Vassili
I traded in my usual sweats or workout attire, for a black suit and coal gray lapel. Zariah chose my outfit, saying it brought out my eyes, whatever the fuck that means. She says they’re gray; I counter they’re black, she says I’m colorblind—and gets the last word. I chose the black square diamonds in my ear, and even got a fresh line up for ESPN.
I’m seated next to the popular MMA newscaster, Alex Brown. A light indicating that we’re ‘On Air’ shines, and there are cameras all along the perimeter. Zariah is seated with her hands over her belly.
Alex mentions a few current fight statistics. Then another screen shows a segment of my last match.
Alex says, “This man needs no introduction. But if you’ve been living under a rock or just new to the UFC world, check out this craziness.”
We both turn in our chairs to watch a combination of clips from my latest TKO’s and submissions.
“Karo, you hit the ground running, offering TKO’s to every fighter brave enough to step into the octagon with you,” Alex addresses me, “Only one loss, early in your career. And I swear, your maturity level has elevated, beautifully. Almost as beautiful as your ‘Rear Naked Choke’, you kill with that! Oh, and the ‘Triangle Choke.’ What’s that saying about you killing ‘em?”
“Killing ‘em softly.” I nod slowly. “I’m a big fan of putting my opponents to sleep.”
“Yes! You’re quite versatile though, offering many brute force TKO’s, as well. I’ve got a theory,” he holds up a hand. “Care to indulge me?”
“I can try.”
“Some of these fighters you obliterate are the ones with the biggest mouths. Can I say that you used to have a big mouth? I won’t get attacked will I?” he jokes.
“Not at all. I’ll admit to being cocky.”
“Now, you have an anaconda grip on the welterweight belt.”
“Hell, yeah. It’s mine until I retire, if God allows it.”
He nods, “Look, back to my theory, you butcher so many fighters who ‘talk’ their way into a card. Except for the one instance with The Hauser; though he had mad words for your ankle when you were in New York promoting that match last May. He ‘bad talked’ your ankle, you stepped into the cage and, man, you strategized. You took hits, he got cocky, you went for the kill. That angle of his,” Alex laughs.
The hot lights are beaming down on me as I nod. “Yeah, was I petty?” I half smile.
“Nah, man. But speaking of fighters who love to bring attention to themselves by ‘verbally’ attempting to bully the champ.” He says. Shit, I know exactly where he’s headed. “There's talk of a certain somebody wanting to fight you, Karo. You’re pretty good at allowing fighters to challenge your belt when they’ve showed real grit, but a certain someone who boasts Mother Russia doesn't believe you deserve the throne.”
“Everyone wants a piece of me.” I try to show interest, but right now I can give a fuck. Zariah does a thumbs up while seated on a stool next to a stationary camcorder.
“Twitter it's blowing up since you've been here, Karo.”
“I don't tweet. But what’s this Twitter saying?” I arch a brow.
“You've got loyal fans. A good following except for one person.” Alex leans forward in his chair to address the camera.
“Let me see what the boy is tweeting,” I respond before the red light cuts. We both turn toward the large screen along the wall, what I was told the viewers would see when we aren’t live. There are scrolls of Tweets. Mostly positive, from fans begging me to put some mudak named ‘Juggernaut’ out of his misery. Then the screen stops on a tweet from the bitch himself. My lips set into a firm line as I read what he wrote. Seriously, that piz’da can come for my head, but to include my wife?
The bright lights shine back down on us again, and Alex addresses me.
“Wow!” he feigns surprise. “Juggernaut’s talking about gift wrapping your balls and sending them home to your wife as an anniversary gift.”
My mouth perches up to one side, and I do my best to be engaging. “Really?”
“Those are fighting words,” Alex eggs.
I rub my knuckles along my clean-shaven jaw. “What's the boy’s stats?”
“Juggernaut isn't the most consistent.”
“That don't sound good so you're saying, he uses his mouth to rise into certain places and positions.” The bitch is about to get knocked down to size.
Alex winces. “It's my job to put it all on the table.”
“Okay, tell ‘em congratulations. He gets ten seconds of fame.”
The newscaster’s eyes pop out. He thinks I played into his desires, well, the bitch mentioned my wife, so he’s got another thing coming. Alex has an overly excited voice while asking, “Can we confirm that you're going to enter the octagon with none other than Nikolai Ukhtomsky, Juggernaut. Three five minute rounds of pure…”
“No, ten seconds. He gets less than a minute of fame. He will be the quickest knockout I've ever done.” I stare at the camera. “Whoever wants to see me knock that (bleep) out that quick, do the tweet thing or whatever?” I pull the microphone from my collar.
“Let’s go to commercial,” I hear a producer say in the background.
Zariah comes from the sideline, waddling over. She’s unaware of my feelings, and I guess I should be happy since her hormonal ass can go from horny to hostile in a moment’s time.
“Aw, Vassili you're so cute, you really don't know much about Twitter do you?”
“Nyet, Yuri—“
“Manages everything,” she sighs. “So you’ll knock him out in less than a minute?”
“Ten motherfucking seconds, baby, that's all this little bitch gets.”
“Good, I hate to see you hit. Lay him out on one hit.”
“When I'm done with that bitch, the coroner will have to scrape him up off the canvass.”
“Can we get some of that—nix the cussing— once we return from commercial?” Alex speaks up.
My head is tilted just so, I glare at him. Good, he backs away, reading me well.
Zariah softly pushes her belly against me. “Play nice. Fighters like Juggernaut can say stupid shit, but you are the champ. People fear you very easily.”
###
“You're scheduled to beat Cordova next. In three weeks, Vassili!” Yuri tells me while pacing around the den of my home later this evening. Even Vadim has joined, he’s seated on the coach nursing a double of vodka as Yuri argues, “Now, we are going to look scared. Why did you agree to that little bitch? Mother Russian, fuck off, with that bullshit. He's from Pasadena.”
“Calm down.” I grab his arms, stopping his tracking over Zariah’s Oriental rug. The nervous shit gets on my nerves as well. “I'll fight Cordova in June as anticipated. Make Juggernaut my first summer fight.”
“You mean the end of summer!”
“Nyet, the beginning.”
“You fight Cordova on June 2nd. So you'll hop your ass back into the cage a few weeks later then?”
“Da.”
“Nyet, no you won't,” Vadim speaks up, placing the empty glass onto the table beside the couch. “Too soon, Vassili. What will your wife think?”
I almost glance down the hall. Zariah’s in our bedroom consulting on a case that she transferred to another member at Billingsley Law after going on maternity leave a few days ago. I glare at them, to stop their loud ranting.
“Oh, should I shut up? My niece—your daughter—is due at the end of June,” Yuri pokes me. “One month between a match is too soon. You’re not a rookie anymore, Vassili. You’re the motherfucking champ.”
“I'll train for Cordova. The very next week I will break Nikolai Ukhtomsky’s neck! No training required, I won't even sweat.” I issue a forearm punch, then use the other hand to slam into the hard bone. “Easy.”
“Make it August,” Vadim says.
“And hear that bitch talk?” Yuri shakes his head. He places a hand at the back of my neck and looks me in the eye. “Vassili, you are Anatoly’s son. Fuck what you're going through. We cannot have that mudak insulting you on social media. Juggernaut keeps mentioning Russia, people will forget that this is all promo talk.”
“Anatoly could give a shit about me right now,” I mumble. Grigor’s comment about Anatoly’s illness has me rubbing the back of my neck.
“But you're blood,” Vadim cuts in. “Anatoly may hear of it and shut Juggernaut up the good ol’ fashion way. No refs. No MMA rules or regulations.”
“Okay, the end of June it is,” I tell them.
Vadim sniggers. “Hopefully, he has to close his cunt long enough to practice.”
We all laugh.