Page 3 of Steel Rain

Eoghan probably knew that. Taking me here today was some kind of peace offering. A reprieve from the daily grind of training soldiers for a mafia war that I didn’t believe in.

I longed for the octagon. It’s a place where the world is fair. The world makes sense. I couldtasteclarity in the acrid air. This was where I belonged. Ringside, looking through the chains at my fighter. That was my fate. That’s what I was made for!

The war couldn’t come soon enough. With that, I’d win my life back.

A burly Japanese man, Takahashi, stood tall and proud, his body rigid and muscular from years of martial arts training. His eyes were like dark stones hidden behind heavy lids, constantly scanning the space around him. He moved with the slow, deliberate grace of an ox ploughing a field, each movement delivering the most efficient amount of impact. If he was an ox, then his Irish opponent, Clyde Murphy, was a Tasmanian Devil.

His arms windmilled wildly, each kick and punch invested his entire being and within a minute, he was exhausted, his breaths labored. Takahashi just had to bide his time.

"Come on, Murphy!" Eoghan clutched the ticket with his bet in a fist, waving it with excitement and frustration. His old country accent got thicker as he screamed, "Don't quit now, youeejit!"

I grinned. The winner was a foregone conclusion. I could have called it before the bell even sounded the first round.

But Green was a loyal man. Irish to his core. And he'd support a Murphy over a Takahashi, even if it was idiotic.

As Murphy lumbered, his movements stalling, Takahashi snapped his leg high, taking the Irishman down with a well-placed shin to the ear.

He didn't even follow up his attack. He didn't need to. Murphy was down for the count. Total Knock Out.

The underground circuit was a favorite for those who liked their blood sports. It was flashier. Bloodier. The tickets cost more, and the bets were higher. The payouts were greater for the fighters, even if they lost. But there was less regulation, and they popped up anywhere at any time. You got an invitation on your phone, and once the fight started, the invite would vanish. The elusive figure that ran the ring was a closely guarded secret. He was a shadowy figure. A puppet master pulling all the strings.

It was my favorite circuit, by far. Just enough rules to keep it going, but primal and anarchic, as nature intended the sport to be.

Takahashi's restraint was refreshing as he stood as still as a crane in languid waters, waiting for the referee to intercede and call the match.

Rage and frustration bubbled up inside Eoghan Green like a cauldron of boiling acid until finally he let out an enraged yell, "God DAMN IT!"

With trembling hands, he crumpled the offending, losing betting slip before hurling it down onto the ground at his feet.

"That's what you get for only supporting Irish," I chuckled. "I could have told you he’d lose."

Green's black eyes turned to me; his gelled, blond, side-parted hair glinting under the fluorescents. He loosened his blue striped tie.

"Yes, you're right." He shook his head. "But my blood runs shamrock green. You wouldn't understand."

I shrugged. He was probably right about that.

"Anyway, there's another Irish in the fights. Sin Grady." He leaned down and picked up the billet, and smoothed it out, trying to erase the marks of his lost temper.

"You sure that's Irish?" I asked.

"Grady? Of course!" Green almost looked offended that I'd question his Irish radar. "Grady is derived from the Irish wordgráda, meaning ‘noble’ or ‘renowned’. Don’t quiz me on my Irish! So, let's hope Sin doesn't let me down."

"You know him?" I wondered because he was putting a lot of faith in this Grady fella.

"No, never met the man, but I have faith that he'll redeem me." He waved the ticket up between his two fingers, putting a sly smile on his lips. "Luck of the Irish. I've got it in spades."

"How well did that work for Murphy?"

Green grunted with a good-natured laugh as the medic entered the octagon to revive Murphy.

The audience members called out drink orders at passing wait staff. There was no food at the establishment, but there were plenty of drinks to be had, served by scantily clad girls in fetishized boxing robes. Slim. Pretty.

I admired them as any man would, but it all reminded me of my Snow White, the woman in the alleyway with rounded hips, and thighs that took a solid handful. When a beast mounts a strong female, we get one step closer to God. I swear, that woman brought me straight to heaven.

Eoghan was right, of course. Not about his fighters. He couldn't pick them for shit. But about his Irish luck. The man was one of the luckiest bastards I had ever seen. He could stroll through a firefight without getting hit. If Green stood out in the rain, the clouds would part above where he was standing and keep him dry.

"It's good to have luck on your side, when you're the head of the Irish Mafia," I grinned, leaning back in my seat as they carted Murphy out of the octagon. Takahashi was declared the winner to the hoots and hollers of the guys around us.

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