Page 14 of Violent Possession
The winner’s purse would be double the guaranteed amount, which is already twenty-five times my usual pay of two hundred dollars; twenty-five fights, and twenty-five broken bones. It’s kind of stupid I didn’t see it before—of course, after fucking up Sacramento’s “best” fighter, Karpov wants medead. This moneyis for a losing fight. A fucking grappler against me, for fuck’s sake?
“They think I don’t know how to fight on the ground,” I say without thinking.
They’re right. I don’t.
I grab the crumpled pack of cigarettes from the nightstand. The warning on the box feels like a joke. This product causes death. Everything causes death, you sons of bitches.
“Youknowhow to fight on the ground,” Marcus lies, leaning forward. “You fight anyone, anywhere. Right, champ? Are we going to get rich, or are we going to sit here watching TV?”
I look at the screen. The cockroach woman is laughing and crying at the same time. The audience applauds.
“Yeah... They want me to lose,” I say. “You know that, right? Or is old age making you stupid?”
“Griffin, for God’s sake, who cares? They pay the same either way!” He gives up on his theater about how I can beat anyone. I prefer it this way. “You tap out before he breaks something for real, and we still get paid. It’s the easiest job in the world!”
Maybe that’s it. Maybe I was built to be the sacrifice on someone else’s altar.
I light my cigarette with a lighter I stashed under the mattress.
“No,” I say, and Marcus’s smile freezes.
I crumple the proposal in my one hand. The prosthesis lies abandoned on the two-seater sofa in front of the window.
“What the hell do you mean, ‘no’?”
“I’ll fight, just not for this handout.”
Marcus’s face goes from panic to pure disbelief. He gestures at the crumpled paper in my hand as if it’s a sacred artifact I just spat on. “Ahandout? We don’t make this kind of money in a whole month!”
“What can I say? Quality pornography is expensive.” I stare at him. “Tell Karpov, or his fucking ghost investor, that my price for stepping in the ring just doubled.”
Marcus’s jaw drops. He nearly has a stroke right there on the edge of my bed.
“Have you gone completely insane? Griffin, they’ll laugh in our faces! They’ll tell us to go fuck ourselves and call the next loser in line!”
“There is no other loser in line who did what I did to their champion.”
Marcus stares at me.
“Griffin, this Karpov guy is an animal. And the investor... people like that don’t like being crossed. They won’t negotiate.”
I take a long drag from my cigarette.
“I’m going to be the most expensive whore in Sacramento. Double the price. Take it or leave it.”
Marcus runs his hands over his face. He knows I won’t back down. My stubbornness wins impossible fights and will probably get us both killed. I won’t be a cheap whore.
“Fine,” he relents. “Fine, goddammit. But when the men in suits show up here to pull out your fingernails, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
Fingernails, huh? At least it’s more creative than a simple bullet to the head. I appreciate the effort.
I take a deep drag, holding the smoke in my lungs until it burns. If I die, Marcus can tell himself he tried. He’ll sleep soundly on his moldy mattress, dreaming of the money he almost made.
Twenty-five fights. Fifty. Fifty broken bones. One expensive whore.
The TV is still on. The woman is now crying with joy, covered in cockroaches and holding a giant cardboard check. Marcusleaves, shaking his head and fumbling in his blazer’s inner pocket for a cigarette.
Before the so-called men in suits come to rip my balls off, I decide I need a drink.
