Page 6 of Violent Possession
I get down. One of the ropes gives way under my weight, and the structure groans.
Too many people crowd around, trying to touch me, congratulate me, offer me a drink, or just say they knew I was going to win.
Lies. No one bet on me—a nobody fresh from another corner of California. That’s why Marcus is so happy.
Marcus pushes through with his arms. He likes to pretend he’s my bodyguard. Especially in front of the women. He’s smaller than me, but his ego takes up way more space.
“Come with me,” he says, pulling me by the shoulder. “Let’s get our cut before these sons of bitches break everything.”
I don’t like being touched. But I follow him.
I pass men still laughing, women with their eyes glued to me, and some who avoid my gaze as if I carry the plague.
One of them taps my chest with the side of his hand.
“Fuck, brother. You killed him and brought him back.”
I don’t answer. Because I killed him and brought him back. That’s true. But I don’t like being touched.
The rusty door at the back of the warehouse opens and swallows Marcus. I follow.
Behind the metal door, the crowd and its noise are muffled. There’s a concrete hallway, and we walk to an empty, abandoned men’s locker room, full of old graffiti, forgotten piss, and faded blue lockers.
Marcus vibrates in silence before exploding to himself, “FUCK, YEAH! THAT’S WHAT I’M TALKING ABOUT!” He throws his arms up, and you’d think he was the one with the broken knuckles. “THE NEW KING OF SACRAMENTO!”
He steps back to walk beside me. Drapes an arm over my shoulders. I pull away. I don’t like being fucking touched. He doesn’t notice, or doesn’t care.
“Did you see their faces? The way Rat went down? Beautiful! Poetic!” he says, rubbing his hands together. “We’re gonna make a fortune here, stumpy. Afortune.”
He slaps my back. Nice nickname. He loves to remind me.
At the back of the locker room, there’s another door—an emergency exit. Behind it, a makeshift office built from scrap metal. There’s an old shower on one of the walls that no one bothered to tear out.
I sit on a wooden crate and start unwrapping the bloody bandages from my left hand. They’re stuck to the skin, the blood already dried in places. The small medallion on its chain is slickwith a mix of my sweat and Rat’s blood. I wipe it clean on my shorts out of habit. The middle finger feels dislocated. It’s going to swell.
Marcus approaches the two guys: a big one—security—and a skinny dude in a baseball cap. No one says anything. They exchange looks, handshakes, an envelope.
He opens it. Counts. Gestures. Winks.
“Let’s go, stumpy.”
I get up. I’m still unwrapping the elastic bands. We turn around and head back to the locker room.
He takes the thick envelope and slaps it against his palm.
“The sound of success,” he says and recounts the cash, licking his finger to flip through the bills. “The organizer’s happy. The crowd’s happy.” He separates a stack of bills, way less than half the whole wad, and holds it out to me. “I’m happy.”
I take the money. I don’t count it. It’s just paper. Enough to eat, sleep, and wait for the next brawl.
“There we go,” he says, tucking his share into the inner pocket of his jacket. “Let’s celebrate. First round of beers is on me. There are some girls out there who couldn’t take their eyes off you. The new king deserves his queens, don’t you think?”
I finish removing the last wrap of the bandage from my left hand. The skin underneath throbs, wanting to walk away.
Party. Girls. Beer. The holy trinity of testosterone. The celebration is life.
“Why not?” I say with a shrug. A crooked smile pulls at the corner of my swollen mouth. “If the king deserves his queens, who am I to deny the crown?”
Marcus’s face lights up. He doesn’t get the joke. He never does.
