Mongrel

An open robe of rich red silk draped over his shoulders, Golden Boy poured liberal helpings of brandy into two tumblers. “I’d say,” he hummed, turning with the rims of both glasses pinched between two golden fingers, “that that delightful little performance bought you about five minutes of my time, Master…”

“Matthew Caldwell, esquire,” Mongrel said. “Gentleman and friend. At your service.” Accepting the drink he was offered, he pounded it and handed back the empty glass. Somewhat less formally, he extended his hand and continued: “Put ‘er there.”

Smiling, Golden Boy set aside Mongrel’s empty glass, and they shook hands while the organizer nursed his own drink. “Charmed.”

Mongrel had been brought to the organizer’s personal tent, which was somehow even larger than the main bookmakers’ office despite only needing to house a single occupant. Well, that and the four mostly naked women—and two unfashionably pretty men—sprawled in a half-daze on the enormous bed.

While a fervent and dedicated patron of the oldest profession, even Mongrel found such a profusion of rented flesh a little distasteful. He was a one-woman kinda guy. One at a time, anyway.

Golden Boy hopped up on his solid desk of dark, expensive-looking wood, his short legs dangling off the end, and looked expectantly down at Mongrel. “You strike me as a keen businessman, Master Caldwell. And, well, there is only one businessyou might possibly wish to discuss with me. So let’s talk terms, shall we?”

“Let’s,” Mongrel agreed, grinning with his eyes.

“Your fighter is talented.”

“A lucky find, you might say.” Sam was waiting in what was functionally an antechamber tent adjoining this one, left with another gaggle of working girls. Fighters did not need to be privy to business discussions—that was what managers were for, after all.

“She’s only Level 4.”

“She’s very new.”

“How new?”

“Washed up a bit under a week ago.”

Golden Boy giggled, making bubbles in his brandy as he went for a sip. “Of course.” He clearly didn’t believe that one whit. “I assume you want her to take part in the five-under division?”

“If it’s not too much trouble.”

“No. Decidedly no trouble at all, Master Caldwell. It would be my pleasure to assist, and in fact…” The cherub-like fellow put down his glass, smiling a shiny, plated smile. “I have just the thing for her.”

Mongrel clapped his hands together. “Brilliant!” Resisting the urge to pick his nose, he instead rubbed the bridge of it, looking sophisticated. “What opponent did you have in mind?”

Golden Boy’s smile widened, and he wagged a finger in the air. “Nonono, it’s not like that. It isn’t a fight I have in mind—it’s a tournament.”

“A tournament? That’s…” It wasn’t exactly what he’d bargained for. Sam was still very fresh, after all, and well… he could already imagine Will's lecture about ‘being responsible’ and other such moralistic tripe.

“Yes! You are very much in luck, Master Caldwell. It just so happens that I and a few of the other organizers have pooled all our fresh talent together for a five-under tournament—frankly, I’m surprised you haven’t heard of it. I suppose I will need to have a word with my marketing team about that.”

“I live a little off the grid,” Mongrel replied. Besides, his vice of choice had never been fight betting. Whenever he was in Darkside, he usually found that his disposable income had run out before he got quite so far north as the fairground.

Golden Boy lifted a hairless brow at Mongrel’s comment, not understanding, but didn’t inquire.

Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

“When is this tournament being held?” Mongrel asked hesitantly. I suppose I should at least hear him out. I’m representing my fighter’s best interests, after all—it would be irresponsible of me not to explore all the options.

“Tomorrow,” Golden Boy replied swiftly. “As I said, you’re in luck.”

Mongrel blinked. “That’s very short notice.”

“You think your Laborer needs more training? She clearly has the basics down already.”

“Well…”

“That’s more than can be said for most of these scum. The majority are just wannabes looking for their big break. I’d say your girl has a more than fair chance.”

Slowly shaking his head, Mongrel said: “I don’t know about this, Mr. Boy. Don’t you have any regular matches on the books that we could talk about?”

“Of course.” Golden Boy held up a finger. “Just let me tell you about one more thing first. The champion’s purse.”

* * *

Mongrel emerged from the organizer’s private room with a grin on his face and a swagger in his step.

“Girl!” he called as he strode through the antechamber tent. “Come on! We’re outta here!”

Sam was sitting in front of a large beauty mirror, surrounded by a troop of women who were threatening her with a frankly impressive arsenal of brushes and powders and sprays and pencils and pins and creams and clippers and curlers and accessories, all talking over each other so that hardly a single word of it could be made out.

The girl looked infinitely more terrified now than when she'd had a knife to her throat. He could not hear what she called out to him, but the pleading look in her eyes spoke volumes.

“All right, ladies!” Mongrel shouted, shoving his way through the chattering geese. “That’s enough, now! I’ll be needing this one back, thank you very much.”

In the end, he had to physically drag her away, and he hurried her out of the tent as several of the working girls came jeering after, looking like they might start biting and clawing if given the chance.

They had made it off the fairground by the time Sam’s breathing had returned to normal, and she started looking a little less traumatized.

“Do you think he would like it?” she asked.

“What?”

“Will.”

“Will, what?”

“He probably wouldn’t like this kind of thing, would he?” Sam abruptly stopped, forcing Mongrel to hang back as well. “He’d find it silly. And it doesn’t look right on me.”

She was talking about the makeup, he realized. Silly girl. “Who cares?” he said, a little impatiently. Hearing the outrage in the strangled noise she made, he added: “I mean, I’m sure he would love it. Boys like it when girls dress up and get fancy for them.”

“You didn’t even look!”

Good lord, why are we still talking about this? There were far more important things going on than a little face paint.

Hoping she’d let the matter drop if he indulged her, he stooped forward to inspect her face up close, stroking his chin and giving a sophisticated hum. “Hmm… Yes, the colors really go with your… eyebrows. You look very… feminine.”

She looked fine, all things considered. It certainly wasn’t a downgrade. But she really wasn’t his type, so it was difficult to say. He didn’t see the appeal of the boyish types, personally, though he wished all luck upon the men that did—it meant less competition over the real ladies, after all.

But Mongrel had lived long enough to know that when a woman asked leading questions like these, he needed to give exactly the answer she wanted to hear, or he would never know the end of it. “If Will were here, he would be making excuses to visit the little boys’ room about now.”

Sam frowned. “Why?” She softly touched her hair, which had been styled to perfect neatness.

“So he could rub one out, obviously.” Women really did not understand anything at all, sometimes.

“Oh.” Even through the powders that had been liberally applied to her cheeks, Mongrel could make out a bit of a blush. “You think so?”

“I know so, sweetheart. You’re a gorgeous girl, and our Will clearly agrees.”

Sam grinned, and went to touch her face reverently before quickly yanking her hand away, not wanting to ruin the makeup job.

Mongrel swallowed a sigh. So she didn’t only have muscles for brains, after all. There seemed to be an actual girl in there somewhere. Way in there.

He motioned for her to keep things moving, and she trotted along after him, still grinning like an idiot.

Finally, he could move onto more important matters.

“I signed you up for a tournament,” he said. “You’ll be fighting tomorrow.”

“What?” Sam asked, her smile slipping. “A tournament?”

“Yep.”

“Is that a good idea? Can I do that?”

“‘Course you can, girl. Look at you! You’re a monster!”

That had been the wrong thing to say, based on the vaguely offended expression on her face. But it quickly melted away, replaced by a look of confusion. “Would Will really be okay with that?”

“Yes!”

“How do you know?”

“Because I know that kid,” Mongrel spoke, slowly and patiently, “and I know he believes in you more than he believes the sun’s gonna come up tomorrow.”

“Seriously?”

“Yep.” Mongrel had been hearing about it for the past five fucking years of his life with all of Will’s whining and sighing and pining, so by now he considered himself the preeminent expert on the subject.

“Okay!” Sam quickened her pace until they were side by side, moving with determination. “In that case, I’ll have to make sure I win, don’t I? I can’t disappoint him.”

“Theeere’s the spirit,” Mongrel cooed, already counting his predicted earnings.