Chapter One -- I Always Win
He walked through the crowd of shouting men, focused on the task ahead. That was something he chose to ignore, every time - the stench of those places. It was a rubbery smell mixed with male sweat and the excitement rising for the bloody fight ahead. If he were to inhale too much, he was bound to get dizzy. Maybe overcome with rage.
In a way, he was doing this to himself, if he were fair. But Johnny Bryne was not known to be fair, the least of all people to himself. That was maybe the reason why he was fighting these matches made in hell. Or perhaps he just loved to win against all the odds.
In the cage, he was the one in control. His opponents lacked something important, something they didn't know they needed. Some underwent grueling training; others tried to fix the matches in their favors.
But no one dared to approach him and offer him a bribe in exchange for dropping to the floor and pretending to be broken enough not to get up before the count was done. Seeing how rigged and unlawful these fights were, it was a wonder he was allowed to have his fun like that.
Maybe they could sense it, the darkness that walked with him. They were clever men. They knew not to bet a losing hand against someone with a loose screw. Because he always won and that was not going to change. Ever.
He jumped into the ring and followed through the motions of what was expected from someone like him. At least, no one could blame him of being unable to throw a good show. There was no fun for the audience to see a man sent to the floor with just one punch.
Legal fights were not like this. But he wasn't interested in walking the straight and narrow. He knew well on which side of the tracks he had been born.
Johnny Bryne had earned a proper nickname for himself. He knew how to dance around his prey, fooling the other into believing that there was an opening, only to dash his hopes in a quick, execution-style, move, not meant to take the opponent out just yet, but enough to make him aware of the simple fact that he could not win.
The announcer walked forward, grabbing the mike, and roaring the names of the opponents for the tonight match.
"Snake! Snake! Snake!" the audience chanted as they had done from the first moment he had walked through the door.
Johnny saluted, raising one gloved hand.
"You know the rules," the referee shouted at them, as he touched fists with his opponent.
"No hit below the belt, no hit when the opponent's down."
No shit, Johnny wanted to say back. Everyone was paying to see these fights because they were dirty, without rules. It wasn't even a sport. They wore gloves only because hand fractures took too long to heal, and no one wanted to risk a good fighter over a thing like that. It made some frustrated.
They weren't regular boxing gloves, either. That had become a rule when some thought themselves clever enough to push metal plates into the lining, and not even the bloodthirsty audience had found it funny when too many fighters began leaving the ring looking like not even their moms could love them anymore. Rigged matches were one thing. Cheating in the ring with dirty tactics like that was also sanctioned by the lowlifes attending the games, no matter how hell-bent on throwing their month's wages on a bet.
So hand wraps and simple, tight fitting, fingerless leather gloves were the only hand wear permitted. Johnny examined his opponent, as the audience continued to chant his name. No one was betting against him because they knew the outcome. But the bookies were resourceful people. They knew how to make people bet. On how long the Snake's opponent was going to last, or how many times the unfortunate victim was going to try to get up from the floor for yet another minute in the ring. Whether Snake was going to be sent to the floor at least once. Johnny didn't bother himself with details. The money was good, and that was all that mattered to him.
Tonight's opponent was a super heavyweight. Well, maybe they had the costs for a new ring floor covered because he would make a dent after being dropped a few times.
The whistle caught him in a mid-air jump. The opponent's jowls trembled when Johnny sent his first punch straight into his bovine-like face.
***
Ruslan was trying to get comfortably seated, but it appeared that ergonomics was not precisely the type of thing the organizers of this kind of event were known for. By all means, the entire audience seemed to prefer standing up to sitting. The collective roar from the men in the building was making the air crackle with electricity.
Ah, but this was something he terribly enjoyed. He could almost taste the testosterone exuded by the male bodies aroused with the promise of blood and victory. Maybe tonight he was going to grab some random guy and show him a good time. Although these weren't his usual hunting grounds, he hoped the hook up he chose would not hold it against him that he had a dick between his legs. He had his means to be persuasive, such as a lean body that looked good naked, a wicked tongue, and, when his pleasing physical appearance was not enough, a fat wad of bills usually did the trick. Usually. He was not the kind to fight losing battles.
But, of course, tonight was all about business, and he needed to focus. Maybe later, he was going to call Yanis, see if he was back in town, and summon him for a quick fuck since it wasn't exactly a good time to go cruising.
"Who is this Snake?" he leaned toward the other, as the audience was chanting around him a single syllable. He had to scream the words in the loud noise so that his companion could hear him.
"Our guy," the old man replied. "We must make him sign with us. Rumor has it he's unbeatable."
"Really?" Ruslan quirked an eyebrow. "How come we've never heard of him? And, more importantly, how come he's not already ours?"
"Apparently, he prefers to waste his time in this dump," the old man replied, pulling his coat closer to his body as if he didn't want to touch the worn seat too much.
Just like Ruslan, he could not seem to find a way to sit comfortably.
"No wonder he's unbeatable," Ruslan commented. "If all his adversaries are small-time thugs, it's no surprise that the cleverest of the bunch manages to get on top. That still doesn't qualify him for our attention. So, come on, spill it. What's the deal with him?"
"Just watch," the old man pointed with his chin toward the ring.
Ruslan took in the man already in the ring. He looked strong like a bull and probably weighed well over 275 pounds, and, unfortunately for him, most of those pounds were lard, not muscles. Yeah, he had cardiac arrest written all over him. But he did have a brute's attitude, the way he was hunching forward, and he was tall enough to be considered a giant in his own right. Most probably he was dominating his adversaries by being a moving mass of such magnitude that no one could stand in his way.
"I don't see why they would call him Snake," Ruslan thought out loud. "Is that an inside joke?"
"That's not Snake," the old man snorted. "That's Snake," he pointed at the second man making his way into the ring.
Ruslan leaned forward to stare at the other combatant for the tonight's match. Someone hurried to take the man's robe, and he jumped a few times up and down, flexing both arms in the process, and then raising one to salute the audience.
Unlike the first one to get into the cage, this one was packing nothing but muscles. Ruslan had a trained eye. There was quite a critical weight difference between the two. This one probably weighed somewhere around 200 pounds or a bit less, but at his height, somewhere at 6.3, or 6.4, that was not a problem.
Definitely not a problem at all, Ruslan thought again, as he took in the man's strong, anatomically perfect muscles. He licked his lips. Their target was eliciting his interest all right. From the first row, where he was seated, Ruslan could see the man's face, although he would have liked to look a bit more closely.
Unlike his opponent's brutish appearance, this one deserved his nickname. There was grace in the way he moved, and Ruslan could almost feel a familiar prickle in his fingers to touch those perfect muscles, and another sensation, equally familiar, in his groin.
Hmm, there had been some time since he had felt stirred by merely looking at someone. The man made a full round of the ring so that the crowd could see him and cheer him on a bit more. Funny thing, he didn't seem a poser. His tanned skin seemed marred of few fading scars, save for several long, angry-looking, scars on his back. He wasn't tattooed, like other practitioners of the so-called sport. Ruslan wondered; what kind of man was Snake?
His hair was shaved closely at the back of his head, but a few loose black strands in the front were almost getting into his eyes. With a casual, unstudied move, Snake pushed the hair away from his forehead. His dark eyes, shadowed by thick, furrowed eyebrows, scanned the crowd one more time, and Ruslan, without being able to look at them properly, somehow knew they were filled with apprehension. Anyone could say all they wanted that Snake was relaxed, waiting to score another win on his personal board, but Ruslan saw something else.
His face was probably far from what could be considered a classic masculine beauty. His mouth was large, with firm, yet full lips, and it was clear his nose had been rearranged on his face a few times, at least, one of the consequences of too many battles. Yet, that didn't detract from his animal magnetism.
Ruslan sighed. If the old man was going to send him to negotiate with Snake, he wanted to get into that man's sports shorts. He only hoped Snake was at least a bit into dudes; with that kind of raw, fascinating masculinity, he didn't look like someone who had trouble getting laid. Seeing that he was unbeatable, probably he had enough money, too. That was a tough call, Ruslan knew. He could convince a lot of horny guys to fuck him into oblivion, but usually, he picked men against which he could have a bit of leverage, be it his money or their horniness and inability to get a warm body to fuck somewhere else at that exact moment.
The referee barely blew his whistle, and Snake proved in a single powerful jump how he had come to get that nickname. Ruslan didn't wince when the opponent's fat jowls trembled under the direct hit. He was enthralled.
***
Were they trying to insult him? The fatso was so easy to hit that it was getting on his nerves. Maybe they had chosen him based on his endurance. By all means, any other opponent should have been on the floor, squirming in pain.
Hmm, maybe this was a new strategy, Johnny thought. To tire him out. He grinned, making the other man's pig-like eyes flash with an understanding that this fight would be a loss for him. Johnny thought that he probably looked like a maniac. He counted on that.
Maybe it was the right moment to fake one of his so-called suicide moves. He intentionally made a clumsy move, to leave his opponent a small opening. Was the mass of lard in front of him capable of understanding what was offered on a silver platter?
Apparently, on the third attempt, the opponent seemed to see the only chance he had for a moment of careless triumph. Johnny pretended to gasp for air like he was too tired already.
Bingo. The opponent finally moved and sent Johnny to the floor with a heavy kick. Great. It was the perfect opportunity to rest a little, indeed. This kind of game wasn't played in rounds. So, the combatants had to grab at any chance they had for a reprieve.
He remained on the floor, to make the fight a bit less boring than what it had been so far. Also, it was a good opportunity to steal a glance at the audience and gauge their level of interest.
His eyes fell on someone seated on the front row. Seated? While attending one of his matches? That wasn't a good sign. The man was inspecting him with keen eyes, and, for a second, he lost himself in seas of blue.
