BLOOD, MONEY, AND POWERS: INSIDE TRENTON'S UNDERGROUND FIGHT SCENE

by David Chen for The New Republic

March 2022 Edition

The diner coffee tastes like it was brewed during the Reagan administration. That's fine - I didn't come to this fluorescent-lit slice of midnight New Jersey for the coffee. I'm here to meet someone we'll call Marcus, a man who makes his living organizing what he euphemistically terms "alternative athletic entertainment."

"Twenty years in the business," Marcus says, absently stirring creamer into his own cup. He's a big man, probably handsome once, with the kind of face that's been rearranged a few times. His knuckles tell stories his words won't. "Started with regular fights. Boxing, mostly. Some mixed martial arts when that got big. But powers?" He shakes his head. "That changed everything."

The waitress refills our cups without asking. If she recognizes Marcus, she doesn't show it. In Trenton, knowing too much is bad for your health.

"First powered fight I ever saw?" Marcus leans back, eyes distant. "2009. Strength type versus strength type. Simple match, you'd think. Right up until one of them picked up my ring and threw it through the wall. That's when I learned lesson one: you need the right venue."

These days, Marcus operates out of abandoned factories, defunct warehouses, anywhere property damage can be written off or ignored. "You get creative," he says. "Old basement speakeasies from prohibition, those are gold. Already soundproofed, usually got good ventilation. Perfect for the pyros." He grins. "Though sometimes they still melt the pipes."

The finances are more complex than the venues. "Betting's where the real money is," Marcus explains. "But you can't just run it like regular fights. Powers change everything. You got to understand not just fighting styles, but power interactions. Plus you got to keep it fair enough that people keep betting, brutal enough that they keep watching, and controlled enough that nobody dies. Dead fighters are bad for business."

I ask about the unwritten rules that keep the circuit running. Marcus ticks them off on scarred fingers: "No cameras. No real names. No cops, no capes. You break those rules, you're done. Not just with me - with everyone. And trust me, you don't want to be the guy who brought heat on this scene."

He pauses as a truck rumbles past outside, his eyes tracking the headlights across the window. When he's satisfied it's moving on, he continues. "Medical care's crucial. We got doctors who don't ask questions, healers who need cash. Good ones, too - you'd be surprised how many licensed professionals got gambling debts. But mainly you prevent problems by making smart matches. You don't put a pyrokinetic against someone who can only generate force fields unless you want a snuff film."

The clientele is as varied as the powers themselves. "You got your rich thrill-seekers," Marcus says, "guys in suits who want to feel dangerous for a night. They bet big, drink expensive scotch, and never get their hands dirty. Then you got the real players - crime families sizing up talent, powered folks looking to prove themselves, underground bookies building their networks."

If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.

He won't talk specific numbers, but his slight smile when I mention six-figure bets tells its own story. "Look, people love violence. They always have. But powered fighting? That's something else. That's spectacle. You haven't lived until you've seen a guy who can manipulate metal go three rounds with someone who can generate magnetic fields. The whole ring becomes a weapon. Had to replace every screw and nail in the place after that one. Though nothing beats the outdoor matches - had this one guy who could turn into a fucking dinosaur, if you can believe it. Real deal T-Rex, bigger than a house. Put him against one of our top strength types out in the woods. Crowd went absolutely nuts. Rex Rampage, they called him. That's the kind of show you don't forget."

The betting system has evolved its own complex language. "We got power classes, like weight classes but for abilities. Categories, combinations, histories. You learn what powers match up well, what makes a good show. Strength versus strength is classic, sure. But put someone who can teleport against someone with enhanced reflexes? Now that's art. Though sometimes you got to get creative with the venues - can't exactly put a dinosaur fight in a warehouse, you know what I mean?"

Some powers are banned entirely. "No mind control," Marcus says firmly. "No probability manipulation. Nothing that could affect the betting. And nothing that leaves lasting damage - we had a guy once who could rot things he touched. That's not fighting, that's just ugly. But big, flashy powers? Transformation stuff? That's gold. People want to see the impossible."

The hierarchy of the circuit is as rigid as any professional sport. Up-and-comers start in the small venues, building their reputations. The best fighters develop their own followings, known by code names and abilities rather than their real identities. "Slice, Rex Rampage, the Ghoul - it's like pro wrestling, but we're all real, no bullshit. Who wants to watch the Undertaker pretend to be a zombie when we've got a real zombie here?"

Marcus's phone buzzes - an ancient flip phone, the kind drug dealers used to favor. He checks it, nods once. "Business," he explains. "Never stops. You know what the hardest part is? Not the cops. Not the heroes. It's keeping people from getting greedy. Everyone wants to be the next big thing, build their own circuit. But this only works because we keep it controlled. Professional."

He tells me about the next generation of fighters coming up. Kids who grew up with powers, who learned to fight in back alleys and school yards. "They're different," he says. "More control, more technique. Used to be powered fighting was all raw ability. Now they're developing styles, combinations. Had a kid last week who could generate ice - used it like a boxer uses footwork, changing the terrain, controlling space. Beautiful to watch."

The diner's starting to fill up with the pre-dawn crowd - truckers, nurses ending their shifts, other people who live in the hours normal folks pretend don't exist. Marcus glances at them, then back to me. "Last thing I'll say is this: everybody thinks powered fighting is about the powers. It's not. It's about the fighters. Powers just make it interesting. But at the end of the day, it's still just two people in a ring, trying to prove something to themselves or the world. That part hasn't changed since the first caveman threw a punch."

He stands, drops a fifty on the table. "Coffee's on me," he says, then pauses. "You know what the real difference is between my fights and the 'legitimate' ones they show on TV? Honesty. We might be breaking the law, but at least we're not pretending we're something we're not. People want to see powered people fight. We just give them what they want."

With that, he's gone, leaving me with cold coffee and a notebook full of glimpses into a world most people pretend doesn't exist. Somewhere in Trenton tonight, in a basement or abandoned factory, powers will flare and bets will be placed. The fights go on, as they always have, just with higher stakes and brighter fireworks.