Page 5 of Nick

Finally, Patrick walks through the hall door around 1am. He doesn’t acknowledge me, going straight for a beer and then the corner booth. I discreetly watch, but I’m too far to get any information, and I haven’t seen any drugs or inappropriate behavior from his crew all night.

Half an hour later, Patrick motions for me to follow him to his office. Thank fuck.

“How was your first night?” He asks me.

“Boring as shit,” is my quick reply.

He laughs. “Good. Let’s go home.”

Chapter 3

My first fight is finally happening tonight. I’ve been bored out of my mind since I got here. I’ve only talked to Patrick, Johnny, and the bartenders. I wake, eat, exercise, accompany the shitstain as he drives around town, stock the bar, watch tv, then stand by the door all night.

I did discover Hank doesn’t have his tongue, so he’s not just quiet by nature. Decker, the disgusting bartender, said Artur cut it out when he got behind in his drug payments. He was useless as a fighter, and his daughter was in danger of being hurt, so he begged for another option. Artur took his tongue, and he works here for free now. Hank's also forbidden from having any more drugs. A tough lot in life.

My body is mostly healed at this point. I’ve taken to using the gym on the first floor of the condo building in the mornings to stay in shape. Some exercises are an issue with my ribs, but I make do. There’s still some bruising, but my head's clear, and my wrist is good.

We eat dinner at the bar tonight, and then Patrick drives us to the office building he frequents twice a week. Curious. He drives around to the back and parks, leading me inside to the far end of the building on the first floor. There’s two men in navy security garb standing beside a single elevator at the very back corner. They nod at him, allowing us to enter. The elevator only has one button, which he presses, and we travel downwards several floors.

The door opens onto a large, almost empty concrete room over 25 ft tall. Industrial lighting illuminates a standard fight cage in the center of the room. A neon bar is situated at the far end, and elevated glass rooms encircle half the area. I can see a few people moving around in them.

“Welcome to your second home,” Patrick announces with a smile, opening his arms wide. “Fights are every Friday and Tuesday. For now, you’ll be fighting on Fridays. Artur will inform you if the boss wants you on Tuesdays as well.”

Behind the bar, two more guards in the same navy uniform are blocking a staircase. They step aside when they see Patrick, but don’t speak.

Upstairs, we stop at the first door on the right. Knocking twice, we're told to enter. The office is a stark contrast to the rest of the area. Walnut wood-panelled walls and ceiling, dark navy and red carpet underfoot, paintings, and matching bookshelves. Artur is sitting behind a black wooden desk in a slim navy suit and red tie, hair perfectly styled. “Good evening. Have a seat.” He gestures towards the two matching brown leather chairs in front of him.

“Nick, you will fight at 9pm this evening. This will be the only fight you have a choice in the outcome. Based on your performance, I will schedule your future fights. One reason Mr. Fitzgerald allowed you to come to Tennessee is your fighting skills. Patrick assured us you were excellent. I watched several of your recent MMA matches to ensure he was correct.”

I see Patrick bristle beside me. He won’t like someone doubting his word. It shows smarts on Artur’s part and is probably one of the reasons Patrick wants to eliminate him.

“Be here one hour before each fight and come to my office. You will find proper attire in your locker.” He slides a thick folder across his desk to me.

Picking it up, I flip the cover to see fighter bios, so I scan each one quickly. There’s a wide variety of fighters, some trained and some not. Three have impressive win to loss ratios. Closing the folder, I meet Artur’s eyes. “Who’s up tonight?”

“A fan favorite who goes by the name Shark. He is the first bio. Come, let me provide a tour. Leave the folder here.”

We follow Artur along the hallway and around the edge of the second floor. The glass-enclosed rooms are for upper end clients and friends to watch the fights and do business, and everyone in attendance is required to bet. The room aren't as luxurious as Artur's office, but there's plush carpeting underfoot, fancy furniture between concrete walls, and red velvet curtains for doors. A few people are setting up food and drinks in the middle room.

The locker rooms are on the main floor to the left and right of the cage, and I'm assigned to the right room. Artur shows me my locker, where I find new shorts, shoes, and tape. The locker rooms appear spotless, at least, with showers and toilets at the back of the room. A doctor is on standby all evening because there are no rules. You win by three taps, a knockout, or death, but I get the suspicion tap outs aren’t really an option. Fun.

We finish the tour back in his office, and I’m left alone and told to study the folder. Artur points out the many cameras, so I don’t try anything. Like I would be dumb enough to think no one was watching. I stand in front of the window for a few minutes, but I don't see him or Patrick anywhere. Dragging a chair in front of the window, I sit to study the fighter bios more closely. This situation is so much bigger and more complicated than I was expecting when I left home. I thought it would be like what Patrick had in South Carolina. Doesn't matter. I'll figure out what I need to do.

Forty-five minutes before my fight, Patrick returns to escort me to the locker room. I finished studying the bios a while ago and have been watching the crowd increase on the main floor, and several of the glass rooms are now occupied by men in suits and women in fancy dresses. Since they didn’t climb the stairs, I assume there’s another elevator located somewhere up here that I didn't notice during the tour.

Pushing through the crowd, we make our way to my locker. I’m the lone fighter inside, so I grab my shorts and change. Not knowing what to expect, I tape my knuckles.

“I expect a win tonight, Nick. Don’t make me look bad,” Patrick demands.

Rolling my eyes, I take a seat on the bench to wait. A tv comes on as I hear an announcement for the first fight. It’s like a tiny, pathetic version of a Vegas fight. An MC is standing with a microphone hanging from the ceiling in the middle of the ring, but he's in jeans and a t-shirt with the sleeves ripped off. He's surrounded by cheering crowds, and distinct music announces each fighter as they saunter to the ring. A referee in a striped black and white shirt talks to them before they split into their corners.

Once the bell rings, they attack. Both are sloppy, and blood is soon flying around. There aren’t any rounds as they continue to pummel each other. I can hear an echo of the crowd through the concrete, but it’s not loud.

Watching the little clock in the screen’s corner, the bigger guy knocks out his opponent around the 8 minute mark. Messy fight.

“Those were newbies to the fight club trying to prove themselves,” Patrick informs me. “The big guy will be welcomed back since he won.”

Who I assume is the doc checks out the unconscious guy before two men in navy carry him out of the ring, and a crew of three enters and cleans the cage. Huh. I wasn’t expecting that. Good. I don't want to catch any diseases while I'm stuck here.