But in the end I fucking won, so who gives a shit how it looks? All I care about is winning. I ain’t out to humiliate a guy. I know my strengths and my weaknesses.

I got him with a spinning back fist, hit him right in the temple. This time he went down hard, a sack of bricks, and I clambered on top of him. I was going to make sure he stayed down.

I had to stay on top of him. No way was I letting myself get under that hulk of a man. I was a buck-ninety and five-percent body fat, and he made me look tiny.

I got him into a rear choke hold, and he tried to roll me, so I used a little trick I learned watching the old underground guys back when I was a kid.

I kicked his kneecap with my heel over, and over again. Finally I felt it dislocate. It just popped out. His whole body jolted with pain.

I knew he’d never walk without pain again.

Fuck it. Whatever it takes to win the fight.

He couldn’t roll me anymore. He had no leverage. I choked him out. He didn’t tap out, the tough fucker… He passed out.

Like I said, fucking persistent. A real dog. When I think back to him, I can’t help but smile. I… I admire him. Knee ruined, and I’m there choking the motherfucking life out of him, and he kept going. He just kept going.

That stocky fucker taught me something that day.

I got to my feet, blood streaming down my face, missing a tooth, and a lump the size of a tennis ball on the back of my head.

My left ankle was sprained; I had a torn ligament that would take weeks to mend. I would ache and hurt all over my fucking body for equally as long, if not longer.

But I fucking won.

The ref came and held my hand up, and I winced. The bruise on my rib cage was already a deep purple.

But I fucking won.

The crowd loved it. I was the underdog, and I’d taken down Crazy Carl.

The doc came into the cage. He was a wiry man, white-maned, beak-nosed. He knelt down and examined Crazy Carl, gave him a smelling salt. Carl came to, saw that he had lost. The expression on his ruddy face…

He knew he had lost to me. Just some nobody. Just some newbie. Just some fucking out-of-town punk.

The doc walked over to me. He said, “What’s your name, son?”

I spat out my mouth guard, along with a long stream of sticky blood. “Pierce Fletcher.”

He said, “Well, shit, son, that might just be the best debut I’ve ever seen.”

I glared at the doc. “Don’t fucking call me ‘son’.”

Chapter Twenty Nine

“Do you like it? Fighting, I mean.”

He doesn’t reply immediately. Instead he eyes me like he thinks I’ve got some hidden motive for asking the question.

Mostly, I’m just curious. But then again, maybe I do. I don’t know where this is going to go, yet.

“Yes,” he eventually says. “I like the thrill.”

“Do you like beating people? Winning?”

“Yes.”

I nod, suck on my lower lip. “Have you ever sent anybody to hospital?”

This time his expression changes. The corners of his lips curl down. “Yes. Of course. It’s part of fighting.”

“Did you like that?”

“I didn’t force him to get into the cage.”

“You ever nearly kill someone?”

Now his face darkens. I can tell I’m wading into sensitive territory, but for some reason, I just want to keep going. Keep pushing. Like he does to me.

“Yes.”

“Who was he?”

“Just some guy.”

“What happened to him?”

“I crushed his windpipe. I wasn’t trying to hit him in the neck, but his dodge was too slow. I got him right on his Adam’s apple. He couldn’t breathe. The doc had to perform a tracheotomy right there. Cut his throat right open and shoved a fucking straw down it.”

“But he lived?”

“Yes.”

“Does he still fight?”

“Yes. He’s in Brisbane now.”

“Did that make you feel good?”

Pierce now flashes angry eyes at me. “What do you think?”

“Did you ever wonder about what if it happens to you? Something similar? Some fluke, some accident?”

“Even in pro regulated fighting people have died before,” he says. “I don’t think about it.”

“Never?”

“You think race car drivers think about crashing?”

I nod my head. “I would bet all my money that they think about it all the time.”

“Pen, you’re not going to make me second-guess myself.”

“I’m not trying to,” I tell him truthfully. “I’m just trying to understand you.”

“What’s so hard to understand? I’m good at fighting. I like fighting. I like underground fighting. I do what I like. It’s simple.”

“You like risking your life?”

“That’s an exaggeration.”

“Fine, but what about permanent injury? Brain damage?”

“Like I said,” he says, looking away. “I don’t think about it. I’ve got a fight to prepare for. If you came here to bullshit me, you can leave.”

I’m stung by it… and even though I try not to show it, I’m certain he can tell.

“Have you ever thought,” I ask, raising my voice. “About the people you beat up? What if they have families? What about their parents?”

He doesn’t reply.

“Or what about some kid who thinks he can fight to make a bit of money, and doesn’t know what it takes? You ever fight someone like that? Someone inexperienced?”

“Of course I have.”

“And let me guess: You messed him up bad, right?”

“He shouldn’t have gotten in the cage.”

“So, what, you beat up some eighteen year old kid, where do you think he goes? He goes back to his mother, that’s where.”

“I don’t give a fuck about them once they leave the cage.”

“Is that all it is to you, Pierce? What goes on in the cage? You think the consequences of what you do don’t extend outside of it? What about me? Do they extend to me?”

“Like I said, Pen, if you came here to bullshit me, you can fucking leave.”

“You really never think about the people you beat up? What happens to them after you snap their arm or pull their shoulder out? It never occurs to—”

“Hey!” he barks, jabbing a finger into the air. “I step into that fucking cage, and I fight. And I win. I get the fucking win, I get my fucking money, and then I leave. It’s what I do.”