Alexei #2
“Alexei! My friend!” Karpov exclaims. I greet him with a handshake that lasts the bare minimum required.
“Karpov,” I say.
He throws a heavy arm over my shoulders, guiding me inside. Two of my own men follow, and I suppress the urge to pull away. Unnecessary physical contact.
“Come on, come on! The fun’s about to start,” he says, pushing me toward a raised area overlooking the ring, where two cheap plastic chairs have been placed. His men are there, watching the corners. The audience can’t see us from here.
I hate this place. I hate the smell of sweat, I hate the cheap beer stains, I hate the brainless noise of the crowd screaming for blood as the only form of entertainment their underdeveloped brains can process.
My own intelligence brought me here. I was the one who identified Karpov’s drone network months ago—a robust network left by his uncle.
A shame, because Karpov is an idiot and doesn’t know how to manage it.
I was planning a silent acquisition, to absorb the technology and discard the animal who ran it.
But Ivan, with his nose for opportunities he can’t comprehend, smelled the money.
He got here first, offering alliances and nights of brawling.
And in doing so, he forced me to come here, to sit in this plastic chair and smile at this stupid smuggler wearing velvet in ninety-degree heat.
I made a plan, of course. If I’m forced to be here, I’m taking something out of it—something Ivan couldn’t.
“Get a beer. Relax. Tonight is our night!”
He points to a bucket with melted ice and bottles.
“I’ll pass,” I reply. I refuse to sit in that wobbly, three-dollar chair.
Karpov shrugs, grabbing a beer for himself. He takes a long swig. “After my boy Rat is done with the cripple, we’ll drink to celebrate our new friendship. Our partnership.”
I don’t know who “the cripple” is or who Rat is. It’s of no interest to me.
“It’s a business transaction, Karpov. Not a friendship,” I correct him, looking at the crowd.
Primates. All of them. I try to bring the conversation back to the only reason I’m breathing this foul air.
“Speaking of efficiency, your drone network. The encryption on the logistics terminals. I want the technical details.”
Karpov opens his mouth to answer, but his eyes drift, drawn by a sudden roar from the audience. One of the fighters in the ring just landed a dirty hit on the other.
“LOOK AT THAT!” Karpov yells, pointing with the bottle. “HE’S GONNA brEAK THE BASTARD’S ARM! brEAK IT! brEAK IT!”
He has a multi-million dollar operation in his hands, and his mind is focused on two animals trading punches for pocket change. Ivan sees him as an equal. The conclusion is obvious.
The winner raises his arms, bloody and exhausted. The crowd screams. I wait for Karpov’s euphoria to subside, a process that takes agonizing thirty seconds.
“Karpov,” I call out. “The route. We need to finalize the terms of exclusivity.”
He finally turns to me, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Ah, yes. The route. My word is my bond, Malakov. My route is strong because my men are strong. You’ll see.”
He’s about to continue his barroom philosophy when the organizer steps into the ring, and Karpov’s attention snaps back to it.
I give up. It’s useless. Trying to have a strategic conversation with this man is like playing chess with a pigeon: it’ll knock over the pieces, shit on the board, and fly off claiming victory. Ivan sent me here wishing I’d fail.
I won’t.
“Pay attention. You’re gonna see what a real champion looks like,” he says, pointing with the bottle at the so-called Rat, who enters the ring to the crowd’s applause. “A goddamn meat grinder. Nobody lasts five minutes with him. Nobody.”
The organizer announces a name. “...IRON ARM!”
Karpov lets out the loud, obnoxious laugh I was expecting.
“Iron Arm?” he scoffs. “Hah! The guy’s only got one arm, for fuck’s sake. Rat’s gonna use that little stump to mop the floor. Seriously. Easy money. Wanna bet, Malakov? Ten grand on Rat winning before the third minute.”
I finally look at him. How does such a predictable being manage to survive, let alone thrive, in this world?
“I don’t get my hands dirty for less than seven figures, Karpov. And more importantly... I don’t bet on circus acts.”
I finally sit down in the cheap plastic chair. You’ve won for now, Vania solium*.
Since I’m forced to stay, I’ll watch this insignificant fight.
I cross my arms and analyze the so-called Rat first, the champion.
He’s strong, big, scarred. But he’s gym-strong, not fight-strong.
The kind of idiot who flexes for the crowd and can’t take a punch to the gut—ah, look there. He’s flexing for the crowd.
On the other side, the amputee and a dark chain around his neck, with a small piece of metal glinting under the lights.
Amputee. A peculiar choice to join underground fights—I can imagine at least a dozen additional potential weaknesses in a no-rules bout.
Very dirty hits, well-anchored to that metal contraption he has for an arm.
It doesn’t look particularly advanced. I imagine a lack of cushioning, of tactile feedback, of complex movement.
He’d leave with a swollen, bleeding stump.
Karpov is overjoyed. His eyes are shining. Fuck it. This is going to be a waste of time with a soundtracked massacre.
* “Vania” is a Russian diminutive of “Ivan”. “Vania solium” is a play on Taenia solium, the Latin name for the pork tapeworm.