CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE #3
Conor walked into the cage. Cracker didn’t follow.
He walked across the empty factory floor toward Duck and Barry.
When Cracker got close, Duck held up a red gym bag.
Cracker lifted a stack of money out of the bag, put the money back, and then led the way back toward the cage, rambling on about how Duck and Barry were here to enjoy the show but not to interfere, and what he would do to them if they did.
Conor tuned it out. He thought back to everything he knew about fighting.
All the years he wrestled. The street fights he got into with Sully and Fitz.
The sparring sessions with Angel. All the dirty boxing his dad taught him.
And out of all of it, one thing stuck out.
Angel eyeing him after their last sparring session, saying, “A fight doesn’t have rules.
Better you learn that here than when it matters. ”
Duck, Barry, and Cracker stopped outside the cage.
Cracker started toward the door to the cage, and then turned around and walked up to Barry.
He cocked his head, looking at Barry for a long moment.
He reached into Barry’s coat and pulled out a pistol.
He smacked Barry in the mouth with it. As Barry bent over and moaned, Cracker frisked Duck, and then he disassembled Barry’s gun and smashed it on the concrete floor.
He kicked the broken pieces every which way as he walked toward the cage door.
Conor emptied his lungs and shook his arms. It was time to fight with no rules.
Cracker opened the door and stepped in the cage, his hand on the door. “When this door closes, we dance,” he said. “You ready?”
Conor shook his arms and rolled his neck.
Cracker turned to close the door.
Conor ran and smashed an elbow behind the hillbilly’s ear before he could turn. Cracker went down on all fours. He kicked him in the face. Blood poured from Cracker’s nose. Conor jumped on Cracker’s back and wrapped a forearm around his throat.
Cracker’s blood made everything slippery. Conor struggled to slip his arm under Cracker’s chin. Cracker grabbed his arm, holding him off. He was slippery as an eel, buying time to shake the cobwebs. And Conor could feel him getting stronger with every passing second.
Being on the floor with this hillbilly when he regained his marbles seemed like a supremely bad idea. Conor eased up on his chokehold, readying himself to jump to his feet. Cracker grabbed his arm and pulled it under his chin.
“Where you going? Choke me out,” said Cracker.
It didn’t matter who you were. Big. Strong. Crazy. Didn’t matter. Once that chokehold was locked in, you were going to sleep. But Cracker was inviting him to choke him out. Why would he do that?
Conor slipped the chokehold in. Then he felt Cracker’s hips shift.
It was the blood that did it, making Cracker slick and greasy. In one quick motion, Cracker spun until they were face-to-face. He locked his legs around Conor’s midsection, blood streaming from his nose. He looked calm to Conor. Almost pleased.
“You’re in a world a hurt,” said Cracker, looking up at him as he began banging punches into Conor’s kidneys.
Conor gripped the back of Cracker’s neck and tucked his face against Cracker’s chest, feeling the punches dig in.
There was no upside to this position. But there was a way out.
Conor let go of Cracker’s neck. Before Cracker had a chance to move his punches up from his midsection to his face, he leaned back, braced his hands on the floor, and sat back, pulling Cracker into his lap.
It took every ounce of his strength, but he stood, holding Cracker tight.
Then he threw himself to the floor, slamming Cracker’s back on the concrete.
The jolt stunned Cracker for a moment. Conor pushed off and rolled away. He came to his feet, adrenaline pumping.
Cracker stood slowly. The man’s nose was dripping blood, but he wasn’t even breathing hard as he lifted his fists and moved forward.
Conor didn’t back away, but he didn’t meet him either.
He circled to one side, then the other, staying on his toes.
As he circled, Duck and Barry came into view, hanging on the outside of the cage.
Duck pointed through the chain link at Cracker.
“Get him, you damn hillbilly,” yelled Duck. “You’re supposed to be killing him, not the other way around.”
Cracker reached back, grabbed Duck’s finger, and snapped it. He kept his eyes on Conor as he pressed forward.
“How you doing?” he said, looking at Conor while Duck wailed. “You look tired.”
Conor inhaled deep through his nose and breathed out through his mouth, bouncing away as Cracker feinted forward. “You’re not looking too good yourself.”
Cracker wiped his nose and licked the blood off his fingers. “Just getting warmed up.”
Conor smiled. He darted in, threw a head and body combination, and slipped Cracker’s lunging counterpunch. And he kept it up, falling into a rhythm. For all the bluster of this backwoods maniac, he found that Cracker couldn’t contend with speed.
So, Conor obliged.
He worked him over, pounding him with jabs, crosses, hooks, and leg kicks.
He put on a clinic, showing Cracker the devastating effects of speed.
But the pace was withering. Sure, the damage to Cracker’s face, legs, and body piled up, but Conor’s hands throbbed.
His lungs burned. And although bloodied and bruised, Cracker never slowed.
He stayed right in front of Conor, taking his punishment just to land a body shot here and there.
Trying to back Cracker up and get some breathing room, Conor stuck two jabs in his face.
Fatigue slowed his reaction to Cracker’s counter to the body.
It caught him flush under the ribs, bending him double.
Conor stumbled back, sidestepping Cracker’s bullrush.
He managed it, but just barely. He backed away from Cracker to stretch a cramp out of his calf.
Sweat stung his eyes as he started to bounce and circle again.
He wiped a forearm across his face, watching Cracker plod forward.
This was getting ridiculous. It felt like he was dancing in sand.
A memory floated through his consciousness.