Kurt
Kurt 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 Rodrigo.
Many of Kurt'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 Kurt, 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 Rodrigo 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, Kurt could see Rodrigo was a patient, canny, well-trained boxer.
For the first time since he'd agreed to this fight, Kurt started to worry about its outcome. Luring Rodrigo into coming at him swinging wouldn't work. Outlasting him probably wouldn't, either. Kurt 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 Kurt tried to focus, he could hear the voices of Hawkeye, Bear, and the rest of the Dogs and Aryans, all jeering at him for hesitating.
A grim realization dawned on Kurt: It wasn't enough to accept this challenge, or even to win it. In order to earn the respect and protection of the White Brothers, he'd have to look good doing it, to boost the gang's rep in River Oak. He wasn't sure if he'd be able to do that.
And Rodrigo was still waiting with narrowed eyes, as though he were reading all of Kurt's thoughts from a billboard on his forehead. Rodrigo's rep was already solid, while Kurt had everything to lose.
Fuck it, Kurt thought. May as well go for it.
He approached Rodrigo suddenly, hoping it would throw him off after waiting for so long. But Rodrigo's left connected with Kurt's stomach before he could even see the punch, and a split-second later, Kurt 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 Kurt raised his arms to protect his face. But Rodrigo was way ahead of him, getting under Kurt's arms to pummel his defenseless ribs and abdomen. The breath was pushed out of Kurt'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 Kurt was alone in the center of the ring. Rodrigo was already sitting in his corner, his inscrutable brown eyes locked on Kurt.
Kurt shuffled back to his own corner. Hawkeye was waiting for him, and Kurt expected him to cuss him out when he got there. Instead, Hawkeye handed him the water bottle, patting him on the shoulder as he drank from it.
“You're doing good in there, pal,” Hawkeye 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,” Kurt replied. “Got it.”
If I can even get a punch in, he thought.
The bell dinged again.
Rodrigo was all over Kurt before he even realized he'd stood up. Three more body shots, breaking a couple of ribs that were already bruised. Kurt 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 Rodrigo was counting on. A follow-up punch to the side of Kurt's head brought him to one knee.
Kurt bounced back to his feet, but his fists were lowered, and he made his movements seem woozy. This time, Rodrigo took the bait, moving in for the kill.
Take the first punch, Kurt 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 Rodrigo.
Based on the confidence in Rodrigo's approach, Kurt 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.
Kurt ducked the punch easily, ramming his fist directly into Rodrigo's nose with all the strength he could muster.
Rodrigo shrugged it off like it was a mosquito bite, delivering a savage blow to Kurt's ear.
Kurt saw stars and felt like he might fall, but his hands moved on sheer muscle memory, blocking Rodrigo's next two hits. He felt a battering ram crash into his ribs again and the bell dinged, ending the second round.
Rodrigo returned to his corner. His nose looked a bit swollen, and Roberto gave him some nasal spray. Other than that, Rodrigo looked as calm and confident as he had at the start of the fight.
For his part, Kurt 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,” Kurt groaned, taking another gulp from the water bottle.
“It is, it is,” Hawkeye 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 out The Knight. Trust me.”
Yeah, sure, Kurt thought blearily. Trust the Nazi. Great. I'm a fucking dead man.
He glanced into the crowd, and saw Sarah 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. Kurt figured he must look like a real mess, based on her expression.
In that moment, Kurt wished he'd stayed home on the anniversary of his family's death. He wished he hadn't followed Sarah 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 Dogs with the free wind in his hair, and Sarah would still be drinking and telling bad jokes with her uncle.
Maybe he'd have hooked up with Sarah 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.
Kurt heaved himself off the stool in the corner and propelled his body forward, expecting another flurry of devastating punches. But Rodrigo 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. Kurt saw that the muscles in Rodrigo's face seemed slack, and his eyes were glazed and unfocused.
Well, I'll be a son of a bitch, Kurt 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.
Kurt danced up to Rodrigo, firing a trio of punches into his sides. He felt one of Rodrigo's ribs give way under his fist, and expected him to retaliate.
Rodrigo'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 Kurt, or where they were.
Kurt's left hand connected with Rodrigo's jaw. The huge man grunted loudly, took a step backward, and fell down on his ass in the middle of the ring.
The Dogs and Aryans shrieked like banshees, and London started to count to ten.
Kurt frowned. Something about this felt wrong. There was no way in hell that a fighter like Rodrigo 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 London reached six, Rodrigo 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.
Kurt moved in, tapping him with a few light punches to test him. Rodrigo reared back and swung, his fist missing Kurt's face by at least a foot and a half. He made an anguished sound like a wounded elephant, stumbling forward, almost falling again.
The bell dinged, and the fighters returned to their corners.
“See? What did I tell you?” Hawkeye cawed triumphantly. “You've got him! Just a few more taps in the next round, and he's going down!”
Kurt shook his head. “Something's wrong with him.” At the other end of the ring, he saw Roberto chewing out Rodrigo, who didn't seem to hear a word.
“Damn right there's something wrong with him,” Hawkeye agreed. “He's a wetback who thought he could step into the ring with a white man and win.”
Hawkeye's words turned Kurt'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.”
Kurt felt helpless. His gut was telling him that this would end badly, but he knew he wasn't in any position to go against Hawkeye, and throw in the towel. If he was going to survive in here, he had to see this through.
The bell dinged and Kurt stood up dutifully, ready to end this.
This time, Rodrigo 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.
Kurt stepped up to him and threw a punch at his stomach.
Rodrigo'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.
Kurt jumped back just as Rodrigo fell forward onto his face and stopped moving.
There was an uneasy murmur from the crowd as London crouched next to Rodrigo, flipping him over onto his back and examining him. After a few moments, London 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. Kurt 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?