Hank
Hank had been in so many fights that when the bell dinged, he was on his feet reflexively before he knew it, like a leg-jerk when a doctor taps a patient's knee.
So was Manolo.
Many of Hank's bouts had been fought against men much larger than he was. Most of the time, they used their massive frames to bully and intimidate their opponents—howling, swinging wildly, and rushing at them like enraged giants with the hope of throwing them off early and finishing the fight fast. These tactics never worked on Hank, who simply stood his ground and waited for the behemoths to run into his fists. Such fighters usually relied solely on their size and weight, to make up for a lack of prowess or discipline. They tired early, and they fell hard.
But Manolo was hanging back with his gloves up, dancing lightly on the balls of his feet as he warily sized up his opponent. From the way he carried himself, Hank could see Manolo was a patient, canny, well-trained boxer.
For the first time since he'd agreed to this fight, Hank started to worry about its outcome. Luring Manolo into coming at him swinging wouldn't work. Outlasting him probably wouldn't, either. Hank would have to take the fight to him and pour on the damage, which would be risky.
But the crowd was already roaring for blood. And no matter how much Hank tried to focus, he could hear the voices of Bull, Speed Bump, and the rest of the Warriors and Aryans, all jeering at him for hesitating.
A grim realization dawned on Hank: It wasn't enough to accept this challenge, or even to win it. In order to earn the respect and protection of the White Knights, he'd have to look good doing it, to boost the gang's rep in Bluebonnet. He wasn't sure if he'd be able to do that.
And Manolo was still waiting with narrowed eyes, as though he were reading all of Hank's thoughts from a billboard on his forehead. Manolo's rep was already solid, while Hank had everything to lose.
Fuck it, Hank thought. May as well go for it.
He approached Manolo suddenly, hoping it would throw him off after waiting for so long. But Manolo's left connected with Hank's stomach before he could even see the punch, and a split-second later, Hank found himself looking up at the ceiling with a pain like a firecracker in his jaw. The awareness of the uppercut rumbled in slowly after the initial shock, like thunder casually announcing a lightning bolt that had struck seconds earlier.
Instinct kicked in, and Hank raised his arms to protect his face. But Manolo was way ahead of him, getting under Hank's arms to pummel his defenseless ribs and abdomen. The breath was pushed out of Hank's lungs, and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't draw any more air back into them. Black roses started to bloom in the corners of his vision.
The bell dinged again, and Hank was alone in the center of the ring. Manolo was already sitting in his corner, his inscrutable brown eyes locked on Hank.
Hank shuffled back to his own corner. Bull was waiting for him, and Hank expected him to cuss him out when he got there. Instead, Bull handed him the water bottle, patting him on the shoulder as he drank from it.
“You're doing good in there, pal,” Bull said quietly. “He's tough and he's fast, and he took you by surprise, but you can bring him down. I've seen him fight lots of times before, and he comes on strong...but his nose is his off button. You mash that button two or three times, and all his Terminator bullshit's going to come to a screeching halt. Okay? Got it?”
“Yeah, aim for his nose,” Hank replied. “Got it.”
If I can even get a punch in, he thought.
The bell dinged again.
Manolo was all over Hank before he even realized he'd stood up. Three more body shots, breaking a couple of ribs that were already bruised. Hank dodged a brutal haymaker that came within an inch of shattering his eye socket, but the sudden jerk backward made him lose his balance for a moment, and he realized—too late—that it was what Manolo was counting on. A follow-up punch to the side of Hank's head brought him to one knee.
Hank bounced back to his feet, but his fists were lowered, and he made his movements seem woozy. This time, Manolo took the bait, moving in for the kill.
Take the first punch, Hank told himself. Where it lands doesn't matter. All that matters is that it'll take one of his hands away from his face, and then it's hello nose, goodbye Manolo.
Based on the confidence in Manolo's approach, Hank figured he was used to finishing fights quickly. Right now, he seemed caught up in the familiarity—terrorize them in the first round, polish them off in the second. No need to be as careful. He could indulge himself in a roundhouse punch that anyone could see coming, if they weren't already dazed and ready to fall.
Hank ducked the punch easily, ramming his fist directly into Manolo's nose with all the strength he could muster.
Manolo shrugged it off like it was a mosquito bite, delivering a savage blow to Hank's ear.
Hank saw stars and felt like he might fall, but his hands moved on sheer muscle memory, blocking Manolo's next two hits. He felt a battering ram crash into his ribs again and the bell dinged, ending the second round.
Manolo returned to his corner. His nose looked a bit swollen, and Roberto gave him some nasal spray. Other than that, Manolo looked as calm and confident as he had at the start of the fight.
For his part, Hank felt like he'd been beaten with an aluminum bat and stuffed into a trash compactor.
“I thought you said his nose was his off button,” Hank groaned, taking another gulp from the water bottle.
“It is, it is,” Bull assured him. “He's trying to hide it, but you'll see. The next couple rounds, he'll be like a whole different person, and you can bring The Hammer down on him. Trust me.”
Yeah, sure, Hank thought blearily. Trust the Nazi. Great. I'm a fucking dead man.
He glanced into the crowd and saw Beth standing next to one of the bleachers, looking at him. She was deathly pale, and her eyes looked like they were the size of dinner plates. Hank figured he must look like a real mess, based on her expression.
In that moment, Hank wished he'd stayed home on the anniversary of his family's death. He wished he hadn't followed Beth into that bathroom. He wished he'd ignored that stupid asshole in the bar instead of attacking him. If he could just take back one of those three bad decisions, he'd still be riding with the Warriors with the free wind in his hair, and Beth would still be drinking and telling bad jokes with her uncle.
Maybe he'd have hooked up with Beth eventually, and maybe he wouldn't have. But at least neither of them would be trapped in this insane nightmare today.
The bell dinged again. Round Three.
Hank heaved himself off the stool in the corner and propelled his body forward, expecting another flurry of devastating punches. But Manolo was moving more slowly than he had in the previous rounds. His gloves were hanging lower than they had been, and his steps were unsteady. Hank saw that the muscles in Manolo's face seemed slack, and his eyes were glazed and unfocused.
Well, I'll be a son of a bitch, Hank thought. The shot to the nose worked after all. I've never seen a single punch scramble someone's brain so much, but hey, gift horses and all that.
Now this is for my ribs, you cocksucker.
Hank danced up to Manolo, firing a trio of punches into his sides. He felt one of Manolo's ribs give way under his fist, and expected him to retaliate.
Manolo's eyes rolled over to him blankly, like the eyes of a cow about to be slaughtered. It almost seemed like he didn't recognize Hank, or where they were.
Hank's left hand connected with Manolo's jaw. The huge man grunted loudly, took a step backward, and fell down on his ass in the middle of the ring.
The Warriors and Aryans shrieked like banshees, and DiNovi started to count to ten.
Hank frowned. Something about this felt wrong. There was no way in hell that a fighter like Manolo would suddenly turn into a worthless palooka after just one punch, no matter how sensitive his nose was. He was acting like he was brain damaged.
When DiNovi reached six, Manolo hauled himself off the canvas and staggered to his feet. He tried to lift his gloves to protect his face, but his arms were trembling, as though his fists were lead weights. He shuffled forward like a ninety-year-old.
Hank moved in, tapping him with a few light punches to test him. Manolo reared back and swung, his fist missing Hank's face by at least a foot and a half. He made an anguished sound like a wounded elephant, stumbling forward and almost falling again.
The bell dinged, and the fighters returned to their corners.
“See? What did I tell you?” Bull cawed triumphantly. “You've got him! Just a few more taps in the next round, and he's going down!”
Hank shook his head. “Something's wrong with him.” At the other end of the ring, he saw Roberto chewing out Manolo, who didn't seem to hear a word.
“Damn right there's something wrong with him,” Bull agreed. “He's a wetback who thought he could step into the ring with a white man and win.”
Bull's words turned Hank's stomach, and so did the thought of beating up a man who could barely stand. “No. Something's really wrong. We should stop the fight.”
“You're about to stop the fight. Hard. Now go out there and show him the face of the Master Race.”
Hank felt helpless. His gut was telling him that this would end badly, but he knew he wasn't in any position to go against Bull and throw in the towel. If he was going to survive in here, he had to see this through.
The bell dinged and Hank stood up dutifully, ready to end this.
This time, Manolo didn't even bother to lift his arms. They hung at his sides, swinging like pendulums. His knees were shaking, and his head was moving from side to side, as though he was trying to clear the cobwebs.
Hank stepped up to him and threw a punch at his stomach.
Manolo's entire body began to convulse. The veins in his face and neck stood out, and he was wheezing and choking. He lurched forward and his mouth guard fell out, followed by a torrent of thick, ropy vomit and saliva.
Hank jumped back just as Manolo fell forward onto his face and stopped moving.
There was an uneasy murmur from the crowd as DiNovi crouched next to Manolo, flipping him over onto his back and examining him. After a few moments, DiNovi looked up, his eyes wide.
“He's dead.”
The Aryans erupted into cheers and applause while the Sinners took to their feet, shrieking and cursing and accusing. Hank felt a stab of fear, wondering whether the two factions would simply crash together like tidal waves, tearing each other apart. Could this be enough to start a riot? Jesus, what the hell happened here?
What had he done?