Jude
If there’s one thing guaranteed to get your blood pumping in this life, it’s a cocktail of whisky and bare-knuckle boxing.
I feel the whisky in my bloodstream, making me reckless, making me not give a damn. I savor the sensation, feeling invincible. All around me, the crowd is cheering. The crowd filled with hungry-eyed bastards from a hungry life, eager to get their fill of bloodshed for the night, before slinking off to the strip clubs and bars and squatter’s houses where they can lose themselves all over again in drink or drugs. One man doesn’t wait so long. As I leap back in the circle, I see him between my raised arms, pushing a mound of powder around on the back of his hand and then, in one quick snort, vacuuming it all up.
I focus on my opponent. He’s a big man, at least twice my size, but that doesn’t bother me much. I learnt a long time ago that big men fall just as easy as little ones when you catch them right. Just got to find the right angle, the right amount of power. Just go to reach deep into that killer’s place and show them what’s what. A tall, wide vending machine of a man, ugly as all hell with a ten-time broken nose, all mangled and twisted.
We stand at opposite ends of the circle. The crowd screams:
“Get him!”
“End him!”
“Knock him out cold!”
“Do him!”
“Take him!”
“Fuck him up!”
Anybody’s guess as to who they’re cheering for, and against. Doubt even they know themselves. They just want blood.
The man squints at me. He’s not calm. I can tell that right away. A calm man’s lips wouldn’t tremble. A calm man’s hands wouldn’t shake. A calm man’s chest wouldn’t rise and fall so dramatically. No, this man’s feeling the pressure. And that’s a damn good thing, because I never feel pressure. Easygoing, even when it comes to blood. Easygoing and carefree. Life’s more fun that way.
“Come on, you prick,” the man grumbles, lumbering toward me. “Come on. Come and get it.”
“You that eager to spend the night in the hospital, eh?”
My tone pisses him off. He flinches, as though my words hit just as hard as my punches.
“Cocky bastard,” he hisses.
“Yep.” I grin at him sideways. “This is one cocky bastard who’s about to show you what it means to be put on your back.”
The man growls through gritted teeth, spraying spit everywhere.
He charges.
He comes at me like a bull at full tilt, no patience, no practice, no strategy apart from the desire to cave my skull in. I watch, his charging form made hazy by the whisky surging through my body, and then, at the last moment, I weave aside. He charges straight into the crowd, is thrown back in by pushing hands, and launches himself at me. I’ve been in so many fights, sometimes it’s like time slows down. But sometimes, even time slowing down doesn’t do a bit of good. Too much whisky . . .
The man’s giant fist catches me cleanly under the chin, knocking my head at such a severe angle that the back of my skull touches my shoulder blades. The rest of my body follows, flipping over. I land in a heap, grunt, and try to rise. Dizzy, dammit. I stumble again. I look up with hazy eyes and see the vending-machine fucker at the other end of the circle, arms raised, lapping up the cheering like a cat at an all-you-can-drink milk buffet.
My gaze snaps around when she emerges from the crowd. What the . . . Maybe it’s the whisky or the blow to the head, but she looks like an angel. I’m not one for that sentimental shit, not since my first love turned into a junkie, was shipped away by her family, not since Mom and Dad drowned to death because I was too damn weak. No, that sentimental stuff isn’t for me. But this girl . . . Is she really an angel? My drunk mind wonders.
She walks timidly into the circle and kneels beside me. She’s young, probably a few years younger than me, nineteen or twenty, and breakable-looking. Looks like she’d shatter if she tripped. Her hair is long and flowing, red like fire, and her eyes are enormous saucers of green, the sort of eyes that seem to invite a man in. She wears a modest shirt and pants, not one inch of skin showing, and around her neck is a small, gold cross.
She takes me by the arm and before I register what’s happened, this angel has helped me to my feet.
Maybe I’m not thinking too clearly, but with this good luck charm right in front of me, I can’t resist.
I lean in and steal a kiss, full on the mouth. She’s caught unawares and for a few moments, she kisses me back. I feel it, I hear her soft moaning even over the gasping of the crowd. Then something in her triggers and she takes a step back, forehead creased, eyes burning in confusion and outrage. She shoves me hard in the chest.
I stumble back, away from the angel, and spin as I fall. The momentum of her shove sends me right across the circle into the vending-machine fucker. Never one to waste a golden opportunity, I aim my fist as I fly. He yelps, but it’s too late. My fist pounds into the side of his head. A sound like cracking wood fills the arena for a moment. Then the crowd erupts into cheers. The man falls boneless to the floor.
I go to the other end of the circle, arms above my head.
Then I watch in disbelief as the angel who helped me to my feet walks across the circle and kneels next to my opponent, making as if to help him to his feet.
Who is this woman? I think, intrigued despite myself.