3. Chapter 3
My first fight is finally happening tonight. I’ve been bored out of my mind since I got here. I’ve only talked to Patrick, Johnny, and the bartenders. I wake, eat, exercise, accompany the shitstain as he drives around town, stock the bar, watch tv, then stand by the door all night.
I did discover Hank doesn’t have his tongue, so he’s not just quiet by nature.
Decker, the disgusting bartender, said Artur cut it out when he got behind in his drug payments.
He was useless as a fighter, and his daughter was in danger of being hurt, so he begged for another option.
Artur took his tongue, and he works here for free now.
Hank's also forbidden from having any more drugs. A tough lot in life.
My body is mostly healed at this point. I’ve taken to using the gym on the first floor of the condo building in the mornings to stay in shape. Some exercises are an issue with my ribs, but I make do. There’s still some bruising, but my head's clear, and my wrist is good.
We eat dinner at the bar tonight, and then Patrick drives us to the office building he frequents twice a week.
Curious. He drives around to the back and parks, leading me inside to the far end of the building on the first floor.
There’s two men in navy security garb standing beside a single elevator at the very back corner.
They nod at him, allowing us to enter. The elevator only has one button, which he presses, and we travel downwards several floors.
The door opens onto a large, almost empty concrete room over 25 ft tall. Industrial lighting illuminates a standard fight cage in the center of the room. A neon bar is situated at the far end, and elevated glass rooms encircle half the area. I can see a few people moving around in them.
“Welcome to your second home,” Patrick announces with a smile, opening his arms wide. “Fights are every Friday and Tuesday. For now, you’ll be fighting on Fridays. Artur will inform you if the boss wants you on Tuesdays as well.”
Behind the bar, two more guards in the same navy uniform are blocking a staircase. They step aside when they see Patrick, but don’t speak.
Upstairs, we stop at the first door on the right.
Knocking twice, we're told to enter. The office is a stark contrast to the rest of the area.
Walnut wood-panelled walls and ceiling, dark navy and red carpet underfoot, paintings, and matching bookshelves.
Artur is sitting behind a black wooden desk in a slim navy suit and red tie, hair perfectly styled.
“Good evening. Have a seat.” He gestures towards the two matching brown leather chairs in front of him.
“Nick, you will fight at 9pm this evening. This will be the only fight you have a choice in the outcome. Based on your performance, I will schedule your future fights. One reason Mr. Fitzgerald allowed you to come to Tennessee is your fighting skills. Patrick assured us you were excellent. I watched several of your recent MMA matches to ensure he was correct.”
I see Patrick bristle beside me. He won’t like someone doubting his word. It shows smarts on Artur’s part and is probably one of the reasons Patrick wants to eliminate him.
“Be here one hour before each fight and come to my office. You will find proper attire in your locker.” He slides a thick folder across his desk to me.
Picking it up, I flip the cover to see fighter bios, so I scan each one quickly. There’s a wide variety of fighters, some trained and some not. Three have impressive win to loss ratios. Closing the folder, I meet Artur’s eyes. “Who’s up tonight?”
“A fan favorite who goes by the name Shark. He is the first bio. Come, let me provide a tour. Leave the folder here.”
We follow Artur along the hallway and around the edge of the second floor.
The glass-enclosed rooms are for upper end clients and friends to watch the fights and do business, and everyone in attendance is required to bet.
The room aren't as luxurious as Artur's office, but there's plush carpeting underfoot, fancy furniture between concrete walls, and red velvet curtains for doors.
A few people are setting up food and drinks in the middle room.
The locker rooms are on the main floor to the left and right of the cage, and I'm assigned to the right room. Artur shows me my locker, where I find new shorts, shoes, and tape. The locker rooms appear spotless, at least, with showers and toilets at the back of the room. A doctor is on standby all evening because there are no rules. You win by three taps, a knockout, or death, but I get the suspicion tap outs aren’t really an option. Fun.
We finish the tour back in his office, and I’m left alone and told to study the folder.
Artur points out the many cameras, so I don’t try anything.
Like I would be dumb enough to think no one was watching.
I stand in front of the window for a few minutes, but I don't see him or Patrick anywhere.
Dragging a chair in front of the window, I sit to study the fighter bios more closely.
This situation is so much bigger and more complicated than I was expecting when I left home.
I thought it would be like what Patrick had in South Carolina.
Doesn't matter. I'll figure out what I need to do.
Forty-five minutes before my fight, Patrick returns to escort me to the locker room.
I finished studying the bios a while ago and have been watching the crowd increase on the main floor, and several of the glass rooms are now occupied by men in suits and women in fancy dresses.
Since they didn’t climb the stairs, I assume there’s another elevator located somewhere up here that I didn't notice during the tour.
Pushing through the crowd, we make our way to my locker. I’m the lone fighter inside, so I grab my shorts and change. Not knowing what to expect, I tape my knuckles.
“I expect a win tonight, Nick. Don’t make me look bad,” Patrick demands.
Rolling my eyes, I take a seat on the bench to wait.
A tv comes on as I hear an announcement for the first fight.
It’s like a tiny, pathetic version of a Vegas fight.
An MC is standing with a microphone hanging from the ceiling in the middle of the ring, but he's in jeans and a t-shirt with the sleeves ripped off.
He's surrounded by cheering crowds, and distinct music announces each fighter as they saunter to the ring.
A referee in a striped black and white shirt talks to them before they split into their corners.
Once the bell rings, they attack. Both are sloppy, and blood is soon flying around. There aren’t any rounds as they continue to pummel each other. I can hear an echo of the crowd through the concrete, but it’s not loud.
Watching the little clock in the screen’s corner, the bigger guy knocks out his opponent around the 8 minute mark. Messy fight.
“Those were newbies to the fight club trying to prove themselves,” Patrick informs me. “The big guy will be welcomed back since he won.”
Who I assume is the doc checks out the unconscious guy before two men in navy carry him out of the ring, and a crew of three enters and cleans the cage. Huh. I wasn’t expecting that. Good. I don't want to catch any diseases while I'm stuck here.
I stand and stretch to loosen my muscles with 15 minutes to go.
Flashing lights begin, and bass pumps through the room so loud that I can feel it even through the concrete.
When I’m announced, Patrick holds the door open for me.
“Meet me here after your win,” he yells to me before disappearing into the crowd.
I follow a blue runner towards the stage, my face emotionless.
Even though I'm new, the crowd is still amped up for this fight. Maybe my opponent is the cause. Climbing into the cage, I stay on this side of the ring, folding my arms across my chest to wait.
The crowd chants “Shark” as my opponent swaggers towards the ring. He looks identical to his bio pic. This guy has some training in karate and judo, but is mostly a street fighter. He's in shape and overly confident, speaking to the crowd and taking his time to get to the cage.
Once the lights and music end, the ref calls us to the center. “No weapons of any kind, no outside objects, only your body, or you’ll be shot dead right here. No time limit. Questions?”
We both shake our heads in the negative as we step back toward our corners.
I’d rather not kill anyone but Patrick, so I need to immobilize or knock out my opponent.
Strategizing while I waited in Artur’s office, I decided to let this fight last a short time.
I don’t want to appear too good and give myself a harder time in the future.
At the same time, letting it go on too long would piss Artur and Patrick off.
When the bell rings, I stay on my side to watch my opponent. My arms drop to my sides, and I stand on the balls of my feet. Shark comes rushing forward with his arms swinging. I block his fists and legs, throwing out a few punches of my own. He’s fast, able to dodge my assault.
We circle each other as Shark continues his assault. I have a feeling he won’t tap out, so I need to knock him out. His hits don’t land, but he’s still aggressive, so I allow the odd punch and kick to connect to make it realistic.
I’ve determined his pattern after only a minute. He's throwing various moves at me, but they’re basic maneuvers. He should’ve trained longer instead of turning to street fighting.
I figure we’ve been fighting for about 5 minutes when I decide to land some punches.
I need to draw this out a little, so I randomly hit him with force.
Once he becomes uncoordinated, I trip him towards me and punch him in the temple hard enough to knock him out.
That was an entertaining fight, I think.
As I walk back to the locker room, I notice many pissed off people. Guess they lost money on the fight. One big guy steps into my path. He’s close to my height, but his bulk isn’t muscular. “You owe me two grand.”
I meet his eyes and quirk a brow. His pupils are dilated and eyes glassy, so he’s on something.
I suspect drugs are flowing here tonight, although I haven't seen any.
As he pulls his arm back to take a swing, a shot rings out.
The big guy staggers backward, blood dripping between his fingers as he holds his shoulder.
Damn, an inch lower and the bullet would've gone through me.
Two navy clad security escort him away as I continue my walk to the locker room.
Security's tight, and there's an expert marksman here.
Patrick is at the locker room door, looking nervous. Is he wary of the fired shot? The man has spent his life around guns; why would it make him nervous now? After we enter the room, I quickly change. “What now?” I ask him.
“Home.”