For the first time in a long time, I genuinely felt good after a weigh-in. There was not a shred of doubt in my mind that this was an opponent I could handle. I had seen him fight before, which was far from worrying in and of itself. To top it off, he had clearly overdone his training, trying to cut down his weight too far too fast and paying for it in strength and power. My past few fights had been difficult, including a truly humiliating loss. Thankfully, that was in the past, and I was solidly back on my feet with hard-won prize money.
My lifestyle is only possible in this city. In the underworld, the kind of fighting I do makes for a very popular gambling event. Unlike boxing, what I do for my living is not even close to legal. Professional mixed martial arts have long been illegal in this country, and even if it were within the bounds of the law, the gambling that makes it possible would almost certainly not be. Crime lords of all stripes support, bribe, dope, and, most importantly, place bets on their favorite fighters. My fellow competitors and I can count on a match at least every few weeks, another big difference from our legal counterparts. In short: I fight, it's completely illegal, people place bets, and I get paid when I win. Fortunately, that happens on a comfortably regular basis. I love my job.
I've been lucky enough to have a fairly consistent sponsor for most of my career. Medical issues are fully paid for, I have an apartment with a preposterously low rent for its quality, and money stopped being a problem years ago. I usually don't compete at the highest levels, because neither I nor the gang that makes my work possible are fully comfortable with the drugs that are necessary to compete at the highest echelons. There's more than enough money at the high end of the natural fighters to make the steroids and booster of the figurative big leagues unnecessary.
The people who pay me, a branch of some international crime body based in Russia, have plenty of representatives. Except on special occasions, I rarely meet with the same people twice in a row. For that reason, the fact that a clearly fairly muscular figure in a long coat silently began to walk alongside me on the street leading back to my apartment was not a cause for concern. I could barely make out any face besides a jawline that looked like it could have been chiseled from granite. In fact, I internally laughed to myself: I was glad that this was a friend and not someone I might one day have to fight.
His voice was not exactly what I had expected. He almost sounded like he was trying very, very hard to sound like someone else. This was not uncommon. These people often liked to at least think to themselves that they kept an airtight alias.
"You're ready to make some money on this, yeah?"
Typical of a middle-ranker who had just enough rank to want to impress, but not enough confidence to feel comfortable not working for it. At least I could count on going home by limousine instead of boot tread. I played along.
"If you're paying me, I'm taking the money. Tell what the deal is this time. You know I've always had an open ear."
Theatrics and nothing but. Then again, this was usually just the way things worked. As if on cue, we came to an impressive-looking black sedan idling in a two-hour parking space.
"Get in. We can discuss the specifics in comfort."
"Fancy, eh? You lot don't usually go in for this sort of thing. What, am I in for a Christmas bonus?"
I was only half joking. It was that time of year, if a guy was inclined to feel optimistic. He didn't bother answering. More than that: he didn't bother speaking until the driver had us well under way.
"Actually, yeah, you're in for a bonus, Rex."
He used one of the nicknames I actually liked, one I had been given years ago as a result of a "dinosaur-like" inability to drive. Unflattering origins, but I had always liked the sound of it. This was good. Very good. More money meant I'd probably attracted the attention of someone further up the syndicate, especially since the betting was going to be less than fantastic for this fight, considering how clear the outcome was. Ten to one for the other guy to win, someone had told me on the way out.
"Keep talking, by all means. You know this is the sort of thing I like."
I knew I sounded downright chummy at this point, but I was finding it increasingly difficult to care. Things were genuinely going my way.
"Well, if you really must-"
