Griffin
Violence is an addiction. And like any addiction, you only find out you have it when you’re already too fucked up to quit.
Underground fights replaced my morning coffee years ago, and the hangover is a lot more fun. The only rule is that there are no rules, which means I can get creative. And I love getting creative.
My baptism was a gang fight between teenagers in clown masks. One of them tried to stab me with a screwdriver. I bit his ear off. Spat it on the ground. They called me a psychopath, and honestly, I wasn’t offended.
Later, I found out I was good at it during my first real job for that same gang.
It was a “collection”. A shopkeeper who stole money.
“Just scare him, Myrddin,” Seraphim had said, with a smile that was a goddamn sun.
“Show him that greed has consequences.” I was just supposed to scare the guy.
But he screamed. And his scream was loud, and he wouldn’t stop screaming.
When I got back, Seraphim was waiting for me.
The shopkeeper’s blood was still under my nails.
He looked me in the eyes, put a hand on my shoulder, and said the words that fucked me up forever.
“That,” he said. “That is a divine gift.”
When an angel tells you something like that, you believe it.
So, I got used to anarchic, poorly organized fights, rings made of scrap metal, and hysterical drunks for a cheering section.
But in Sacramento, it’s a different story.
The work lights hanging from the abandoned warehouse’s ceiling cast long, sick shadows over the metal ring.
Four steel posts with elastic ropes stretched between them, the floor lined with pieces of carpet over the concrete.
Surrounding it, a mass of anonymous faces yells, drinks, and passes cash from hand to hand. The air is garbage. I like it.
They come for the blood.
“You ready, kid?” Marcus says, slapping my back. His touch is clammy. I count the seconds until I can break something.
“Is the purse good, or am I gonna have to break your face too?” I ask.
“The purse is great,” he says, with a smile that shows a gold tooth. “And the odds against you are high. The locals here love their little champion. More money for us when you shut him up.”
Great. I love disappointing people. I look at my opponent, the so-called “Rat, the Unbeatable”.
He flexes his biceps for the crowd. Look at me, I’m strong.
A stupid nickname for a guy the size of a refrigerator.
He has an arrogant smile, and the crowd chants his name. Immortal. Unbeatable. Bullshit.
The organizer, a sweaty guy with a crappy microphone, yells. “Good evening, California!”
The audience roars.
“Welcome to Sacramento’s private hell! There are no rules, no refs, and no mercy here!
Two men enter... but only one walks out.
Bet your paychecks, scream your lungs out, because tonight there’s gonna be blood for everyone!
In the right corner, weighing as much as a truckload of bricks, the pride of Sacramento, the man who’s never been knocked down. .. your champion, RAT, THE UNBEATABLE!”
Blah, blah, blah, hell, no mercy, blood. Same old speech. The crowd rages. Rat raises his arms, his arrogant smile widening. He loves this. He feeds on it.
The organizer turns to me. His smile fades a little.
“And in the left corner... coming from some godforsaken hole... the challenger... known on the streets as... IRON ARM!”
Marcus thinks the nickname is intimidating. To me, it’s just a reminder that the price for doing the right thing once in my life was a piece of me. The joke is so good that it makes me want to laugh.
Some boos. Some laughter. I blow kisses to all of them.
“PLACE YOUR FINAL BETS!”
Marcus gives me one last pat. “Finish him, but don’t kill him. It’s expensive to clean up the mess.”
Rat stomps his feet like a sumo wrestler. He yells some shit about hospitals. “Hope you got enough to pay for your ambulance after I’m done with you.”
I gesture at him. “You talk too much, princess.” He gets pissed.
A rusty bell rings somewhere in the noise. The trigger. The world disappears.
When I’m fighting, my head goes empty. It’s the only peace I know.
The only constants are the thud of my own heart and the cold weight of the cheap St. Michael medallion bouncing against my sternum.
Adrenaline is a clean river that washes away all the filth and pain.
.. ah, pain is just confirmation that all this shit is real.
Rat charges, expecting a trade of brute force, but I don’t give him that pleasure.
My left is fast, precise. Jabs that open his guard, that throw him off balance. I feel the impact on my knuckles, the vibration shooting up my arm. He backs off. He doesn’t understand the cadence. A punch that stings and disorients, followed by a dull, heavy impact.
I don’t feel his bones crack when I hit him with my right fist. I don’t feel anything. It’s just weight and consequence. His imbalance is his downfall. The left opens the way, the right finishes the job. Punch after punch. He spits blood. A smile spreads across my face. Beautiful.
Violence is the purest form of conversation, Seraphim told me once.
He was right. Who knows what kind of shit angels whisper in the ears of madmen?
Who knows if he wasn’t one of them for real?
In the bible, seraphim have six wings. No face, no mouth.
Just eyes. Eyes everywhere. On their arms, their backs, their wings, in the air.
You look, and they’ve already looked first.
If you saw a real one, you’d piss your pants and still call it divine. They burn what they touch. Nothing is more honest than a broken bone.
Seraphim was more biblical than a preacher. More god than man. When everything inside you shuts down, all that’s left is the flesh. My altar is the ring.
Punch after punch. The blood is warm. The crowd is a blur. I could do this forever.
Two hands grab me, pulling me away by force. The organizer. I may worship it, but death doesn’t pay well at an event like this. I come back to myself. The people around go quiet. Rat is on the floor, a red mess.
A heavy silence.
His chest doesn’t rise or fall. Still. His eyes are open, glazed, staring at the ceiling lights as if they were the gateway to paradise. Or to nothing.
Shit. Marcus is going to freak. No more fights for a while, until the dust settles. What a stupid way to die. At least the arrogant smile is gone.
Someone from the production crew gets in the ring, kneels beside the lifeless body, and presses an ear to his chest. They don’t want to see a dead man.
Then, a thumbs-up.
He’s alive.
The organizer raises my left arm. The glory. The crowd roars. My name, my name, my name. Frenzied, grabbing the rubber ropes that separate them from the ring, jumping, shouting. Defeating Rat is a historic, unprecedented feat. His face is busted, but he’s alive.
The feeling of being admired for something as dirty as violence makes me ecstatic for a second. Just a second. Then the emptiness returns, the screams die down, and the man who was just restraining me now drapes an arm over my shoulders.
“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN!” he yells to the crowd. “SPECTACU-FUCKING-LAR!”
The crowd responds as if they’ve witnessed a miracle.
Marcus is out there, practically having an orgasm. He gives me a double thumbs-up.
I get down. One of the ropes gives way under my weight, and the structure groans.
Too many people crowd around, trying to touch me, congratulate me, offer me a drink, or just say they knew I was going to win.
Lies. No one bet on me—a nobody fresh from another corner of California. That’s why Marcus is so happy.
Marcus pushes through with his arms. He likes to pretend he’s my bodyguard. Especially in front of the women. He’s smaller than me, but his ego takes up way more space.
“Come with me,” he says, pulling me by the shoulder. “Let’s get our cut before these sons of bitches break everything.”
I don’t like being touched. But I follow him.
I pass men still laughing, women with their eyes glued to me, and some who avoid my gaze as if I carry the plague.
One of them taps my chest with the side of his hand.
“Fuck, brother. You killed him and brought him back.”
I don’t answer. Because I killed him and brought him back. That’s true. But I don’t like being touched.
The rusty door at the back of the warehouse opens and swallows Marcus. I follow.
Behind the metal door, the crowd and its noise are muffled. There’s a concrete hallway, and we walk to an empty, abandoned men’s locker room, full of old graffiti, forgotten piss, and faded blue lockers.
Marcus vibrates in silence before exploding to himself, “FUCK, YEAH! THAT’S WHAT I’M TALKING ABOUT!” He throws his arms up, and you’d think he was the one with the broken knuckles. “THE NEW KING OF SACRAMENTO!”
He steps back to walk beside me. Drapes an arm over my shoulders. I pull away. I don’t like being fucking touched. He doesn’t notice, or doesn’t care.
“Did you see their faces? The way Rat went down? Beautiful! Poetic!” he says, rubbing his hands together. “We’re gonna make a fortune here, stumpy. A fortune.”
He slaps my back. Nice nickname. He loves to remind me.
At the back of the locker room, there’s another door—an emergency exit. Behind it, a makeshift office built from scrap metal. There’s an old shower on one of the walls that no one bothered to tear out.
I sit on a wooden crate and start unwrapping the bloody bandages from my left hand.
They’re stuck to the skin, the blood already dried in places.
The small medallion on its chain is slick with a mix of my sweat and Rat’s blood.
I wipe it clean on my shorts out of habit.
The middle finger feels dislocated. It’s going to swell.
Marcus approaches the two guys: a big one—security—and a skinny dude in a baseball cap. No one says anything. They exchange looks, handshakes, an envelope.
He opens it. Counts. Gestures. Winks.