Page 96 of Resurfaced Passion

That was a fucking lie, Reaper heard him right before he’d stepped in the room.

“Who’s bankrolling you tonight?”

Silence. Twitching eyes. The trainer brushed the sweat away from his brow, holding onto the bag for dear life under his arm.

“Do they have Russian accents and like to pour vodka on their Weetos?”

The guy’s eyes pinged to Reaper then looked away. Bingo.

“Hate to tell you, but you’re going home.”

“What? You can’t fucking do that!”

“Can. And did. Get lost, you’re not welcome back again.”

“We got problems here?” Asked Arson, followed by Capone looking like anyone’s worst nightmare.

“Caught dumb and dumber here pumping him full of dope.”

“Ah, dude. You dumb as shit.” Laughed Arson as he picked up Hercules’ workout bag and tossed it in the man’s face. “Get the fuck out of here and you can kiss goodbye to your buy-in fee. You ain’t getting it back.”

For a guy stuffed to the brim of steroids he was silent as a fucking corpse. He looked towards his trainer/manager/dope dealer and rose to a lofty height of nearing seven feet it appeared, shrugged and grabbed the bag and walked out.

Leaving behind a sweating, nervous man.

“Look, let’s work this out.” He tried. “No one wants to go home empty handed here, they’ve come for a fight, we can give you a cut.”

“A fair fight.” Capone said darkly. “You tried to jack us.”

“I can’t go away empty handed, guys. Fucks sake, think about this.”

“Who bank rolled you?” Reaper asked quietly.

“God’s sake. You know who. You just said so. They’ll kill me if I don’t pay it back. We didn’t have the buy-in. Not until my guy won.”

Arson snorted. “He wasn’t ever winning against Tag.”

“How much you into them for?”

After some silence, the guy looked at Reaper. “All in all, 90k, we needed a training facility too.”

Capone whistled. “Sucks to be you,amigo. Now get the hell out of our club.”

It was pathetic the way the guy begged and pleaded.

There was no second chances from theSouls. Not with anything or anyone.

One strike and it was game over.

Once Rider heard of this promoter trying to swindle the club he’d be lucky to have legs left.

It was Arson who grabbed the guy by the scruff of his neck and showed him to the door where security was waiting to do the rest, along with kicking out the crew who’d tagged along with them.

“Why would thebratvaroll that much cash to a nobody? He’s had what, three fights and lost two.” Inquired Capone.

“Who knows.” Shrugged Arson. “Who the fuck cares. Tag won’t be happy he hasn’t got anyone to pound on, but we’re up the buy-in fee. I better go let him know.”

The crowd would be pissed too, and a lot of bets would have to be reimbursed, not to mention a big hit for the club personally but it would have been far worse had the fight been allowed to go ahead and Tag unfairly lost to a souped-up maniac.

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