Vassili
Las Vegas, One Month Later…
I’ve read my Bible this morning to Natasha, yet anxiety tears through my soul. The faint thump of music through the cement walls in the background signifies that the second match is now beginning. I finish my prayer, kiss the cross around my neck and stand up.
Fight, Vassili. Get in fight mode. God has blessed you…
I’ve told myself a thousand times now isn’t the time to fixate on bullshit, but to focus on my capabilities. What I can control, but before I can mentally offer the same credo again, I ask, “No news on Danushka?”
“Not now, Vassili,” Vadim grumbles. “You’ve prayed, let’s warm up. Nestor.”
“I’m hot as fuck,” I tell him. I address my uncle, Malich, who’s sitting on the bench, with Yuri and Nestor, the lockers are behind them.
My arms swoosh out as I complete rapid punching combinations. I’m burning up inside, and I’m consumed with what the fuck my sister has been up to. Why email me?
“Dyadya?” I nudge my chin to my uncle. Nestor settles back down.
“Not yet.” Malich says. My uncle isn’t much for traveling, and I can’t believe I’m ruining one of the select few times he attends my matches with talk of Danushka.
He gets up, walks over and places his hands on my shoulders. “You have a belt to get back, Vassili. The best thing Danushka has going for herself is getting into your head.”
Vadim takes over with, “Do you want Karsoff there as well? Fucking with your mind?”
I stare at them both, they already know the answer is ‘no.’ My little half-sister hasn’t reached out since dropping the bomb that she knew of Frank Gaspar’s death. Although there isn’t a stream of dead bodies everywhere I walk, her motivation has unleashed the beast in me. What is her reasoning?
“Nestor,” I cock my head to him. He jumps up. Time to spar.
***
I keep my head down. All the light is on me and it’s blinding. There’s a camera crew in front of me, tracking backward, as I head to the cage. The music is funneled into my ears with the buds that I’m wearing. Though I can’t see a foot before me, the muffled sound of screaming tells me that not a single seat in the place is empty.
“Karo…” The crowd’s chant pierces through the rap music I’m listening to.
I stop at the cutman, feeling like a caged tiger in my own skin as he applies Vaseline. Then I’m climbing up the stairs, and once into the octagon, I flip three times, and land on my side of the canvas. I miss being the favorite, the last man out, to assess my opponent as he stands here, stalking the cage. Now, here I am, the announcer is running stats for the German as he comes out.
It takes forever for the opening bells to ring, Karsoff steps forward to touch gloves, I gesture for him to get the fuck back to his side, so we can get started.
We crash into each other. Like those fucking punching boxer toys I wished for but never got in the past, we’re tossing bricks for fists when my left zeros straight for his nose, sending him stumbling backward. I press forward, taking the left jab, right jab to my chin with a sneer on my face. That mudak gets confident until my right hook strikes, sliding across his jaw. The one hit shakes Karsoff to the core, I continue hitting him every step of the way to the ground.
“Put the pressure on ‘em!” Nestor shouts from my corner.
This was too easy…
I grapple over him. Karsoff beings to turn over. Instead of protecting himself or fighting back, he grasps at the canvas as if he wants to get up and run. With this position, I loop my leg around him, and press my bicep around his neck, choking him back to me, into a triangle choke hold.
Karsoff reaches a hand around, punching my ear. The pounding causes my ear to ring. I let up, stand, shake my head. He's left in a vulnerable position. As I reach down, Karsoff’s leg swipes out. He issues a rapid succession of turtle kicks. I glare at this bitch, jumping to defend myself from his right foot.
I step back, my glare telling him to get up. I'm going to bring this cunt back down. So far, he’s tried to run and did a shitty job defending himself when I stood up. A few ‘boos’ break through the chanting crowd. I gesture for him to get up, because tonight, I feel like entertaining.
Karsoff rises. He’s back to his cocky self. This mudak was afraid of the takedown. Just as we go back to tossing punches the bell signals the end of the first round. I glare at my opponent one last time before moving toward my corner.
“You good?” Vadim asks.
“Good, Good.”
“Your knee—”
“I’m fucking good, Vadim. Knee, body. All of that. Good.” I snatch the water he hands over. “Spasibo,” I grunt out my thanks in Russian, toss the water back, pour a bit on my face, and then crunch the paper cup and flick it over my shoulder.
At the commentator table, two casters are chatting it up.
“The ferocity in which Karo came into the cage woke me up just now.”
“Me too. Almost forgot there were a few matches prior to this, and we aren’t even at the main event.”
“He’s looking better than he ever has in his entire career. And c’mon let’s face it. We can count on two fingers the time Karo didn’t rise to the occasion. He’s one of the toughest dudes in the circuit.”
“Karsoff looks more mature in the ring tonight as well, Johnny. After the first takedown, he came back smoothly. What he had going for him is matching Karo’s pace, and not flying off the handle.”
“Karsoff has made an excellent recovery, and he may be the current favorite, but I’m going against the grain. The moment Karsoff hit the canvass, he was a scared animal. If Karo can get another takedown, I predict vengeance will play out.”
That’s right, Johnny, I mumble to myself, I’m going to serve Karsoff the beatdown of his life.
The bell chimes. Time for round two. This time, when I take my opponent down, his ass won’t be getting back up.