FIST OF AFRICA (FIGHT CARD MMA)

by Jack Tunney

  “I guarantee you a second round knockout,” Ducky said. “Now, y’all can get back to To Bleed Steed, I’m late for a lunch.”

  Ducky turned away from the reporters and sauntered out of the academy.

  The reporters scurried over to Nick, who was now standing beside Chizo.

  “What is your response to Ducky Bronson’s comments, Nick?” A reporter inquired.

  “I’ll respond in the cage,” Nick replied. “With violence.”

  ***

  Ducky Bronson threw a series of quick punches and then sprawled onto his chest. He popped up with blazing speed and then continued shadowboxing before the amazed crowd.

  Ducky stopped and turned toward the horde of reporters sitting on the bleachers at the edge of the mat in his gym. “And that’s how it’s done, people. After a breakfast of grilled steak and a protein shake – hey, that rhymes – I come here and do about six hours of…”

  Ducky pulled at the crotch of his shorts. “I come here and…”

  He tugged at his crotch again. A rivulet of sweat slithered down his forehead. “I..um..I”

  Ducky slipped his hand into his shorts and scratched furiously. “Oh, God, aaarrhhh!”

  Laughter rose from among the reporters.

  “Is he masturbating?” Someone whispered.

  “Does he have crabs?” Someone else inquired.

  “Disgusting!” Another reporter spat.

  Ducky sprinted off the mat and toward the restrooms, his hand working up and down inside his shorts.

  Cameras flashed, capturing the spectacle.

  Rico Stokes stepped onto the mat, waving his hands. “Show’s over folks! Ducky isn’t feeling well. We’ll contact you when he has recovered. Have a nice day.”

  Rico waved goodbye to the reporters and then trotted to the restrooms.

  The reporters rose and headed toward the exit – many laughing, many shaking their heads in disgust.

  ***

  “You put what in his shorts?” Hector chuckled.

  “Mucuna pruriens, a tropical legume also known as velvet bean,” Miles replied. “ It causes extreme itchiness upon contact with moist skin.”

  Chizo laughed.

  “Don’t encourage him,” Nick said angrily. “Why did you pull such a stupid stunt, Miles?”

  The other guests in Paschal’s Restaurant stopped eating and turned their attention to Nick’s table, where the talk was getting loud.

  “Why?” Miles said, frowning. “Because that fool tried to embarrass you during your demo…that’s why!”

  “We don’t do things that way,” Nick said. “You’re still the same thug my grandfather beat up on back in Chicago!”

  “Nick, I did it for you,” Miles sighed.

  “For me?” Nick hissed. “No, you did this for yourself. You did this to show everyone how smart you are. Well, we get it, Einstein. Now, take your smarts, elsewhere!”

  “Nick, please,” Miles replied. “I wasn’t trying to…”

  “Man, get out of my face,” Nick said. “And start looking for a place to stay, because you’re out!”

  “Nick!” Chizo gasped.

  “Please, stay out of this, Chizo,” Nick said. “We only respond in the cage, Miles!”

  Miles rose from his chair. “You coming, Hector?”

  “Nah, homey,” Hector said. “I’m with Nick on this one. What you did was messed up. Funny, but messed up. Now, we gotta pray you-know-who don’t figure out what you did to his man and come seeking revenge.”

  Miles walked out of the restaurant with his head hung low.

  “Sorry about that everyone,” Nick said, addressing all of the patrons in the packed restaurant. “Dessert is on me.”

  ***

  Miles sat in a chair across from Rico Stokes.

  Rico puffed calmly on a large, black, torpedo-shaped cigar. “Want one of these, kid? It’s better than kisses from a college freshman, a baby’s laughter, coffee and donuts with Jesus, and cotton candy all rolled into one.”

  “What kind of cigar is that?” Miles asked, leaning forward to get a closer look. “I’ve never seen one quite so…unique.”

  “This is the Opus X BBMF,” Rico said, blowing a ring of smoke into the air. “Seven inches of spicy-sweet black heaven.”

  Miles inhaled deeply. He detected the scent of honey with a hint of white pepper. “And what does BFMF stand for?”

  “That’s BBMF, kid,” Rico chuckled. “I mean, look at the thing…what else could it mean but Big Bad Mother…”

  “Shut yo’ mouth!” Miles chimed in, doing his best impression of the famous line from Isaac Hayes’ song, Shaft.

  “Can you dig it?” Rico replied, also quoting a line from the song.

  Rico and Miles laughed.

  “I appreciate you coming to me with this, son,” Rico Stokes said. He took another puff on the Opus X BBMF, sighing and closing his eyes for a moment before blowing another smoke ring into the air. “I didn’t think Nicky would have the stones to retaliate, but that thing with the itching powder stuff was a good one.”

  “Actually, it wasn’t itching powder, Mr. Stokes,” Miles said. “It was Mucuna pruriens, a…”

  Rico waved his hand across Miles’ face. “Don’t push it, kid. The only reason I don’t kill you for that stunt is because I can use somebody with your gifts in my camp. You’re gonna have to prove yourself worthy of a place in this family, though.”

  “How?” Miles inquired. “I’ll do whatever it takes.”

  “I want you to kill Nick,” Rico answered.

  “What?” Nick gasped.

  Rico smiled. “Is there a problem, young buck?”

  “N-no, sir,” Miles stuttered. “Not at all.”

  “Good,” Rico said. “Use your smarts to make it look like he had a heart attack, or stroke, or whatever. I don’t care about how you do it, I just want him to die during his fight with Ducky. It’ll send a message to any other clowns who might consider crossing me.”

  “Yes, sir,” Miles said.

  “Oh, and if you screw this up, you, Nicky and that Puerto Rican friend of yours are all gonna take a dirt nap,” Rico said. “That African broad, I’m gonna keep for myself.”

  “I’ll get it done,” Miles said.

  “Now get out of here,” Rico said.

  Miles rose from his seat and walked toward Rico’s office door.

  Hey, kid,” Rico said.

  Miles turned to face Rico. “Yes?”

  Rico tossed a large envelope toward Miles. “Think fast!”

  Miles caught the envelope and peeked inside. A thick stack of one hundred dollar bills, held together by a rubber-band, was in it.

  “There’s a lot more where that comes from after you do this job,” Rico said.

  “Thanks, Mr. Stokes,” Miles replied.

  A broad smile spread across Rico’s face. “Call me…Uncle Rico”.

  ROUND 17

  Hector packed cotton swabs, an enswell, herbal remedies and canteens filled with hydration and endurance drinks in the cutbag under Miles’ watchful eye.

  “Is that everything?” Hector asked.

  “Yes,” Miles replied. “Do you remember all I told you?”

  “Yeah, I got it, homey,” Hector said. “Are you gonna be okay.”

  “Don’t worry about me,” Miles said. “I’ll see you after the fight.”

  Miles and Hector hugged.

  “I love you, bro’,” Hector said.

  “Likewise,” Miles said. “Take care of Nick.”

  “I got it, homey.”

  Miles walked out of the living room and out into the cold winter evening.

  ***

  Rico’s driver opened the rear driver’s-side door of his S600 Mercedes Benz sedan. Two bodyguards walked at Rico’s flanks, following him up the walkway to the awaiting vehicle.

  Rico was dressed to impress in a one-button mohair tuxedo, cotton evening shirt, silk bow tie, and patent-leather shoes. His fine clothing was accented by pallad
ium cuff links and a white-gold Patrimony Contemporaine watch.

  “This fight is going to be talked about forever, fellas,” Rico said, peering over his shoulder at his bodyguards. “The Stokes Family is about to make history!”

  Two unmarked police cars and one unmarked van came to a screeching halt around Rico’s car. Two detectives hopped out of each car, brandishing pistols. Five detectives hopped out of the van, armed with assault rifles and shotguns.

  “Hands on your heads!” The detectives ordered. “Hands on your heads, now!”

  “What’s the problem officers?” Rico inquired, raising his hands and placing them on the top of his head.

  Rico’s bodyguards and driver followed suit.

  A detective darted behind Rico, while the other detectives trained their guns on Rico’s men. The detective snatched Rico’s right arm off of his head and slapped a steel handcuff on his wrist. He forced Rico’s arm behind his back and then repeated the process on Rico’s left arm.

  “Rico Stokes, you are under arrest for conspiracy to commit murder,” the detective said.

  “I got rights, Rico yelled. “Take your hands off me!”

  “You got lefts, too,” the detective said, dragging Rico by the handcuffs toward the van. “And if you don’t calm down, I’m going to give ‘em to you.”

  ***

  Rico sat in the interrogation room, smiling.

  Two detectives entered. One was a husky black man with salt-and-pepper hair. The other was a lean Asian man with wavy hair that danced upon his shoulders with each step. The Asian man cradled a laptop under his arm.

  “Hello, Mr. Stokes,” the salt-and-pepper-haired detective said, taking a seat at the table Rico was handcuffed to. “I’m Detective Sergeant Ferguson and this is Detective Sergeant Park.”

  “I got nothing to say to you until my lawyer gets here,” Rico said.

  “You might want to rethink that position,” Detective Sergeant Park said, placing the laptop on the table. He opened the laptop and began typing on the keyboard. “We received an interesting e-mail last night.”

  “What, somebody sent you a coupon for a discount on Viagra?” Rico chuckled.

  “Nah, something even better,” Detective Sergeant Ferguson replied. “Listen.”

  Familiar voices slithered out of the laptop’s speaker:

  “Don’t push it, kid. The only reason I don’t kill you for that stunt is because I can use somebody with your…gifts in my camp. You’re gonna have to prove yourself worthy of a place in this family, though.”

  “I’ll do whatever it takes.”

  “I want you to kill Nick,”

  “What?”

  “Is there a problem, young buck?”

  “N-no, sir, not at all.”

  “Good! Use your smarts to make it look like he had a heart attack, or stroke or whatever. I don’t care about how you do it, I just want him to die during his fight with Ducky. It’ll send a message to any other clowns who might consider crossing me.”

  “Oh, and if you screw this up, you, Nicky and that Puerto Rican friend of yours are all gonna take a dirt nap; that African broad, I’m gonna keep for myself.”

  Detective Sergeant Park closed the laptop. “Do you have anything to say now, Mr. Stokes?”

  “Yep,” Rico said, his smile fading. “I want to talk to several attorneys...Right now!”

  In the next room, two pairs of eyes observed the encounter between Rico and the detectives.

  “It worked,” Chizo whispered, placing a hand on Miles’ shoulder. “You’re a genius, brother.”

  Miles stared through the one-way mirror at Rico’s angry expression. “Hopefully this sticks, or I’ll be a dead genius.”

  “Nick will make sure you’re safe,” Chizo said. “Now, let’s go, or I’ll be late. The fight starts in two hours and I’m on in one.”

  Chizo and Miles crept out of the observation room and walked briskly to Chizo’s car.

  They hopped in the BMW sport car and strapped in.

  “You’re good people, Chizo” Miles said. “Nick is lucky to have you.”

  “Nick is lucky to have us both,” Chizo replied.

  “Indeed he is,” Miles said, nodding his head. “Yes, indeed, he is.”

  The BMW sped away from the police station. Chizo went heavy on the gas, racing to beat the traffic lights turning from amber to crimson. “Tighten that seat belt, brother. Next stop…Philips Arena!”

  ROUND 18

  “One!” Hector shouted, holding the pads out in front of him. The left pad high, the right one low.

  Nick responded with the fast and powerful four-strike combination on the pads – jab, cross, rear knee, rear elbow – the calling one required.

  Hector shifted the pads – the right one at the height of his shoulder, the left pad at the height of his thigh. “Four!”

  Nick fired three crisp punches and two powerful kicks at the pads. A din, like gunfire, echoed throughout the locker room.

  Hector stepped back. His head bowed low until his chin was pressed to his chest.

  “What’s up?” Nick asked.

  “We’re losing Miles, man,” Hector answered.

  “Not losing him,” Nick said. “Protecting him.”

  “We’ve been best friends since third grade,” Hector sighed. “He’s my brother…”

  “From another mother,” said a voice.

  Hector turned to face Miles, who stood in the doorway. Chizo stood behind him.

  Miles and Hector approached each other and hugged.

  Chizo ran to Nick. Nick wrapped his arms around her waist and kissed her.

  “I can’t believe you’re leaving us, bro,” Hector sighed.

  “I’ll be back for Rico’s trial,” Miles said. “To help put that scumbag away. The cops offered to put me up in a safehouse until it’s my time to testify.”

  “Cool, then,” Hector said. “Makes sense. Rico’s power is in Chicago, not here.”

  “But money is power, bro’,” Miles said. “Money can buy information, it can buy loyalty. Pay enough money to the right people and anyone can be found. Anybody can be touched.”

  “So, until the trial, we’re sending him to the safest place I know.” Nick said.

  “Alright, guys, I have to get to the table, it’s almost time,” Chizo said, giving Nick a quick peck on the lips. “Win this!”

  “See you soon, love,” Nick said.

  “Here you go, Nick,” Miles said, pulling a carton of coconut water from the cut-bag. “Hydrate!”

  ***

  Nick sauntered down the ramp, moving in time with the rhythm of his theme music.

  Flames erupted on either side of him as he walked. Hector and Miles walked closely behind him, each with a hand on his shoulders.

  The thunderous cheer from the spectators in Philips Arena was deafening.

  “Tonight is the night,” Adam Arlington’s voice billowed from the speakers, over the music and the roar of the crowd. “The battle for the light heavyweight title.”

  “What a way to ring in the New Year,” Chizo said. “Every fight tonight has been absolutely spectacular!”

  “That’s right, Chizo,” Moe Jackson replied. “We saw Davis finish off Sheffield with that crazy inverted shin kick to the face. We also saw the first women’s title match, with ex-Marine, turned school librarian, Alicia McCalla submitting Becky The Butcher Kyle with a jaw-dropping flying triangle choke. And now, New Breed Steed is going to attempt to take the belt from the formidable Ducky Bronson…what a night!”

  “This is why World Extreme Ring Kombat is the absolute best in combat sports!” Adam Arlington said.

  Nick sauntered into the circular cage. He knelt in the traditional salute, facing the North, the South, the West and the East and then slapped the ground four times, alternating between his palm and the back of his hand, signaling that all on Earth and in the very Heavens above, would witness him bury Ducky Bronson.

  Nick intended to end Ducky’s career.


  He stood and walked to his corner. No smiles. No dancing. Just stillness…and a fearsome gaze.

  Ducky Bronson’s theme song – a bass-heavy rap ditty of his own design – boomed from the speakers.

  I break em down to the left,

  Down to the right,

  I’m down for the fight

  Any day, noon, or night.

  If you survive the cage with Ducky,

  Consider yourself lucky

  ‘Cause I’m a Rottweiler,

  Trust me

  You’re a Shih Tzu puppy.

  Nick rolled his eyes. If he fights like he raps, I’ve won this for sure.

  Ducky sprinted down the ramp – his signature entrance. One of his corners sprinted behind him, with the gold light heavyweight championship belt held high above his head.

  Ducky stood for inspection, rocking back and forth and checking an imaginary watch on his wrist to show his impatience, his eagerness to enter the ring and wreak destruction.

  With the inspection done, Ducky sprinted into the cage and then performed a brief, but complex shadowboxing combination of kicks, punches, sprawls and rolls.

  The crowd roared in approval.

  “They love me!” Ducky shouted, shuffling backward toward his corner. “They love me!”

  Bryce Baker, dressed in a midnight-blue shark-skin tuxedo, entered the cage with a cordless microphone cradled against his chest. “It’s time…to put…in WERK!”

  The spectators clapped, screamed, stomped and whistled with zeal.

  “In this corner,” Bryce said, pointing at Nick. “Hailing from Oshogbo, Oshun State Nigeria, by way of Chicago, Illinois…standing six feet, two inches tall and weighing in at two-hundred and five pounds…he is an African martial arts fighter…with a professional record of four wins and no losses…the challenger…Nick New Breed Steed!”

  More cheering from the crowd.

  “And in this corner,” Bryce said, pointing toward Ducky Bronson. “He hails from right here in the A-T-L…”

  The spectators erupted in applause.

  “He stands six feet four and weighed in at two-hundred four pounds…” Bryce began. “He’s the Duck that all the ladies wanna…date.”

  The arena broke out into laughter.

  “He is a Muay Thai, Judo and Brazilian Jujitsu fighter, with a professional record of fifteen wins and no losses…the undisputed, undefeated, light heavyweight champion of the world…Donald…Ducky…Bronson!”