Page 45 of Nasty
THE PRIEST
FIX
The Priest wasn’t a fighting title I’d given to myself. Oscar had given it to me after my first night at The Barrows, when I’d made it to the fourteenth floor, and I’d only missed making it to the fifteenth by a hair’s breadth. My last opponent had toppled to the ground mere seconds after the klaxon had sounded, and the rules were the rules. Oscar had come down to see me, to praise a combatant for the first time in the history of the fights. He’d researched me. He’d already known about my past. Said he was going to name me The Priest, because I won every fight like I had a guardian angel watching out for me. Like God himself had rigged the matches.
I’d come back the next night, started on eleven, and I’d fought like a motherfucker until I’d hit the rooftop less than two hours later. Oscar had a whiskey waiting for me when I sank down, bloodied and panting, into the chair opposite him.
Tonight, I was going to have to be that man again.
Jason chalked my moniker up onto the board, and everyone watched as he then scrawled the name of my opponent.
Dementor.
FuckingDementor.
Great.
Who the fuck called themselves Dementor? Sounded like a fucking wrestler’s name. And not a proper wrestler. The kind of wrestler that wore makeup and a shiny purple thong, prancing around the ring, pretending to smash chairs over people’s backs. He probably had a mullet.
Yet another hushed silence fell over the gathered fighters as they parted for the man who was coming forward. My pretentious wrestler theory went flying out of the window when I managed to get a look at him. Dementor was about my height, about the same weight, and his body was much the same as mine, too: muscled, zero fat reserves, and broad shoulders, with arms that likely had a reasonable reach on them. He was covered in tattoos from the neck down, a jumble of color and smudges that barely justified the name artwork. His head was shaved and covered in scars, and his left eye was milky and clouded over.
The guy looked like he raped small children.
Shooting me a smile, displaying a mouthful of broken, crooked teeth, he spat on the floor and ducked down into a low fighting stance that said he knew what he was doing.
Awesome.
There was no bell. No signal that the match had begun. The guy sprung like a coil and leapt, barreling at me with a loud, unhinged howl that sounded more beast than man. I ducked to the side, and he skidded, trying to pitch up in time to land a blow on me, but I was no longer there. Moving quickly, I kicked out, my foot connecting with the side of his right knee, and the guy dropped. Just for a second. Just to his knees. But the crowd roared.
“So it’s like that, huh?” the guy, Dementor, said. He was up and circling me in no time. The men gathered around us chanted Dementor’s name, punching their fists in the air, shouting at the top of their lungs. It was all coming back to me now—the madness of The Barrows. This kind of aggression seeped into your veins without you really noticing. You were controlled one second, focused on the task at hand, and the next thing you knew you were being swept away on a sea of testosterone that had your head swimming, and your heart surging, and the edges of your vision blurring. It was like a drug. Not something easily ignored.
I pushed down the rising fire in my blood, narrowing my eyes, watching my opponent. He was loose despite the measured way he was holding himself back, and he was quick on his feet. Light. He jabbed at me with his right hand, testing my defenses. “Forget thirteen. They’ll kick me up two floors when I bust your head open, Priest. Better start praying,” he sneered.
I dropped my hands to my sides, letting my head roll back in frustration. “Comeon. Really? You’d better start praying? You don’t think I’ve heard that shit before?”
Dementor didn’t answer. He used the fact that I’d dropped my guard to slide in close, chuckling under his breath. No doubt he thought he was going to take me down while I wasn’t paying attention. He didn’t know me, though. Hadn’t seen me fight before. He didn’t realize that I wasalwayspaying attention. When he was close enough, his weight pulling back as he wound up to strike me with a right hook, I snapped my fist out, landing a thunderous blow to the side of his head.
Around us, the other fighters groaned; they all knew what a blow like that felt like. All knew what it did to your senses, as your ears rang and your eyes momentarily darkened. Dementor staggered back a pace, throwing out his left hand behind him, as if he were trying to catch his balance.
I stepped forward, rolling back my shoulders. “Why the fuck would I pray, asshole, when I’m this fucking good.” I drove my fist into his side, and then landed another hit directly to his sternum, driving the air out of his lungs. Unbalanced and winded, Dementor, the best floor twelve had to offer, took three giant steps back as he tried to right himself.
Cries went up from the crowd, unintelligible and fierce. None of those cries were friendly. None of them were cheering me on. These guys had inadvertently been living under my shadow for years, and now was their chance to step out from behind my shadow. Theywantedme to fail. Pity for them I just didn’t know how.
Dementor drew in a deep, ragged breath and hissed between his teeth. “Don’t get excited,” he advised. “I can take a hit. I can take as many as you can throw and then some, pretty boy.”
Pretty boy? Now, that was just offensive. I didn’t advance to strike again. This time, I waited for him to come to me. Fights like this could go on for a long time. If I wore myself out, I’d be spent by the time I got up to thirteen, and fourteen would be nothing but a pipedream. Dementor prowled around me, evidently a little smarter this time. He wasn’t going to try and rush me. He was going to bide his time too, and when he was ready—
Hands hit me square in the back, shoving me forward.
Someone in the crowd…
Someone hadpushedme. A low, furious snarl ripped from my throat. Dementor leapt, his right fist already flying, and there was nothing I could do. The blow struck me on the jaw, and a high-pitched whining sound buzzed in my ear as a flash of pain burst like a firework inside my head.
Dementor wasn’t the only one who could take a hit, though. I shook myself, fixing my eyes on the man standing in front of me, just in time to block his second blow. I flung out my arm, wrapping a hand around the back of his head, and then I raised my knee as I brought him down. His face connected with the top of my knee, and blood exploded in a spectacular shower of crimson, spewing from his now broken nose.
“Fuck! You fucking piece of shit!”Dementor roared, clutching his hands to his face. At this point in a normal UFC or boxing match, the referee would step in and stop the fight while the injured party was assessed to see if he could continue with the fight. That wasn’t how things worked in The Barrows, though. If you were injured, you were weak, and the people who fought inside this building preyed on whatever weaknesses they could find.
I didn’t feel bad as I brought my elbow down on the back of the guy’s neck. I didn’t feel bad when I dropped to the floor and wrapped my legs around his ribcage, squeezing as hard as I fucking could. I felt a rib crack, and then another, and Dementor’s agonized shout filled the room, from floor to ceiling. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a short, stocky guy with a spider web tattoo on his cheek take a step forward, toward us. The second I turned my attention to him, fixing him with an icy, unforgiving glare, he stopped dead in his tracks. “Don’t even think about it, shithead,” I growled. “I can kick both your asses at the same time. Don’t fucking doubt it.”
