ONE
Killian
Some men findpeace in prayer. I find it in the crack of bone against bone.
T-Bone Jackson staggers back, blood spraying from his split lip as my right hook connects dead on.
The crowd roars, a hundred voices screaming for more violence. For more of the primal shit they can’t get anywhere else on a Tuesday night in Brooklyn.
The underground venue reeks of sweat and cigarette smoke combined with the slick metallic stench of fresh blood.
Bare bulbs swing from the ceiling, casting shadows that dance across the makeshift ring. There’re no referees here. No regulations.
Just two men, a rope square, and a crowd that paid good money to watch us tear each other apart.
T-Bone’s a veteran. Forty-two years old, he’s been fighting since the days promoters advertised on Myspace. The man’s got hands like cinder blocks and a reputation for putting younger fighters in the hospital. Ten years ago, he would’ve been a real problem for me.
But ten years ago was ten years ago.
Tonight he can’t keep up with a savage fighter in his prime.
He throws a wild haymaker I see coming from a mile away. I duck, letting it sail over my head, then drive my fist into his ribs.
Once. Then again a second time.
I feel the exact second his rib gives. Feel the crack of his bone as he grunts and doubles over.
Hit or be hit. Simple rules.
Maybe the only part of life where the rules are that black and white.
That’s the thing about fists—they don’t lie. Words do. People do. But a punch? A punch always tells the fucking truth.
“Stay down,” I growl, heaving ragged breaths into my lungs.
The stubborn bastard doesn’t listen. They almost never do.
He straightens up and comes at me again. Slower than before, he’s sloppy on his feet, guarding his damaged side with his left arm.
It’s pathetic to see. To watch fighters far past their prime refuse to accept reality.
T-Bone was a legend once. Now he’s just another man with a thinning hairline and diminished stamina that can’t accept his time is up.
He’s just another body standing between me and a drink at the Banshee.
I take mercy on him and end it quick. A jab to throw off his guard, then a right cross that snaps his head sideways. His eyes roll back before he even hits the canvas.
The crowd loses its fucking mind.
I don’t celebrate, refraining from raisingmy fists in victory. Some fighters eat up the attention; they play to the audience by feeding into the hysteria.
That’s never been my style. Fighting has never been about the attention.
It’s about therapy. About pushing myself to the limit physically, and then still pushing it a mile farther than that.
Endless hands reach out to touch me as I return to my corner, dripping sweat and heaving ragged breaths.
My so-called team.
