He holds up his hands. “Hell nah. He was all up in my shit. I know better. I seen what happens. No thanks. I’m good.”
“Then go get a drink.” I reach into my pocket and toss him one of the red and white poker chips which signifies a drink on the house.
He accepts the chip and lifts it in thanks, makes his exit.
I turn back to my guy Jeff. “You still thinking it’s a good idea to fight me?”
He’s got his back up, his pride flaring—no backing down now. He swells his chest. “Fuck you.”
“Dumbshit.” I spy Chance and Kane sidling up behind him, and I thread my fingers together, pop my knuckles. “Well, then, let’s get this shitshow movin’, Chunks.”
This nickname pisses him off even more, but Chance and Kane are at his sides. And nobody, butnobodythinks it’s a good plan to fuck with either of them. I look threatening, sure, and I am. But Chance? He could kick God’s ass and not break a sweat. And as for Kane, well, he looks like he could bare-hands wrestle a full-grown bull. With his background, I figure he probably has.
“What, uh…what’s this about?” Jeff asks, looking like he’s starting to feel nervous.
“Picked a fight,” Chance murmurs; his murmur rattles your bones. “You got one.”
“Awww shit,” Jeff’s friend mutters. To me: “You gonna kill him?”
I laugh. “Nah. Too much paperwork. He’ll need an ambulance, though.”
This is all part of the show. Freak ‘em out. Get ‘em to the ring, they’re sweating, thinking twice. Most don’t make it that far. Fewer yet make the ring.
Kane and Chance follow me, frog-marching Chunks behind me, through the surging throng. Dancers bounce off Kane and Chance and make way for me. If you know the club, you know what’s happening, and word starts to filter.
There are two entrances into Fisticuffs: through Hel; the other entrance is from Sin, via a back stairwell. You can get into Fisticuffs from Sin, but not Hel; you can see it, but you can’t access it without a pass. We take the stairwell, and I hear Chunks huffing down the stairs, hear him carom off a wall and miss a step; Kane snickers.
Dumbfuck is lit.
The stairwell is illuminated by blacklights, making flecks on the floor and on the walls stand out, on my shirt, my shoes. At the bottom, noise is an assault. Cheers rise, subside, followed by boos, then a cheer. The music is all-pervasive, but it’s less so here, intentionally.
Fisticuffs is a huge underground square room, fifty-foot-high ceilings with four massive lazily spinning fans. The light is blue, garish and virulent, alien, almost too bright, especially coming from the darkness of Sin or the dull red glow of Hel. There are about thirty feet of empty space in a square perimeter around the ring, which is suspended six feet off the floor by four monster chains, each one a former anchor chain from an aircraft carrier, meaning thick as my waist. It’s a cage. Once you’re in, you’re in. There’s one door, accessed by a rolling stairway. People throng four and five deep in the open spaces, cheering as they watch the match in progress. Huge Jumbotron-style screens in all four corners of the room display the fight in progress, and between fights they show replays and slow-mos of previous fights. They also display the odds for the fight in progress, since the main draw of Fisticuffs, aside from the fights themselves, is that you can bet on them. Fortunes are won and lost in this room every night.
Behind me, I hear Jeff’s feet falter. “Shit.”
He’s watching the fight—it’s a bloodbath. One fighter is a tiny, wiry Hispanic guy. The other is a tubby white guy, smaller than Jeff but not fit, just big. He’s getting his ass handed to him by the Latino dude. Like, it’s almost funny. The Latino dude is quicker than a snake, feet and hands lashing out with professional speed, while the white guy is just taking it, and taking it, and not getting a hit in. Props to the white dude for taking a hell of a wallop, though—he’s bloodied, eyes swollen, lips split, cheeks cut.
I glance at Jeff. “Hang tight, Chunks, this fight is almost over.”
He’s looking nervous, shifting his weight, looking at the crowd. I can see him trying to keep his bluster.
Once you’re out of the heat of a brewing fight, it’s hard to get it back, especially when you’re faced with the arena and that big-ass cage.
The fight ends moments after my words, the Latino knocking the white dude flat on his ass with a nice roundhouse kick. He steps over the body of his fallen opponent and pumps his fists in the air, crowing his victory. Looking at the odds, he made some folks a mint. Himself too, I imagine.
The stairs are rolled to the exit, and the winner dances down the stairs. The loser is none too gently slapped awake, hauled to his feet, and guided to the stairs. A crew runs up with a mop and a bucket of bleach water, making quick work of cleaning away the blood.
I peel off my earpiece, pluck the radio from my belt, and hand them to Kane. Jog to the stairs, up, and into the cage.
When my mean mug hits the screens, the cheering is immediate, and deafening. I’m a favorite, since I’m an easy win to bet on, and I know how to make a fight last.
I swing my arms, bounce on the balls of my toes, facing away from the door of the cage. I watch on a screen as my guy Chunks hups his ass up the stairs, looking very unsure of himself and this whole situation. He stumbles into the cage, and the door clangs shut. Stairs are rolled away.
I turn on him. “No turning back now, Chunks.”
He scowls. “Fuckin’ quit calling me that.”
“Cage match, bitch. Make me.” I hold my arms out. “You wanted a fight. Let’s fight.”
