Page 20 of Guitars and Cages

“Cool. So what do you do, besides argue with fucked-up junkie chicks in the hallway?”

I had to laugh at that, and shrug ’cause there was a lot I did, just nothing I did well. “Bartend, play guitar, fight.”

His eyes widened at the last one; most people’s do. They also assume that’s where I got the scars. I let ’em keep on thinkin’ that.

“MMA?”

I shook my head. “Naw, underground. MMA has too many rules.”

“Don’t people get killed doin’ that shit?”

“Yeah, sometimes, but the pay is decent, and I win more than I lose.”

“Guess you must if you’re still in one piece. How long have you been fighting?”

“Since before I left home. About ten years—prolly closer to eleven, actually; I was fifteen when I started fighting for money.”

“Damn, did you have to have any special training to be able to do that?”

“Naw, dude, but I had three big brothers and they had a ton of friends, so I grew up knowin’ how to fight. The brother right ahead of me is down in Mexico now, fighting in the cage fights there. If I had half a brain I’d be down there with him, beating the shit outta people and getting drunk off tequila every night.”

“Sounds like an interesting life.”

I cocked my head, giving him the bored, arrogant look I’d perfected. “Better than the day-to-day grind.”

He shook his head at that but didn’t take the bait; instead he changed the subject. “You said you play guitar.”

“Yeah.”

“What kind of music do you play?”

“Rock, metal, blues. I don’t go for the rest of that shit. Half the so-called music out there is just a bunch of cussin’ and record scratchin’ and carrying on, and the other half is country, which I hate.” Yeah, okay, sue me; I’m pretty goddamned picky when it comes to music. I hate that rap and R&B shit, and my old man played country every goddamned day when I was growin’ up. I hated it on principle alone, ’cause it reminded me of him.

“Cool; you play anywhere regular?”

“Couple bars here and there.”

“I’d like to come down and listen sometime.”

Yeah, okay, whatever. “Why?”

“Something to do. It’s not like I know anyone on this side of town yet, and since you know the folks I’m working for it sounds like we’re already connected. Well, even more so than sharing this fleabag hotel.”

“Yeah, you gotta watch them fleas. They’ll carry off anything that isn’t nailed down.”

Again he laughed, and I bristled, cause I hadn’t meant to be funny, but some days I can’t stop the stupid shit that comes out of my mouth.

“You won’t be laughing come summer. They get pretty bad if you’ve got rugs down. It’s them damn dogs the Super’s wife has, fuckin’ lopsadoodles.”

“What the hell is a lopsadoodle?”

“Some stupid kick-me cross between a Lhasa Apso and a poodle. She takes them damn dogs to the dog park and they come back with fleas that infect the whole building, but heaven forbid anyone else try to have a dog in here.”

“You sound like someone who tried.”

I glared, still disgruntled over the whole Gangrel fiasco. That was the name of the bulldog I’d briefly tried to keep last year. “Yeah, I guess,” I mumbled. “So, um, what the hell are you tryin’ ta put together over there, anyway?”

“Damn near everything,” he said with a laugh. “If it ain’t prefab then I don’t own it. Just about every shred of furniture I own is in pieces over there, so I guess I’d better get to work.”

---