He plodded on stage like he was heading to a court hearing. Behind him, punching the air and whooping like a jackass, came Jules.
“And in this corner,” announced the ref, “we have Julius Tiberius Alexander. 155lbs, 1-0 undefeated and younger brother of the MMA legend Hannibal ‘Baller’ Alexander himself!”
The crowd went wild, and spotlights blinded Hannibal again. He raised his arm to cover his eyes, and ignored the crowd as they started baying ‘Baller! Baller! Baller!”
They then started screaming in support of Jules, as Hannibal’s brother swaggered into the cage punching the air and dancing lightly on his feet.
Mendoza got a less enthusiastic welcome – and it was clear from the crowd who the favorite was. Hannibal actually caught himself smiling with pride as he saw the assembled throng calling out his brother’s name.
But something still didn’t sit right with him – and it just got worse when the air horn blew and the fight began.
Jules and Mendoza circled each other warily, and right from the get-go it was clear Jules was the aggressor. He bobbed and weaved, and held his dukes up ready for action.
Mendoza swayed from side to side, looking almost bored.
After a brief hesitation, Jules came in swinging – and this was when Hannibal saw how clumsy and amateurish his brother was.
He threw his gangly arms wide. He didn’t power through them with his bodyweight. When Jules’ fists did impact with the elbows that Mendoza threw up, the blows were light and easily deflected.
By rights, Mendoza should have pummeled him.
But he didn’t, and that just added to Hannibal’s suspicions.
The big MMA fighter turned to Red, who was slurping on another can of Miller Lite.
“Yo,” Hannibal demanded. “What’s the deal?” He jerked his thumb towards the octagon. “Is this staged, or what?”
Red raised his arms in a mockery of innocence.
“C’mon, pal,” he grinned. “You saw those last two fights? Ain’t nuttin’ staged here. This is the real deal.”
But then, in the cage, Jules managed to take down Mendoza with what must have been the clumsiest body lock in the history of mixed martial arts – and then proceeded to sprawl on the slender Mexican fighter like he was a bass out of water.
“Dayum,” Hannibal winced, watching as the two men writhed on the blood-flecked canvas.
At least in the first fight, the neck-bearded kid had bothered to study some martial arts. He at least struggled his way through some real Brazilian jujitsu moves.
But Jules? He was going at Mendoza like this was a playground brawl – and the only thing more astonishing than Jules’ lack of technique was how Mendoza eventually let himself get locked in a rear naked choke and tapped out.
Hannibal blinked. It even took the assembled crowd a few seconds to realize that the fight was over.
“That was it?” Kristen asked.
But apparently it was. The ref came in, and hoisted up Jules’ hand. Hannibal’s brother punched the air as he was announced the winner.
“See,” Red grinned, leading over and patting Hannibal’s arm. “Ain’t nothing fixed about this. If there was, d’you think your lil’ brother would be acting like that?”
And it was true. There was a ton of stuff about the fight Hannibal had to question – but the way his brother was leaping up and down on stage was clearly genuine.
Rightly or wrongly, he’d won the fight – and was obviously ecstatic about it.
Red slurped his beer.
“You can look down your nose at me all you want, Baller,” he sneered, “but I do something your fancy MMA league can’t do. I help dreams come true for kids like that.” He jerked his head towards the cage. “You remember the first time you won a fight?”
And Hannibal did. It was years ago now, and in a venue not that much more salubrious than this one.
Obviously, Hannibal had been studying martial arts for years, and had won sparring and rolling competitions dozens of times.
But the first time he won an MMA fight? In front of a crowd?
It was better than sex.
“I don’t expect you to appreciate what I do,” Red said sternly, “but you owe it to your brother to congratulate him.” His eyes flashed. “Besides, I’m payin’ him his purse money after this fight. You wanna be there for that, right?”
Hannibal’s eyes bulged.
Not only at Jules won the fight – he’d won money, as well. Presumably making back more than the same purse he’d used to buy his way into the fight in the first place.
The whole seemed screwed up – too good to be true.
And if there was one thing Hannibal had learned over the years, it was that when something seemed too good to be true, it normally wound up being exactly that.
Chapter Sixteen
Hannibal
As Jules and the defeated Mendoza were led out of the cage, the assembled crowd fell into hush.
Kristen reached over and squeezed Hannibal’s hand. The atmosphere in that raucous warehouse had changed.
“This is the headliner,” Red explained, his own voice hushed reverentially. “Rashaan’s fight.”
The announcer grabbed the mic, and his voice echoed through the hushed warehouse.
“And now, tonight’s headline fight,” he announced. “Reigning league champion Rashaan ‘Hungry’ Jackson against challenger Josiah ‘The Hammer’ James.”
Kristen looked over at Hannibal, as if to ask: “Who?”
And Hannibal didn’t know. He just shrugged his shoulders.
“In this corner, with a 12-0 undefeated record and weighing in at 255lbs, Rashaan Jackson.”
The crowd went wild as Rashaan Jackson swaggered out. With his Mohawk and beard, he looked like a cracked-out Mr. T. It didn’t take Hannibal’s years of MMA knowledge to know that the kid was tough and dangerous.
“And in this corner,” the announcer continued, “with a 3-0 undefeated record, and weighing in at 215lbs, we have challenger Josiah James.”
The crowd’s response was underwhelming – and when a lanky, pot-bellied white man swaggered out onto the canvas to take his corner, Hannibal could understand why.
This Josiah James kid looked like a washed-up, thirty-something computer nerd. With his balding head and pale skin, he looked like the ‘before’ photo in those muscle and fitness ads. What he was doing in an MMA cage with a fighter like Rashaan Jackson made no sense at all.
Or did it?
Josiah was cut from the same cloth as ‘Legend’ Lograno from that earlier fight – a hapless loser with dreams of MMA greatness. Clearly kids who had no business being in the octagon were getting their chance thanks to Red; and something about that didn’t sit right at all.
No doubt something screwy was going on with these fights; but Hannibal could only hope this final showdown would reveal what that was.
Chapter Seventeen
Hannibal
The airhorn went off, and the crowd went wild.
Rashaan Jackson and Josiah James circled the octagon – tapping gloves cautiously.
And then Josiah went on the offensive.
Hannibal watched curiously as the lanky white man assailed Rashaan with a volley of punches, and a fairly accurate kick that landed solidly with the big, black man’s thigh.
Rashaan absorbed the punishment with the resilience of an oak tree, but Hannibal had to give ‘The Hammer’ credit. He might look like a computer programmer, but there was some blunt effectiveness to his technique.
The kid reminded Hannibal of some of the out-of-shape, thirty-something white kids who trained at his MMA gym.
They’d signed up because they were all having a quarter-life crisis, or something – suddenly deciding they needed to be badasses after a decade punching numbers. They took classes in Brazilian Jiujitsu, and Krav Maga, and learned enough to be proficient in a classroom setting.
But what they learned was never suited for the octagon; and that was pretty m
uch how Josiah James was fighting.
As Hannibal watched, Josiah threw some hard punches, which Rashaan effortlessly blocked with his elbows. James then went on for a take down, and Rashaan shrugged him off like he was a greased pig. By the time the first round ended, Josiah had landed a dozen ineffective hits, and Rashaan had barely broken a sweat.
But he’d also never planted a hit of his own – and Hannibal had no doubt that he was capable. Rashaan looked like he could have knocked Josiah on his ass at any point during the round; and there was something mighty suspicious about the way he hadn’t.
The second round played out the same way – Josiah launching a fevered assault that left him panting and sweaty. And Rashaan weathered the storm, grunting only rarely, as one of Josiah’s hits got past his defenses.
The crowd groaned as the second round ended like the first, with little resolution. Up on the trailer that served as the VIP section, Hannibal turned to Red and looked at the bearded promoter’s expression, trying to gauge what his reaction was.
Clearly, at this point, Hannibal knew the fight was rigged. Not so much that it was predetermined, but that Rashann so effortlessly outclassed Josiah James that it might as well have been.
And what confirmed it? The moment Hannibal saw Red look down into the octagon, and catch Rashann’s gaze.
The two men locked eyes, and Red nodded slowly and deliberately. Hannibal watched it, and he knew he hadn’t imagined it. Red was signaling Rashaan.
And when the third round started, he could see what that signal meant.
Josiah straightened up, ready to launch another assault at the apparently-invulnerable Rashaan.
And, instead, the big black man took a step forward, and threw three punches with the force of an express train behind each one.
It was a flawless combo.
Bang! His fist impacted with the side of Josiah’s head.
Bang! His other fist swung in an uppercut, and snapped Josiah’s head back like it was on a hinge.
Bang! By the time the final hit impacted with the other side of Josiah’s head, he was already on his way down.
Josiah hit the canvas hard, and for a second, the raucous warehouse fell silent, as every man and woman in the place wondered if they’d just witnessed a man die.
Chapter Eighteen
Hannibal
“And the winner, by total knock-out in the third round, is Rashaan ‘Hungry’ Jackson.”
As the ref raised Rashaan’s hand, the crowd went wild.
Hannibal watched, his eyes narrow and his big hands balled into fists.
For a minute there, Hannibal had thought Rashaan had killed Josiah James. He’d seen professional fighters hospitalized after hits softener than that, and even read about some dying.
But, by some miracle, Josiah had survived. After half a minute of unconsciousness, they’d hauled the kid to his feet and he stood swaying from side to side as his defeat was announced.
Not that he seemed to register it.
The crowd screamed and crowed, and Rashaan punched the air victoriously. But even as he was patted on the back by the ref, Hannibal saw that the cheers and hollers he was letting out were hollow.
It was exactly as Hannibal had called it – a fight so wildly mismatched that a fighting machine like Jackson could hardly consider it victory.
As the last fight concluded, music blared over the speakers. The atmosphere of the crowded warehouse shifted, and the crowds started milling and spilling towards the exit.
The evening’s entertainment was over.
“This is my cue,” Red announced, draining what must have been his forth beer. He stood up and grabbed the mic, announcing loudly: “See y’all in two weeks! We got some great fights lined up for you!”
Hannibal and Kristen watched Red wrap up the proceedings. Soon the crowds were dissipating, and outside cars were starting up as people drove home.
Red turned around and flicked off the mic. Wiping his brow, the cowboy purred: “And now they’re heading home it’s time for my favorite part of the evening. You want to come with me and hand your brother his winnings?”
Hannibal glanced over at Kristen. She was looking nervous, but her narrow eyes widened a little as she caught her stepbrother’s reassuring gaze.
“Yeah,” Hannibal nodded. “Let’s do that.”
Chapter Nineteen
Hannibal
The ‘dressing rooms’, if you could call them that, were out back. There were what must have once been the offices and rec room of the old warehouse; and the peeling paint and ragged floor tiles suggested they hadn’t been used for a while.
Jules’ dressing room was a scant little office with paper over the windows and a naked bulb hanging from the ceiling. After rapping on the door, Hannibal’s skinny brother welcomed Red and Hannibal in, and gave Kristen a grin as she followed after them.
“Good fight, son,” Red was all smiles. “That was a good fight. I like that finishing move. What do you call that?”
“I call that ‘made up’,” Hannibal growled. “That wasn’t wrestling. That was some schoolyard shit.”
Jules turned and growled at his brother: “It got the job done, didn’t it?”
Sensing the tension, Red reached for his wallet – a big, fat leather folder attached to his jeans by a chain.
He peeled it open, and took out a wad of hundred dollar bills as thick as his thumb. He handed it over.
“Your winnings, son. You done earned ‘em.”
Jules gulped, and took the cash.
Hannibal recognized the expression on his brother’s face. He and Jules had grown up in a fairly affluent neighborhood, and both of their parents had made good money. But neither of them had seen that amount of cold, hard cash growing up – and Hannibal remembered the first time he’d been paid in a stack that big.
Before getting his ass suspended, he’d graduated to blowing that much dough in a single night, if the club was good enough.
“Wow, man,” Jules’ hand was trembling as he took the cash. “T-thanks.” He looked up at Red, and his eyes were glistening. “Oh, man. This feels good. This feels right.”
Red snorted. He patted the skinny young black man on the arm.
“You bet your ass it does, son,” he grinned. “You got talent.” He jerked his thumb over in the direction of Hannibal. “Even that fancy-pants noticed it.”
Hannibal just growled under his breath.
Jules ignored him. He was nodding at Red.
“So, son,” Red leaned closer. “You want more? I’ve got a spot on the roster in two weeks’ time, if you’re interested.”
“Fuck, yes!” Jules spat.
“Woah,” Hannibal held up his hand. “Don’t you even want to know who you’ll be fighting?”
Red turned sharply at glared at Hannibal – as if silently saying: “Don’t blow this for me.”
But Jules, to his credit, wised up.
“Yeah,” he nodded, fingering the wad of cash he’d just won.
“Yeah, who am I going into the octagon with? Is it Logrono?” His eyes narrowed as he pictured that evening’s other victorious amateur fighter. “I could take that piece of shit.”
Red snorted.
“I’ve got other plans for Logrono,” he admitted. “I was thinking more…” the southerner rubbed his beard thoughtfully, “…more along the lines of Sam Hudson.”
Jules blinked: “Who?”
And he wasn’t the only one. Hannibal had been living and breathing MMA for years, but hadn’t heard of a single fighter in that evening’s roster. The name Sam Hudson was even more obscure.
“Oh, he’s an up-and-comer,” Red shrugged. “White kid. Texan.” He shrugged. “He’s got promise, but you know what they say about betting on the white kid in a fight, right?”
“Fuck, yeah,” Jules nodded, remember the old boxing maxim. “I can take some skinny-ass white kid. Sign me up.”
“Deal,” Red grinned. “Purse is a bit higher, though. I’ll give
you the details later this week.”
Jules brushed off Red’s comment.
“Sounds good, man,” he grinned. “Fuck, yeah. Championship here I come.” And then he turned to his brother. “You hear that, blood? I’m comin’ for your title, man. Next stop Vegas.”
Hannibal said nothing. He just looked at his little brother with narrow eyes, feeling very unsettled about the whole thing.
Chapter Twenty
Kristen
On the drive home, you could have cut the tension with a knife.
Squashed up in the tiny rear seats of the Bentley, Kristen listened to Hannibal and his brother argue as they drove back home.
“The fights are rigged, man,” Hannibal was explaining. “You and that other kid should never have won.”
“Fuck you, man,” Jules spat back, squirming in the passenger seat. “You’re just jealous. You’re just worried I’m coming along to take your glory.”
“Fucking hell, man,” Hannibal slammed his fist onto the wheel. “That Mexican son of a bitch you fought? He barely tried to hit you. I could see it on his face – he was just there to be your punching bag and take the dive when he had to.”
“Bullshit,” Jules spat. “If that was true, how do you explain this, eh?” He held up his wad of cash. “I walked out of there with ten grand, Baller. Ten fucking grand. If this is some kind of a scam, explain to me how I’m walking out of there with this in my hand.”
And Hannibal couldn’t answer that question.
“You’re just pissed, man. You’re just jealous that your little brother is making something of himself.” Jules looked up, noticing that the Bentley was rolling through his run down estate. “Fuck, I used to look up to you, Baller. Now I see what you’re really like.”
Hannibal’s knuckles were white, he was gripping the steering wheel so hard. He eased the car to a halt at the end of Jules’ driveway, and turned to his brother.
Baller: An Interracial MMA Stepbrother Romance Page 5
