RIPP. “So, who’s Kane got set up?’ Dekk hollered as I pulled the car into the stall beside the entrance.

I shut off the engine before I tried to respond.

“Some fucker who moved here from Dallas. Not sure what his name is. The kid ran an ad on Craigslist. Said he was the baddest motherfucker in Texas. I beg to differ,” I laughed as I pulled the keys out of the ignition.

The facility in Rundberg was a metal building on a concrete slab originally built for use as a storage facility. There were six parking stalls beside the front door reserved for fighters. Any question about parking in the premium spots was quickly squelched by the signs attached to the building in front of each stall. As I opened the door of the car to step out, I smiled and re-read the sign.

As I shut the door I shook my head and smiled at Dekk over the top of the car. As I heard the entrance door swing open, I turned to face the building

“I figured it was you. Felt the fuckin’ walls shakin’. How’s it hangin’ Ripp?” Kane asked as he walked my direction and held out his hand.

“Like a fuckin’ hammer, Kane. You remember Dekk?” I asked as I shook his hand and motioned toward Dekk with my free hand.

“The man behind the hoodie. Fuck, who don’t know this cool cat? Mr. Dekkar,” Kane said as he nodded toward Dekk.

“I get a how’s it hangin’ Ripp and Dekk gets a Mr. fucking Dekkar? Who makes you all your money, you fucking midget?” I growled as I locked the car.

“Now, come on Ripp. I told you about calling me a midget. You gotta stop that shit,” Kane complained.

“Well, you barely clear my belt,” I laughed as I pulled my toothpick from my mouth.

Kane was in his mid-thirties, and about five foot five. He was very muscular and pretty tough for his size, but he was still only five foot five. He claimed to be five foot seven, but he wasn’t even close. Five foot five on his best day was more accurate. When he pissed me off, I would react by calling him a midget. As with most short men, he had a complex. To be brutally honest, if he was a midget I wouldn’t talk to him. I fully understood I didn’t quite comply with a politically correct world’s expectation, but clowns, midgets and people in wheelchairs freaked me the fuck out. I couldn’t be in the presence of any of them. Not even for a second.

“Seriously, Ripp,” Kane whined.

As he ran his hand through his short curly hair, I stepped toward the entrance.

“I’m just fucking with ya, Kane. So who’s the kid?” I sighed as I pulled the door open and motioned for Kane and Dekk to walk in.

Kane put his hand against the outside of the door and tried to push it closed as he looked down at my shoes momentarily. As he glanced upward, a worried look washed over his face. I raised one eyebrow in an exaggerated fashion and looked at him as I let go of the handle and pushed the door closed. I stepped beside the doorway as he began to speak.

“This kid, Ripp,” Kane paused and inhaled.

“He isn’t here yet. He’ll be here, I’m sure. But let me tell you, he talks pretty fuckin’ crazy. I met him at the BAT Bar the other day. He’s a wiry fucker; made of long lean muscle. He’s as tall as you and I’d say probably thirty pounds lighter. But let me tell you, he’s intense. I won’t even tell you what all he said,” Kane looked down at my feet as he finished speaking.

I leaned against the building and shook my head. “You can’t say you’ll never believe what else he said and then not tell me, you little fucker,” I chuckled.

Dekk pressed his hands into his pockets and leaned against the building, smiling. I looked at Dekk, turned back toward Kane and raised both eyebrows – attempting to get all of his attention. At first I felt like Kane was trying to get me riled up. But after looking into his eyes, he now looked truly worried about something.

“Speak, smidge,” I growled as I stared into his eyes.

“Well, you know he ran the ad on Craigslist, right?” Kane asked.

I nodded as I wiped my sweaty hands onto my cargo shorts. I couldn’t wait to see what he had to say about this twerp.

“Well, he says nobody can whip him. Hell, everyone either says or thinks that; until they get whipped,” Kane paused and took a slow breath.

“He can be whipped,” I laughed as I shook my head.

There had to be more to it than this.

“Well, don’t get mad at me, okay?” Kane pleaded.

“Kane you little fucker. Say whatever you gotta say,” I shook my head and looked at Dekk, who still leaned against the building smiling a shitty little smile.

“He said he was going to whip your ass. And when he was done, he was going to…” Kane paused again and inhaled a choppy breath.

It was apparent Kane was truly nervous to tell me whatever he had to say. I felt my temperature rise a few degrees. I reached up with my right hand and wiped the sweat from my smooth scalp. Kane was always theatrical, kind of a little actor of sorts. He always told really dramatic stories and used his hands when he spoke. Part of his sales ability, I suppose. Waiting for him to blurt out the rest of this story was about to exhaust me. As my patience wore considerably thin, the sound of a loud exhaust from a car caused me turn to face the street.

A black Ford Mustang turned the corner, downshifted and revved the engine. Without braking or slowing down, it maneuvered into the drive and shot through the lot - downshifting again. As it quickly approached the stall beside the Chevelle, I straightened my stance and rolled my shoulders nervously. Dekk leaned forward, pulled his hands from his pockets and rubbed the sides of his head as he glanced in the direction of the Mustang.

“That’s him,” Kane half-whispered.

I turned to face Kane. The stereo of the Mustang was loud enough I could feel it. Head-banging heavy metal played loud enough the windows of the car vibrated as he parked beside the Chevelle. I turned from facing the building, looked to my right over the top of the Chevelle, and then back toward Kane.

“What else did he say?” I growled.

Kane rolled his eyes and shrugged his shoulders. I rubbed my right clenched fist in my left palm. This was a tell-tale nervous habit I had when I got angry. I felt myself begin to sweat as Kane stared silently into my eyes.

“Don’t make me embarrass you, you little midget. What did he say?” I grunted through my clenched teeth.

Kane lowered his shoulders, slowly turned his head and looked toward the Mustang as the driver shut off the engine.

“He said after he whipped your ass he was going to butt fuck you to teach you a lesson,” he turned and nervously looked up into my eyes.

“Are you fucking kidding?” I howled laughing.

“Shhhh,” Kane whispered.

“You hear that, Dekk?” I laughed as I turned to face Dekk.

Dekk had moved away from the wall, and was now standing on the other side of my car as he waited for the driver of the Mustang to get out. The safety of my car was as important to Dekk as it was to me. As Dekk looked at the Mustang intently, I turned to face Kane and shook my head in disbelief.

“Twenty-five hundred, right?” I asked.

“Huh?” Kane responded nervously.

“Twenty-five hundred. That’s my take after I knock this punk out?” I raised my eyebrows again, paused and spit my tooth pick on the ground.

“Uhhm. Well, it’s actually up to thirty-four,” Kane responded as he turned to face Shane.

I heard the doors of the Mustang open.

“His name?”

“Goes by Monkey,” Kane responded.

“No shit? Monkey?” I chuckled softly as I rubbed my right fist into my palm.

“Oh fuck. You must be him,” I heard an unfamiliar voice say from the behind me.

I turned my head to face the rear of my car. Shit for brains was standing behind it in swishy pants and a wife-beater. He was bent at the waist, reading the personalized license plate of my car.

“Rippin’ it. The fucking Ripper,” he said as he looked at the license plate.

Two women stood with him, one on each side. Both were wearing black dresses which looked like they were painted on. Dekk was a good ten feet behind him, his hood over his head and his hands now pressed deep into in his pockets.

RIPPNIT was the personalized plate on the Chevelle. I felt it fit the car, me and my personality. When I drove the car, I was always ripping around. And me just being me? I’m Mike fucking Ripton, and I’m always Rippin’ it.

As Monkey’s hand reached for the trunk of the car, I rotated my body to face him. I spread my legs shoulder width apart, cracked my knuckles on my palms and stared. I reached up to my mouth, and realized I’d already spit out my toothpick. Without really thinking, I unbuckled my G-Shock and held it to my side.

“Hold this,” I grunted at Kane.

“Ripp. We need to…” Kane said excitedly.

“Take the fuckin’ watch,” I growled as I focused on Monkey-boy’s hand hovering over the trunk lid of the car.

“You’re not gonna want to touch that car, Monkey,” I tilted my head from side to side and popped my neck as I focused on his hands.

Both of his girls turned and looked at him as I spoke. His actions and response would tell me a lot about who this kid was as a person. As professional fighters, we’re all one person in the ring, and another person out of the ring. All the shit talking in the world can happen in the ring or in the building we’re fighting in while we’re in the fight. After the fight is over, the shit-talking stops. Fighters respect other fighters no different than cops respect other cops. This kid wasn’t a professional fighter, but he damn sure should know the code.

As he leaned forward and placed both his hands on the trunk of my car, I felt my cock twitch.

Everyone has their tell-tale signs. Some people sweat, some shake, and some have a hard time speaking. When we reach the point we know there’s an imminent threat - that something is going to happen - we all have a glitch. Mine is my cock twitching.

And my cock is never wrong.

I could hear voices behind me, but I couldn’t make sense of them. I saw Dekk slowly walk around behind Monkey and the girls, staying a good fifteen feet or so away from them. As my hearing went out of focus, I began to hear a buzzing sound.

Another glitch.

“Take your hands off the trunk of my car, and let’s go inside and get this over with,” I sighed as I tried to maintain my mental posture.

Letting this kid get me off my game was just what he wanted. I wasn’t about to let that happen.

His hands still on the trunk, he turned to face me and smiled.

The distance between where he stood and where I was standing was probably twenty five feet. There was no way he could rush me and get a punch in without me reacting. I reached down and grabbed the bottom of my shirt with both hands and quickly pulled it over my head.

“Hold this,” I said as I held my left hand out to my side, my shirt wadded up in my fist.

Monkey’s eyes couldn’t contain his surprise. He lifted his hands from the trunk and straightened his stance. He was probably just north of six feet tall, and roughly a hundred and ninety pounds. I was in as good of shape as I had ever been, and weighed two hundred and thirty pounds. Austin was a huge city, and in my daily travels throughout the city I rarely ever encountered anyone as big as I was from a muscular size standpoint. I was that big. From the look on his girl’s faces, they liked what they were seeing just as much as he didn’t like it.

“No need to get mad, big boy,” the sound of his voice was an irritating squeak.

“I’m not mad,” I paused and rolled my shoulders, “yet.”

I motioned toward the door.

“Let’s get this over with,” I said sharply and slowly.

Knowing Dekk would keep Monkey-boy off of my car and from jumping on my back, I turned toward the door. Taking this shit in the building was in everyone’s best interest. The people inside bet money on the match, and in a sense they paid to see what was going to happen. Kane’s place had very few rules, but they were strict: only by invitation, no loitering, no fighting by outsiders and no going in and out of the facility. After you arrived, you remained inside the facility until the fight or fights were over. It kept unwanted attention down to a minimum. Although the cops had a good idea of what typically happened, there was no sense bringing unwanted attention to Kane or the facility.

Kane followed as I walked through the door. I looked up and made note of thirty or so people gathered around talking. Wearing cargo shorts, Chuck’s, and no shirt, almost everyone stopped talking as soon as they looked in my direction. I wasn’t new to the facility, and most of the faces were familiar. On and off, I had been fighting in Kane’s facility for ten years, and to date I had never lost a fight. Monkey boy would have the people wondering about his ability, but I would be the crowd favorite for sure.

I quickly walked to the center of the floor, onto the mat and turned to face the door. As I waited for Monkey to come in, I touched my toes a few times and stretched. Fucking and fighting were two things which made me happier than anything. Knocking this punk out would be nearly as satisfying as getting laid, maybe just a little more. Knocking him out and taking one of his girls home with me would be even better. Knocking him out and taking both of them home with me would be like hitting the fucking trifecta.

“I appreciate you bringing this inside,” Kane said nervously.

“It’s all good,” I responded as I stared at Monkey and his two girls.

“You alright?” Kane asked.

“I got this,” I laughed as I raised my hands over my head.

The building had an open floor plan with very few amenities. A complimentary keg of beer in the back corner was Kane’s offering to the group. In the center of the floor were martial arts style folding foam mats forming a fighting surface about sixteen feet by sixteen feet. Standing on the mat, I began to shadow box as I waited for Monkey. As he reached the edge, he pointed to an opening in the crowd and snapped his fingers sharply. Almost immediately, the two girls at his side walked to where he had pointed and stood.

What a douche bag. Oh yeah. I’m going to enjoy whipping this kid.

As the girls turned to face us, I noticed one was blonde and one was a brunette. Hair color aside, they could have been twins. Monkey-boy pulled off his wife-beater and handed it to the blonde, who smiled as she reached to grab the dingy shirt. I watched in awe as he reached down and removed his shoes. Now standing barefoot and in swishy pants, he began to swing round house kicks over the height of his head.

What the fuck?

The difference between a good martial artist and a good boxer is the difference between night and day. A good martial artist will have predictable fluid like patterns, and will fight with a more artistic style. Fluidity and form are important. Years of practice of the same movements and motions make the martial arts fighting style, to an observant outsider, almost predictable. Boxers tend to adjust more to the advancements of their opponent. A typical boxer, however, isn’t prepared for someone to attempt to kick them in the head.

I’m not a typical boxer.

As Dekk stepped to the edge of the mat, he pulled his hood over his head and smiled.

“You alright, Ripp?” he chuckled as he watched the Monkey-boy do a back flip.

“I got this,” I nodded affirmatively as I twisted my body from side to side, popping my back.

Although it was pretty damned entertaining watching this kid do his Bruce Lee imitation, I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of feeling I had any interest in paying attention to his Kung Fu horse shit. I continued to stretch and look beyond him and into the crowd. Putting his hands on my car was uncalled for and disrespectful. In some respects, it was no different than the boxers who talk a mad line of shit at the press conference before the match. It’s one guy trying to get the other off of his game. An intimidation tactic.

I couldn’t be intimidated.

By anyone.

“Ok, fella’s,” Kane’s speaking caught me off guard.

Kane motioned for the primate to stop with the bouncing around and pay attention. As Monkey worked his way to the center of the mat, Kane began to speak again.

“If I blow this whistle, everything stops,” Kane held the whistle up which hung from his neck as he glanced at both of us.

“You know what’s acceptable. Just so there’s no confusion, there are no rounds, and no breaks. Tapping the mat three times is a forfeit. That or being knocked out. If you’re still standing and you want to forfeit, wave your arms over your head like your trying to get a plane to land on the deck of a fucking aircraft carrier. There will be no biting, and no gouging, understood?” Kane looked at Monkey-boy and then turned to face me.

I nodded my head sharply.

Monkey nodded affirmatively toward Kane and turned to face me. He attempted his best means of forming an angry scowl on his face.

I smiled, slowly puckered my lips, and winked at Monkey.

Different fighters have different techniques or styles. Mohammed Ali, for instance, allowed his opponents to beat on him without repercussion, for rounds on end. Eventually, he would conquer each and every one of them after they wore tired. Ali had an odd style combined with tremendous finesse and talent. Micky Ward allowed his opponents to beat on him until he saw his opening. Micky was just plain tough. A killer left hook to the body was his signature punch - and every one of his opponents worst nightmare. Micky would wait as long as he had to, and upon seeing the opening would instantly crush his challenger with one punch - the signature left hook.

I’ve always fought a more conventional style. I protect myself and allow my opponent to come to me early in the fight. After a few minutes, I determine his patterns and reactions to my advancements. I, not unlike Micky Ward, wait for my opening. My opening, however, is anywhere I have a place to punch. My hand speed and an uncanny knack of seeing a punch coming a second before it’s thrown is what’s allowed me to remain, for the most part, undefeated.

Fucking Dekkar.

Kane stepped from the mat and gave his whistle a short tweet, indicating it was show time.

Alright bouncy boy, let’s see what you got.

Monkey stepped to me quickly. As his right shoulder faded back, I prepared for a left jab to come. What happened wasn’t near what I expected. His hands remained held close to his face, and I quickly threw a quick left jab to feel him out. Immediately, my open left side was promptly filled with Monkey’s size twelve foot. As his right foot contacted my jaw and chin, he threw a well telegraphed left jab. The punch glanced off the right side of my neck.

His punches were slow and his feet were fast.

Most fighters don’t like being hit.

I fucking love it.

Come on, Monkey-boy. Bring that shit.

He took a step back with his left leg, and kept his right foot planted. I stepped forward with my right foot and threw a left hook to his ribs - Micky Ward style. As with most street fighters, he was in no way prepared for my quickness. Monkey was used to slow, tough, predictable street fighters with minimal speed. As he lowered his right elbow to cover his now sore ribs, I raised my punches and unleashed a lightning-fast three piece on his pretty face.

“How’d that feel, you fucking punk?” I huffed as I landed my last punch.

His face was covered with an oh shit what the fuck did I get myself into look I had seen a few hundred times. Fighting out of the boxing ring - where there were no rules - is where I have always belonged. I was a lot of different things to a lot of different people, but in a bare knuckles match, I was just plain motherfucking mean.

Talking while trying to fight in a boxing match is nearly impossible. A boxer’s mouthpiece prevents much speaking at all. Grunting is about all that’s possible. Bare knuckles matches had always been my favorite, because I could talk shit to whoever I was fighting.

And talking big shit was part of who I was.

“What’s your blood type?” I growled as I stepped back and let him recover from the punches.

“What?” he brushed his mouth with the back of his hand and drew back blood.

Knowing what I know about my speed, style, and ability to be beaten on without being hurt, I knew the fight was all but over. I could have knocked the kid out in the amount of time it took him to wipe the blood from his mouth. I took two steps back and glanced at Dekk as Monkey looked at the back of his hand again.

Dekk dropped his hood to his shoulders and smiled his slow Shane Dekkar smile. As the edges of his mouth curled upward, I winked. Dekk shook his head slowly and nodded, giving me the go ahead.

“Your blood type. You know it?” I asked again as I threw a quick combination into the air - just showing off for the crowd.

I heard a few get him Ripp and fuck him up Ripp’s from the crowd. Nice to hear, but I didn’t need the inspiration. I needed thirty-four hundred fuckin’ bucks. There was a pair of Ed Hardy Chuck’s in the mall had my name on them, and I needed to go shopping.

“What the fuck does that have to do with anything?” Monkey asked as he started bouncing again.

“Because I intend to make you bleed, boy. You might want one of your girls,” I paused and threw two slow left jabs to get him to react.

“To call the hospital,” I threw a right uppercut that caught the left side of his jaw.

“And get a pint on the ready,” I smiled.

As his right shoulder faded backward, I knew what he had planned next. I stepped into his right, not allowing him to have distance between me and his right foot. A right cross to his shoulder got him to drop his left hand a little.

A little, but just enough for my hand to squeak by.

A left jab, follow up left hook to his ribs, and a right cross to the chin ended the fight quick. His eyes went glassy as soon as the right contacted his chin. He was dazed, and he was done, but he wasn’t knocked out. His pride and the two girls screaming wouldn’t allow him to forfeit the fight willingly. Without an ounce of thought, the heartless part of me took over. I grabbed the sides of his face in my hands, squeezed his head, tilted my head back and looked at the ceiling.

I growled loudly.

Head-butting a guy in a boxing match isn’t allowed. Intentionally doing it will get points taken away, and over time will cause the boxer to be placed on a list of fighters which no one would want to fight. It was a matter of respect and adherence to the rules which prevented most boxers from ever doing it.

But I wasn’t in a fuckin’ boxing match.

I thrust my head forward as hard as I could and smashed the top of it into his face. As I felt his nose crush under my skull, I raised my head and head-butted him again. The second time was for touching my Chevelle.

And threatening to butt fuck me.

The screeching sound of Kane’s whistle reminded me it was time to stop. I let go of his head, raised my hands and screamed.

“Who’s fucking next?” I screamed as I raised my hands in the air.

“No takers?” I shouted as I looked around the room.

“God damn it Ripp. Did ya have to do that,” Kane asked as he pointed at Monkeys face.

I rubbed my knuckles and looked down at Monkey. I’ve never been disgusted by blood, but looking at him was every bit of disgusting. He was bleeding profusely from his nose and mouth as Kane wiped his face with a towel. I looked up at the two girls who accompanied him to the fight – now standing beside Dekk in a little group.

“Well,” I said as I winked at the blonde and flexed my chest muscles.

“He shouldn’t have been such a dick. And he touched the Chevelle, Kane,” I sighed as I rubbed the top of my head.

Kane held pressure on Monkey’s nose with the towel. As he looked up, he shook his head lightly from side to side. His pursed lips slowly moved to a smirk, followed by an exaggerated eye roll.

“Good job, Ripp. Twist has your money and your shirt. I’m gonna be with this kid for a bit, he’s pretty fucked up,” Kane said as he shifted his gaze toward Monkeys face.

“I’ll see The Twist then. Thanks boss,” I said softly.

“Dekk, you ready? And you girls needin’ a ride? Your boy’s kinda fucked up,” I shouted across the mat toward where Dekk stood as I pointed down at Monkey.

I walked across the mat in the direction of the group. As Dekk pulled his hood over his head, the blonde smiled as I approached. She attempted unsuccessfully to hide it as I got closer.

Now that’s what I’m talkin’ ‘bout. Fightin’ and fuckin’ in the same night.

“So, you girls needin’ a ride? I’m gonna guess Monkey will be at the hospital for a bit. Name’s Mike Ripton, friends call me Ripp,” as I spoke I reached for the blonde’s hand.

Holding her hand out, she smiled. The brunette did her best to appear uninterested and disgusted by my presence. As her hand slid into my palm, I gently raised it to my mouth and kissed the back side.

“So, what brings you girls to Austin?” I asked as I released her hand.

“We live here. He put an ad on Craigslist and wanted two girls to come with him to the fight. I’m Barbee with two E’s. This is my sister, Brandee. Same way,” she giggled as she nervously twisted her hips.

I nodded at Brandee and smiled.

Sisters.

Sunday dinner, knocking out a fuckmuffin, and fuckin’ sisters, all in one day.

I closed my eyes and said a quick prayer.

God, if you’re listening, he did touch the Chevelle. He deserved it. Can you help a brother out on some sisters?

I opened my eyes, glanced at Dekk and winked. As he pushed his hands further into his hoodie pockets, he slowly shook his head. Dekk didn’t speak much, but he didn’t have to. My lifestyle, or at least portions of it, disgusted him. I didn’t take advantage of women, and I never hurt them, but I sure fucked the shit out of them if they’d let me. Dekk wasn’t one to agree with me about a woman’s desire to be shoved full of cock. I always told ‘em up front what I wanted, and if they agreed…

“Well, I need to go get my shirt at the manager’s office, and I’m ready to get out of here,” I focused on Barbee’s blue eyes, which were glued to mine.

“If you girls need a ride, I’ll gladly offer one. I’m going to tell you up front, there are two things I’m good at on a Sunday night,” I paused and alternated glances between Barbee and Brandee.

“Fightin’ and fuckin’. And when I leave here I ain’t headed to another fight,” I chuckled.

Slowly, Barbee slid her arm around my right elbow, gripped it with her hand, turned to her sister, and nodded. Almost immediately, Brandee walked to my left side and slipped her hand around my lower bicep.

I took a shallow breath, exhaled, turned to face Dekk and mouthed the only words that fit the fucked up situation.

Fuck yes.