like mine, and they don’t worry someone will shoot them in the head on a regular basis.
Sidestepping Brochov’s meaty fist, I pivot away and swing my arm around. Snapping his roid-filled jaw to the side, his scared eyes transform to something akin to that fucker in the Rocky movie.
If he dies, he dies.
Pushing forward on thundering feet, he slams me against the ropes and moves twelve of my twenty four ribs up into my chest. Hook, hook, hook against my side, his sweat flings from his hair and lands on my face.
Spectators scream just half a foot behind me. If his sweat is hitting me, it’s hitting them, too.
Abel stands in his office, the drapes open, and the glass wall does nothing to hide the disapproval in his eyes. He thinks I’m throwing the fight already. Too obvious. Not enough blood.