Brawler

by Neil Connelly

  We parked by a service entrance, joining a dozen or so vehicles waiting in a pack. Blalock killed the engine and I said, “So this is it, huh?”

  Maybe he heard the extra emphasis in my voice meant for Khajee, but he turned to me and said, “You seem agitated. Perhaps you should gather yourself before we proceed.”

  I opened my door. “I’m good to go.”

  The three of us entered through what had once been a department store, and the inside was abandoned, dark. Every twenty or thirty feet, a battery-powered camping lantern on the floor cast an eerie glow on the left-behind shelving and racks, the nude mannequins forever holding their fashion poses. It was all damn creepy. At one point, something shuffled in the shadows and Khajee said, “Look.”

  Blalock and I turned to see a fox trotting calmly from behind a sale counter, its legs long and lean. He didn’t seem to care about us, and he disappeared into the blackness.

  “Nature abhors a vacuum,” Blalock said.

  We left the department store and emerged into a cavernous corridor — two stories, lined with smaller shops on both levels. Above us the glass ceiling let in some dim moonlight, which tinted the strange world a bluish gray. A few of those windows were broken, and something fluttered in the dark void over our heads — birds or bats, I couldn’t tell.

  Ahead of us, at the intersection of several hallway spokes, there was an oasis of bright light, and we headed in its direction. Some of the storefronts we passed were gated with bars and some weren’t. A couple had graffiti spray-painted across them. We went by a twenty-foot screw in the center of the lane by some benches, then fifty feet later, an enormous extinguished cigarette. “Is this supposed to be art?” Khajee asked.

  “If they were aiming for piece of crap,” I said, “they nailed it.”

  Blalock added, “No accounting for the aesthetic of the masses.”

  When we reached our destination, we found a huge circular staircase looping around what had once been a fountain I guess. Now it was just a dried-up concrete circle, about the same size as a wrestling mat. Just outside it, there was a row of chairs set up, but a bunch of the high rollers had climbed the ramp for a better vantage point. From thirty feet above, they leaned over the railing and waited for the spectacle.

  Beaming lights hung from those same railings, and thick cables ran from them down and out, toward a distant rumble in that cavern’s pitch-blackness. I pictured a gas-powered generator, though this was just a guess.

  As we entered the light, Grunt stepped from the shadows and blocked our path, hands crossed at his waist, looking like some overgrown crossing guard. He eyed each of us in turn, then nodded once in recognition, allowing us to pass.

  Sunday made his way over, grinning unapologetically. “The numbers are off the charts,” he said. “We’ve already got double our previous record for viewers.”

  “Exceptional,” Blalock offered.

  Sunday fixed his gaze on me, stroked his white beard once. “And you. You’re prepared to play your part?”

  I nodded. “I promise you a show you won’t believe.”

  Khajee nudged me from the side, and I reined in my smirk. “I was wondering though, how’s the betting coming? What do the oddsmakers think of my chances?”

  “Most figure the last fight was a fluke and Badder’s due for revenge. The money is following him and he’s still the favorite, paying out two to three. Don’t be too upset though. At three to one you’re not much of an underdog.”

  What this meant was that for every dollar someone bet on me, they’d get paid three if I won. In my head, I did some quick calculations. If Shrimp could get his hands on his big brother’s credit card again and did like I told him, the haul would be just over $100,000. I thought about those Sunday afternoon open houses, the way the realtors always looked at me and Mom like we didn’t belong. I imagined her strolling up to one in some bright newly finished kitchen and saying, “I’ll take it.”

  Sunday slid an arm around my shoulders, pulled me away from the others. He leaned his face in close to the side of my head and said, “Listen. Everybody likes a trilogy. You know how they work, right? I’ve got my eyes on how the money is playing out tonight. A week from now, depending on how things go, you, me, Badder, we’ll figure out how to close out your little feud and we’ll all make a killing. But tonight, this plot twist works best for us if you go down fast. Like inside thirty seconds even. You with me?” Here, he gripped my neck for emphasis, and again, I was struck by his old-man strength. “Just be a good boy and go down, all right Kid?”

  Knowing what I knew, my real intention, it was hard to keep a poker face, but I tried to keep my expression flat when I said, “You can count on me, Mr. Sunday.”

  After my little pep talk, he went off to attend to other matters. While the remaining high rollers made their way in, I saw him getting them drinks from somewhere, slapping backs, shaking hands, working the crowd. Blalock stayed near me and Khajee, so I was never alone with her. She made eye contact with me a couple times in a way that seemed meaningful, but I couldn’t tell for sure what that meant. Had she sent the text like we’d agreed? Was the cavalry on its way? We were so far from Camp Hill, but if they arrived too soon, my match would never happen and there would be no payout.

  The first two matches were clearly choreographed crowd-pleasers. Maddox, who still had some fans I guess, was given a sacrificial lamb from West Virginia. He worked him over for a few minutes, then dropped him with a nice uppercut. I saw the guy flatten out on the ground and looked at his eyes — clear and bright — and I knew he could rise if he wanted to. But he was following Sunday’s script too, and like me, it called for him to lose. So he stayed down.

  Khajee fitted my fighting gloves onto my hands, which were tender from my fight with my dad but healed enough to grapple. She pulled the straps tight. “Tiger tough,” she said.

  “Tiger tough,” I repeated.

  The second match gave Santana, head wrapped in a halo of gauze to protect that ear, a chance to pound a hulk from New York. The muscle-bound dude seemed to have the upper hand for the first couple minutes, but go figure, our saintly man somehow managed a dramatic victory with a spinning kick, one that sent the ogre tumbling over the concrete rim of the dried-up fountain, crashing right into a tripod camera. Maybe I was seeing things wrong, but everything looked fake now. The scales had fallen from my eyes.

  As they righted that camera and Santana took his victory bows, the hulk’s people dragged him from the combat zone. The air shifted around me. I could sense the crackling anticipation of all the fans circling the fighting pit, and all those watching from home. I stood on the edge of the fountain, framed by Khajee and Blalock. He said, “It’s like the Colosseum. You make a noble gladiator.”

  I hadn’t felt especially noble lately, but that was something I was working on.

  Sunday appeared on the ramp, twenty feet up, and the mobile cameraman moved to the center of the fountain just to get a better shot. From down below like that, lit by lights above him, I’ll bet Sunday came across like a god.

  “Friends and fellow fight aficionados, the time has come for payback. For retribution!”

  At this, Badder came bolting from the darkness across from me, as if born from its black fabric. He jogged around the mobile cameraman, throwing elbows, heaving his hands up as the crowd cheered. His face was again tattooed, and I had the strange urge to tell him his big sister did a great job for the big show. I noticed he didn’t offer his signature warrior scowl, and this made him seem more serious. Beneath all the makeup and the playacting, Badder had pride, and losing to me — even on purpose — had cost him something. Tonight, he was expecting to get that back. The audience picked up on his intensity too, and they howled their approval.

  Khajee stepped in front of me, slipped my mouth guard in, and I waited for her final words of wisdom and inspiration. “Kick his ass,” she said.

  Sunday swept a hand toward me, just in the shadow of the ramp, and the cameras�
� lenses followed to aim my way. “Or could this be a night of validation? Are we witnessing the dawn of a new Brawlers era? I call forth Wild Child!”

  The crowd surged when I walked into the light, and I found myself smiling at how I alone interpreted Sunday’s words. He pulled out that stupid gong, and as Badder and I circled each other in the fountain’s center, the people grew rabid with excitement and yelled, “No mercy! Prepare! Brawl!”

  Badder, who’d been tentative in our first match, shot in off the whistle that night, catching me flat-footed. He was shooting for a double-leg, but I sprawled on instinct and crossfaced his ugly mug. Still, he got a good grip on my right knee, managed to topple me to the hard surface of the dried pool. He covered quick, and mere moments into a match I had to win, I found myself flat on my back, staring straight up. Above me, through the nautilus swirl of the curling ramp, I saw for the first time a glass dome capping the open space. I imagined SWAT troops rappelling from a hovering helicopter, but this felt like fantasy to me.

  Kneeling across my belly, Badder pounded down hammer fists, doing his best to bludgeon my head. But I managed to dodge those punches because he was slow and sloppy. It wasn’t hard to read his increasing frustration. Finally he flattened out, draping that meaty gut across my face and tucking his head in tight so no one could see him say, “Let’s just get this over with. My turn tonight, remember?”

  When I didn’t instantly agree, he popped a few punches into the side of my skull and said, “Don’t let that last show confuse you, Baby Blue. Ain’t no way you can take me.”

  On my back still, I worked my way up so we were face-to-face before I quietly answered. “We’ll see.”

  Badder’s eyes froze, and I planted a kiss on his cheek, just cause I knew it’d freak him out. And indeed, he sprang upright. Rather than try to escape though, I lurched up too, overshot his head, and reversed my right elbow around his neck. When I flung myself back down, I smashed his face into the concrete floor. For a second he went limp, and I rolled to the side, flipping him onto his back. I kept my hold and arched my spine, ratcheting my forearm deeper into his gullet. Like this, there was no way the man could breathe for long. He flailed beneath me, but he wasn’t going anywhere. I strained and held tight and waited — either for the tap or the deadweight that meant he was passed out.

  Instead my groin exploded in fiery pain. White light shot through my eyes. Must’ve been a knee Badder jammed between my legs, violating the one rule boys learn on every playground. The shock and pain stunned me, and Badder slid free, rose to his feet to gather his breath. I heard the crowd booing as I struggled to my hands and knees, knowing how vulnerable I was on all fours.

  Badder didn’t waste the opportunity. He kicked me straight in the face — no technique, nothing fancy, just a drop kick that snapped my head. I caught a glimpse of Badder grinning, then he bounced away. Groggy, I swung a lazy hand out for a leg or a foot, anything to get hold of him and bring us both to the ground, but my fingers clutched nothing but air.

  Suddenly a massive weight made all four limbs shudder. Badder was straddling my back, and he quickly coiled his thick legs inside mine, hooking his feet on the backs of my shins. This was bad. Worse still, as out of it as I was, I couldn’t do much to defend a chokehold he was securing from above. Even as his arms put my neck in a vise, I locked my elbows and steadied my legs, strengthening my base because I knew what would come next. Astride my spine with that chokehold, Badder was in a dominant position. If he tumbled us to the side, got under me, then he’d be choking down instead of up, and that would be the end for sure.

  So we engaged in a sort of paralysis battle, a tug-of-war with our whole bodies. He yanked and tugged and heaved from above, trying to roll us or break my stance, and below I held firm — legs like rocks, arms like Roman columns. Badder’s choke was sunk deep, but Khajee’d had me in tighter locks and I’d withheld for a while, scrunching my shoulders to lift my deltoids and fortify my neck.

  All in all, I’d say Badder was exerting more energy than me. But the edge of my vision was starting to go hazy, and I didn’t know how much longer I could hold out. With no other option, I had to try a crazy move, something I thought under the best circumstances would push the needle right to the edge of impossible.

  I reared back a little, not so much as to give him momentum, just enough to allow me to swing my right foot forward, plant it. Genuflecting now with Badder draped on my back, I began to feel just how heavy three hundred pounds could be. With some of the weight off my arms, I could reach up and take hold of his forearm, inch it off my neck to let a little oxygen slip in. I took half a breath, but it felt like plenty.

  A few in the crowd realized what I was thinking, and I heard somebody yell, “No. No. No freakin’ way!” I didn’t care much for the vote of no confidence.

  Badder still had legs in, and he was committed to this choke, so he didn’t realize how vulnerable he’d be if I could pull off this stunt. I leaned into my planted foot, drove forward slowly, igniting every muscle in my lower back, and made just enough space to bring my left foot forward. Now I sat in a sort of squat with my opponent essentially piggybacking me. Badder yanked backward, and I teetered, fought forward, teetered back again. This was the spot, this was the moment balanced on a pin when everything would be decided.

  On my first attempt to stand, nothing happened. I strained and tried to rise, but the weight was crushing, and I stalled like an engine. Badder snickered in my ear and tightened his grip on my throat. The darkness clouding the edges of my vision pulsed and began to swarm toward the center. Soon I’d be cast into blackness. I had enough in the tank for one more try, but I was so tired, and the old notion of being a failure weighed me down. But where my mind was failing, my body stayed strong. My muscles remembered all those hours in the gym, squatting with a bar bent across my shoulders, the stink of sweat and the clanking of the weights, the gritted teeth, and the forehead veins I’d see bulging in the filthy mirror.

  When I first heard the sound, I didn’t recognize my own voice. It came out of me, half scream and half roar, a battle cry from my soul’s depths. All I can compare it to is the sound women make giving birth in movies, and that feels right, because something was coming alive that night. Holding Badder’s forearm, I slowly rose. On shaky knees with trembling thighs, I rose. With a pressure in my head that threatened to pop the eyes from my skull, I rose.

  Maybe the crowd went wild, I don’t know. I didn’t hear them. And all I saw was Khajee’s tiny face, right there thirty feet ahead of me. Her eyes were open wide, but still she seemed calm. She knew what I was up to, and she nodded, just once.

  If that had been a regular wrestling match, the instant I got to my feet the ref would’ve blown his whistle and tapped the back of his head, indicating “potentially dangerous.” There’s a damn good reason for this, as Badder was about to find out. Maybe he could’ve saved himself just by trying to work a foot down, but I’d bargained that he wouldn’t surrender the hold he had, and given how wobbly my legs were, it seemed a good bet that I’d collapse any second.

  Instead of collapsing though, I leaned forward, gathered myself. Clutching his forearm around my neck with both hands, I then sprang back, picking my feet up high as we plummeted. Imagine someone doing a backward flop off a high dive.

  We slammed into the concrete with a thud, a five-hundred-plus-pound bomb impacting on Badder. He made a whumpf! sound, followed by a groan, and the audience gasped as one, then went stone silent. Badder’s arms were instantly limp, and I flipped around to face what I was sure was an unconscious opponent. I was shocked to see him looking up at me, stunned but still awake enough to make that wide-eyed, tongue-waggling face one final time.

  “You ain’t eating me today,” I said, then I hammered a right that snapped his head sideways. His eyes rolled to cue balls, and the crowd erupted.

  I staggered to my feet, and the guy with the shoulder-mounted camera charged in to get a close-up, and all around me the applaus
e seemed amplified. It took some effort to lift my weary arms, but I thrust them up to better absorb the glory I’d earned. For a few seconds, I basked in their adoration, catching my breath and scanning the faces of the fans. There was Blalock squinting through his thick lenses, perplexed. And Maddox and Santana and even Dominic, reluctantly clapping with odd smiles on their faces. Grunt looked at Sunday, unsure how to react it seemed, but Sunday locked his expression on me, daggers flashing in both eyes.

  This is when the lights went out.

  To be clear, not every light was extinguished. The camera right in front of me must’ve had a battery pack, because its twin bulbs stayed illuminated, radiant in the inky void. But all the others hung above us on the curving ramp went dead. For an instant, I felt suspended in a glowing white sphere.

  “What the hell?” somebody asked.

  There was a sort of general chaos, as for a few seconds everyone seemed to speak at once. Then a bullhorn voice, loud and distinct, cut through the cacophony. “Police! Stay where you are!”

  This cry came from down the dark cavern where those power cables led, and it didn’t take a genius to figure the cops had cut the juice. Now they were charging toward us from that direction, two dozen bouncing beams of light in the pitch dark. Of course, in the history of law enforcement, the demand to stay where you are has only had one traditional response, and our group was no different: Everybody freaked.

  The fans, the brawlers, all of us scattered. Thanks to the cameraman’s light, I could see people scurrying back and forth, crashing into each other, and Khajee made her way to me through the stream. She yelled, “Now what?”

  The police were storming toward us, I imagined in heavy gear with guns drawn. Somewhere in this assault was Harrow, the recipient of my third fateful phone call, but of course I couldn’t see her. “Down! Down! Down!” the bullhorn voice demanded.