Brawler

by Neil Connelly

  I swept a foot at his left leg, and he skipped over it deftly. Then I barged forward, and he hopped backward with a gymnast’s balance. We ran right up to one of the fire barrels and I stopped and straightened. He grinned at me and tugged away, hoping to free his leg, but I yanked back with all my might, too late realizing he’d anticipated this.

  Dominic used my energy and jumped into me, lifting his chest onto my shoulder and coiling his left arm around my neck. He quick slipped his other arm between us and locked hands, and when he arched his back my breath was gone. It felt like he was trying to pop my head clean off, which may indeed have been his intention.

  In regular wrestling, choking is strictly illegal, so I wasn’t used to the dizzying sensation that comes with having no oxygen. But I’d been in plenty of rough spots on the mat over the years, and the rush of panic faded fast. I still had his one leg wrapped up, and his other hung in the air; neither of his feet were on the ground. Shifting my grip, I scooped the free leg, and he cranked all the harder on my neck, knowing he was in trouble.

  On a high school mat, the ref would stop the action at this point, calling “potentially dangerous” because, since I now controlled Dom’s body, he was essentially defenseless. But this wasn’t high school, and no official was coming to Dragon’s rescue.

  I hoisted him up high as I could, tilted us both toward the earth, and drove down hard. My shoulder transferred my weight into his gut, knocking the wind out of him. But I’ve got to give Dominic some credit, because at the last second he wrenched my head so my face caught some of the impact. It wasn’t enough to make me black out, but it did cause me to release my hold. I got to all fours, a bit shaky, seeing stars. Next to me, Dominic was retreating in an unsteady crabwalk. I crawled after him, certain I didn’t want him to get to his feet again, and he planted a heel across my jaw, torqueing my face to the side.

  “Get up Dragon!” Maddox hollered.

  “Take Baby Blue’s head off!” another — maybe Badder — added.

  But in the cacophony of voices, I also heard Khajee, quiet and calm. “Mac, you’re doing great.”

  Dominic rose to his feet, a dark silhouette right in front of one of the fire barrels.

  I circled left and we again took up our dance. I sidestepped a few tentative kicks and countered with a couple jabs, nothing to hurt him but enough to slow down his assault. I took a shot on his right leg but he saw it coming and easily spun out of the way, tagging me in the back of the head with a fist along the way. He was fast, I’ll give him that.

  “Come on Dragon,” a woman in the crowd shouted, “quit playing with this newbie!” Then she started a chant, “Dra-gon! Dra-gon!” and others picked it up, until it became a wall of sound around us. Dragon grinned, his teeth flashing in the firelight. I’d been cheered against plenty of tournaments, and rather than distract me, it gave me fuel. I smiled back and waved him forward. He pounded his fists together and advanced on springy legs, loose and light. I knew an attack was coming and I backed up, arms raised, until I felt heat on my bare back. Dragon stopped bouncing right in front of me, daring me to charge. When I didn’t take the bait, his back foot shifted and he twisted at the waist — telegraphing his strike — then unfurled in the opposite direction, corkscrewing on his base foot and swinging the other leg fast and hard. Already crouched, I dropped beneath it, and it passed over my head and connected with the fire barrel. So powerful was Dominic’s kick that the can tumbled sideways, dumping burning wood and embers onto the ground. The audience erupted.

  Pleased with himself and confident he’d regained the momentum, Dominic floated backward, to the center of the fighting area, and said, “Come get some!”

  To stoke the crowd, he executed a couple of those high spinning kicks, wasting energy and broadcasting his intentions. Sometimes a guy’s got a signature move and it’s a good one, but you can go to the well once too often. With this thought one of my visions came to me, clear as a dream that wakes you. The future felt set in stone. I knew the fight was over and exactly how I would end it.

  With a mouth guard in, your voice is a bit muffled, but you can still make yourself known. So Dominic heard me fine when I said, “You kicked that barrel’s butt. Any good at a moving target?”

  My taunt stung him, and it got the desired result. He stormed across the open space between us. He settled into a fighting stance before me, and I waited for my prophecy to unfold. We traded some lazy punches, each easily blocked by the other, but it was obvious that he was probing for an opening. So I gave him one.

  I’d been peeking between my raised fists, like Khajee taught me, but now I let them drop a bit and drift apart. As expected, Dominic seized on the opportunity and popped me in the chin, a quick jab meant to stun and distract. It did neither, but I stepped back as if that were the case.

  And poor Dominic settled his feet and twisted at the waist, exactly like he had before. Anybody who’d been watching knew what he was about to do, and me, I’d been watching pretty close. So when he spun around and leapt into the air, leading with that leg again, I rushed into the strike — not blocking, not retreating. With my arms outstretched, I caught him three-quarters through his spin. My right arm hooked under his extended leg and my left latched around his head. I locked my hands together into a standing cradle, smashing Dominic’s face into his own knee. Then I hoisted his limp body into the air, held it there, and turned so everybody knew I had power to spare. I genuflected, making my right knee an anvil, and drove his spine down onto it. Dominic cried out as his backbone cracked, but I didn’t release him. Instead I stood, lifting him again, ignoring his moans.

  The fire that’d spilled from the barrel was only a few feet away, and I carried him easy since he was no longer struggling. Standing over the burning scrap wood, I could feel the heat radiating on my bare shins, and I guess Dom realized he was about to get cooked. He squirmed weakly and said, “What the hell, man? Put me down! I give! I give!”

  The acrid smoke swirled up, filling the air with its rich scent. Through it, I could see the faces in the crowd clear enough, the wide eyes and open mouths. Even Blalock and Badder looked shocked, and at their side Sunday locked his gaze on mine. He nodded once, and I thrust my emptied arms overhead in victory.

  Dominic’s body collapsed onto the fire.

  Of course he sprang out of there instantly, scrambling so fast his flesh barely felt the heat, like those folks who sprint across hot coals. Now it’s true that his shorts got singed a bit, and an unexpected bonus was that some of those long dreads of his did indeed catch fire, but only briefly. He screamed and ran, feeding the flames and freaking out the fans. They scattered. After he did a high-speed lap or two around the ring, Maddox tackled him and smothered the flames with somebody’s coat. For good measure he emptied a water bottle on the smoldering hair, which was a little shorter. But while he was rattled good, he was fine, and everybody seemed relieved.

  Now their attention came back to me. I was still in the center of the makeshift arena, and again I punched my hands up in triumph. Now they could applaud, clap wildly and whoop their excitement. I turned slowly, letting everyone get a look — all the high rollers and the other brawlers and Sunday too. As I passed in front of the tripod camera, I snatched it with two hands and hoisted it, so the lens was right up to my face. Rather than roar or shout or scream, I stared hard in the eyes of everyone watching online, and I asked, “Who’s next?” Then I whirled around, keeping my face in the frame, spinning everything behind me and probably making the home audience dizzy. Suddenly “Wild Child” suited me just fine.

  Dominic limped off with one arm draped up over Maddox’s shoulder. It felt weird, not shaking hands after a match, but it seemed these brawlers didn’t exactly value good sportsmanship. I joined Khajee behind one of the remaining barrel fires, and she handed me a full bottle of water, which I downed in a few thirsty gulps. I toweled off and slid into a T-shirt and soaked up the gawking stares of the people who couldn’t stop looking. After a wi
n like that, you don’t just feel strong. You feel invincible.

  A few guys cleaned up the mess from the spilled fire, righted the barrels, I guess getting ready for the following match.

  A handful of the high rollers gathered around Sunday and Blalock. They glanced at me, nodded, and smiled. And a few in the crowd made their way to my side. They slapped my back and squeezed my shoulder, or shook my hand and said things like, “Good match.” “Nice job.” “A pleasure to watch you work.”

  When we were left alone, Khajee finally spoke up. “Looks like you’re a hit.”

  “I could’ve done worse,” I said.

  “Dragon lost his cool,” she told me. “You got lucky.”

  I shrugged. “Rather be lucky than good. Didn’t you ever hear that expression?”

  “That’s a new one on me,” she answered. “And I can’t say I agree. We need to work on your striking, elbows in particular.”

  “Whatever you say, Boss.”

  Blalock stepped in to congratulate me. “Exemplary debut,” he said, nodding his approval.

  The second match was between two fighters Khajee and Blalock had never seen before, out-of-staters who waltzed around each other like last-place contestants on Dancing with the Stars. Mercifully, after about ten minutes, one tried a lame double leg and they collapsed into an exhausted heap on the ground. The other slipped in the rear naked chokehold Khajee had shown me. She saw the same thing I did and whispered, “Too loose.” Despite this, it was a quick submission.

  Sunday didn’t hide his disappointment, turning his back on the brawlers as they left the arena.

  The headline fight involved Badder versus a dude from Paterson, supposedly the Jersey champ. Could be he had an off night, or maybe Badder’s theatrics got to him. But he was sloppy off the whistle, letting Badder arm drag him, yanking him by the elbow and slipping behind him. Badder was quick to lock his hands and bring the two of them down. The guy’s cover was pretty good — flattening out, tucking his forearms up around his neck — something Khajee pointed out. Doing his turtle shell routine, he managed to fend off Badder’s attempts at a chokehold or arm bar. But this also frustrated Badder, and he angrily hammer-fisted the back of the guy’s buried head.

  After a minute of this, Jersey made a supremely stupid mistake. He drew his knees up, letting Badder snake his left leg around and inside his opponent’s, hooking his foot on that heel. Turning sideways, Badder wrapped both hands around Jersey’s right knee, and I didn’t need my prophetic gift to know what was coming next. Khajee said, “This is about to get ugly.”

  Craning his head back and arching his spine, Badder flipped his opponent to his back. Then he straightened the leg he had entwined around his opponent’s and tugged his other leg in the opposite direction.

  Jersey’s legs wishboned out away from each other and he screamed, slapping at the dirt to signal his surrender. Badder cranked it for another ten seconds, just to implant the memory, then released him and leapt to his feet. He whooped and yelled and did his warrior thing, which the crowd of course just ate up. He stomped over to the tripod camera and when the guy with the shoulder-mounted one chased after him, he extended his tongue and screamed bloody murder.

  Meanwhile, there was something weird about the way Jersey looked as he left the ring, a sour glance he flashed at Badder. Some understanding I wasn’t privy to passed between them.

  With the fights concluded, the cameramen packed up their gear and the crowd began to disperse.

  I was about to ask Khajee if she saw anything in Jersey’s face like I did, but just then Blalock stepped up behind her. “Mr. Sunday requests the honor of your company,” he told me. “Just you.” He glanced toward the trailer, where the door was closing. There was no one else around now. All the other cars were gone.

  “What’s up?” I asked. “He want to do a postgame interview?”

  “You don’t ask what Mr. Sunday wants,” Blalock told me. “He tells you.”

  I stared at Khajee. The dying fire danced across her green eyes, which looked a little nervous.

  Blalock chucked his chin toward the trailer. “It’s inadvisable to keep your employer waiting.”

  “Sure thing,” I said, and I crossed the emptied ring. From inside the trailer, Grunt opened the door and made a mumbled sound in his throat. The small office was illuminated by a light bulb that was either dirty or yellow in the first place. Sunday sat at a metal desk, something you’d expect was military issue. His chair had a high back and armrests. Other than that, there were no seats, so I walked over and stood before him, glanced upside down at a desk calendar from August two years ago.

  Sunday smiled at me. “Quite a display you put on tonight,” he said. “It’s hard to impress me, but you did that Kid.”

  I thought of how to respond and finally said, “Okay.”

  “I especially liked the way you looked for me before delivering the final blow. It reminded me of the way the gladiators would turn to Caesar and let him determine their opponent’s fate.”

  “I wasn’t asking your permission,” I said. “Just being sure you were watching.”

  He ran a hand over his smooth scalp and smirked. “You’re a willful boy, aren’t you?”

  It’s true, I was riding the high of the fight, and the adrenaline rush was making me extra cocky. “You’re the commander in chief,” I told him. “If you say it, it must be true.”

  Now Sunday stood. Casually, he circled the desk. “Quite the piece of work this one is, eh Grunt?”

  Grunt grunted.

  Sunday eased back onto a corner of the desk right in front of me. “But that attitude is exactly what makes you special. You’ve got a mean streak a mile wide, don’t you? Can’t wait to take on the world, show what a tough guy you are? It radiates off you and scares some people. You’re like a dog that can’t wait to bite something.”

  I wanted to tell him I was nobody’s dog, but I was tired of the verbal sparring. “Why’d you call for me?”

  Sunday was struck by my unexpected directness. But not answering would make him look weak. He had to respond. “Fine then,” he said. “To the heart of the matter. I like what I saw in that boxcar the other night, and this evening’s entertainment only served to validate my initial assessment. You can be of use to me.”

  “I’m glad you like my fighting.”

  “I more than like it. In fact, I have plans to accelerate your advancement. I’m setting your next match in four days. You’ll square off against Santana.”

  “Four days?” I repeated. I was used to wrestling twice a week, even a few times a weekend for a tournament, but this sort of fighting seemed to demand more recovery.

  I could tell Sunday didn’t like being questioned. He said, “You want to take a few months off between bouts, try joining the UFC.”

  “I didn’t say that,” I told him. “I can keep up.” Still, it was no mystery why there weren’t a lot of old brawlers.

  His expression shifted, and he pinched at the triangular white beard capping his chin. “Ray seems convinced you can redeem his last fighter’s regrettable efforts. I would tend to agree, given your lineage and record. Indeed, I might find even more use for you.”

  I wondered, of course, what all that meant, but I stayed quiet. Guys like Sunday love to hear themselves talk, and that’s just what he did. “What I’m referring to is an additional role in my organization. From time to time, Grunt pays visits to individuals who owe me money or who need to be convinced to adopt a more enlightened view of one kind or another. On such occasions, it’s not bad if he has someone to watch his back. I would, of course, compensate you for your contributions.”

  I stayed quiet. Sunday eyeballed me, and I could hear Grunt breathing. It came to me that this was the sort of work my father used to do back when he and Sunday were partners. “I’m not really interested in more baseball bats, if that’s what we’re talking about.”

  “Oh things seldom get that dramatic. But situations can get complicated, and
it’s good to have friends we can rely on. Grunt would be eager to show you the ropes.”

  The big man looked on, his face devoid of anything eager.

  I asked, “Are you asking me this or telling me this is how it’s going to be?”

  Sunday pushed off the desk and placed a hand on my shoulder. “I don’t need an answer right now. I’m offering you an opportunity to apply your talents and make some additional money. Call it side work. But in the same breath, there may come a time when I’m not asking.”

  “And then I’ll have to say yes?”

  He tightened his grip. “I don’t think you realize just how profitable this venture could become. I have many friends, and they have friends. Even as far away as Fort Indiantown Gap. If you refused me, I could make things unpleasant for your father.”

  At this, I jerked away from his arm and backed into Grunt, who took hold of my biceps from behind. He was as strong as he looked. “Let’s be clear about one thing, okay?” I said. “If you think threatening my father is a way to get me to do anything, you don’t know jack squat. You drive your fancy car, wear your fancy things, figure you know everything about everybody. You want to give that son of a bitch a beatdown? Be my freakin’ guest.”

  Sunday stayed stoic throughout my rant, then he blinked a few times as if recalculating. “Clearly I misread this situation.” He paused for a few seconds, considering me. “Tell me though, how would you feel about being the one who administers the beatdown in question?”

  Behind me, Grunt snickered and relaxed his grip.

  I leaned forward. “Say that again.”

  Sunday looped behind the desk, returned to his big seat like it was a throne. “I’m not promising a boxcar and a Louisville Slugger, but it’s not outside the spectrum of possibilities that I could arrange a reunion. A very private one. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Here his gaze snapped to mine and his eyebrows rose like the offer’s temptation.

  The answer to his question must have shown in my expression. I’d dreamt of smashing my father’s face to pulp a thousand times. I’d do anything for the chance. But I played it cool. “Whatever,” I finally said. “You’re probably just talk. I should get back, unless there’s something else?”