Page 24 of Violent Things
Carlos tuts as he puts the money into his back pocket and writes something down into a small, ratty book.
“S’okay, man. Just don’t fucking lose,” Ben advises, like it’s the most obvius thing ever. “No pressure.”
“Name?” Carlos clips out. “Hey, asshole.What. Is. Your. Name?”
“Mason Reeves.”
That goes into his book. “Lose the shirt,” he says. I take off my hoody and my shirt and stand there bare-chested as Carlos takes a fat red marker pen and scrawls something onto my left shoulder blade. “And you, dipshit.” He prods his pen in Ben’s direction.
Ben loses his t-shirt and Carlos draws a fat eighty-eight onto his shoulder, and then vanishes into the swell of the crowd, presumably to find more people to verbally abuse and draw on.
Ben whoops, slapping the top of my arm. “Turn around, man. Let me see what ranking he gave you. Oh shit!” he laughs. “Twelve? Damn!”
“Twelve? What the fuck does twelve mean?”
“Twelve percent chance of winning.” Apparently this is the funniest shit ever, according to my so called best friend. Undoubtedly he only thinks it’s so funny because Carlos gave him an eighty eight percent chance of winning, which means a shit ton more money from the house if he does. “Don’t worry, man,” he says, pulling me through the sea of bodies. “They always rank new guys low. He hasn’t seen you fight yet. C’mon.”
On the other side of the packed out market place, a ring has been set up and the first match of the night is already underway. The two guys in the ring are lean and quick, jabbing and striking at each other faster than lightning, barely grazing each other before darting out of reach. The crowd get bored of that pretty quickly. They want brutality. They want blood. They want the sound of bone cracking on bone. These violent things make the blood run hot in their veins.
Four minutes after we arrive, the two guys have been booed out of the ring, neither one of them having landed a proper punch, and two new fighters are climbing into the cage. Their fight is adrenalin fuelled from the moment the bell rings. One broken nose. A couple of potential broken ribs. One K.O. Two minutes and the whole thing is over. The people squeezing in around the cage are screaming at the tops of their lungs. I need a fight like that. I need something violent and bloody that will have them remembering my name until next weekend, where I’ll have to prove myself all over again.
There are three more fights before I’m called up. At least two hundred people go silent as I shove my way past them and up through the opening into the cage. My heart is fucking hammering in my chest. This is such a bad fucking idea.
It gets worse when Carlos, motherfucker that he is, calls out the name of the guy I’m going to be fighting: Hail Mary Harris. Ben. FuckingBen. It dawns on me all of a sudden—he’s the other eighty eight percent to my twelve. How did I not immediate realize as soon as I found out my ranking. I mean, the maths were staring us right there in the face. Ben vaults up into the cage, shaking his head, his eyebrows drawn tight together.
“Fuck, Carlos. What the hell? It’s his first night. I shouldn’t be fighting initiates. And he shouldn’t be fighting intermediaries, either. What gives?”
“We’re short on fights tonight. Just the way it is, friend. You don’t wanna fight, you can always concede.” Carlos grins. He doesn’t give a shit about the fact that he’s making friends fight, and on top of that one friend who massively outranks the other.
Ben’s still scowling when he faces me. The crowd can tell something’s not right; they start chanting, pounding their feet against the floor, rattling the wire of the cage. “Fight, fight, fight, fight, fight!”
“You wanna back out, man?” Ben asks me.
“Hell no.” The fighter who backs out sacrifices the money he paid in order to fight in the first place. I couldn’t afford to lose the hundred I’d originally planned on spending, let alone the extra one fifty I now owe Ben. He nods.
“Okay. Well, I guess we’re fighting then.” He scratching his jaw, suddenly grinning like a mad man. “And I win either way, since I bought you in. Ironic, huh?”
“Yeah. Awesome.” He looks way too pleased with himself right now.
“Are you ladies done gossiping or can we get this show on the road?” Carlos snipes.
Ben lifts his right fist, already gloved, and holds it out to me. “I’ll go easy on you, I swear.”
“Don’t do me any favors, asshole.” I touch my glove to his, the bell rings and that’s it. No more time to talk. No more time to think. No more time to worry about what will happen if I lose this fight. My friend is circling me, a dark, predatory look in his eyes, and my head isnotin the game. It gets there pretty quickly.
Ben comes for me, slamming his fist home straight between my guard, the same way Zeth did repeatedly the first time I fought him. My ears are ringing, my vision blurred when I step forward, trying to shake off the buzzing in my head. Ben’s grinning, shrugging his shoulders, the light over out heads swinging crazily, casting evil shadows all over his face. I can see in his eyes that he thinks this is going to be ridiculously easy. And maybe it is. But I’ve never fought or even spared with Ben before, and Zeth did manage to give me a few invaluable pointers that cost me a number of nasty bruises. He doesn’t know what I’ve got up my sleeve.
I let him land a hit on me again, this time to my side where Zee nearly broke some of my ribs. I wince, sucking oxygen into my lungs as best I can through the pain. Jesus fucking Christ.
I counter, landing a mean upper cut to Ben’s jaw. The smile has vanished from his face when he cracks his neck, loosening out his shoulders.
“Ahhh, like that is it?” he says, laughing. Ben’s a boxer. Has been for as long as I’ve known him. I’m willing to bet he hasn’t spent nearly enough time practicing any other martial arts forms since he started fighting down here, knocking people out left, right and center.
We parry back and forth for thirty seconds, each landing blows where we can. I keep my fucking guard up, and I don’t break eye contact with the guy. The crowd are baying for blood by the time I decide to test my theory. Ben comes in to land a left hook, but I’m ready for him. I duck, strike up, and then I slam into him, taking him down.
He makes a deep, surprised uffff sound as the air leaves his lungs. While he’s trying to recover, I’m already moving, already planning my next move. Spinning him over, I twist his arm around into a lock and pull upward, looking for that sweetspot between what will mean absolute agony for him or a broken bone. I find that point when his body goes tense beneath me, rigid as a board.
“Motherfucker,” he laughs. “Where the hell did that come from?”
