Page 153 of Broken Pieces
Griff. Only older. Meaner.
The fucker owes me from way back.
We were in the same hellhole of a foster home when we were kids. Both angry. Both used to getting hit more than hugged. I took the fall for him once—busted nose, split lip, blamed for a fight I didn’t fucking start. He never said thanks. Just gave me a nod and walked away as if that was enough.
We hadn’t seen each other since we were fifteen. I figured he was either locked up or dead by now.
But that night, he looked at me as if no time had passed. Spit out my name and gave me that same crooked grin.
We swapped numbers, not because I wanted to, but because there was something about seeing him again that dug up old shit I hadn’t dealt with.
That was a week ago.
Now he’s texted me. Said he wants to meet.
So here I am, standing on the corner outside some dive bar with a busted neon sign buzzing overhead, throwing pale blue light across the cracked sidewalk. The alley reeks of piss and old beer. Trash rustles behind a dumpster, probably a rat or something worse.
Then I see him.
Shitty leather jacket. Eyes bloodshot. The twitch in his jaw is still there.
“You wanna make some quick cash?” Griff asks, flicking his lighter open and shut in that twitchy rhythm he always had as a kid.
He used to do that all the time. Sit on the bunk across from me, flicking that damn lighter until the noise made you want to scream.
I shrug. “You know anyone giving it away?”
He laughs. “Not exactly giving it. But I got a place. They pay for fists.”
That gets my attention.
I glance over. “How much are we talking?”
His grin spreads slowly, teeth yellowed from smoke and bad choices.
He nods toward the alley. “Come on. You’ll want to see it first.”
We cut through alleys and backstreets, heading deeper into the industrial wasteland on the edge of the town. We stop infront of an old, long-abandoned meatpacking warehouse. The sign above the door is rusted. The windows are blacked out with tarps or sheet metal.
There’s a guy at the door. Buzz-cut. Neck tattoo. Arms folded across his chest.
Griff steps up, mutters something low, too quick for me to catch. The guy grunts, gives him a once-over, and moves to the side, letting us pass without another word.
Inside, the air hits different.
Stinks of old sweat, fresh blood, and years of bad choices. The floor is sticky. In the center of the space, surrounded by rows of bodies packed shoulder to shoulder, is a cage.
Chain-link. Eight feet high. Rusted red in patches that sure as hell ain’t just rust. Bare bulbs hang from wires above it, some flickering, some dead, all casting a sick yellow glow that turns everything into something uglier.
And fuck the crowd—it’s a goddamn circus.
Men in tailored suits with Rolexes that cost more than rent. Rings thick with diamonds. Faces I’ve seen in the news. Women in thousand-dollar heels, lips red, expressions colder. Their dresses barely cover anything.
I clock it all fast.
This is Griff’s world. Not mine.
But I’m already inside.
