Chapter 7 August, Denver
Chapter seven
August, Denver
Pilot plopped his feet up on the desk beside Johnny at the Trident office. The doors were locked and the receptionist had long since gone home, but Johnny had some investment numbers to crunch, and that almost always happened after hours, after his real job.
“Get those nasty boots off my desk, asshole,” Johnny grumped.
Pilot slid the big combat boots to the floor with a clump. “Are you done yet?”
Johnny sighed, “I'd get this done faster if you weren't asking me that every two minutes.”
“Are you done yet?”
Johnny laughed this time and smacked Pilot's thigh, then immediately cringed, holding his hand. “Your thighs are made of cement.”
“Whatever. I'll need thick thighs this weekend.” He stretched his arms then clasped his hands over his head, leaning back in the little office chair.
The grip of his gun stuck out above his belt loop where he had his holster strapped in front.
One tip of his boots touched the floor, keeping him balanced.
“Don't break that.” Johnny eyed the chair as if he were afraid it would collapse under Pilot's huge frame. “And what do you mean you'll need them?”
“I lined up a fight for Saturday. What do you think we were doing at Trip Chill? Didn’t we already discuss this?”
“Fuck. You're such a dick sometimes.” He tossed a paperclip at Pilot before bending his head over the computer, shaggy hair falling in his face and hiding the edges of his glasses.
Pilot leaned forward, planting his feet once again firmly on the floor. “Come on, J-man. Come watch me fight.”
“Oh, hell no. I can't stand seeing you get punched or kicked. It's not like security work, Pilot. They hit back in the ring. And don't call me J-man.”
“It's not that bad. I'll win. Booker will put me on a good card because I've been gone a while.”
“Good or easy?” Johnny narrowed his eyes. He knew enough about the underground fights to be suspicious and Pilot wouldn't lie.
“Good.”
Johnny pushed the keyboard away from him and shook his head. “Anyway, I can't stand the blood either. Even if you're winning.” He cringed as if seeing the blood behind his closed eyes.
“Okay. But, I'm planning on tearing somebody up. Sight to behold.” Pilot winked, trying to stir Johnny up. He wanted to make Johnny smile and laugh with him. That seemed to be getting harder and harder to do lately, and Pilot didn't like where that negativity was headed.
“I'm sure. But I'm still not going.”
“Johnny,” Pilot pleaded. “It'll be fun.”
“I understand why you do this—”
“No,” Pilot interrupted. “You know, but you don't really understand. You can't. But, there is a reason. A reason why I do security work. A reason why I fight. A reason why I keep this nickname. Pilot.”
“I...Yeah, I get it Pilot. If anyone does. I do. We're close. Always been close.”
Johnny calling him Pilot concerned him. Suddenly the conversation shifted and became about him and he hadn't meant that to happen. “Okay. You don't have to come to the fight. But, you do have to find something fun to do, J-man.”
“Don't call me that, Sean.” He tossed another paperclip, but he smiled. “I'm going to watch a movie and crash. Then Sunday I'll come over and patch you up.”
Pilot wanted to dig into that and find something more entertaining for Johnny.
He didn't like the idea of him sitting around at home with the potential to sink into another depression.
He looked over his friend, though. Johnny's lips turned up at the corners in a natural smile with no indication of a struggle.
He didn't want to ask, because that would surely reveal things Pilot didn't want to know.
That didn't feel like he was being a good friend, but he didn't know how to deal with Johnny's issues when he had such a hard time just dealing with his own.
Booker held the fights in a warehouse near Wazee, the historic warehouse district.
People were asked to bus in, take the metro, or cabs so there wouldn't be too many parked cars around drawing attention to the event. They didn’t have medics, refs, or rules.
Pilot knew what he was getting himself into, though.
He'd done it before. He would probably do it again and again.
There was no better high than pitting himself against another fighter of equal caliber.
Inside the warehouse, an open area with a makeshift ring had been set up in the center with a cage around it.
There were no backrooms to change clothes.
The first fight had barely gotten started when blood splattered across the mat.
That worried Pilot a bit, because he had no idea if these guys had been tested and they sure as hell didn’t share results if they had.
Pilot had himself tested regularly, but it didn't stop anyone else from getting in that ring without it. He couldn’t let himself focus on that, or he’d never fight.
He shucked his sweatpants and t-shirt off, stuffing his clothes in his duffle bag.
He was left standing there in tight red and black shorts that kind of resembled swim trunks.
He had his ankles wrapped, but his hands and feet were bare.
This league was all bare knuckles, no gloves, no shin guards, no helmets.
Just two men slugging it out the old fashioned way.
Well, almost. Mixed martial arts called for real fighting skill in more than one discipline.
They'd punch, kick, wrestle, and use whatever techniques they had to take the other guy down.
Pilot bounced up and down, trying to loosen up and get his body warm.
He'd jogged a bit on his way in and wanted to keep that heat going.
Adrenaline would kick in and get him rolling soon enough, though.
Booker had him fighting in the second match, so he had to watch the first match before getting in the ring, and it had already started winding down.
The two rather scrawny guys pummeled each other. The blond got a good kick in to the other guy's ribs and sent the guy down. Blond guy was all over him then. It only took him seconds to get his opponent into a submission hold. The guy pounded his free hand on the mat to tap out.
For a second or two, Pilot didn't know if they'd stop the fight.
Without rules and officials, they could let it go on until the kid passed out.
Just as Pilot had decided to intervene and made a lunge toward the mat.
A big guy wearing a tight black t-shirt that barely covered his bulging biceps did it for him.
He had on black slacks and shoes, looking like maybe he'd been hired as security for the night and was doubling as the final ref.
The muscled guy in black pulled the scrappy blond off his opponent and raised his hand in the air. "Winner!" he yelled to the crowd, and they went nuts, screaming and cheering and jumping up and down.
The fighters left the ring. The blond went out with a bounce, though his face was going to be bruised up the next day.
His opponent trudged out with his head hung low, but he had a super-hot chick consoling him, so it couldn't be too bad for the guy.
At least he had someone. Win or lose, Pilot was on his own.
“Next fight!” the security dude yelled, obviously doing triple duty as announcer, too. He pulled a note card from his back pocket. “Joining us from south of the boarder...from Albuquerque, New Mexico. Welcome Jo-ose the Hombre...Mene-endez!”
From the other side of the ring, a dark haired, dark skinned man slid inside the gates of the fence surrounding the mat.
He wore shiny blue trunks that ended just above his knees.
He jumped around the mat and lifted his hands up and down to get the crowd pumped up.
They obediently cheered for him. The Hombre was probably on a winning streak.
He had a muscular chest and arms and wiry legs.
He wouldn't be on that streak much longer.
“And our local boy come home, Pi-lot.” The man lengthened his name with way too many syllables, but Pilot needed no other introductions or names. Anyone who'd been around awhile knew who he was. Even though it had been a few months since he'd fought, his reputation would still be talked about.
Pilot pushed passed a row of people and made his way around to the gate.
Hombre kept up with the bouncing, and narrowed his eyes at Pilot as he slipped into the ring.
Pilot was about the same height as his opponent and his shoulders just as broad.
His thighs and calves, though, made him look like a giant next to this guy.
The hired security guy looked between both of them and gestured for them to meet in the center. “Rules are, there are no rules. Except when I say break it up. Then you fucking break it up. Got it?”
They both nodded.
“Meet your opponent and take a step back and we'll get this bitch started.”
Hombre stuck his fist out, and Pilot gave him a knuckle bump before stepping back to the edge of the ring.
“Let's fight!” the security guy announced before stepping out of the ring.
Pilot and Hombre circled each other. Every match started that way.
Sizing each other up. It didn't take long before Hombre dove right in, though, swinging fists and flipping up a quick kick meant for Pilot's head.
Pilot dodged and blocked and then punched the guy in the stomach.
Hombre started to bend at the waist from the impact, but danced back away from Pilot.
The man moved quickly, but Pilot had taken down quicker.
He bounced lightly on his toes, waiting for Hombre to attack again.