FIST OF AFRICA (FIGHT CARD MMA)

by Jack Tunney

  Nick shuffled around the ring, peacocking for the crowd, who cheered him on with whistles, claps, stomps and the chanting of his nickname. “New Breed! New Breed! New Breed!”

  Hector and Miles rushed into the ring, joining Nick in his victory dance.

  The referee grabbed Nick’s wrist and coaxed him to the center of the ring.

  “The winner,” Tim Brophy began. “And this year’s undefeated champion – as well as the recipient of the Fight of the Night, Submission of the Night and Knockout of the Night bonuses – is Nick New Breed Steed!

  Fujima raised Nick’s hand in victory.

  “And now,” Tim shouted. “The CEO of World Extreme Ring Kombat, this event’s main sponsor, will present Nick Steed with the tournament’s heavyweight gold medal!”

  Hector’s jaw fell slack.

  Miles patted Nick on the shoulder. “You the man, Nick!”

  Dan Wallace stepped into the ring. Tim Brophy handed him the microphone.

  “Nick, you gave one of the best performances in the fight business tonight,” Wallace said. “And it is my honor to present you with this gold medal earned with your sweat, your blood and your heart!”

  The crowd went wild as Dan Wallace slipped the medal over Nick’s head. The heavy gold medallion felt cool on his chest.

  “And,” Dan Wallace continued. “I would like to offer you a shot at the pros if you’re interested.”

  Louder cheers erupted from the crowd.

  Wallace shoved the microphone under Nick’s chin.

  Hector leaned forward until his lips touched the microphone. “He’s interested!”

  Everyone in the arena burst into laughter.

  “I guess that settles it,” Nick chuckled. “I’m interested.”

  Dan Wallace extended his hand toward Nick. Nick shook it briskly.

  “Then, welcome to work, New Breed – spelled, WERK!”

  ROUND 12

  ATLANTA, GEORGIA

  2014

  “We’re gathered here at Philip’s Arena for the pre-fight weigh-in for WERK Forty-Six: Davis versus Easton,” World Extreme Ring Kombat play-by-play announcer, Adam Arlington said. “And this has got to be one of the most exciting cards in MMA history, Moe!”

  “Without a doubt, Adam,” Moses Moe Jackson – former middleweight Olympic gold medalist in freestyle wrestling – and current WERK color commentator, said. “We’ve got the lightweight powerhouse, Leroy Cooper, doing battle with Fast Hands Sam Tanner for the number one contender spot. And we have Nick New Breed Steed making his debut tomorrow night…”

  “Now, he’s a kid I can’t wait to see in action, Moe,” Adam said. “He cut weight to fight in the light heavyweight division, but by all accounts, he’s still as powerful as a heavyweight and as quick as a welterweight.”

  “That’s what they say, Adam,” Moe replied. “If it’s true – and with the unorthodox style of fighting he uses, which, according to sources, comes from Africa – this kid is dangerous!”

  “But is he dangerous enough to deal with the brutal ground-and-pound of Angel Camacho?” Adam inquired. “That is the question he will have to answer when he steps into the cage tomorrow night.”

  “Camacho is a bruiser, Adam,” Moe replied. “With six wins and no losses and all of those wins by technical knockout. ‘New Breed’ Steed is certainly going to have a lot on his plate at WERK Forty-Six.”

  ***

  Nick stood in the mirror, inspecting his new physique. He was a bit leaner and much more defined, as if chiseled from black diamond. The medicines Baba Yemi sent him – combined with Miles’ cell hydration therapy and a strict diet and exercise program – worked. He now weighed two-hundred and five pounds, had a body fat of four percent and was stronger and faster than he had ever been. It was a smart move to drop weight classes. He was a small heavyweight, weighing only two-hundred sixteen pounds, however, he was used to competing against men who weighed two-hundred and fifty, three-hundred and even close to four-hundred pounds, so he would have a distinct advantage over the other two-hundred and five pound light heavyweights.

  “Yo, Nick,” Hector’s voice called from the living room below. “Come here…quick!”

  Nick jogged out of his room and bounded down the steps. “What’s up Hector? I was just…”

  Sitting on the living room couch was Rico Stokes. Hector and Miles loomed over him in an attempt to show menace. Rico did not seem to notice, as his lips were curled up into a broad smile.

  “What are you doing here?” Nick hissed.

  “This is a nice place, Nicky-boy,” Rico replied. “Nice city, too. The women in Atlanta are as sexy as they come!”

  “What are you doing here, Rico?” Nick said asked again.

  “I’m here to offer my services,” Rico answered. “You need a manager, now that you’ve gone pro. Someone to make sure you get all you deserve.”

  “And that’s you?” Nick scoffed.

  “I already represent two WERK fighters,” Rica replied. “I’d like for you to complete the trifecta. I’ll teach you the ins-and-outs of the fight game – teach you to milk it for all the money you can get. Now, that might mean taking a dive when I tell you, or paying off a few sport magazines and websites to bump up your stats or ranking – whatever it takes – but who cares, you’ll be getting paid, baby!”

  Miles shook his head. “You must be out of your mind to think…”

  “Shut up when grown folks are talking, boy,” Rico said, interrupting him.

  “Get out, Rico,” Nick ordered.

  “Okay,” Rico said, rising from the couch. “But, like I said, I am going to make sure you get all you deserve. I have a fighter in my camp that’s in your weight class. I’ll make sure he introduces himself.”

  Rico sauntered to the door and opened it. He paused and looked over his shoulder. A wide grin was spread across his face. “Oh…and the next time you clowns stand over me trying to sell some old intimidation crap, they’ll find your heads floating in the Chattahoochee River.”

  Rico winked at Nick and left, closing the door softly behind him.

  “Who was he trying to scare?” Miles snorted. “I was two seconds from…”

  “Peeing your pants?” Hector chimed in.

  “Yep,” Miles replied. “What are we going to do, Nick?”

  “We train,” Nick answered. “We win. We wipe the smile off Rico’s face when I send his fighter, whoever he is, out of that ring on a stretcher.”

  ROUND 13

  Nick stood on the iron platform, struggling to slow his breathing and toss a net over the butterflies flitting about in his gut. Hector and Nick stood at his flanks. Even from ten feet below the arena, Nick could hear the thunderous din of nearly twenty thousand fans who awaited his WERK debut.

  His signature song – Orere, recorded by his brothers and sisters at the Adewale Wrestling Compound – exploded from the speakers. The platform rose, carrying Nick and his corners up to the ramp. Columns of fire erupted along the ramp, signaling Nick to take his long walk down the ramp.

  Nick, Miles and Hector sauntered confidently along the ramp, led by two WERK security officers. The applause was deafening. Nick resisted the urge to look up at the stands, remaining focused on the referee awaiting him at the end of the ramp.

  The referee performed a quick inspection of Nick’s gloves, mouthpiece, and hair and then ensured Nick was wearing protection for his groin and the contents of Miles’ cutbag met State of Georgia standards.

  The rich baritone voice of WERK ring announcer, Bryce Baker erupted from the arena’s speakers. “From Oshogbo, Oshun State, Nigeria…standing six feet, two inches tall and weighing in at two-hundred five pounds…making his debut in the iron circle…the Nigerian Nightmare…the Stone Hands from the Motherland…Nick New Breed Steed!”

  Hector sprinted up the stairs to the door of the cage, snatching it open. Nick bounded up the stage and somersaulted into the cage.

  The spectators cheered.

  Nick shuffled a
round the circular cage, stopping at his corner, where he knelt in the traditional Adewale Wrestling Compound’s salute.

  Nick’s theme song faded and a new song – a screeching cacophony of lead guitars, screams, cymbals and synthesizers – clawed its way out of the speakers.

  A few minutes later, a burly, young man, with flawless golden-brown skin and a curly mane atop his head like a helmet, bolted into the cage. He shadowboxed for a few seconds and then stood at attention, glaring at Nick.

  “From San Juan Puerto Rico,” Bryce Baker bellowed. “He stands five feet, ten inches tall, and weighs in at two-hundred five pounds…with a professional record of six wins and no losses…The Dropout with the Knockouts…Angel The K.O. Kid Camacho!”

  The spectators chanted Camacho’s name. The fans loved his ferocious fighting style.

  “Tonight’s referee is Dallas Peterson,” Bryce Baker said. He then handed the microphone to the veteran boxing and MMA referee.

  Dallas’ Southern accent was thick. “Gentlemen, step fo’wahd.”

  Nick and Camacho met the old referee at the center of the ring.

  “I wan’ a good, clean fight tonight, fellas,” Dallas said. “Obey mah commands at all-tahms. Defend yourselves at all-tahms. Now, touch gloves and go back to yo’ cornuhs.”

  Nick tapped Camacho’s gloved fists with his own and then shuffled to his corner.

  Dallas handed the microphone back to Bryce.

  “Are you ready, New Breed?” Bryce asked.

  Nick raised his right thumb in affirmation.

  “Are you ready, K.O. Kid?”

  Camacho shook his fist and shouted “Si!”

  “Then, let’s put in WERK!” Bryce commanded.

  Nick darted forward.

  The K.O. Kid lowered his stance and shot in toward Nick, his knees scraping the mat. He reached forward and seized the backs of Nick’s knees.

  Nick sprawled, thrusting his legs backward as he drove his chest downward, slamming his weight onto Camacho’s back.

  Camacho collapsed onto his hands and knees.

  Nick sprang off the balls of his feet, pivoting on Camacho’s back until his face was in line with the back of Camacho’s head. He then ensnared Camacho’s neck with his arms.

  Camacho rolled forward, taking Nick over with him.

  Nick held on, tightening his grip on Camacho’s neck.

  The K.O. Kid, now lying on his side between Nick’s legs, reached out, seeking desperately with his fingers, until he found Nick’s shin. Camacho hoisted Nick’s shin onto his thigh and then slammed the point of his elbow into the femoral nerve running up the inside of Nick’s leg. He grabbed Nick’s foot and yanked it upward to increase the pressure of his elbow upon the nerve.

  Nick felt as if he had been shot in the leg. With his focused shifted to the intense pain, his grip on Camacho’s neck loosened a bit.

  With his neck now free, Camacho whirled to face Nick, whipping a sharp elbow into Nick’s brow.

  Blood poured from the wound. Nick locked his ankles around Camacho’s waist, trapping him in his guard.

  Camacho fired a volley of heavy punches into Nick’s ribs.

  Nick slammed a palm into Camacho’s jaw.

  Camacho reeled backward from the blow.

  Nick grabbed Camacho’s elbows and pulled him forward as he shifted onto his left side. Nick thrust his right knee inward, sliding it along Camacho’s waist. He then scissored his legs, slamming his left thigh into Camacho’s right leg as he drove a shin kick into Camacho’s torso.

  Camacho tumbled over onto his back.

  Nick stayed glued to him, rolling over into a mounted position, with his knees straddling Camacho’s waist. Nick threw two crushing hook punches. The right punch, slamming into Camacho’s jaw and the left one hammering Camacho’s temple.

  Camacho’s arms fell limply at his sides.

  Nick threw his body forward, hammering his elbow into the bridge of Camacho’s nose.

  Dallas Peterson leapt between the fighters, wrapping his arms around Nick’s upper torso. The old referee knocked Nick off of the unconscious Camacho and onto his back.

  Nick rolled to his feet and danced around the ring.

  Dallas helped Camacho stand. He then grabbed Nick’s wrist.

  “The winner…by knockout in the first round,” Bryce Baker said. “Nick New Breed Steed!”

  Dallas raised Nick’s hand high.

  The crowd roared.

  “Well, I guess Nick Steed answered the question whether he is dangerous enough to deal with Angel Camacho’s ground-and-pound, Moe,” Adam Arlington shouted from the commentator’s booth.

  “Yes, he did, Adam,” Moe Jackson replied. “This kid is a monster! He’s technical…he’s powerful…he’s tough…”

  “And he just might be a future champion in this sport,” Adam chimed in.

  “He just might, Adam,” Moe said. “He just might!”

  ***

  Angel Camacho winced as he slipped his sweater over his head and the thick wool grazed his fractured nose. He caressed it, sliding his fingers over the layers of tape Dr. Jemisin – his physician – had just put on his nose to hold it in place.

  “How long before I can fight again, Doc’?” Angel murmured, struggling to form the words between his clinched teeth.

  “Stop trying to speak,” Dr. Jemisin ordered. “You’ll loosen the wires in your jaw and then you’ll really be screwed up. But, to answer your question, it will be four or five months before you can even return to training and then we’ll have to assess when you can fight again. Probably not for another year, though.

  “A year?” Angel gasped.

  “You suffered massive damage to multiple areas in your skull, Angel,” Dr. Jemisin said. “If you return too early and suffer a heavy blow to your head, you could suffer irreparable brain damage.”

  Tears swelled in the corners of Angel Camacho’s eyes. “My family has to eat, Doc’.”

  “It’s time to start coaching for a while,” Dr. Jemisin replied. “Maybe teach some seminars. Heck, you might even get a reality show – people love a comeback story – but, no fighting! Understand?”

  “I understand, Doc’,” Angel replied. “No fighting.”

  Angel shook Dr. Jemisin’s hand. “See you later, Doc’.”

  “Tell Marisol and the kids I said hello,” the doctor said.

  “I will.”

  Angel shambled out of Dr. Jemisin’s office and into the parking lot. He walked toward his vehicle – a banana-yellow station wagon wrapped in an illustration of him knocking out some fictitious opponent – and unlocked the door with his key fob.

  All four doors to Angel’s wagon opened.

  “What the…?” Angel gasped, stumbling backward in shock.

  Three large men dressed in expensive suits exited the station wagon.

  “Who are you?” Angel murmured, backing away even more.

  Finally, Rico Stokes stepped out of the vehicle. He was dressed in a cream-colored wool suit. A white mink jacket hung over his shoulders. “They’re with me.”

  “Rico, I…” Angel began.

  “Shh,” Rico said, pressing his index finger to his lips. “Don’t speak, Angel, you’ll loosen those wires I paid for. I’ll do all the talking. Comprende?”

  Angel nodded.

  “You lost to Nick Steed, Angel,” Rico said. “You could have lost to anyone else and it would have been okay – losing’s part of the fight game – but not to Nick Steed. I told you that.

  “Rico, please,” Angel murmured.

  “I said, don’t talk,” Rico hissed. “Say one more word and I’ll have these gentlemen stomp you into wine.

  A smile spread across Rico’s face. “Now, where was I? Oh, yeah…you lost to Nick Steed and that is unacceptable Angel. So, a punishment is in order.”

  Rico snapped his fingers. Two of his men grabbed Angel’s arms, while the third man held him in a vice-like strangle-hold from behind. They walked Angel to his station wagon.
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  “His left arm,” Rico said.

  One of Rico’s men slid into the driver’s seat of Angel’s car. He reached out and grabbed Angel’s left wrist with both hands and yanked Angel’s hand to his chest. He then leaned back, keeping Angel’s arm straight while the two other thugs held Angel still.

  Rico kicked the driver-side door, slamming the heavy metal onto Angel’s arm.

  The sickening crack of Angel’s arm shattering was muffled only by Angel’s tortured scream.

  Angel collapsed onto the pavement, writhing in agony.

  “By the way,” Rico said, standing over Angel with a twisted grin spread across his face. “We gave the same treatment to your wife, son, and little Elena. The family that loses together, bruises together.”

  “No!” Angel screamed.

  “Don’t worry,” Rico said, still smiling. “I’m footing their medical bills, too.”

  Rico turned on his heels and walked away. His men followed closely behind him.

  Angel heard the screech of tires and then a vehicle speed off.

  The newspapers would call it a brutal attack on Angel Camacho and his family by some crazed and disgruntled fan.

  A week later, Angel was found dead in his garage. He had committed suicide by asphyxiation, breathing in toxic carbon monoxide through a vacuum tube attached to the exhaust pipe of his banana-colored station wagon.

  Local philanthropist, Rico Stokes, generously paid for the funeral and paid off the remainder of the Camacho’s mortgage, the newspapers said.

  Marisol Camacho – Angel’s wife – declined any comment.

  ROUND 14

  Nick sat in his living room, studying video footage of his next opponent, former boxing cruiserweight champion and super heavyweight Olympic boxing gold medalist, Denroy Levy.

  “He’s got some nasty strikes,” Miles said, grimacing as he watched Denroy Levy obliterate his opponent with a terrifying five-punch combination.

  “But that’s all he’s got, homey,” Hector said. “Nick is going to kill this guy.”