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.
