Page 33 of Dirty

“Who said that?” I asked.

Silence.

“Which one of you chicken-shit motherfuckers said it?” I asked, spitting the words out as if they tasted like shit. “C’mon. Be a man. Who wants to see him pay the Beaner five grand?”

Nobody said a word.

With boiling blood, I turned toward the fellas. “You see who said that?”

They each shook their head.

“Fuck it,” I said. “Let’s go to Pete’s and get drunk.”

“Sounds good to me,” Crip said.

Crip was another who I’d rather not fight. I’d seen him take on three men in a bar fight and whip all their asses to the ground before they knew what happened. Although movies and T.V. shows made fighting three or four men look like a breeze, it wasn’t. Doing it in real life took someone that was very skilled with their hands and feet that was also able to anticipate each opponent’s next move before he made it.

Crip, being a former Navy SEAL himself, had an uncanny sense of everything that brought danger in his direction.

But, no differently than Pee Bee, he had no business boxing in a match where he couldn’t use his feet.

“Downey!” Duntz shouted.

I turned around. “What?”

“I’ll go four.”

“Fuck you,” I spat, still angry at the asshole who called me a Beaner. “I’m half drunk. $5,000, or we’re leaving.”

When I fought in Duntz’s fights, or in any fights for that matter, I had no nick-name, no road name, and no first name. I simply went by Downey.

He looked around the unruly crowd, and then met my gaze. “Fine. I’ll go five.”

“Holy shit,” Crip said, spitting out a laugh with his words. “You’re going to fight this prick?”

I took off my kutte and handed it to him.

He wrinkled his nose. “Seriously?”

“It’s $5,000 toward a house.” I handed him my hat, and then reached for the hem of my shirt, and shrugged. “I’ve fought a hell of a lot meaner for a hell of a lot less.”

I pulled off my shirt over my head and then tossed it at Pee Bee. “Hold this.”

Duntz raised his hands and turned toward the crowd. “We’ve got a fight!”

He turned to face me. “Downey has agreed to fight The Butcher.”

The crowd cheered.

I stepped into the taped area, did 30 pushups, stood, and then did 30 burpees to loosen up a little. As the crowd began to step away from the tape, I ran in place until my heartrate was elevated.

A man wearing a red sweatshirt stepped into the tape with the big Marine at his side. Slowly, they walked in my direction. Barefoot, and dressed in a pair of red USMC sweats and a gray tee shirt, my opponent didn’t look much bigger than me.

I glared at the Marine. With his eyes locked on mine, he took off his shirt and tossed it aside.

Correction.

He was considerably bigger than me.