Cesare followed her eyes to the fighters. After that first quick stare down, they’d gone back to their own worlds. She was right; he was the smallest fighter here, in both height and muscle mass. He never seemed to put on muscle, no matter how hard Viktor worked him, he only got stronger, every inch of fat melting off his body in the crucible of the workouts. No matter what anyone says about size not mattering, it’s a lie, it matters, in life, in death, and everything between.
“I never should’ve taken you in.” The words were more for herself than him, a condemnation for thinking he was anything but something to step over. “I should’ve taken the money and walked.”
You had to give a damn about someone to care what they thought. He wasn’t here for her or the money. It was need that pulled him to this hell, to feel the rush of beating a man into the ground, see the splash of blood across concrete, watch agonies blade skin souls bare. He needed to prove to himself that he wasn’t that boy who'd cried itself to sleep.
How many fighters were broken the same way? If you skinned off their armor of brutal violence and fury, would you find a savaged child screaming at violations they were never strong enough to stop? Someone who’d been smaller than the other boys, awkward around girls, too weak to stand up to the packs of jackals boys formed. How many fought not for money or fame, but to quiet the crying child? Each maimed body, another barbed chain hooked into the demons that ruled their past.
Leaning back in his chair, Cesare closed his eyes without a word. He wasn’t worried about being jumped, not with the wolf beside him, bond thrumming with a primordial whirlpool of dark, blood-soaked emotions. There was no touchstone in that stygian whirlpool of brutality, Cesare could only watch from the shore as it swirled around his small island of rotting humanity.
“Okay, fuck ups! Time to get this show on the road, come and sign in. New kid, your first!” Rocky yelled out from the door.
Standing with a long stretch and a yawn, Cesare made his way across the cement floor, the wolf gliding in step with him. Candy followed behind him with a scowl engraved on her face as she glared at the other fluffers smirking at Cesare in disbelief.
Rocky held out a sign-in sheet with one hand while the other rested on his gun. “Normally a fighter picks his name, but since we like sweat things like you, we gave you one courtesy of the boys.” The room snickered behind Cesare, coyotes slavering for a taste of new meat. Everyone felt the cancer of being picked on at least once. Instead of revolting against the casual cruelty, they became another member of the craven crowd. That’s was what it meant to be human.
Eyes resting on Cesare with avid, diseased need, Rocky dragged it out. It wasn't new, Cesare didn't remember when someone wasn't fucking with him. Rocky was just another man standing on his skull, pushing his face into the shit, the Rocky got hard on the inches he gained by standing on Cesare's neck.
Rocky relented with a grimace as Cesare waited, uncaring and untouched. “Your Caine, and cherries are first up,” Rocky said, stepping back from the door. “Line up in the hall as I get the fighters ready.”
It didn’t take long before the fighters and their fluffers were signed in. The line would split when it reached the cage, half going to one side so they could enter opposite each other. A winner could stay in the ring and keep fighting, losers were removed with prejudice.
A ravening maelstrom of sound engulfed Cesare as the door opened into the warehouse. The roar deafened and distorted into the meaningless howls of a crazed animal. Blurring together, the crowd became a mass of meat, thousands of grasping hands and drooling faces, insane eyes roiling with madness, they frenzied on the offerings of flesh. The smell was horrific, damp heat submerging Cesare in a sweaty sea of body odor. Wet air viscous as syrup slipped down his throat, the cloying smell of rotting humanity worming its way up his nose.
A thrill of adrenaline spiked through Cesare as he caught sight of the cage. Muscles loosened with each step closer to the dirt laced chain link and its crimson blessed floor. His balance shifted like quicksilver, transforming his walk into a stalking stride, mirroring the wolf next to him. Consciousness expanded and contracted, he became preternaturally aware of his bubble while the world beyond faded into nothingness.
The sound of the beastly crowd died to nothing but white noise, something to move beyond. This was what he’d come for. To feed the hunger that surged in his soul, to glory in the subjugation of flesh.
Shrugging off his duffel, Cesare eagerly entered the dirty cage. Walking to the middle of the ring, a satisfied sigh ghosted from him. Here, he could be what he was, a beast, a rabid, grotesque thing glutting itself on slaughter.
The cage opened across from him, a fighter slipping in. Cesare reached down into his soul for the serpent coiled there. It materialized in his mind, shining with golden light. Coiling and twisting in on itself, the snake's muscles pulsed along its golden body, the sound of its searing scales a twisted song of desire.
Scarlet shorts hugged the fighter's legs, molding to muscles that rippled under the clinging fabric. Glistening with a light sheen of sweat, he radiated the raw aggression of a trained fighter. But no matter how many muscles he put on or how good at punching bags he was, he couldn’t hide the fear that bedrocked ever sheep. A wolf went eagerly to the fight, thirsting for the coarse embrace of barbarism. A sheep feared losing too much to go gleefully into battle.
Bouncing forward, the boy came at Cesare with a confidence birthed in sweat and pain. He’d fought before, been locked into this cage knowing only one walked out. A smile tugged at the boy’s lips as he came at Cesare more than willing to take the easy win he’d bag with his first fight.
Cesare didn’t inspire fear, thin and small, his oversized hoodie made him seem even smaller. The hood kept Cesare’s face in shadow, barring the world from him, a darkness ruled by him alone.
Cesare watched as the boy closed with him. Until the boundary was broken, he was nothing to Cesare. That was the beauty of the moment, it forced the world into black and white, death and life. What came into the kingdom was crippled, sacrificed to his sadistic needs as an offering to Cesare's better nature, its screams a litany of agony feeding his cruel sou. Everything else beyond his world was only illusion and fantasy. As the boy stepped across that line, a twinge twisted down Cesare’s spine.
Surging forward, Cesare’s snap kick wove between his opponent’s guard, smearing his nose across his face. The boy’s skull rocked backward under the blow. Dropping, Cesare compressed his body, his left fist sinking into the boy’s stomach, soft tissue rupturing under knuckles. Folding forward with an explosion of air, the fighter moved into the elbow that slammed into his chin, mouth clicking shut under incredible force. In a spray of blood and teeth, he fell back, legs collapsing under him.
Sound beat at Cesare, hitting him from all sides, the crazed thing that fucked and shit in this dark hole mad with pleasure at his offering. Laid out on the floor, blood spilled across the ruined remains of his opponent’s face. Teeth littered the cement, scarlet standing in pools against concrete. The man had come into the cage expecting an easy win, he’d leave it disfigured.
Bully boys with bats got the boy up and moving out of the cage. The boys fluffer was long gone from the side of the cage, disappearing like mist in the sun when he lost. Cesare retook his place in the center of the cage, he’d glut himself until they ran out of meat to serve.
Tall and muscled, the next piece came in cautiously, tight spandex hugged bulging thighs as wrapped hands clenched into calloused fists. A six-pack of hardened abs flexed and stiffened into a shield of flesh, shoulders roiled and flowed as the boy’s guard came up. They had a lot on the line and fuck all to gain. A few hundred dollars wasn’t much compared to a maiming. This guy watched the first boy stumble out with only a wrecked face to show for his time. But he still walked into the cage after him.
When you stopped looking for the win and settled for surviving, you were seconds from bleeding out, staring up at a man who got off on putting you there. Side stepping along a slow spiral, the boy closed the distance. Cesare kept him in his sights, never moving from his dominance at the center of the cage.
Stepping into Cesare’s bubble, the man flinched back. Dancing on the edge of the border, his eyes darted over Cesare’s body. With his hands at his sides, Cesare waited for him to commit. The boy was close enough that a sudden rush would finish it and drown him in his killing field. But Cesare needed the fighter to come for him, to feel the challenge, before he mangled his flesh for daring the cage.
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Darting for him, the boy’s face locked down. The moment crystalized around Cesare, swaying with the tides of the now, he slipped around a flurry of punches. Squaring his stance, Cesare let loose with lightning strikes, each a blur flowing through the man’s guard with ease. Punches cut into the soft tissue of his face, the boy's eyes swelling shut under the unrelenting onslaught of violence.
Stepping back from the blind boy, Cesare slammed a kick into his inside thigh, ripping his stance from him. Cesare’s knee flew forward, pulled by the demands of the moment, testicles exploded under the brutal force of Cesare’s hammering knee. Pain fried the boy's mind, cutting his legs out from under him. The axe kick arched up, Cesare’s body balanced on the ball of one foot, leg extended almost vertical, before crashing into the boys’ shoulder. A meaty crunch reverberated up Cesare’s leg as the clavicle shattered.
The boy crumpled; his open-mouthed scream drowned under the dominating roar of the beast as it screamed its love of slaughter. Laying on the ground, his arm flopping grotesquely, a red stain spread across the boy’s crotch. The black shirts slipped their hands under the boy’s arms, helping him out of the cage with a tenderness born of being male.
The next three fell, consumed in silent screams and orgies of sadistic pleasure. Each was different in technique and strength; but sheathed in the same weakness. They were fighters, not killers. They’d never had to fight for their lives, never looked up from the dirt into the gleeful eyes of men who raped kids to death. Never made a choice to end a life for fun, not survival.
Walking out of the cage, he met the radiant eyes of the wolf. It had never left him; a hulking presence watching from its den in his mind. As the fights played out, the wolf had dipped below his thoughts, twisting him into what it demanded he become, instincts flaring scarlet under its bestial eyes. Even in the trembling time when flesh brutalized flesh, it was there. The split-second divides predator from prey, a killer moved, while meat thought.
Rocky held the gate for him, a shade of fear darkening the man’s eyes. It was one thing to get creeped out by a fey kid, and another to see that kid butcher a fist of fighters without taking a hit. Human violence was a measured thing, a pale shadow of the glorious trueness of unspoiled carnage. Humans shied away from maiming, crippling, or disfiguring the other sheep. A predator hit hard and fast, ripping its prey’s life from it in a blaze of savage grace.
“The Governor wants to see you,” Rocky yelled over the crowd.
The mass of humanity parted for the big man as he cut a path through the frenzied degenerates. They crowded around the black clad man, pushing to get closer to Cesare, wanting to worship the child priest that had fed their craven appetite for humiliation. Defended by the twin guardians of terror and fear, a no-man's-land was kept open around Cesare. Even the most crazed fan skittered away from the shadowed mass of the wolf that slunk with lethal majesty at his side. Buffeted by the ties of humanity in his wake, Candy struggled to keep her place.
Rocky opened the door to the office, carefully stepping aside to let Cesare and the wolf enter. The rough man closed it behind him, pointedly locking Candy outside. While she might be Cesare’s ticket into the fights, that was all she was. He’d seen the other fluffers, dead eyes and glittering smiles. Any of them would be glad to sell his flesh, taking in money as they mouthed the poisoned words of pimps. Candy was a key, but hardly the only one.
The technicolor blood of the fights painted the office walls, torn flesh, maimed boys, and screaming children, danced across the wall in a tapestry of violence. Scenes played out on the monitors, boys huddled on the ground, faces kicked in, gleefully mad eyes gloated from sweat streaked meat. It was disgusting, exhilarating, the primal face of humanity in its sublime horror.
Silhouetted by the live video feeds, the Governor watched the monitors in silence. A swell of disgust washed through Cesare as he took in the altar dedicated to the gods of greed and exploitation. Just outside, the unwashed masses choked on self-loathing and the rotting smell of humanity in the raw. They laid sweat soaked money down on kids driven by their demons to cripple and maim. But in this room, cool air conditioning flowed uninterrupted as sterile monitors played the action. Here, fights were cut, sliced, and reconfigured into shiny packages. It was like opening the chest of a living man and finding a dissected heart in its chest. Life was disgusting and messy, but it had a truth to it that made it worth living. This crypt of naked avarice was where souls went to die.
“You did better than I’d hoped for. I knew you’d be a natural for the Cock Fight,” the man said with his back to Cesare.
Turning to him, the Governor smiled. “You don’t talk much, do you? Usually when I get a fighter in here, they can’t shut the fuck up.” The question hung in the air as the man hunted for a hook to sink into Cesare’s flesh. Everyone was for sale, but only if you had the right poison to offer.
Cesare shrugged, he wasn't staying for the money, but it didn’t hurt. Facing him, the Governor’s dark eyes sharpened. “You know why I let you fight that first night?”
Curious, the question pulled Cesare out of his self-imposed silence. “No.”
Walking to the mirrored windows, the Governor looked out at the moving mass of people. “I looked at you, and saw a person who craved cruelty.” Cesare frowned at the man. He didn’t give a wet shit what this pandering pimp of blood thought of him. Cesare knew what he was, an outcast, unwanted thing, birthed in the gutter with the needles and shit.
“You don’t like that, do you?” the governor asked quietly. “You know the difference between you and the guys who used you for a good time? Don’t look surprised, you have damaged goods written large across your face. The difference between you and them, is you do it in a cage.” Turning, the man slipped his hands into his pockets as he locked eyes with Cesare. “A small step. You want to hurt them, you like breaking them, slamming men into the dirt and knowing you put them there. You hate the crowd, but your mirrors. They want to see it and you want to do it. Who is the greater villain in this play, kid?”
“We don’t force anyone to fight. We offer money for blood; the winner walks with a full pocket and the loser crawls back to his hole. It’s not fair, its life in the raw, stripped of the trappings of civilization. This is humanity at its basest and you stand at the center. You can hide from your feelings and go back to your normal life, but it's in your blood now. You’ll always come back to the grinder.”
Taking out a billfold, the man counted off the money into Cesare’s hand. “The Cock Fight pays two hundred a win. Two, four, six…”
Walking out, Cesare was a thousand dollars richer and more confused than when he’d gone in. Candy straightened up from the wall, giving him a solitary nod before leading him around the fringes of the crowd. Here in the darkness, people shied away from them, hands busy as drugs and money flowed. The only ones that didn’t flinch away were busy trading flesh.
Cesare wasn’t sure if it was the same door they’d used last time, but it was close enough to be its twin. The steel closed behind them, cutting off the sticky heat and the raving madness, cold silence rushing into the void they’d left. A deep sigh of happiness gusted from Cesare. The fighting was fun, but the venue sucked.
With a sidelong look, Candy guided him to the truck. Cesare knew she wanted to talk, to see if she was still his fluffer. After what she’d said earlier, it wouldn’t be a shock if he told her to fuck off.
The truck started with a rattling bang, Candy giving him a look, mouth opening before closing. Winding down the tight lanes of steel and corroded metal, she kept her eye on the turns. “You want to talk?” she asked, hands tightening on the steering wheel.
Cesare looked over at the hooker. From the clenched hands to the tensed muscles along her arms, she was expecting a fight. The problem was, her words hadn’t meant anything to him. He wanted to fight and had won money maiming boys. Topping that shit sundae was the insight that plucked at scars and memories better left alone. Candy just didn’t matter.
“Can I stay at your place?” Cesare asked.
“Yes.” The one-word reply was loaded with layers of expectation.
Shrugging, he looked out the window, dismissing the hooker. “I don’t have anything to talk about.”
Candy shot him a startled look, expecting him to make her pay for the words she let go with easy malice. Cesare lost himself in the night weathered city scape as they drove, the words of the Governor snapping and biting, tangling into ebony coils of impossibility. The joyous rush of glee he’d felt at mangling flesh, was it any different from the joyous smiles of the villains of his life?
Walking into the house, Cesare made for the sofa, pulling out paper and pen from his bag. Laying back, he briefly wished Alexandra was here. Of all his friends, she’d understand, but there was still one person he could ask.
Kali,
I don’t know if you got my first letter. If you haven’t, then this letter is the second I’ve sent. I know we don’t know each other, but I don’t have anyone here.
I told you in the first letter that I have a job of sorts. The work involves a lot of fighting and … I like it. No, that’s too small, I love it. Seeing the shattered faces, glorying in their pain, carving my dominance across their flesh, it’s the finest of moments.
It’s always been me begging for mercy. Always been my blood on the floor, my screams staining the air. I’ve never been the strong one. Yes, I’ve won fights, but most of those have been in the past months. Before that, I was a victim, easy meat for the taking, worth less than the tears I drowned in or the cries I went hoarse screaming.
Now it’s me standing over mewling, quivering flesh. It’s me smiling down into terror wracked faces. Am I becoming what I hated? When I trained with Anastasia’s harem, I was careful, always pulling back before dark pleasure poured through my soul. Now I'm looking for it in all the wrong places.
Who will I be when I come back to school? Will I even recognize myself? Or did Primrose change me? Do I even want to go back to the victim I was?
I don’t know who I am anymore, Kali. I’ve never been nice, but I’ve never gone looking for people to hurt. Never gotten off on others pain. I haven’t offered a helping hand, but I’ve never been the one to push their face in the dirt.
Cesare.