Chapter 12
Loche
“Word on the street is there’s a talent scout for the Marauders out there tonight,” Nix announced, strolling bare-assed through a hastily cobbled together locker room, minus the lockers, in the basement of L.
Mayer, a condemned factory that used to manufacture fiber a generation ago.
Located on the outskirts of town, it was inconspicuous enough not to draw attention to itself.
I turned around to an eyeful of Nix’s penis, seemingly waving at me while he dug through his duffel bag for his shorts.
There’s a solid chance that I saw Nix’s penis more than I saw my own some days due to him walking around our apartment in various states of undress.
The man was too comfortable with being comfortable.
“That rumor or some variation of it gets spread around before each fight. Why would some hotshot from the big leagues want to watch us nobodies kick the shit out of each other illegally in bumfuck Egypt when they have endless amounts of talent at their disposal?” I responded, pulling out my mask.
A light dusting of Ever’s scent still adhered to the material, a mixture of lavender and vanilla that I remembered smelling in her hair as she sat on my lap, riding my cock.
Fuck, Loche. It’s not the time to get horny.
Great. Now you have to try to suppress a burgeoning hard-on in the presence of your roommate, who—is he still nude?
Yup, he’s still walking about with his wang out, while you may have just made breakfast tomorrow morning awkward with the bulge in your shorts.
“You never know, “ Nix replied. “Some of those guys who made it big had to have been plucked from an underground fight club or two at some point.”
“I’m sure there’s a handful of them. I’m also sure they aren’t paying them the industry standard per fight, considering they know we’ll fight for table scraps if that’s all there is.”
“Okay, I have the schedule,” Cole announced, walking into our designated area with Malachi following behind him, “and, oh my fuck, Nix. Put some clothes on.”
Nix pulled on his shorts before joining Cole to peer over his shoulder at the schedule.
“Looks like we’re going first, boys,” Malachi observed.
Thank the gods of illegal, underground fights.
After last night with Ever, I was exhausted from trying to sleep next to her in her twin bed.
Half my ass had hung over the side. Every time I had gotten comfortable and was about to drift off to sleep, my body would jolt awake from the sensation that I was falling.
If Ever and I were going to continue our sleepovers, she’d need to get a larger bed.
Or, you know, you could just tell her who you are, hope she doesn’t freak out, and then hold sexy sleepovers in your own bed. Get so loud that you make Nix cover his ears from across the apartment instead of the other way around.
“All right, boys,” Malachi clapped his hands together, “let’s suit up and kick some ass.
” His eyes met mine, and I felt the guilt return all over again from the ass chewing he’d given me the night Cole and I drove the car back to his house.
He was having it repainted by some friends of his who knew not to ask questions.
Parishioners of his who he’d helped in some way or another.
We weren’t concerned that the car would be traced back to him, what with the bogus license plate, but there was the matter of Cole and me being recorded by the woman we encountered in the garage, and that video having made the evening news.
Needless to say, I was relieved of my retribution duties for the foreseeable future.
Malachi nodded at me, silently questioning me whether I was okay to proceed with the fight.
I returned the nod, grabbing one of my gloves and sliding it over my hand.
I’d be fighting last or anchor, as it was called.
I was the closer for our team. The one relied on to seal our win.
Teams of four do battle, one fighter at a time.
A team with the most wins after four matches, or the most points from the judges, wins the pot.
Tonight was different because there were eight teams fighting, meaning if we weren’t knocked out in the first round, we could potentially fight in three matches.
Brutal on the body, but the payout was substantial.
The four of us, as our alter egos, Pain, Sacrifice, Justice, and Vengeance, clad in our colors, blue, green, purple, and red, walked side-by-side down the hall to the set of stairs that led up to the first floor, where a ring had been built for this event.
Nix, our first fighter, would take the ring while the rest of us waited, listening to the roar of the crowd as we waited our turn.
At the end of the hall, our opposing team stood huddled together.
I recognized them from previous encounters.
They were good, but we were better, and that wasn’t just arrogance talking.
This first match should be in the bag for us.
“Gentlemen,” Malachi greeted the opposing team. “Sounds like a packed house out there.”
“Estimates are around seven hundred,” Banks, the leader of their team, answered back.
“Seven hundred?” Cole said. “That’s not good. You can’t tell me word about this fight hasn’t gotten to the cops.”
My stomach sank. For an average person, an arrest tonight probably wouldn’t be reported on by the media.
But when you murdered your father, even despite it having been to save your mother, any other stumble could put you away or completely topple the life you’ve been trying to cobble together.
And then there was Malachi. A priest being part of an underground fight club would be a wet dream to any journalist out there.
We looked to Malachi. If we pulled out now, it would be a stain on our reputation and cost us future opportunities.
“You all remember where the exit we found down here is, right?” Malachi looked around at each of us.
We all nodded, recalling the rusty door that led to a flight of stairs from the building to the woods behind it.
“Good. If shit hits the fan, run down to that exit and make your way through the woods. There’s an access road that leads to the back of the CVS we parked at.”
“Good evening, everyone!” A voice silenced the crowd momentarily before they erupted into cheers. “Are you ready to see some of the area’s best fighters duke it out for the title of Grand Champion and the twenty-thousand-dollar grand prize?”
The roar from the crowd was amplified by the open concrete interior of the factory.
“Goddamn, the next zip code over probably knows where we are right now.” Cole groaned.
“The more people, the more cover charge they collect. Greed is going to lead to our downfall,” Malachi said with a sigh.
“Okay, Okay.” The announcer’s voice spoke again, carrying across the factory. “Let’s get this party started, then. Our first match is between Fury from Chaotic Neutral and Pain from fan-favorite Fallen Soldiers.”
We smacked Nix on the back on his way to the stairs. At the base of the steps, he greeted his opponent with a handshake before they both ascended them to be consumed by the raucous crowd.
When the fight started, it was a waiting game.
Members of each team occasionally climbed the stairs to catch a glimpse of their teammate, but I stayed put throughout the matches, rooted by a thought that could only be described as my personal superstition that watching my teammates would somehow jinx them.
And so, while my other teammates navigated the stairs, I leaned against the cold concrete wall, defaced by years of graffiti, slapping Nix on the back in consolation when he emerged with his second ‘L’ of the year and cheering on Malachi and Cole when each of them came out victorious.
Then, as it often did, it came down to me to break the potential tie.
Three hands slapped my back when my stage name of Vengeance was announced, and I walked to the stairs, pausing long enough to shake the hand of Mayhem, my competition for the night, whose name reminded me of that guy from the insurance commercials that seemed to play on an endless loop on television.
Being the anchor match, and the fact that our teams were close to a tie, the audience erupted when my counterpart and I reached the top of the stairs.
Large men in plain clothes acted as somewhat of a barrier, keeping spectators at bay behind orange cones and intermittently-placed steel barricades, erected for the night’s event, acting to part the crowd and allow us safe passage to the ring.
Given the nonexistent budget, it was the best the organizers of this event could hastily assemble with the short amount of time they had.
I glanced at the crowd, noticing some people holding up signs depicting the names of some of the teams participating tonight.
By far, our team had the most supporters, with one blonde woman even displaying my blown-up masked face on a yardstick.
It was surreal, having fans. Intoxicating yet sobering at the same time, because like Ever, all they knew was Vengeance.
They didn’t know the real me, and probably wouldn’t be holding up signs with my face on them if they did.
When we reached the ring, Mayhem ducked under the ropes, entering it in one corner, and I, the other.
A water bottle had been placed in each of our corners, perfect for hydration and to wash the taste of blood from our mouths.
“Okay, gentlemen,” the referee/announcer joined us, beckoning Mayhem and me into the middle of the ring, “you know the rules. Keep it clean. No spitting, kicking, scratching, or hitting below the belt. If either of you is seen engaging in any of these behaviors, you will be thrown out of this match entirely, and your team will take a loss. Understood?”