From Hawk v Falcon
Chapter Three
“You’re
late.” Jack Whitaker brought Chris his clean shorts and robe.
Chris
tugged open his locker in the fighters’ dressing and shower room. “I know. My
shift at the Candy Apple was supposed to end at midnight, but it didn’t.” He
grinned and continued. “It’s just the show round anyway, huh? This week’s flown
by.”
Jack ran
the downtown fight club. Tuesday and Friday nights, after midnight, he held
what he called cabaret spots. Amongst the long-term fighters were those Jack
labeled his show ponies, and they would appear only once a month in the main
cage, and the rest of the time put on a display. Chris Falconer aka the Falcon
was a favorite among the crowd who hung around for a last drink, and to wind
down from the high they’d got as they watched the bloody bouts of cage fights
earlier in the night.
At
midnight, the club closed the main doors, and punters who stayed for the
cabarets headed into the more opulent second room, where the bar stayed open
and the fight was all show.
Chris
dragged off his work clothes and donned the satiny shorts Jack handed him. He
pulled on the grey leather hood, shaped to portray a falcon’s head, and
adjusted the beak, laughing as he checked the look in the long mirror over the
row of hand basins. His mirth at the hood brought a grin from Jack.
“Hurry up.”
Jack left Chris to put on his boxing shoes and pull on the gel injected
fingerless gloves that they used in the cabaret.
Chris
shrugged on his robe. Screen printed onto the silk was a flying falcon, its
wings reaching across his shoulders. He jogged through the tunnel that led to
the special bar. The exit brought him into the cage there. Already the other
fighter stood alternately preening and dancing for the crowd on the far side of
the circular enclosure.
The crowd
applauded and called out as Chris spun around and discarded his robe to the
waiting attendant. He hadn’t warmed-up and he quickly did a few moves designed
to alleviate that.
His
opponent turned.
Chris gave
him a little bow and then approached.
Their fight
wouldn’t be real, but all the same it would be strenuous and the falls could
still wind them.
Chris
hadn’t seen the fighter who charged toward him before. The outfit and the hood
portrayed a red devil. Chris frowned under his own hood as the fighter jabbed
with force at his throat. He avoided the punch and grabbed the arm, using the
other fighter’s momentum to pull him over his shoulder and drop him to the
canvas. Chris jumped back to let the Red Devil stand, but the other fighter
spun on his back like a huge beetle and lunged at Chris’s ankle trying to grip
it in his gloved hand.
Chris
laughed as he bent and caught the hand. He made the move a joke, pulling the
fighter up and shaking his hand. The crowd laughed and applauded. Chris leapt
back, spun, and kicked the fighter in the shoulder. He modified the force in
his kick so that instead of downing the man in pain, the kick would only make
the other fighter stagger. This was the kind of show they were supposed to put
on.
The Red
Devil let out a roar that reached Chris through his hood and over the appreciative calls of the crowd.
A smile
spread over Chris’s face at what he thought was a show for the audience from
the Red Devil, but it was short-lived as his opponent barreled at him, grabbed
his waist, and took him backwards onto the canvas, where the devil began
pounding Chris about the face with real blows as he straddled Chris’s body.
Shock stopped Chris from fighting back for a few seconds. The devil’s really fighting—okay—watch out, buddy.
Chris
grabbed the devil by the wrists and using his legs to unsettle the devil’s seat
across his body, Chris reversed their positions in seconds. He held the fighter’s
hands above the red horned hood and leaned over to speak.
“What the
fuck is going on? This is supposed to be a show bout, but it seems as if you
want a real fight. That’s kinda against the rules, plus I don’t want to hurt
you.”
The Red
Devil bucked and struggled, but Chris had more muscle, experience, and was
intent on keeping the other fighter down.
The crowd
cheered. A few stood as they applauded.
The only
reply the Red Devil gave was a loud hiss.
Puzzled,
Chris let him up. He hopped to the far side of the cage and gave a little bow
to the audience, but against all show bout expectations, the Red Devil ran at
Chris, thrust him against the net, and began punching Chris in the kidneys. His
breath left him, and he shook his head amazed at the force of the blows the
devil bestowed on him. Resigned to having to dispense with his opponent, Chris
ducked, twirled low, kicked the devil in the side, and then punched him hard in
the jaw. Chris felt the punch in his knuckles through the gel gloves and shook out
the pain as he moved back from the Red Devil, who fell dazed to the floor.
Chris took a deep breath resigned to the fact that he’d had to hit the guy
properly, as he saw a trickle of blood escape from the side of the Red Devil’s
mouth.
Chris
walked swiftly to the exit where the attendants waited. Jack arrived there at
the same time as Chris. “Jack, this is over. I could hurt this guy if he keeps
going. I’m bigger and I can feel his inexperience. What the fuck is going on?”
Chris’s voice cracked slightly as he caught his breath.
Jack’s
expression mirrored Chris’s puzzlement. “I have no idea. Can you stay in the
ring? I’ll bring Tusk for a few Martial art moves.” He didn’t wait for Chris to
answer and sent the two attendants to bundle the Red Devil from the cage.
Chris
shifted from the exit to let them pass. He gave a short nod to Jack. “Four show
moves only. I’m just a little pissed off right now.”
Jack
followed the parade made up of the attendants and the Red Devil down the
tunnel.
Chris gave
a victory lap around the edge of the cage, but couldn’t shake the unease at the
strange way the Red Devil had seemed to make the show fight personal.
The crowd
alerted him to the entrance of Tusk, a fighter who adorned his hood with a
replica Rhino horn, fortunately made of compressed rubber so that it felt like
sponge. Chris twirled around. He knew Tusk, whose real name was Gabriel, and
enjoyed their displays when they met in the cage.
He met Tusk
in the center of the ring and bowed in response to his new opponent’s bow.
Then they
entered the display battle. They posed and struck lightly. They flew through
the air and landed elegantly to gesture at each other to bring more, to strike.
Chris gave
Tusk a soft landing as he threw the fighter over his shoulder.
Tusk leapt
up into a Martial arts stance and with a dart kicked Chris over. Chris felt
only a muffled thud as Tusk’s foot tapped his torso. He squatted and
somersaulted backwards landing in the pose the experienced fighters gave each
other to end the show bouts.
After a few
seconds, with the applause from the crowd waning, Chris stood and met Tusk to
join him in a bow before they exited the cage.
Tusk pulled
off his hood as they walked side by side along the tunnel to the dressing
rooms. “What’s up with the Red Devil? Jack’s taken him to the office with one
of the bouncers and that usually means trouble.”
Chris
unfastened his falcon hood and took it off. He cast a glance at Tusk.
“I have no
fucking idea, Gabriel—unless maybe he thought the fight was real, but even when
I reminded him it was a show bout, he kept at me. In the end, I had to give him
a punch to stop the fight.”
They
reached the dressing rooms.
Gabriel
gave Chris a pat on the back. “You did the right thing. He was out of order.”
They fell
silent, undressed, showered, and met again in the main part of the room to put
on their street clothes.
“I’m going
to find Jack. I’ll see you later, Gabe.”
Gabriel
looked up from pulling on his boot. “Sure, see you later.”
Chris
considered what had happened in the cage as he took the stairs to Jack’s office
situated in the basement. He knocked on the bubbled glass of the door that
faced the bottom step.
Jack opened
the door after a moment.
“Chris, I
guessed you’d come to see me. Sorry about the Red Devil. He’s new to the
cabaret, but he has fought every week for about two months in the other cage
and I thought he’d be a colorful addition to the show fights, you know, what
with his horned hood ... I should have let you know about the change...” Jack
shrugged and led Chris down the corridor to the three rooms that made up the
office suite.
“I had to
give him a real thump to stop him. Is he hurt? What’s his excuse?”
Jack waved
at a chair by the side of his desk. “Have a seat. He wouldn’t talk. I fired
him. He seemed okay. The medic checked him out. He wasn’t knocked
unconscious—just saw a few stars I reckon.”
“You fired
him ... I hope he wasn’t dependent on the work.”
Jack shook
his head to emphasize his words. “See, I couldn’t have him doing what he did
and then not giving an explanation. If he’d said he forgot the rules, lame as
that excuse would have been I might not have fired his ass, but not saying a
word ... sitting there clammed up isn’t any way to act. Look, what if it wasn’t
you he’d gone for? What if it was a lighter, less muscled, or less experienced
guy, and the whole bout became carnage? Nah, he had to go.”
Chris
stared at Jack. “The usual cage fights are
real. People get hurt—you award prize money. You even have a punters’ challenge
bare-knuckle bout Saturday afternoons. I’m surprised you didn’t just keep him
on for those. Hey, did he come with the devil hood?” Chris suddenly wondered if
the fighter had worked elsewhere. The devil wasn’t completely inexperienced.
Jack stood
and walked over to the coffee maker that stood on a file cabinet to one side of
the room. He took two mugs from one of the file cabinet drawers. “Coffee,
Chris? Yeah he already had the hood and the name. He had references from a
Boston club.” He looked at Chris for an answer holding the coffee pot poised
above one of the mugs.
Chris
nodded. “Yes please. That’s interesting. I suppose you called the club.”
Jack
brought the coffees to the desk. He placed a mug in front of Chris. “I did, and
they were full of praise.”
Chris took
a sip of the coffee. “Then I have no idea what happened.”
Jack pursed
his lips in thought. After a few moments, he appeared to give up on the
situation. “Well, it’s over. Let’s discuss the next couple of week’s fights and
who goes up against who.” He flicked the mouse on the pad adorned with a
picture of Spiderman and glanced at the computer screen on the desk. He
grimaced and searched amongst the few folders and an empty packet of chips on
one side of the desk, finding a pair of glasses. He put them on, and looked
back at the screen.
“No
unexpected changes this time. I’ve got you pitted against Hulk and Scorpion in
the Tuesday show bouts, and Friday the show bout will be you and Hawk. I’m
advertising that heavily, Hawk v Falcon, yeah, that will excite the punters.
Then in the second week you’re due in the usual cage for a freestyle-wrestling
bout with a ‘contender yet to be named,’ you know the usual thing—one of our
guys pretending to be from the floor. There are no show bouts in the second
week, so only one night’s work for the week. How’s that?”
Chris drank
his coffee quietly. He had no idea why Jack consulted him in advance, not
always, but more often than not. Jack didn’t do it with anyone else. Jack
usually emailed the information out every two weeks, and Chris received the
email, too. Sometimes he thought Jack viewed him as a friend or maybe a son.
Right then Chris thought it definitely was the latter as Jack looked up at him and
smiled.
“I enjoy
our talks, son.”
Chris
returned the smile. He knew Jack’s wife had died of cancer three years ago and
there were no kids as far as Chris was aware.
Chris
sighed inwardly. He knew what it was like to be lonely. It didn’t matter how
much times had changed. He found it hard to meet a guy he could love and have
that love returned. In fact, Chris had about given up looking. Sex was easy. He
could get that in a heartbeat if he went out to one of the gay bars around
town, but in the last year, it had become hollow. He watched couples dance
together and wished he had someone who knew him, laughed with him, was in his
bed at night waiting to hold him close. It was painful. Chris drifted in his
thoughts. Charlie was right. Why was he alone? Why didn’t any of the guys he’d
screwed want more than that, hurrying away the next day or even in the night
after sex. I maybe give off some kind of
impermanence signals.
Jack’s
voice broke through the fog of thoughts. “I’d better get back upstairs, Chris.
Marty will be wondering if I’ve fallen down a hole.”
Marty was
the assistant fight manager. He’d be up there in the bar where another show
bout would be underway. Chris nodded. “Sure, Jack. Thanks for the coffee. I’ll
see you Tuesday night. Since it’s me and Gabriel again, I hope the audience
doesn’t get bored.”
Jack
laughed aloud. “You’re kidding. Have you ever cast a glance over the women in
the audience? They can’t take their eyes off you. That’s why I’m advertising
the Hawk v Falcon so much. The ladies will be queued around the block. Two hot
bodies to fantasize about...” He laughed again as he stood.
Chris stood
too, and followed him from the office. They ascended the stairs together, but
at the top, Jack split off to go to the bar where the cage fight could be heard
bringing applause from the audience, and Chris left by the back door to go
home.
As he
unlocked his car door, he remembered he’d not asked Jack for the Red Devil’s
real name. Chris made a mental note to find that out because maybe he knew the
guy, maybe it was someone he’d thrown out of the Candy Apple who was after
revenge. Which is kinda dramatic, but you
never know. Chris sat in his flame red Wrangler
and stared out at the sky as he considered this. A pale half-moon appeared
as clouds scudded away in the wind.
****
Across the
parking lot, the Red Devil, devoid of hood, and sitting in his sleek gray Pontiac GTO watched Chris. I’m not finished with you, Falcon. Not by a
long way.
Copyright Elodie Parkes 2016 , Encompass Ink, All rights are Reserved
