by J. Kowallis
They reached the bottom floor and opened the doors to enter the city. A blast of noise knocked them backward. Clearly, word of Benitez’s fighter had gotten around. It was exactly how Caspar had wanted it. There would be more people tonight than there had been . . . since Benitez fought over fifteen years ago. He’d easily rake in ten thousand pesos all for himself—not counting the few thousand the fighter would take. These people were drunken fools. Any scrap of money they came across was thrown to him as if they thought they were all wealthy élite.
Dirt floated around in the air and the explosions of yells and horns echoed through the city. Caspar and his men took a position near the side of the ring and watched little Pedro grab the communicator and step into the center with his sloppy madre beater and torn khakis.
“HOLAAAAA . . . DAMAS Y CABALLEROS.” He laughed over the com with a rough cackle. “WE HAVE A TREAT FOR YOU TONIGHT! IN FACT, NOT JUST A TREAT, BUT A BOUNTIFUL DESSERT PLATERRRR. WE HAVE FOR YOUR BETTING PLEASURE, THE CHAMPION FROM HONDURAS, THE GIANT, THE KONG AMONG MEN. YACOOOOOOOOOOOO!” He howled into the com and the crowd cheered and screeched with both excitement and hate.
Caspar’s crooked smile played on his face. He watched Yaco push the rope down and step over it. Yaco’s head sat on the top of his shoulders like a pumpkin on a horse saddle. His floppy fat-sagging pectorals hung down and rested on his protruding stomach. Caspar never saw the fight that caused it, but a long diagonal scar ran across Yaco’s left eye and into his hair.
“AND LAST, BUT SURELY NOT THE LEAST OF THESE, MY BRETHEREN.” He laughed again, “THE STUDENT OF THE MASTER, THE SON OF THE LOS ÁNGELES FIGHTING CHAMPION, ESTEVAN “THE GOD”… RANSLEY BENITEZ!”
Whatever sense of confidence Caspar had before the fight dropped from his soul. A woman, perhaps shy of twenty-five with boyish hair stepped into the ring, and pulled off the zipped-up hooded sweatshirt she wore. Wearing a dirty tank and utility pants, she popped her neck and threw a few practice hits in the air. Caspar started to shake his head, waving his arms to get Pedro to stop the fight. Estevan must have been out of his mind. Caspar took back everything he’d said to Faron about Estevan—it wasn’t guilt that tore the old man away from the ring all those years ago, it was insanity.
“OOOOOOO, WHAT’S THIS? A WOMAN?!”
The crowd split into raucous laughter, and cans and bottles flew from the bleachers into the ring at the girl. She ducked and kicked them away. A flash of fury ran through Caspar. He pushed his way around the ring, searching for Estevan and signaling Pedro to stop the fight. Finally, Pedro raised his arms in defense, laughing all the while looking at the hard body of the woman up and down. A man on the sidelines reached for her and she immediately twisted his arm around, breaking his wrist.
“Benitez!” Caspar yelled. Estevan Benitez, unflinching, turned his head and looked down on him. Even though the legend was twice his size, Caspar still cursed at him, jabbing his pointer finger into Estevan’s shoulder. “Listen, hombre. I don’t know if you’re stupid or lost your freaking mind, but there’s no women in the Argolla. You got that? You wanna get a chick to fight, take her to The Public hair salon! This is a men’s only fighting ring. No hoo-has, no boobies. All right?”
Estevan’s nostrils flared with each word he spoke. His voice noticeably harsher and more grated than before. “She’s in the ring, Caspar. What are you going to do? Give everyone their money back? Miss out on all those pesos?”
He’d lose everything. No matter what he did. If he canceled the fight and put another fighter in, the crowd wouldn’t put up with that. If the fight moved forward . . . and then he paused . . . if the girl fought, she’d lose. Everyone was betting on her. Anything lost would go directly to himself. The little throb in his neck started to dissipate and he looked at Estevan coolly, his words frosted with disgust and greed.
“Fine. She fights. It’ll be fun to watch a woman pounded into a bloody mess. Especially since she’s your deserting ass’s daughter. It’ll be a shame, though. I would have liked my own chance to, uh . . .” Caspar slithered his eyes over to Ransley in the ring while she leaned over the rope cursing at the people yelling obscenities at her and licked his lips, “take her down.”
Estevan’s hand lashed out, gripping Caspar’s vest and pulling him forward. The hard clicks of Faron and Adelmo’s handguns snapped at Caspar’s sides, raising the barrels to the old fighter.
“I dare you,” Caspar sneered, his face only inches away from, what he knew, would have been death under any other circumstance.
Estevan’s eyes darted between the two barrels and loosened his grip on Caspar’s clothing.
“Like I said . . .” Caspar brushed himself off and pulled out his own gun, waving it in front of Estevan’s knotted and scarred face. “Coward.”
With a wave of his hand to signal Pedro, Caspar turned on his heel. The crowd went insane. Pedro called into the com again, his face split into a grin. “AND THE FIGHT IS ON! FOR THE FIRST TIME IN LOS ÁNGELES HISTORY, A WOMAN IS FIGHTING IN THE ARGOLLA!”
Caspar motioned Pedro toward him and the stumpy man waddled toward him.
“Remind everyone,” he whispered, “all bets are final.”
Pedro nodded his toad-like head and waddled back, yelling into the crowd, “DON’T FORGET, ALL BETS ARE FINAL!”
The crowd yelled in protest, but Caspar stood smiling, nodding his head in beat with the throbbing music and the crowd continued to voice their opinions all around. There was a noticeable percentage of the people who were disgusted with a female chica in the ring and the possibility of losing their money. The intensity in the stands coming from their excitement was undisputable. A few small tiffs happened in the stands as the fans argued with one another. It was only a few punches here and there; it did nothing but fuel the energy . . . and their desire to make more bets and get themselves even more inebriated.
“FIGHTERS!”
Fat Yaco and the little lady Benitez walked to the center of the ring. Her puny head could have easily been swallowed by her opponent’s giant man breasts. She stared at them, and even Caspar could see the glint of sweat drip down Yaco’s hairy chest and between his nipples.
Without a shake of hands or even a notice, both fighters backed up and Pedro yelled into the amplifier again. “THE FIGHT STARTS WITH THE RING OF THE BELL!” He scampered out from under the rope, sliding on the ground and smearing dirt up his right side. Luckily for Pedro, he already looked disgusting.
Caspar reached to the rope dangling from the middle of the bell with his long white fingers and paused for effect. He loved the theatricality of it. So did the fans. With a single pull of the rope, the bell rang.
Like a bull set free from a gate, Yaco barreled toward the girl. The chica moved like lightening, turned, and climbed up the corner pole holding the ropes to push herself up. She did a backflip off Yaco’s shoulders, using him like a vault. Her feet hit the ground behind him. Then, her small fists blasted into his kidneys like hammers.
Time stopped, and the entire arena went silent—the only time he’d ever heard it that way. Caspar’s eyes landed on Estevan who in turn threw him a glaring smirk. He gazed around the arena in a shocked daze. People’s jaws drunkenly dropped and they stumbled around, trying to get a better look to see if what they’d seen was true.
Yaco struggled to get to his feet again, groaning under the weight of his own body, and whipped around to the chica. His eyes were wild and furious. He, and especially Caspar, hadn’t expected her to move like that. Yaco’s breathing intensified. A guttural roar, intensified by the silence of the Argolla, came from his lungs before he lumbered toward her.
Benitez’s daughter ducked under Yaco’s arms, threw her leg out and kicked his knee to the side. With the silence in the arena, Caspar was sure even the drunkards in the tops of the stands could hear the crunching grind of Yaco’s bones.
Watching the fight, Caspar couldn’t decide which he preferred: Yaco’s loss, or Benitez’s. The chica’s loss would mean a pile of m
oney for the one fight, more than Caspar had ever expected. But her win would guarantee future wins and bets, over and over. Especially if she always moved and threw that fast.
Caspar noticed Yaco couldn’t possibly match the chica’s speed, and the fighter slowly moved to her, throwing out his arm. She tried to block it, but cornered herself against the ropes. She took her eyes off Yaco for a moment. With her balance off, and her eyes away, Yaco swung again. She couldn’t get her arms up to block that time and the fist landed on the side of her head. Benitez fell to the side, grasping for the rope, disoriented.
The crowd burst out in screams again. Many were thrilled with her fall and some angrily urged her to stand up—worried they’d lose their money.
Yaco leaned forward, grabbed her head with both of his hands, and knocked it against his knee, thrusting his leg forward. Caspar could see the split skin around her jaw line spread open and blood running freely down her neck. He couldn’t help but clap in his pleasure of seeing people making more bets. A smile spread across his face.
The chica fell down on the rope again, three feet from where Caspar stood. The people around her screamed in her face, their spit landing on her. Her head slowly rose to look at them. There was a deep look of concentration on her face. What was she doing?
Caspar squinted and focused on her. Why wasn’t she moving yet?
Then he saw it. She was watching the crowd’s reaction. Waiting for them to look at Yaco coming up behind her. The crowd reacted and she put all her weight on the rope, kicking with both legs behind her. Both feet jammed right into Yaco’s chest, and he leaned forward, struggling to catch his breath. Just like she had at the start, she moved with a bursting speed. Her foot struck him in the chest a second time and then she grounded her feet. Her fist, with a raised middle knuckle, landed in Yaco’s eye socket. Her second arm, elbow raised, beat into the side of his head, sending him wheeling to the side.
Yaco braced himself on the ropes and before he could stand back up, the chica placed her foot on the thick rope, grabbed his arm and screeched like a hawk, pulling it back and upwards, cranking it ‘til it popped out of his shoulder. Before she could pull back again, Yaco’s other fist swung around and belted her across the face. She lost her footing and stumbled to the ground.
Without a flinch, Yaco reset his shoulder and lunged to seize Benitez by the shirt.
This was it. Caspar could feel it. The pathetic chica was already on the ground. All Yaco would have to do was snap her head into the ground with one good solid thrust and she’d be gone. Ten thousand pesos would be his. Caspar thought of all the things he could do with ten thousand pesos. The drugs, the food, maybe buy a few accessories for his casa, and some delectable female company. Every once in a while, the Nomads came through with junk gathered across the continent, and with any luck he’d be able to afford a working television and vintage DVD player.
Yaco grabbed hold of the perra’s shirt and began to lift her skinny body toward him. She kicked off the ground and shoved her full body weight, leading with a sharp shoulder into Yaco’s belly. He stumbled backwards and she whipped her arm around, knocking him across the head again. He grabbed her other arm and wrapped it behind her back, pulling her in close.
His tongue slithered out, lapping up the side of her face. Even Caspar frowned in mock disgust and chuckled. Female Benitez growled with hatred, and it made Caspar smile even wider.
Damn, this was good stuff.
Caspar didn’t even see how she’d done it, but the next thing he knew, the chica was free of Yaco’s grasp, her legs had flown around, locking Yaco’s head in a vice between her ankles and throwing him to the ground. Her leg rose in the air and she smashed her heel into his throat. A sputtering gurgle of air came from his throat and he fumbled, trying to stand up.
Yaco reached out, straining to grab the rope. He pulled his weight forward, failing to get to his feet. That was when it ended. Benitez rushed up behind him, grabbed his rough hair and slammed his head against the corner pole. Once. Twice. Three times. Four.
The large body thumped to the ground, sending up a small cloud of dust.
―RANSLEY―
I’ve never been in a place where I can’t hear my own thoughts. Even the rattling of my chest is only a vacant sensation. The calls, the screams—even the sounds of the clinking bottles the crowd uses for noisemakers attacks me, deafens my ears, and I can’t focus on what’s going on. A dribble of blood travels over my chin and I spit it out. I run my wrist across my mouth and then on my pants.
Exhaustion ripples through me, but I’m used to it. I jump up and down to shake it off. My whole body trembles. My head pounds, my leg bones pierce my muscles, and my hands are swollen. I shouldn’t have let him get a hold of me. That was stupid.
The announcer climbs under the rope, speaking loudly, but it’s a distant echo. He grabs my wrist, lifting my arm into the air and transfers a handful of money into my other hand.
I swallow more blood, looking down at the man on the ground. Dark red goo, black, pools around his head. The corner of the support pole where I beat his head on is completely saturated in his blood. The longer I look at him, the more my energy drops. My muscles are worn. I almost didn’t make it. Twice, he had me. If I’d been one hundred percent ready, I would have killed him in half the time.
I turn and walk into the corner. I hand off the money to Estevan and turn away, massaging my sore wrist. I focus my energy on my hand and begin to heat up my swollen body parts. Just enough to get the pain to recede a little. My knuckles, my jaw, my knees.
Crushing outbursts from the crowd rupture my damaged eardrums again and I look around. I don't know what just happened. What? Did someone say something?
I jerk my head around again to see men dragging Yaco’s body out of the ring, and a sharp pain travels down my neck. They pull him across the dirt, blood smearing like paint on a roughened canvas. My eyes land on Estevan. His face is twisted in fear. It’s a look I rarely see. He isn’t looking at me. His eyes fixate across the Argolla at my new opponent.
I turn to look at the other corner of the ring. It’s him. Roydon. He’s had time to partially heal from his wounds. I’ve had exactly sixty seconds—not nearly enough to fight a fresh opponent with his strength. Winning won’t be easy, but it won’t be impossible.
His shoulder-length hair is pulled off his neck like before. He lifts the bottom of his shirt, pulling it over his head. Scars paint every inch of his skin. And a tattoo, one I hadn’t paid attention to before, snakes up the center of his spine. It’s a giant scorpion; the tail runs down most of his back, the pincers stretched across his shoulder blades. He’s much bigger than I originally thought. Being closer to him now, I realize how unmatched I am in size. Roydon must be six four—and one-ninety in solid muscle.
It’s his eyes I can’t look away from. Something I hadn’t . . . hadn’t seen—a crystal-like blue color. I can’t quite place them, but I swear I’ve seen them before.
I have little time to contemplate what I see. I look back at Estevan and he’s nodding to me, telling me I can do it. I wonder how much he actually believes it. It was stupid of me to get hit so many times, dammit. I could have taken Yaco without receiving a single hit. Now I’m dizzy, and they’re pitting me up against the prize fighter from the night before. He’d gone seven rounds before the fighters ran out and the morning ended.
I can do this. Estevan didn’t notice the things I’d seen Roydon do. This guy has a flaw. He cares about his opponent. At least to a point. It’s the one thing making him different—weaker—than the others. I can use that to my advantage and beat him. Kill him.
The only words I hear before the bell rings are, “YOU CAN DO IT!” My head cranks back to Estevan and he’s pulling his cupped hands away from his mouth. He claps three times and then rests his hands on his hips, nervously.
Immediately I focus my attention back on the ring. Roydon hasn’t moved an inch. All he does is look at me. He’s waiting for me to make the
first move. I loosen up my arms, winding them around. He’s the only one here. The only one to pay attention to. The crowd doesn’t exist. Only me. Only my strength.
“FIGHTERS! TO THE CENTER!”
Both Roydon and I walk toward the announcer in the center, leaving our own corners. My opponent’s eyes are cold and detached. You have to be like that in this world. You can’t care—or think about what you’re doing. You can’t think about the lives you take, because if you do . . . yours will end in one snap of de Dios fingers.
“You know the rules,” the announcer says away from the amplifier, “NO WEAPONS, NO RULES. TAKE YOUR CORNERS.”
I turn my back on Roydon and walk away. When I reach the blood-soaked corner again, I look back. He’s still standing there in the center. His head shakes; his eyes simply stare at me. What is he thinking? I can’t read him. One step back, then another, and he backs away from me, keeping his dead eyes glued.
“BEGIN WHEN THE BELL RINGS!” Pedro pulls out of the ring again.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, I hear a high-pitched ding. It’s lost in the chaos around me, but I recognize it. I pull from somewhere deep inside, and bolt for him.
His arms move up to block me.
One, two, one, two, one, two. Each one, each fist. Blocked. I swing my leg into his back. He twists to grab my foot and pushes it away. His fist flies. I raise my arm, followed by jutting my other fist into his gut. The first to land on its target.
For only a moment, he bellows a cough, and then the palms of his hands smash against the sides of my head. My ears ring and my vision blurs.
