Cholo

I looked around the crowd. About 100 people had gathered for the event. In the last thirty minutes, they’d began to grow restless. I took a drink of beer and looked at Pee Bee. “When’s this supposed to start?”

He shrugged. “Dunno.”

“Should have started about half a fuckin’ hour ago,” Crip said.

“Here before long, every wannabe bad-ass in the crowd will be picking a fight to prove how tough he is,” I said.

I wanted to talk to Pee Bee about Alexandra, but didn’t want to do so in Crip’s presence. We were at a warehouse in Vista, which was 10 miles east of Oceanside, to see a fight between a former Marine and a former Navy SEAL.

As were all bare knuckles fights; the fight was illegal. If they didn’t get it underway quickly, the cops would show up for sure. There were far too many cars and bikes parked outside not to draw attention to the fact that something sketchy was going on.

Kelly Duntz, the half-assed promoter of the majority of bare knuckles fights in the area stepped into the makeshift ring. The area wasn’t really a ring, it was a spot on the concrete floor that had been marked by yellow tape as an area to fight in.

Although rules of similar matches varied – depending on the location and the fighters – the fights that we frequented were nothing more than unorganized fist fights.

Kicking, biting, elbowing, and weapons of any kind were prohibited. The fighter’s hands couldn’t be taped, and there were no gloves allowed. Shirtless and barefoot, the fighters went toe-to-toe and fought until someone was either knocked out or gave up.

Typically, with the types of fighters that fought in underground matches, giving up was out of the question.

“Listen up, fellas. I’ve got bad news,” he said. “Our Navy SEAL, John ‘The Hammer’ Le Brock cracked his wrist in training this afternoon, and isn’t going to make it. So, we’ve got--”

“If he cracked his fucking wrist this afternoon, why’d it take you this fucking long to tell us the fight was off?” Someone shouted from the back of the crowd across from us.

“Yeah,” someone else yelled.

“Just hold on,” Duntz said. “I just found out. I just got a call from one of the guys Le Brock trains with. He thought it wasn’t fractured. Up until about an hour ago, he was still going to fight. On the way here, it started bothering him, and--”

“Bullshit!” someone yelled.

“Crowd’s getting’ restless,” Lefty said.

“Just wait,” I said, looking around the crowd of angry drunken men. “Someone will start shoving people here in a minute.”

“Motherfuckers shove anyone in our direction, and I’ll stomp their ass,” Pee Bee said.

Lefty took a drink of beer, looked at Crip, and shook his head. “Fucking shame. That Marine’s undefeated, and I was hoping that Le Brock fucker’d knock him out. Big bastard reminds me of that guy we saw fight in Tijuana back in the day.”

I had no idea what he was talking about. “Which Marine is it?” I asked.

Oceanside had a Marine base, and the city was littered with Marines, both active duty and retired. It was impossible to knew them all, there were thousands of them.

“That big fucker from the Bronx,” Pee Bee said. “The one they call ‘The Butcher’.”

“Oh.”

The Butcher was pretty well-known in the area. 220 pounds of marine muscle, and he was a boxer before he was a Marine. Declared mentally unfit to continue training with the military due to PTSD, he stuck around Oceanside and drank beer with his fellow brethren, and got into bar fights with anyone dumb enough to fight him.

When he wasn’t fighting bare knuckles matches, he was generally spending the weekend in jail on a battery charge that someone would later drop for fear of repercussion.

“I know this is going to be a big fucking mess,” Duntz shouted, “But unless someone’s willing to step in and fight The Butcher, I’m going to have to set up a table for refunds at the door.”

As the crowd began to boo and hiss at the thought of the night ending early, Pee Bee nudged me. “Fight the fucker, Cholo.”

“Shit,” I said. “I’ve had three beers and a belly full of barbeque. I haven’t got any business fighting anybody.”

“I’ll pay $1,000 to anyone who’ll step up,” Duntz shouted.

“A grand to get your skull busted open,” Lefty said. “Notice none of these beer-bellied pricks are volunteering.”

“Fight his ass, Peeb,” Lefty said.

“Shit,” Pee Bee said. “Maybe in the bar. Not here.”

Pee Bee was as mean as a snake, but there was a big difference between fighting someone who knew how to box, and fighting some random bad-ass in a bar or in an argument. Personally, I wouldn’t want to fight Pee Bee in a bar fight.

Standing in the tape, however, he wouldn’t get a single punch in.

“This is bullshit,” someone screamed. “Fuck you, Duntz!”

A mild shoving match started on the other side of the makeshift ring. As Duntz attempted to calm the men who were arguing, Crip let out a sigh.

“Well, someone’s gonna need to either fight this asshole, or we’re going to have to get out of here. I can see this ending poorly.”

“$2,500,” Duntz shouted. “I’ll give $2,500 to any fighter who’ll step in and--”

I handed Crip my half-full bottle of beer and stepped into the tape. “Make it $5,000.”

“My take’s about $3,000,” he said. “Give or take. I can’t go $5,000. I’ll go $2,750.”

I turned around. “Let’s get outta here.”

“Give the Beaner five grand,” I heard someone shout. “I want to see him get his ass kicked.”

I spun around and glared toward the sound of the voice. Thirty people’s eyes shot to look in another direction.

“Who said that?” I asked.

Silence.

“Which one of you chicken-shit motherfuckers said it?” I asked, spitting the words out as if they tasted like shit. “C’mon. Be a man. Who wants to see him pay the Beaner five grand?”

Nobody said a word.

With boiling blood, I turned toward the fellas. “You see who said that?”

They each shook their head.

“Fuck it,” I said. “Let’s go to Pete’s and get drunk.”

“Sounds good to me,” Crip said.

Crip was another who I’d rather not fight. I’d seen him take on three men in a bar fight and whip all their asses to the ground before they knew what happened. Although movies and T.V. shows made fighting three or four men look like a breeze, it wasn’t. Doing it in real life took someone that was very skilled with their hands and feet that was also able to anticipate each opponent’s next move before he made it.

Crip, being a former Navy SEAL himself, had an uncanny sense of everything that brought danger in his direction.

But, no differently than Pee Bee, he had no business boxing in a match where he couldn’t use his feet.

“Downey!” Duntz shouted.

I turned around. “What?”

“I’ll go four.”

“Fuck you,” I spat, still angry at the asshole who called me a Beaner. “I’m half drunk. $5,000, or we’re leaving.”

When I fought in Duntz’s fights, or in any fights for that matter, I had no nick-name, no road name, and no first name. I simply went by Downey.

He looked around the unruly crowd, and then met my gaze. “Fine. I’ll go five.”

“Holy shit,” Crip said, spitting out a laugh with his words. “You’re going to fight this prick?”

I took off my kutte and handed it to him.

He wrinkled his nose. “Seriously?”

“It’s $5,000 toward a house.” I handed him my hat, and then reached for the hem of my shirt, and shrugged. “I’ve fought a hell of a lot meaner for a hell of a lot less.”

I pulled off my shirt over my head and then tossed it at Pee Bee. “Hold this.”

Duntz raised his hands and turned toward the crowd. “We’ve got a fight!”

He turned to face me. “Downey has agreed to fight The Butcher.”

The crowd cheered.

I stepped into the taped area, did 30 pushups, stood, and then did 30 burpees to loosen up a little. As the crowd began to step away from the tape, I ran in place until my heartrate was elevated.

A man wearing a red sweatshirt stepped into the tape with the big Marine at his side. Slowly, they walked in my direction. Barefoot, and dressed in a pair of red USMC sweats and a gray tee shirt, my opponent didn’t look much bigger than me.

I glared at the Marine. With his eyes locked on mine, he took off his shirt and tossed it aside.

Correction.

He was considerably bigger than me.

It wasn’t going to be an easy $5,000, that was for sure. He was undefeated, I knew that much about him. Other than that, I couldn’t recall having ever seen him fight. After looking him over, I decided I needed to crawl inside his head before we crawled inside the tape.

“Understand why they call you jarheads now,” I growled. “With that high and tight buzz-cut, your nugget looks like the top of a fuckin’ Mason jar.”

“Fuck you,” he spat.

“You know what bikers do after they beat someone’s ass?” I asked.

He glared at me.

“We piss on ‘em.”

His jaw tightened. “Where’d you find this asshole?”

“He’s a regular,” Duntz said.

Butcher shook his head and narrowed his eyes to slits. “Not after tonight.”

“Listen. You’ve both fought in my fights,” Duntz said. “No biting, no kicking, no rabbit punching, neither of you have hair, so we don’t have to worry about hair pulling. If a man hits the floor, step away. I’ll have two men in the tape with you, both will be wearing red hooded sweatshirts. If one of them gives an order to step away, do it. If one of them grabs you, don’t swing at him. If you do, you’ll lose your prize money”

He glanced at each of us. “Both of you ready?”

I reached down and pulled off one of my shoes. “As soon as I get my shoes off.”

“You ready?” he asked Butcher.

He barked a cackle of a laugh. “Roger that.”

I pulled off my shoes, shoved my socks inside of them, and tossed them toward the fellas. Crip gave me a nod and pressed his fist to his chest.

I pressed my fist to my chest in return.

Duntz stepped aside, and one of the two idiots wedged his way between us. He looked at me. “Ready?”

I nodded.

He looked at Butcher. “Ready?”

Butcher nodded. “Roger that.”

He raised his hands in the air and held them in place.

Much different than a conventional boxing match in all respects, there were no bells, no rounds, and no stopping. When he dropped his hands, we simply fought until someone won.

His hands fell. “Fight!”

Everything surrounding me disappeared. There was no warehouse, no crowd, and none of the fellas from the MC. It was me and Butcher, and that was it.

I shifted my left foot forward and took an orthodox stance. His eyes fell to my feet, made note of my right-handed intentions, and he took the same stance. I had no idea if he could fight southpaw, but I knew if I needed to, I could.

I lowered my hands slightly and raised my chin. “I’ll give you one free shot, you big squid.”

I knew he was a Marine, and I further knew calling him a squid, the derogatory term for a Navy Sailor, would piss him off. Based solely on his undefeated record, I needed him as rattled as I could get him.

He took a step toward me. “You dumb fuck. I’m a god damned Marine!”

“One unfit to train, from what I hear,” I said. “Pretty sad when you’re too stupid be a bullet sponge.”

Give me an opening, big boy.

He swung a hard left hook that barely missed my chin. His left side was mine for the taking.

Thank you.

As he recovered from the punch, I swung a right cross that glanced off his left cheek.

His eyes shot wide.

Apparently, he’d either never been hit. Or at least not hard. Getting smacked seemed to really piss him off.

He lowered his chin, tucked his elbows, and began to crowd his way toward me.

Come on, you big dumb, son-of-a-bitch.

I’ve got plenty more for you.

I noticed a drop of blood where my knuckle caught him. If I continued to pound the left side of his face in the same spot, his eye would be closed in no time.

He swung a few jabs that were intended for my face. I dodged most of them, but one glancing punch caught my left shoulder. His hands were quick, he had good form, and his punches had considerable power behind them.

I threw a quick four punch combination to get him on his heels, and give me a little more room to fight. As he stumbled back to avoid the punches, I took a step toward him and swung a right uppercut.

My bare knuckles crashed into the left side of his jaw.

See what you think about that, you big dumb fuck.

The uppercut, at least in my opinion, was my best punch. With me being over 200 pounds and solid muscle, there weren’t many men who could take a solid punch from me and walk away.

Yet.

The punch simply appeared to piss him off.

Fuck.

He came at me, swinging like a mad man. His punches weren’t wild, nor were they haphazardly thrown. They were well-placed and powerful.

After four jabs that I leaned away from, he swung a left hook that caught me in the ribs.

The air shot from my lungs.

Naturally, I tucked my elbows close to my midsection, which lowered my hands.

The next punch caught me straight in the jaw, knocking me three or four steps back. As I shook my head to regain my senses, he swung another hook into my ribs.

Hell, I hadn’t even found my breath since the first punch.

Mother…fucker.

Through my ringing ears, I heard Crip’s unmistakable voice. “Beat that motherfucker’s ass, or turn in your patch, Cholo!”

“Hear that, Cholo?” Butcher taunted. “Your Beaner ass is unfit to be a biker.”

I was one of those people who was accurately described in the old cliché you can dish it out, but you can’t take it. I would talk a mad line of shit to another man, but as soon as anyone said something derogatory to me, I was ready to fight.

And, what he’d said was enough to make my blood boil.

“I’m half Beaner, half Mick, asshole,” I seethed. “And the Irish half of my blood gives me a temper I can’t control.”

I shifted my stance to southpaw, and his eyes shot wide. He glanced at my right side, undoubtedly trying to figure out which was my lead hand, and which was my rear. I threw a quick right jab to catch him off-guard, and then swung a left cross toward his jaw with every ounce of my being.

The punch landed square on his mouth.

I felt his teeth loosen beneath my knuckles.

The crowd cheered.

His eyes went glassy. I had him right where I wanted.

“You can get Uncle Sam to fix those teeth,” I said as he stumbled to catch his footing. “Oh wait. You can’t. They kicked you out for being a dip-shit.”

I swung a wide right hook. The punch crashed into his temple, and spun him halfway around. As the left side of his face became fully exposed, I swung a left hook into his ribs, and then another hard right into his open jaw.

The second punch caused his knees to buckle. He stood before me, wavering, one punch away from his first loss.

Technically, he was out on his feet – standing, but in an unconscious state. I could have stepped aside and let the referee make note of it, or simply waited for him to recover.

Following the Beaner comment, I planned on giving him what I felt he deserved.

I planted my feet firm on the concrete floor, lowered my chin, and took my mind to the day that I found Alexandra in the back room of the dope house. I thought of her standing there, scared and shaking, trying to protect the other girls from harm.

I thought of what they’d done to her, and what they’d taken from her mentally, physically, and emotionally.

My hands reacted in accordance with my thoughts, plastering punch after punch into his thick skull.

My fists pounded into the sides of his face, opening up the cut on his upper cheek. As he slowly melted into a pile on the floor at my feet, my hands followed, pummeling him until he was in a pile of his own blood at my feet.

Two red sweatshirts stepped between us.

“It’s over!” one shouted.

I raised my swollen fists into the air and glanced around the crowd

People were cheering and waving their fists. As they tried to raise Butcher to his feet, the crowd began to cheer.

“Downey! Downey! Downey!”

And, for that short moment, I wasn’t a half-breed, I wasn’t a Mexican, and I wasn’t Irish.

I was simply the man I was supposed to be.

I was me.