by Joe Shine
Having polished off two cans of Dr Pepper and a whole bag of Doritos, I snoozed as the white noise from the airplane engines and total darkness inside the plane got the better of me.
Chapter 14
Eighteen Months-ish Later ...
Same Recipe,
Just New Packaging
“You sure you want to mess up that pretty face?” Marko asked me. He had a heavy Russian accent, so it sounded more like: “Yoo-shore vant meez-up dat-prit-fiss?”
Marko was leaning casually against the metal door that led to the fighting pit, nonchalantly picking dirt out from under his fingernails. Muffled cheers reverberated from the “arena” on the other side. There were a lot of places now that I couldn’t go without being recognized; thankfully an illegal, underground street fighting pit in London was not one of them. I knew what I was doing was risky, but I couldn’t help it. My FATE training had made violence a part of me. I had an itch to scratch and this was the only way to scratch it, so every month or so, I’d sneak out and find a fight. It helped me stay sane.
“You think this guy’s pretty?” I joked, nodding at the fighter next to me.
My opponent had a shaved head. He was obscenely thick with muscles and was inked all over. He basically looked like he had been cloned in the cliché B-movie bad-guy-enforcer lab. He spoke no English and only grinned at me through a grill of solid gold teeth.
“You have no idea what I’m saying, do you?” I said to the man, making sure to smile and nod as I asked. The man nodded back and smiled wider in return, not understanding a word. “You are a giant, giant man by the way,” I continued. “I mean, good God, did you see a Punisher comic and be like, that . . . that right there. I’m going to become that.”
“Pyun-eeesh-er,” the man repeated, grinning sadistically as he latched on to the one word he understood.
It always amazed me how far-reaching American pop culture was. I guess I was part of the problem, too, though, huh?
“You’re funny, American. I like you,” Marko responded with a chuckle. He eyed me. “You look familiar. What’s your name again?”
Okay, maybe even here I had to worry about being recognized. One less fortress of solitude. The world sure shrinks when you’re famous.
“Hutch.” I used my old name whenever I did stuff like this. It felt right. “I’ve got one of those faces. Happens all the time.”
There was an especially loud cheer, followed by a thump-thump on the door. Marko banged back twice in response.
“Well, Hutch, you ready?” Marko asked me, and then repeated the question to the other man in what sounded like broken Slavic.
It was time to focus. In a well-practiced motion I pulled my shaggy hair into a ponytail. I had the advantage of youth and stamina, but the human hulk had experience and size. I was no slouch, but compared to the monster next to me, I looked like a skinny child, and there were no rules in these types of fights. Blood, guts, and glory were all one could hope for in the world of underground fighting. I took my shirt off and tossed it to the side. I liked that shirt and didn’t want it ruined.
Marko took his weight off the door. It slowly began to open. Warmth, dust, and the smell of sweat and dry booze wafted into the room. I caught a glimpse of my not-too-distant future: a packed house, warehouse lighting, and a small circular fighting pit. I cracked the bones in my neck and started to loosen up my arms.
A crowd rushed past us—first, two bouncers dragging an unconscious, beaten, and bloody fighter; then a doctor (or what could pass as one in this place) babbling on about spine stabilization. The last one into the waiting room was the victor. He was still hamming it up for the crowd. He paused at the door and gave the people one last fist pump, which was greeted with a wild response. As he passed me, he gave me a smile and wink through one of his disgustingly swollen black eyes. He could walk, though. His opponent, not so much.
“Okay, let’s go!” Marko slammed his fists into our shoulders in an attempt to rile us up. All it did was annoy me.
Before going out I glanced over my shoulder. The doctor was tending to the unconscious man and the pack of fighters going on after me were doing their best not to watch him, not to let even an ounce of fear or doubt enter their heads. I liked a bit of fear; it kept you honest.
When I took my first steps out into the warehouse, the cheering hit a deafening level. It was not on my account. The size of my opponent had them in a near frenzy. Heat, sweat, and violence—yes, you can smell violence—filled my nose and lungs. It triggered something primal inside me, as it would for anyone. No doubt my opponent felt the same.
This felt right. Like home.
The bell rang and the monster sprang off the wall and came charging right at me. He threw a heavy, looping punch at my head. Casual as you like, I ducked under the swing and countered with a left punch to his liver—followed by a vicious overhand right that connected flush with his jaw. The combo sent him crashing to the floor in a heap. Facedown and totally still, he was out good and cold.
The room fell silent, everyone in shock at what had happened. Half the eyes in the place were on me, the other half on the unconscious mountain in the middle of the ring. I scanned the crowd and then gave them a smirk as I shrugged. The cheers erupted like a bursting volcano.
From the corner of my eye I saw his friends shaking their heads in disbelief. The crowd by the betting board quickly became mobbish, as some felt a fix had been in, and demanded their money back. Before it got out of hand, or they switched their focus on me, I hopped over the wooden barrier of the pit and headed for the locker room. Some fans slapped me on the shoulders and back as I left, while others shoved, spat, and threw beer at me, obviously pissed off about the outcome. A few scuffles broke out around me as those who’d felt cheated fought with those who’d either won money or were simply in awe at what I’d done to my much larger and heavily favored opponent.
Things were really beginning to get out of hand when I reached the metal door that led to the safety of the back room. I quickly went through it, walked to the far bench where I’d left my stuff, and checked my phone. A few missed calls from our manager and some texts, too. I checked the time. 7:09 p.m.
“Crap,” I muttered to myself. I was cutting it close.
A hand slapped down on my shoulder and I nearly reacted in a very violent way. Lucky for Marko, I didn’t.
“That was impressive, friend!” Marko raved. He shoved a wad of bills into my hand. “Your winnings. When will you be back?”
“Uh, I don’t know. Next time I need money, I guess,” I lied.
“Well, I hope good fortune does not shine on you, then,” he joked.
“I bet. See ya.”
I threw on my hoodie, pulled on my baggy sweatpants, and went outside. The nighttime cold hit me like a sledgehammer and I regretted my outfit once again. A simple sweat suit was not appropriate attire for a proper London winter. It was quiet out here though, the sounds from within the warehouse practically nonexistent. You could almost call it peaceful.
To my right I heard a train whistle and was about to start jogging toward it when movement up against the wall on my left caught my eye. A homeless man sat up and coughed. It was a painful cough. An old, hopeless cough. Our eyes met.
“Little cold out here,” I said to him.
“Just a bit o’ winter is all,” he said. “Seen worse in my life.”
I took the wad of cash Marko had given me, a couple thousand pounds if I had to guess, and handed them to the man. He looked shell-shocked.
“Promise me you’ll get that cough looked at, okay?” I said as I started to jog away from him.
“God bless you, lad. God bless you!” he cried out after me.
The road spat me out into a main industrial loading area. Another train horn blared not too far away. I could make it if I sprinted. I crossed the open space and shot down an alley toward
the sound of the horn. The alley dead-ended at a ten-foot-high chain-link fence, but on the other side was a mass of train tracks, with a metro line slowly pulling away from Neasden Station. I hit the fence at a full sprint and scaled up the side and over the top with ease. My feet kept moving the moment I landed on the ground on the other side.
It would be close. The train was creeping away from the station, but it was picking up steam fast. Had giving my money to that guy cost me my ride? Only time would tell. I held nothing back now as I tore down the tracks toward the back of the train. A service ladder sat bolted to the side of the last car and was my only option for getting on. I reached out for the ladder, but my hand closed on nothing but air as the train surged ahead. My lungs were aching, and my legs were burning. I could dance for hours now, but my overall physical fitness had gotten a little slack. I gritted my teeth and with everything I had left hurled myself at the ladder. My fingers caught and curled around the cool metal rung of the ladder. Once I reached the top of the car, I checked my phone again. Another text from our manager.
Where are you?!?!?!?!?!?!?
Around. Relax.
After sound check we had a few hours until showtime to do what we wanted. Some lay around and relaxed, while I snuck away to find a fight. To each their own. I texted: I’ve got something special planned. That was a lie, of course. I didn’t. Unless showing up late was the “something special.” Either way, it would buy me time and keep him from looking for me.
Do I need to worry? he asked.
Nope. Start the show as planned. I got this. You’ll love it.
The wind up here was almost unbearable. The cold air cut right through my sweats. Luckily, the trip was only one stop, and a short one at that. Now, famous or not, hitching a ride on the top of a London metro is both illegal and hard to explain when you’re me, so when the train reached the station platform, I waited for everyone to get off and the platform to empty out before jumping off.
I got my fair share of sideways glances from the crowd outside the stadium. I now realized I hadn’t really thought this part out too well. I ducked my head deep inside my hoodie and pulled my hair over my face.
Loud music blared from the arena, distant and echoing. The preshow. A gaggle of young, frantic girls in near hysterics were shoving their way past the others so as not to miss anything. I saw my own face on one of their shirts. I tried not to do a double take. Even now, it was still a very odd sensation.
I allowed myself to be carried toward the main front gate with the others, but I didn’t follow them inside. About fifty yards away from the main entrance, I started heading perpendicular to the flowing crowd until I reached the edge of them. Once there, I snuck away and headed toward the back entrance at a full gallop again.
I hurdled the metal barricade surrounding the bevy of fancy tour buses and equipment rigs, sped past a throng of men in all-black roadie attire, and moved so fast the guard barely had time to yell, “Hey!” as I flew past him and into the belly of the stadium. I kept going down a long hallway until it opened up into the arena. A huge black curtain cut the stadium in half, keeping the crowd and stage on one side and the workers, crew, and me on the other. Not stopping, I snaked my way through the mass of people scurrying around with clipboards, costumes, instruments—you name it. Everyone was too busy with their own work, too preoccupied with their own responsibilities to give me a second look.
“Gooooooooood evening, London!” boomed the announcer’s voice through the deafening sound system.
“Crap,” I said to myself and scanned the area for . . . “Bingo.”
I jogged over to a rack of clothes. I stripped down and threw on some weathered jeans and a torn, sleeveless pearl-snap shirt, before slipping on a pair of comfy, gray New Balances. I balled up my other clothes and tucked them into a space behind the shoe rack.
“Are you ready?!?” the announcer yelled. It was met with a roar from the sold-out crowd.
On the table next to the clothes were microphones. I hurriedly grabbed one.
“I said, are you ready?!?!”
The response from the crowd this time was so loud and shrill it hurt. I began to run again, making my way toward the curtain and the stage.
“London, England. We give you . . . Interrrrrrrrrrrnational!”
The lights went out, swallowing the arena in darkness. A deep, rhythmic bass began to boom. The timing, the schedule was so well rehearsed that I knew I’d never reach my spot in time without a bit of improvisation. I had an idea and it would definitely be “something special,” as I’d promised. I’d piss some people off, but I had to do it. Behind the black curtain, I clawed and scrambled up the intricate sets all lined up and in order for their use in the show. When I reached the top of an elaborate, steampunk-style tower, I leapt off of it.
I burst through the black curtain at the same time the stadium lights came on and the show started. The intro of our hit, “The Start,” blared to life as I soared through a waterfall of sparks and past the explosive pyrotechnics that opened the show. I landed on one knee in the middle of the stage right on my spot. The four other members of the boy band were already in their places and shot me some quizzical looks. All I could think of doing in response was grin mischievously and wink at them.
I slid right into the choreography along with them without missing a step.
“I wanna go back-back-back, back, back to the start,
The night you stole-stole-stole, stole, stole my heart.
My stomach turned-turned-turned, turned, turned to knots,
You can’t controooooooooooooooOOOOOOOl what the heaaaAArt wants . . .”
Chapter 15
International!
“Bobby, you are doing it again,” Ryo said from his bunk.
We were on the tour bus. My bunk was right across from his. His dark eyes were boring into mine, so I knew exactly what he meant.
“Sorry,” I blurted out. I quickly looked back at my tablet.
Dang it. I’d gotten a lot better about staring at him since I’d first met him, but I still got caught from time to time. What? I can’t help it. I’m chemically programmed to want to stare. You know when you’re out with friends and someone says, “Don’t look?” What do you do? You look. We all do. That’s sorta like what it was like—but all the time. I knew he was there and my mind was telling me not to look, but for some reason I had to do it anyway. But like I said, I’ve gotten a lot better. At first it was borderline creepy how long I would look at him. It was really awkward a couple of times. Really . . . awkward. Moving on. I pretended to be totally focused on my tablet. I was practicing disarming bombs. The FATE techs designed me an app in case anyone ever planted a bomb on our bus or plane.
There was an eruption of laughter from the front. My other bandmates were playing a yet-to-be-released video game.
“We are housed with animals,” Ryo said with a yawn.
I snuck a quick glance. He had groggy written all over his face.
“You should have your Yakuza friends put a hit on them,” I joked.
Before you get up in arms at my total non-PC, take a breath. This dude is like my brother now, beyond, but when we first met, he asked in total seriousness if I’d ridden a horse to school every day. Because, you know, that’s what all Texans do. I met his fire with fire and immediately made a Yakuza joke. He dropped the horse bit, but I kept going. He hates it.
“Humorous as always.” He smirked. English was one of four languages he knew, and he spoke it like a robot: perfect wording, perfect enunciation, zero emotion.
I nodded and then hovered my finger over two wires on the bomb app. The fate of Paris hung in the balance. I chose to cut the green wire. Boom.
“Dang it,” I muttered to myself, this time out loud. I was barely at a 10 percent disarmament rate. If a city ever actually hung in the balance and I was tasked with disarming the bomb, the ci
ty would be toast. Pulling a random person from the street and letting them try to disarm it using dumb luck gave them better odds than sending me in.
“Is everything all right with you?” Ryo asked me genuinely as he swung his legs over the side of his bunk.
I’d tried my best to keep my distance from him at first, you know, to respect the rules of the game, but I couldn’t do it. It was impossible without looking like a jerk. I tried to play it like these boys were my new family, and Ryo was my favorite little brother. Hey, don’t judge. Blake said it was cool, remember?
“Yeah, just tired.” It was true. I’d been tired since Leslie busted me out of the clink.
“We have a three-day break soon. Do you have plans?”
I shook my head. “Probably just tool around the city like always.”
I never made plans during any of our breaks. How could I? I went where Ryo went. The staring was bad enough; I had no clue how I’d explain dead-on stalking. So my go-to excuse was that as a poor kid from Texas, every city we were in was new and exciting to me. I’d yet to be called out on it.
“You are always welcome at my home,” Ryo offered for the umpteenth time.
He was from a perfect family. His father was a professor and his mother ran some kind of online business. Every break we got, whether it was two days or two weeks, he always went home and came back fully refreshed and ready to go. I never took him up on the offer, though. I didn’t know why, but for some reason vacationing with the guy felt one step too far. Like somehow that would be over the line.
“Yeah, maybe,” I said as always but meant no.
Ryo slid off the bunk and asked, “Would you care for a drink or snack?”
