Page 4 of Violent Possession
I give up. It’s useless. Trying to have a strategic conversation with this man is like playing chess with a pigeon: it’ll knock over the pieces, shit on the board, and fly off claiming victory. Ivan sent me here wishing I’d fail.
I won’t.
“Pay attention. You’re gonna see what areal championlooks like,” he says, pointing with the bottle at the so-called Rat, who enters the ring to the crowd’s applause. “A goddamn meat grinder. Nobody lasts five minutes with him. Nobody.”
The organizer announces a name. “...IRON ARM!”
Karpov lets out the loud, obnoxious laugh I was expecting.
“Iron Arm?” he scoffs. “Hah! The guy’s only got one arm, for fuck’s sake. Rat’s gonna use that little stump to mop the floor.Seriously. Easy money. Wanna bet, Malakov? Ten grand on Rat winning before the third minute.”
I finally look at him. How does such a predictable being manage to survive, let alonethrive, in this world?
“I don’t get my hands dirty for less than seven figures, Karpov. And more importantly... I don’t bet oncircus acts.”
I finally sit down in the cheap plastic chair.You’ve won for now, Vania solium?*.
Since I’m forced to stay, I’ll watch this insignificant fight. I cross my arms and analyze the so-called Rat first, the champion. He’s strong, big, scarred. But he’sgym-strong, not fight-strong. The kind of idiot who flexes for the crowd and can’t take a punch to the gut—ah, look there. He’s flexing for the crowd.
On the other side, the amputee and a dark chain around his neck, with a small piece of metal glinting under the lights.Amputee.A peculiar choice to join underground fights—I can imagine at least a dozen additional potential weaknesses in a no-rules bout. Very dirty hits, well-anchored to that metal contraption he has for an arm. It doesn’t look particularly advanced. I imagine a lack of cushioning, of tactile feedback, of complex movement. He’d leave with a swollen, bleeding stump.
Karpov is overjoyed. His eyes are shining. Fuck it. This is going to be a waste of time with a soundtracked massacre.
* “Vania” is a Russian diminutive of “Ivan”. “Vania solium” is a play onTaenia solium, the Latin name for the pork tapeworm.
GRIFFIN
Violence is an addiction. And like any addiction, you only find out you have it when you’re already too fucked up to quit.
Underground fights replaced my morning coffee years ago, and the hangover is a lot more fun. The only rule is that there are no rules, which means I can get creative. And I love getting creative.
My baptism was a gang fight between teenagers in clown masks. One of them tried to stab me with a screwdriver. I bit his ear off. Spat it on the ground. They called me a psychopath, and honestly, I wasn’t offended.
Later, I found out I was good at it during my firstrealjob for that same gang. It was a “collection”. A shopkeeper who stole money. “Just scare him, Myrddin,” Seraphim had said, with a smile that was a goddamn sun.“Show him that greed has consequences.” I was just supposed to scare the guy. But he screamed. And his scream was loud, and he wouldn’t stop screaming. When I got back, Seraphim was waiting for me. Theshopkeeper’s blood was still under my nails. He looked me in the eyes, put a hand on my shoulder, and said the words that fucked me up forever. “That,” he said. “That is a divine gift.”
When an angel tells you something like that, you believe it.
So, I got used to anarchic, poorly organized fights, rings made of scrap metal, and hysterical drunks for a cheering section.
But in Sacramento, it’s a different story.
The work lights hanging from the abandoned warehouse’s ceiling cast long, sick shadows over the metal ring. Four steel posts with elastic ropes stretched between them, the floor lined with pieces of carpet over the concrete. Surrounding it, a mass of anonymous faces yells, drinks, and passes cash from hand to hand. The air is garbage. I like it.
They come for the blood.
“You ready, kid?” Marcus says, slapping my back. His touch is clammy. I count the seconds until I can break something.
“Is the purse good, or am I gonna have to break your face too?” I ask.
“The purse isgreat,” he says, with a smile that shows a gold tooth. “And the odds against you are high. The locals here love their little champion. More money for us when you shut him up.”
Great. I love disappointing people. I look at my opponent, the so-called “Rat, the Unbeatable”. He flexes his biceps for the crowd.Look at me, I’m strong. A stupid nickname for a guy the size of a refrigerator. He has an arrogant smile, and the crowd chants his name. Immortal.Unbeatable. Bullshit.
The organizer, a sweaty guy with a crappy microphone, yells. “Good evening, California!”
The audience roars.
“Welcome to Sacramento’s private hell! There are no rules, no refs, and no mercy here! Two men enter... but only one walks out. Bet your paychecks, scream your lungs out, becausetonight there’s gonna be blood for everyone! In the right corner, weighing as much as a truckload of bricks, the pride of Sacramento, the man who’s never been knocked down... your champion, RAT, THE UNBEATABLE!”
