I’m not throwing shit. I’m just trying not to die.
Ducking a tree trunk that threatens to snap my neck, slipping out from his hold, I move around the blood-stained canvas and watch my monster opponent turn.
He’s big. He’s strong as an ox. But he’s slow.
Stepping forward, I swing out and bust open the brow above his left eye. Blood rains down on the canvas and adds to the artwork left there by a thousand men before.
In real fights, in the pay-per-view fights, they might pause the round and close him up. They don’t wanttoo muchblood. But at Infernos, nothing stops the fight. It ends when it ends, and we hope no one lied on the ‘do you have any transmittable diseases’ form.
Faster than I gave him credit for, Brochov’s thick arm swings around. His fist slams into my side and almost pierces something important with my own ribs. Lifting me off my feet with the momentum, I wrap my arms around his throat like I’m hugging the guy, and when we land on the canvas, when he lands on me, I know tomorrow will hurt bad.
Straddling me, blitzing me with his jabs, I cover up and grunt at the knuckles cracking my forearms.
Who the fuck bet against this guy?
Bridging up when his fists slow, I lift three-hundred-pounds with my hips and flip us over. In half guard, with his legs wrapped around my hips and his hands covering his face, I throw strikes like my life depends on it.
And it does.
Hurt him. But don’t knock him out.
It’s a fine fucking line, because if I accidentally knock him out, it won’t matter that I’m Abel’s best soldier. All that will matter is that I lost him nearly one and a half million dollars.
I’ll pay for that with my life.
Unlike televised fights, our rounds aren’t timed. These aren’t five-minute slots, then a rest and water break. There are no medics here to make sure everyone walks away breathing. There are just my fists slamming against a solid Russian head, and Abel in my peripherals, shaking his head and nibbling on his pointer finger.
There are no clocks in this club. No watch on my wrist. No timers telling me how long the fight has been going. It feels like I’ve been in this ring for hours, but at the same time, mere seconds.
Looking into Brochov’s dimming eyes – one swollen shut, the other side of his face turning slack – then another glance at Abel, biting off a curse, I hold my final strike and let the monster flip me.
He’s down, but he ain’t out.
I get the feeling he doesn’t know of Abel’s agreement, because once he senses my exhaustion, he scissors us, slams me to my back, and like it’s all in slow motion, I watch his fist come straight for my face.
One Mississippi; his teeth bare with feral rage.
Two Mississippi; his chest fills with oxygen as his new position reinvigorates him.
Three Mississippi; his fist connects with my temple and the lights go out.
There is no four.