Tyrant

by Tiana Laveen

  “…Central Asia is a surprising 5.6%. Got a bunch of trace shit here that is just a drop or two but here is the big surprise. East Asian and Native American is a whopping 19.9%! Chippewa, to be exact, and a couple trace amounts of other tribes, too, but that’s the main one. And it’s all from your side. There’s smatterings from other regions, like the Ukraine for instance, but I’ve told you the big ones.” Hunter folded up the paper carefully and slid it back in his pocket.

  “All right, so what’s your point?”

  “My point? It’s sad. You never told me any of this.” Hunter shook his head. “You never sat me down and told me about your father’s heritage. I had to read online that he, his siblings and mother were on the damn reservation. He married a White woman, your mother. I would’ve never guessed in a million years that I was part Indian, let alone, that I have cousins that lived on a reservation. Hell, some still might. It took a damn stranger to look at me and say, ‘You’re Native. You’re one of us.’ He looked at me and saw it immediately. I look at my fucking face every day and was clueless. I figured, I’ve got green eyes… my skin is too light. Wrong. Do you know how stupid I felt after I learned the truth? My entire life, I never knew, and that may not mean shit to you, but it means something to me.” He pointed to himself.

  “I am majority White. My father was actually half White, Hunter, not all Indian. He was mixed. He’s dead as you know. Died before you were born.”

  “Majority ain’t everything.” They glared at one another. “You wouldn’t exist without that part of you. He was a bit more than half, the percentages prove that. I saw old photos… their names… everything.”

  “How would that have changed your life, Hunter? How is knowin’ you’re part Indian earthshattering? So what. Look at all the trouble the—”

  “BECAUSE I DON’T KNOW WHO I AM! My girlfriend told me some shit one night that blew my mind. She said people who don’t know where they come from are always looking, many times in the wrong places. I have been trying to define myself since the moment you killed my mother! I’ve been trying to be different from you, running from you, but I was just like you, as you said! You’re right. I’m an opportunist. A manipulator. Some have even said borderline sadist. I’m violent by default; it’s my damn factory setting, since childhood. Since before I had to watch you kill her – but that’s what brought it out… that’s what flipped the switch in my head. You have no conscious. Something is wrong with you, it’s in your genes. Now it’s in mine. I am now trying to use the boxing to control my urges. I pray that it works. For your sake.”

  “Hunter, I wasn’t a bad father to you.”

  “A good father doesn’t beat up a kid’s mother. A good father doesn’t grab her by her fuckin’ hair and drag her down the hall, yelling, crying and screaming. A good father doesn’t smack his woman around, curse her out ’cause she dropped his plate of food, and keep his son up all night arguing and beating on her then expect his son to love and respect him.” His father’s complexion grew ashen right before his eyes. “Yeah, I remember everything from back then. I’m like a damn elephant. It was constant. I saw shit… I saw shit that would make the strongest of men buckle at the knees. You put cigarettes out on ’er… made her lick the spilled food off the floor… You stomped her with your foot.

  “I know Mom wasn’t perfect, but she was a good mother. She loved me, tried to protect me by getting away from you. But you wouldn’t have it. You didn’t want to lose control over her. Yeah, you’re right, Dad. You did teach me everything I knew back then about boxing. It was the only thing you taught me that meant something; but the sad part is, you didn’t teach me to box because you loved me. You taught me to box so you could make me an extension of yourself. It was a selfish, self-serving act. You saw potential in me and wanted to cash in on it. You saw that video and saw money signs. That’s when the calls and letters increased. You got more desperate. You knew whatever I did in this life, illegal or not, I was going to make some serious cash. You wanted in on that. That’s what sucks the most. You don’t love anyone. You only love what they can do for you. When you can’t use or control them anymore, you throw them away. I’ve said my piece. We’re done.”

  Hunter stood slowly and zipped up his jacket.

  “So, you finally agreed to see me just to tell me again that you hated me, to ask me to stop calling and checking on you, to say you’re part-Indian and then leave?” The son of a bitch threw up his hands, clearly annoyed.

  “You’re sober now, and still the same person. Soulless. I had to see for myself. I’m not shit, either, but I would never fuck over someone I love… beat up on some woman, the lady that had your damn kid, and then try to sit here and re-write the narrative. I don’t hit women. I don’t fuck over kids. They’re innocent. That’s inexcusable. That’s a weak man’s game. No, I don’t forgive you. ’Cause you’re not sorry. All I see is a bitter old man who is still making excuses for what he did, for how he almost ruined my life. I’m not giving you that power over me anymore.” He turned to walk away.

  “Hunter!” He kept on walking. “HUNTER!” Handcuffs rattled behind him but he didn’t stop. His chest and head hurt, his mind a blur. Something about looking into the man’s eyes had put all his anger to rest. He’d settled the score. He’d needed that – to see a part of himself, to lay his gaze on the monster that lived within him.

  Nita had been so right when she’d told him about this that one time, while stroking his head which he’d rested across her breasts. He’d looked up at the ceiling, smoking a cigarette, feeling some kind of way because it had been his mother’s birthday…

  “We can’t choose our parents, Hunter, but we can choose our path,” she’d said. “Get off this road. You’re traveling shotgun with that man and he’s enjoying the ride. You still hate him, and I can’t tell you not to, but I can tell you that success, self-preservation, and love is the best revenge, baby. Go see that man, look him in the eye like you know you want to so you can put this to rest. I never knew your mother, can’t say too much about her except may she rest in peace, but I saw those photos of her that your grandmother showed me. She was beautiful. You definitely have her smile. Don’t forget that smile, Hunter, because she gave it to you, an everlasting gift. You’re just as much her as you are him. You are the Beauty and the Beast…’

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Little Pig, Little Pig, Let Me In…

  “I need you to promise me, Hunter… at least five solid rounds.” Standing directly under a huge gold chandelier in his mansion, Ricky held up five ringed fingers and wiggled them about. It was just the two of them, with the exception of one of the house staff occasionally walking past. “Five,” the man repeated with an uneasy chuckle that sounded much like the Count’s on Sesame Street.

  “We’ll see. I don’t rig fights, Ricky. I go with the flow, but I understand what you’re driving at. You don’t run this though.”

  “What do you mean I don’t run this? I’m payin’ you good money to have this fight.”

  Hunter sucked his teeth and looked about the place. The thumping, heavy beat of music drifted through from an adjacent room and the distinct aroma of expensive cigars and marijuana permeated the air.

  “I’m not a fucking whore. Just because you are paying me doesn’t mean I do whatever the fuck you say. I’m here to box.”

  “You’ve had two more fights in Michigan since you KO’d the Joker, and in both fights, you did the same shit – didn’t even make it to round two. These bastards come here to see a fight, Hunter, not just thirty seconds of flesh-pounding. Let ’em bust a nut at least.” The guy snickered.

  “Who’d you bet on, Ricky? Me or Zion?” Hunter let his duffle bag slip from his fingers onto the marble floor.

  “You, of course.”

  Hunter winked at him, knowing the guy was full of shit. Zion was a fucking monster, a crowd pleaser who had been coined the Holyfield 2.0. He was the kind of fighter that didn’t play around, and he hit harder than concret
e. He was fast, kept his eye on the prize. Of all the amateur boxers in Michigan, this was the guy Hunter was certain was going to make him work through every damn second of the match.

  Just then, the man in question marched inside the mansion, clad in silky blue and white shorts with a matching blue robe, the hood pulled up over his head.

  The shimmer of the man’s clothing contrasted with his dark skin. Zion had four other guys with him, one of whom was his trainer. The small crowd looked his way, mean-mugging, except for Zion who was glancing down at his phone. The man finally looked up and gave a friendly wave. Hunter did the same before the guy slipped from view. Zion had only lost one fight in his entire career, and that was a point of contention. Many believed he’d won it fair and square. There’d never been a re-match to put the rumors to rest.

  “He’s a nice guy, Hunter… I like Zion. It’ll be a shame if he kicks your ass, though,” Ricky said. He chuckled in that creepy way of his. Fucking snake.

  “Do we have our affairs in order, Ricky?” Hunter cracked his knuckles. “Because I didn’t come here just for the damn money. I came here to get what was promised to me.” Ricky’s smile tensed.

  “Of course we do! It’s all worked out. I’d never cheat ya. My brother has taken care of it. You just want a visit… just a visit.”

  “Yeah. After visiting hours. Cameras off. Five minutes. Alone. Your little brother, who ya call your son sometimes for whatever reason, promised me.”

  “I just call ’im that cause of our age gap. Plus, it keeps people outta our business too, ya know?”

  Hunter scratched his jaw, feeling his beard, as he peered in the distance, taking note of a Black middle-aged woman dressed in traditional maid attire. The sight rubbed him the wrong way. Perhaps because the woman kind of favored Nita’s mother.

  “Let me make something crystal clear. If he fucks up, it’ll be you, Ricky, that I’ll turn to.” The man visibly swallowed. “You’re the first point of contact. Then I’ll deal with him. I go down the chain of command, startin’ at the top.”

  “Come on, Hunter!” He laughed, slapping his back. “What do I look like double crossin’ an ex-con heavyweight boxer?! Besides, we’re friends now!”

  “I don’t have any friends.”

  “Sure you do!”

  “I have my woman and my little brother. That’s it. The best lesson my grandfather taught me was to keep my circle small. Less likelihood of getting fucked over that way. The only real friend I had besides my woman and my brother is dead.” Grabbing his bag, he headed to the restroom. It was showtime…

  Nita walked through a swarm of dense smoke, her body vibrating from the earsplitting music. Two butlers dressed in white had let her inside the mansion after she’d presented a special card. The place was absolutely massive. The two staff workers led her to an ivory room with an expensive looking rug, plentiful large plants, and gold framed paintings of animals, then pointed to a lone white chair with a red cushion for her to sit on. Moments later, one returned with an iced tea and a smile. She felt rather out of place, but didn’t forget her manners and thanked the man kindly. To one side, a set of doors were cracked just a hair, and she was able to peer inside the huge room after being given permission to watch from afar.

  How strange. This was nothing like she’d imagined.

  How odd that she couldn’t sit and watch the fight, but Hunter had already called and warned her about this. She’d suggested she stay at home, but he’d insisted he wanted her there so he could feel her energy close by, even if he couldn’t physically see her. The crowd consisted of a group of wealthy businessmen from Michigan, Ohio, and Indiana that got together for in-home strip shows, illegal dog fights, female oil wrestling matches, and now this: brutes boxing.

  It was a rich boy’s club, so she wasn’t permitted to sit amongst them, but she damn sure was going to make the best of the situation. Besides, she’d heard of Zion Daniels and though she wasn’t heavily into sports, especially not boxing, one would have to have been living under a rock to not know of the rising prizefighting star. A different song began to blast through the surround speakers and the crowd went wild. Zion entered the room. Setting her glass on the floor, she got to her feet and walked gingerly to the door. Her palms were sweaty and her heart pumped like humping rabbits against her ribs as she watched the man climb into the ring. Her breath hitched when Zion was introduced and given the usual introductory accolades.

  Hunter… please be careful tonight. Sure, she’d promised to be supportive, but deep down, she felt ill every time he had a fight. What if someone hit him the wrong way and he suffered a concussion? Honey… this is your man. He isn’t a baby. Just be glad he’s being paid to do it and not in some prison. If he wasn’t getting his aggressions out this way, then what would he be doing? I don’t even want to picture it. She shook the terrible thoughts away, and focused.

  Less than a minute later, the announcer called out her baby.

  “…Aaaaaand here is, Tyyyyyrant! The! Big! Bad! Wolfe!!!!”

  Green Jelly’s, ‘Three Little Pigs’ began to blast through the speakers. Hunter came jogging out, sporting his shimmery black shorts with the silver stripe and matching robe as the crowd got hyped. He climbed into the ring, discarded the robe, and began bouncing about and rolling his neck. Clasping her hands together, she said a million silent prayers.

  “You can do this, baby!” Just then, a couple of men approached the door from the inside. She skirted to the side, against the wall, out of view. One of them grabbed his phone.

  “This is Johnny… yeah… it’s starting now so make it quick!” the man answered as he and the other gentleman walked past and headed towards the front entrance of the home.

  Johnny? I wonder if that’s the Johnny from the casino… Hunter’s boss… Johnny… He told me he’d informed him of the fight, but he never said the guy would be here? That could be anyone… may not even be him. The guy does look how Hunter described, though.

  She shrugged, then continued to snoop through the slit in the door. She nearly jumped out of her skin when a loud bell rang, denoting the first round. The two boxers moved around one another, a good distance between them. That space closed and she tensed when Zion swung, but missed. The crowd began to yell and scream obscenities, cheers and groans. Within moments, Zion somehow got Hunter into a corner and she practically bit her tongue from the stress of seeing her man being pummeled.

  OH GOD… HUNTER! GET OUTTA THERE! GET OUT OF THAT CORNER.

  But he couldn’t seem to manage. The only thing that saved him was the bell signaling the end of the round.

  Things had begun rocky and her entire body was filled with uneasiness. Her bones ached with anxiety. She heard footsteps approaching and swiftly walked away once more, turning her back. The doors opened and closed once again, and then she filled with rage. No longer giving a shit, she shoved the doors open like she owned the place and walked in, keeping to the back of the room. She slinked along the wall, trying to blend in, but it was no use. She’d already attracted a few incredulous glances from men in expensive suits, most puffing on stogies. Their expressions registered both confusion and alarm.

  She cocked her head to the side and flipped her middle finger at one particular man who kept ogling her, sneering, as if she were the Devil incarnate. She looked back at the ring and fought tears as she witnessed blood pooling from Hunter’s mouth. Several men surrounded Hunter, giving him pointers and pep talks, possibly even threatening him as they cleaned him and gave him sips of water. His trainer jammed his mouthpiece back into his mouth, but Hunter removed it to spit out copious blood, then rammed it back in.

  Shit! Hunter! Baby…

  The bell rang once again, and Hunter was surprisingly fast at getting back on his feet. No leaning, no lethargy. Just a man smeared in his own life essence, green eyes on fire, muscular arms tense as he got into a fighting stance. In a flash, he and Zion became entangled like spiderwebs, dark brown and slick beige limbs covered in tattoos ro
lled about in a ball, holding on for dear life. The referee quickly broke it up. The men began to bounce about one another. Hunter suddenly struck, getting Zion square in the eye.

  YES!

  She clenched her fists and cheered.

  The crowd leapt up, some cheering, some booing. It was a testosterone-driven frenzy. Zion wasted no time shooting back, getting Hunter in the upper chest with a combination of punches. The two went at one another as if it were a fight to the death, beating each other like slabs of raw meat. Arms flying, sweat and blood spraying. Nita leaned against the wall, trying to catch her breath. Suddenly, Hunter was hit on the side, right above his hip, and he doubled over in pain. She could almost feel it… his pain became hers. Agony owned agony. He fell to the mat in a hard thud and the referee waited for a second, then stood over him and began to count.

  Without thinking, she raced up a narrow aisle, her legs not nearly moving fast enough for her liking. She flew down a pathway to the ring, feeling hundreds of eyes on her, and shouted until her throat burned.

  “GET UP! GET UP! GET UP! Hunter! I know you hear me. This is your dream! I know you’ve got it in you! GET UP!”

  Suddenly, he turned his head and found her. Their eyes locked and he gave a subtle smile as blood-tinged saliva dripped from his mouth, pooling onto the mat. He winced, stroking the sore spot with his gloved hand, and his eyes lit up. In that moment, she fell in love with him all over again and saw how he felt the same. Pressing the gloves on the mat, he pushed himself up with an agonized groan, and got to his feet right before the referee completed his countdown. The crowd became electric. The referee looked him closely in the eyes, checking his state of alertness. The man nodded and spoke to him. Hunter replied in some fashion, and the referee motioned for him to continue to fight. The mass went ballistic.