Rayzor: Tell Me It’s Mine

Prologue

Six years ago…

The old, burglar bar door to the gym rattled when I banged my fist on it, not protecting shit. It was ducked between a local bar and an alleyway that smelled like piss, dew and oil in the heart of the city, but off-putting to the outsiders.

Junkies were laid out back, some huddled over fires in barrels to keep warm, and there were others hiding to show them getting that fix.

The world moving by. Some of them happy, others cracked out, miserable and mumbling as they passed by.

The other world wouldn’t come here. You’re forewarned and if you stepped back here, you sign your own tickets out.

I pulled the homemade flyer from my hoodie and stared at it. I almost regretted coming. I shouldn’t even be doing this shit but needed the bread. I had a girl at the crib that had expensive habits. On top of that, I was recently released from doing a bid and getting back on my feet.

My boy City and I was going to meet with the plug later to get something up off him, but I was short.

So, instead of hitting a nigga over the head and ending back up in jail, I turned to what I was good at.

This shit was the furthest thing on my mind; landed in my lap after I squabbled with a nigga from ‘round the way.

A cat ran across the dumpster, crashing into glass bottles and a trashcan sitting nearby, making me look up. I tucked my hand in my hoodie, gripping my pistol. Wasn’t about to get caught lacking. These parts were a quick come up or put down depending how you play it.

“Yo’,” a bouncer answered. The dim light flashing behind him gave you a peek into the junky shit in the small hall.

I held up the flyer.

He didn’t say nothing. Just walked away.

The busy city moved along behind me. I got back into my head thinking that maybe they weren’t trying to fuck with me or it’s a scam. What the fuck was I doing?

I was getting ready to dip when the door opened again.

“Come on,” the bouncer called out.

The hallway was so tight, you had to turn to comfortably get in that mothafucka. Then, on top of that, the bouncer was large as fuck; you could hear his footsteps. We passed bathrooms that looked like some shit out of a scary movie.

Cobwebs were in the ceiling.

The smell of smoke hit me as soon as I rounded the corner of the small, packed gym. My eyes dragged across the old, dim and stale place that smelled like sweat and smoke. The place where dreams either come to live or die.

Eminem’s “Lose Yourself” sent static through the weak overhead speakers.

It’s been years since I came here; not long enough if you asked me. Hadn’t stepped foot in this mothafucka since that fucked up day. A day that changed my life.

My Pops was murdered right out back in cold blood. I held him as he took his last breath. Imagine watching your ole’ man die on you, and you live to tell the story. That’s some fucked up shit.

These grounds had our blood on it, took part of my identity. Giving birth to a mothafuckin’ monster. Helped my Pops career. Then out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a picture of my ole’ man that I hadn’t seen since a kid.

Andre “The Giant” Kirkland.

My chest tightened as I stared up at the picture that was one of many. He should’ve still been here. He left not realizing I had to deal with this life shit without him. I fucking missed him.

“You ready?” the ref asked, breaking me away from my thoughts.

I lifted my head, removing my hood. The crowd was quiet as they watched me step into the ring. I removed my hoodie and the whispers started.

“Who’s he?”

They didn’t need to know who I was. And if they did, it wasn’t stopping me from coming here to handle my shit. Money was the motive, and I wasn’t leaving without it.

My opponent stood in the corner doing rhythm work.

They taped me up before handing me a pair of old boxing gloves. The material was cracked, faded colors and too big. I strapped tightly for protection.

He pointed at me, imaginarily slicing his throat. I didn’t respond. Talking shit was weak. Threats without action remits consequences.

I rolled my shoulders and pounded my fists together when the ref called us to the center. I stepped over the peeling mat and took my place.

“We want a clean fight. That’s it.” He stepped back and someone clapped before the crowd stomped their feet, shouting. I turned around in time to see him swinging.

He was quick. His fist connected with my jaw, snapping my head sideways. The crowd roared and cheered. Others laughed. Then, I tasted blood. I swiped my mouth.

He swung heavy again, too wide and confident. I ducked, came up, but he caught me in the rib, taking my breath away. I stumbled but didn’t fall, blocking his next hits when he went in for the kill.

For a minute, I thought he had me. Then I heard my Pop’s voice. Study him. The lights flickered like he was sending a sign. Nobody paid attention to it but me. Don’t fight to hurt. Fight to control. Control the rhythm.

He swung again. Missed me by a hair.

Find his soft spot.

I stepped back. Vision clear. The noise from the crowd faded. I watched him instead of reacting. His right jaw twitched. He dropped his guard and his shoulder twitched before he went in for a throw. That’s when I knew he was coming.

Found it.

I stepped in, guard up, head back. Sent a punch to his ribs; his guard was open. Hard enough to shake him. He let out a sharp breath.

The crowd roared.

Not wanting to react and chase the finish, I started blowing. Body. Shoulder. Body, then breathe. Every jab landed. He was thrown off. Incoherent. I watched that arrogance fade.

I call you Rayzor because you hit sharp, Pops said.

The room became smaller. Spotlight on me.

He couldn’t regain as I went blow for blow, locking him in and finishing him. One last hook. He fell, hitting the mat hard, gasping. Tears dripping onto the mat. I wanted to smirk but contained it.

His blood stained the mat. The ref slid in and counted down.

“1…” he yelled.

He rolled on his side.

“2…”

He pushed off his fists.

“3…”

He collapsed.

The crowd went crazy as fuck.

“We got a winner!” the ref announced. “What’s your name, kid?”

The noise came rushing over me again.

I shook it. “Rayzor.”

“Razor?” he repeated.

“R-A-Y-Z-O-R,” I enunciated.

Razor is original. You’re different. The Y adds flair. Pops initiated me with my name.

“Rayzor,” he repeated with an approving nod.

He announced it to the crowd.

They shouted my name, whistled and even barked. It was alive and so was I.

This morning, I woke up not knowing what the fuck I was doing today besides trying to get some bread. I ended up having to beat a nigga’s head in for a fee, so a win was a win.

The ref walked to my opponent.

The gym owner walked over to me.

“You’ve got a mean ass arm on you, Rayzor.”

“’Preciate it.”

“It reminds me of one of my idols.” He pointed to the picture. “The Giant.”

That lump formed in my throat as his voice faded as my thoughts went left thinking about Pops. He wouldn’t be proud of the shit I was doing, but at least I’d still have him around. Man, this was the wrong fucking place to be with my head all fucked up.

“Rayzor.” He snapped his finger.

“Yeah?” I shook my head, blinking away the thoughts.

“Did you hear me?”

“Nah.” He handed me the cash. “What you say?” I asked, slipping it into my hoodie.

“I asked are you by related to Giant?”

“You could say that,” I responded.

“Jeff, see. I told you he looks just like Giant. Didn’t I tell you?” he said, walking away.

I lowly chuckled, grabbing my bag from the ground. A woman in a dark suit approached me with a smile. I’ve never seen her before. Then again, I hadn’t seen any of these mothafuckas either.

“You’re one hell of a fighter,” she complimented.

I slung my bag over my shoulder. “’Preciate it.”

She stuck her hand out. “Celine.”

I shook it. “Rayzor.”

“Why the y?”

“I ain’t like the rest,” I respond, head up, chest out.

She nodded with a smirk. “Sharp name,” she replied, sliding a card in my hand. “For a sharp fighter.”

I glanced down at the card. “What’s this?”

She shrugged. “An opportunity if you seize it.” She paused. “There are some interested parties who want to meet you.”

I pushed the card back. “Nah. A one-time thing.”

She smirked. “I see it in your future.”

She turned away, done with the conversation.

“You can use it or not,” she said without looking back. “Either way, I’ll be seeing you again.”

She blended into the crowd, disappearing. I glanced down at the card wondering what the fuck she wanted with me. I tucked it in the bag and headed for the exit.

On the outside, the wind kicked up as it dried the sweat underneath my hoodie. I kept my hand tucked in case I had to lay a nigga down. I wasn’t worried, but you gotta be careful.

The junkies were still at it, and the crowd from inside the gym walked down the alleyway, laughing, talking, and moving on with the night. They headed to the bar next door. The music rumbled the ground as the door opened.

I spotted the woman in the suit seated in the back of a truck with a dark figure. They were out of the light, but I could see her. She said something to the person with her, but I couldn’t make out what the fuck they were talking about before they pulled off.

I did this as a means for the night. I wasn’t trying to live out my Pop’s dreams. When I was younger, all I wanted to do was follow in his footsteps, but that was buried along with him. I’ve always felt that if I mirrored him, I’d have the same fate too.