“Shiiiiit,” drawled Petey. “Who told that old fuck he could come back?”

“Huh?” Sammy looked up from the ledger. “What old - oh. Shit.”

The old fuck was approaching them through the crowd like Captain Ahab approaching his whale. His face was seamed, his expression bleak, and his eyes glittered deep within the recesses of his skull. He looked like rawhide wrapped tight around a rusted frame, his shirt hanging loose over his muscles, his knuckles swollen and busted.

“Fuck,” muttered Petey. “What do we do? Call the boss?”

“Who we got lined up for tonight?” Sammy flipped through his book. “Sergio Banderas against that new kid, Franky What’s-his-name. Then the Hammer’s defending his title against Nicky Balls.”

“No room for him,” said Petey approvingly. “Nice and simple. Here, I’ll handle it.”

The crowd parted before the old man like the Red Sea before Moses. People drew back from him with the same wary fear that they might show a snarling dog, but the man’s expression never changed, his focus never wavered. He marched right up to the booth and put a handful of greasy bills on the board.

“Put me in. Whatever you got. I’m game.”

Petey shivered. The old man’s voice gave him the screaming fantods. “Sorry buddy, we’re all booked up. No space for drop-ins, yeah?”

The old man stared at him as if he’d suddenly lost the ability to speak English.

“No room,” said Petey, pitching his voice louder. “Real sorry, but not tonight.”

“I want to fight.”

“Yes.” Petey felt the crowd watching him, felt sweat prickle along the nape of his broad neck, his brow. The man’s stare could have melted iron. “I know. But you can’t just show up like this. We got reservations in place. Bets have been placed, everything’s already locked. Why don’t you just go home and rest, yeah?”

The old man - wait, was he old? Maybe not. Just a life lived way too hard - the man seemed to chew this over, then shock his head as if it just wasn’t satisfactory. “I don’t want to rest. Don’t need to rest. I want to fight.”

“Jesus Christ, buddy.” Petey didn’t know whether to laugh or get mad. “It doesn’t work that way. We’re small time, sure, but this ain’t no backyard scrabble fight, you know? We got procedures. You want to fight, call booking, see if they need a spot filled in a month or two.”

“Yeah,” said Sammy leaning in. “Why don’t you go rest? You look real tired. Kinda peaky. Maybe go home and make some tea and watch some… shit. What did they used to watch back in the day? Magnum?”

“What if a fighter don’t show up?” rasped the old man. “Could I fight then?”

Petey made a face. “Sure. If a fighter decides last minute they got something better to do, yeah. We could put you in.”

The old man nodded pensively then closed his fist about the wad of notes. He shoved them into his dirty jeans and stepped back. “Good to know.”

Then he turned and walked through the crowd, back to the parking lot.

“What a weirdo,” laughed Sammy nervously.

“No kidding.” Petey watched the man striding toward the shadowed lot, people giving him a wide berth. They’d gotten rid of him easily this time, but somehow, for some reason, he felt like he’d just made a huge mistake.

* * *

“No babe,” said Nicky Balls, pushing Samantha away as she tried to unzip his fly. “I told you, not before a fight.”

They were almost at The Zone, the last turns familiar, the driver taking them smoothly, the Bentley purring as it brought him ever closer to the shitty fight club.

“You need to relax, honey,” said Samantha, pouting as she relented. “You all tense. Let me help you relax, take the edge off.”

“That’s the edge I need.” Nicky cracked his knuckles inside his other palm. “You think the Hammer’s gonna go easy on me if I show up with a smile and ask him to cuddle?”

“After,” she breathed in his ear. “After you bury him six feet under, when you got the belt, then I’ll show you a good time.”

“You bet your ass you will.” But Nicky was distracted. The Hammer was no joke. Six foot seven, three hundred pounds, he’d been called Mad Dog right till he’d hammer-fisted Lenny Luke on the top of his head and fused all his vertebrae together. Word was Lenny was gonna drink through a straw for the rest of his life.

The Hammer was strong, the Hammer was big, but he wasn’t the fastest. Nicky Balls, now, he was fast. Slick moves. Quick strikes. He’d tire the Hammer out, weaken his core. Blows to the thighs and gut. Try for a liver shot. Work him, last the rounds, avoid the clinch, avoid his big swings.

It could be done.

His phone rang. His dad. Fuck, not now. He turned the ringer off.

The Bentley pulled into the crappy parking lot. The Zone lit up the night beyond it, a bar that had extended its business to include fight nights. A place that had somehow attracted high caliber fighters despite being in the middle of nowhere and serving weak beer.

No matter. Nicky had won six straight fights to get this far. The Zone was just another steppingstone toward proving his father wrong.

They parked. The lot was dark. No overhead lighting. Ringed in by trees and on one side the dark mass of a hill. Nicky shoved the door open and got out. Fucking boonies. He tugged on his leather jacket and left the door open for the driver to close.

“Hey.” The voice was a rasp, like rusted hinge. “You Nicky Balls?”

Nicky grimaced. A lurker standing in the dark. A dude, no less. “Fuck, not now. After the fight I’ll sign your face if you want. But for now, fuck off.”

The shadowed shape stepped forward. He had a ski mask on. “You Nicky Balls or not?”

“Jesus H. Christ.” Nicky rounded on the man, his temper snapping. “You want proof? I’ll -”

He never saw the punch coming. It hit him like a freight train, crashing across his jaw and snapping his head all the way around. The muscles of his neck went taught, and then the rest of his body followed, spinning around in a reluctant pirouette.

Nicky crashed to the gravel. He felt all loose and wrong, his head ringing, his mouth flooded with blood and sharp bits.

My teeth, he thought. My fucking teeth.

Samantha was screaming. The driver was yelling.

Nicky tried to stand up but his hips, his knees, his whole body was acting funny, like it was sliding down a ramp and leaving his mind behind.

He had to get up, but there was nothing he could do.

So, he put his head down and closed his eyes to try and stop the spinning.

God damn, he thought, a mere moment before oblivion took him. I ain’t never been punched that hard.

* * *

Two hours later

“What about Carmelo?” Mr. Fuentes, Sammy’s boss, was pacing back and forth like a caged fucking tiger. “Carmelo’s been calling my ear off, goin’ on about wanting a shot at the Hammer. You call him?”

“Yes sir, Mr. Fuentes.” The Amazon River was flowing down between Petey’s shoulder blades. “I left three voice messages, too. And a text. Sammy even Facebook messaged him.”

Mr. Fuentes stopped at his window and glared out at the fight ring. It wasn’t pretty, a huge circle bounded by shoulder-high boards topped by barbed wire for effect, but the bleacher seats around it were packed, just absolutely packed with blood thirty idiots who’d turned out to see the Hammer bury another up and comer.

And now?

There was nobody to bury.

“Fine. Fine. Sergio Banderas.” Mr. Fuentes had never sounded so desperate. “He put that kid down easy. He want a shot at the Hammer?”

“I asked his manager, sir, but they said yes if the fight can take place in three months’ time.” Petey grimaced apologetically. “He wants to fight the Hammer fresh.”

“Fucking hell, fucking shit buckets of fucking shit.” Mr. Fuentes raked his fingers through his badly dyed and thinning hair. “We got four hundred people out there, Petey. Four hundred people buying beers and shots, four hundred people lining up at the food trucks and planning to stick around and celebrate after the fight. What are we gonna tell them?” Mr. Fuentes put on an asinine expression. “Oh, I’m sorry folks, there ain’t gonna be no fight, but maybe we can have the Hammer do a little flexing and then you guys can go home?”

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

Petey smiled helplessly, despite knowing how much Mr. Fuentes hated his smile.

There was a knock at the door.

“Come in!” barked Mr. Fuentes. “Bring me some good news!”

It was Sammy, hat in hand. “The Hammer’s upset. He says if the cops show up about Nicky Balls he’ll never come back here again. We’re talking to Nicky’s dad, he’s threatening to sue. I’m stone walling, saying the parking lot’s not our problem, it’s a dangerous place, but he doesn’t sound like he cares.”

“Fuck.” Mr. Fuentes sat down and dug his thumbs into his eyes.

“But I got someone to fight the Hammer.” Sammy’s tone was one of false cheer. “That old fuck from last month. Abraham Stone?”

“Abraham who?” Fuentes looked up.

“The old guy who put Ricky Max in hospital,” said Petey quickly. “He’s no good. He’s crazy. Remember we had to pull him off Ricky? The guy’s got a screw loose. We told him we’d have him arrested if he came back.”

“Abraham Stone.” Fuentes sounded pensive. “The army vet?”

“So he says.” Petey shrugged uneasily. “Who knows with that guy?”

“He’s at the entrance,” said Sammy quickly. “Been there for an hour. Says he’ll fight the Hammer.”

“Fuck.” Fuentes looked away. “A nobody for the title bout?”

“I’ll get rid of him,” said Petey.

“No. Wait.” Fuentes frowned. “An army vet. A dark horse. We could say he was in Iraq, at, what was that place called, Fallujah. A war hero. A challenger for the champ. The best of the Armed Forces.”

“The guy’s a crazy homeless man,” said Petey quickly. “We shouldn’t -”

“You want to fight the Hammer?” asked Fuentes.

Petey blanched. “I - what? Me? No, but -”

“What we got about him on file?” Fuentes turned to his computer and typed. “Here he is. Shit, we got almost nothing. Thirty-three. One win against Ricky Max. No registered address. Which of you idiots even entered him in the system? Doesn’t matter. Bring him in here.” Fuentes rapped his knuckles on his desk. “Now. I want to speak to him.”

“Yes sir,” said Sammy, all but saluting, and disappeared.

Petey grimaced but bit his tongue.

A moment later Sammy was back, the crazy old guy with him.

“Abraham Stone,” said Fuentes in his most casual dismissive tone, the voice he used when he was about to fleece a supplier. “Tell me why I should put you in the ring with the Hammer. Convince me he won’t kill you and leave your body on my hands.”

The old man raised his stubbled chin. “Ain’t nobody killed me yet.”

“Hardly a persuasive argument. What are your credentials? What fighting gym you trained at? Or are you really an army veteran?”

“You need a fighter.” Abraham’s stare was direct and feverishly intense. “I know it. You know it. Put me in the ring with the Hammer. I’ll knock him out.”

Fuentes frowned and tapped his desk. “You’ll knock him out. How much do you weight, Stone?”

“185 pounds, last I checked.”

“And you’re, what, five foot ten?”

“Five foot nine.”

Fuentes grimaced. “Shit. You’re wasting my time.”

Abraham stepped forward. One moment he was standing in the middle of the room, the next he was right at Fuentes’ desk, both fists pressed down on the worn laminate, the broad, split knuckles so raw and red it looked like he’d been training by punching cinder blocks. “Put me in the ring with the Hammer.”

Fuentes had jerked back, and for a moment he just sat there, eyes wide, mesmerized by Stone’s stare. Then he forced a chuckle. “Shit. All right, fine. Just tell me one thing. Why do you want to sign your death warrant so bad?”

Stone straightened. The man was so whipcord lean that Petey could see the individual muscles playing over each other across his back and shoulders.

“Nothing more important than the fist.” Stone’s voice was so quiet it was almost a whisper. “It’s sacred. Only way to get her back. One punch at a time.”

He spoke the words with such conviction the air fairly quivered with his intensity.

Nobody spoke.

Nobody moved.

Then Fuentes snorted, hesitated as if to check Stone wasn’t about to hit him, then allowed himself a laugh. “Sacred? Sure. Whatever you say. Sammy, take Stone to his changing room. Petey, talk to Hammer. Tell him that dark horse Fallujah bullshit. I’ll introduce him to the crowd after Hammer takes the ring. We’ll milk this for all its worth. And Stone?”

Stone had taken a step back, begun to turn away. He looked back at Fuentes over his shoulder.

“Stone, if you don’t last at least twenty seconds against the Hammer I’ll kill you myself.” Fuentes tone had gone cold. “We clear?”

“Won’t be a problem,” said Stone. “It’s Hammer that won’t last that long.”

Then he left the room, following Sammy into the back area behind the bar.

The door closed.

Fuentes stared at it then let out a nervous laugh. “God damn. Crazy ain’t the half of it.”

Petey grinned. “You hear that shit? What did he even say? The fist is sacred? Fuck, that’s one crazy dude.”

“Crazy is good.” Fuentes nodded decisively. “It’ll give him a chance to last a round against the Hammer. The crazy ones don’t mind taking damage. If he gets bloody enough, the crowd will go bananas. They’re here for blood, anyways. Now go talk to the Hammer’s people. Tell him we’ll…” Fuentes scowled. “If he complains, tell him we’ll double his cut. It’ll ruin our night, but not our reputation. Take care of it.”

“Yes, sir,” said Petey, nodding vigorously as he hurried to the door. “On it.”

“Fucking sacred fist,” chuckled Fuentes. “What a loser.”

* * *

“Yo, Stone!” The fat guy stood in the doorway. “Time to fight. You ready?”

Stone raised his head. He could hear the distant shouting of the crowd. It made his blood sing, made his head swim. His knuckles ached. His breath caught.

He stood up. “I’m ready.”

The fat guy swallowed and wiped at his gleaming brow. “Your funeral. Hammer’s already in the ring. You just go out there and keep your mouth shut. When the bell rings, you fight. Clear?”

Stone didn’t bother answering. He just stared at the fat guy till the man bobbed his head nervously and turned to lead the way.

The hallway was short. Through the bar kitchen. The place stank of rancid grease. A left then out a side door.

The air was cold, dry. Invigorating. The sound of the crowd doubled. The smell of cigarettes and spilled beer, the stink of stale sweat and sawdust.

The fat guy stopped at the entrance to the ramshackle ring. Moved aside and gestured sarcastically for him to enter.

Stone ignored him.

He strode into the ring, gaze locked on the Hammer.

Who stood talking with his managers. Two other guys. None of them looked pleased. Stone didn’t blame them. This was a shit show for them. Thing was they just hadn’t realized yet what kind.

He moved to the other side of the ring. It wasn’t large. Just some eight yards in diameter. Fingers gripped the chain links and shook the fencing. Beer cans and broken bottles littered the sawdust strewn ground. The air vibrated with tension.

Stone tuned it all out.

He closed his eyes and placed both hands before his brow. Inhaled deeply, his shoulders rising, rising, and then he held his breath.

For a long, aching moment he remained thus, still and silent.

Then he dropped his hands, opened his eyes, and shook out his shoulders.

Slowly, reverently, he curled his gnarled hands into fists, clenched them so tight his knuckles whitened.

He lowered his chin.

He was ready.

The Hammer was a big man. No denying. Over six feet tall. He looked like a walking refrigerator. Big shoulders, short neck, thick chest. Skinny legs. Pale like a fish belly. Square jaw, small eyes.

Mean eyes.

His sneer was predictable.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” Fuentes stepped into the ring with a mike. “What is this? A sudden challenger from the blood fields of Fallujah, Iraq? That’s right, we got ourselves a military veteran, a Navy Seal on hard times. Where once he fought for freedom and honor, for liberty and our precious flag, now he’s down on his luck and willing to use his lethal skills to keep himself off the streets. Too bad he chose to go against the Hammer.”

Laughter rang out.

Stone ignored Fuentes. Kept his stare on the Hammer, who was glowering right back. The man was big, his legs skinny, but he looked good on his feet. Cauliflower ears. Arms like a gorilla. He had to hit hard. But he didn’t look used to getting hit. He could give out the punishment, but probably couldn’t take it.

“And on the other side, the bringer of doom, the ender of careers, the best, the biggest, the brutalest, the Hammer! You know him, you love him, and he’s here to show this Navy Seal why you don’t just step into the ring with a professional. Let’s give it up for the champ!”

The crowd went nuts. They didn’t care. They just wanted blood.

To Stone it sounded like the baying of dogs.

He felt a shiver of excitement rush through him. His skin prickled. Was She watching? Probably not. But you never knew. She’d not enjoy it if She was. But She’d understand. Even if it made Her sad. Even if the blood made Her turn away.

Fuentes stepped out of the ring along with the managers.

Now it was just the two of them.

The Hammer raised his fists and began to bounce on the balls of his feet, looking insulted.

Stone stayed still. Fists raised, but nothing more.

Soon there’d be pain. Soon there’d be blood. Maybe his own, maybe his foe’s.

But whatever happened, it would be right. It would be good.

Because this was where he belonged.

This was where he could practice his greatest truth.

This was where he could show Her his devotion.

* * *

“You cannot be serious,” said Evaliel, peering at the ghostly mirror. “Him? The brute?”

They stood in a mist shrouded room, the walls glowing a faint gold, the mirror rising some four yards to reveal a crude, almost bestial ring.

Beside him, upon her silver throne, The Lady ran a finger over her lips. “Not the brute, darling. The other man.”

Evaliel grimaced and focused on the second man. If anything, his expression grew more dismayed. “That? That… thing? That is whom you’ve chosen?”

“Almost chosen.” The Lady shifted in her throne, languorous and sensual. “If you but knew the challenges and pain I’ve scattered throughout his life. You might not believe it, but he was once as fair and bright as yourself. Filled with laughter and generosity, a leader of men.”

“Hmm.” Evaliel frowned at the battered fighter with his bruised fists. “He looks like something you’d drag out of a midden heap.”

“Appearances can be deceiving, dear. I’ve done my very best to break him, and yet there he stands. A walking tragedy, an echo of the great man he might have been.”

“Then why recruit a broken toy?”

“Not broken. Reforged.” The corner of her lavender lips rose. “In his world he is next to useless. Despised for his poverty, scorned for his hallucinatory obsessions, a relic, an embarrassment. But in Rauthgar? Oh, there he shall be a force indeed. If...”

“If?”

The Lady leans forward. “If he can but win this fight.”

Evaliel studied both men through the misty mirror. “His opponent seems greater, but if you’ve guided him, there should be little doubt of the outcome.”

“Normally, yes. But I’ve placed my blessing upon his foe. His opponent will strike hard enough to bend steel. If Abraham Stone can win this bout, then he shall by anointed Champion.”

“Your ways, My Lady, are as mysterious as ever.” Evaliel sighed. “But I have faith in your wisdom.”

“Let us see if Stone can survive my last and most brutal test,” whispered The Lady. “I hope he does. It has been centuries since I have sent forth a Champion, and never has our world been more in need of one.”

Evaliel didn’t respond.

For in the mirror, the fight had begun.

* * *

The bell rang.

The crowd went crazy.

Stone shuffled forward, calm, his eagerness dying away to be replaced by something akin to indifference. It was always like this when fights started. He did what needed doing. He felt himself almost a bystander to his own brutality.

But then he stiffened.

She was here. He could feel Her presence.

He turned rapidly from side to side. In the crowd?

No.

He felt more than saw Hammer gliding up to him.

Too late he turned back, his wits addled by Her perfume in the air.

Hammer. Her scent was all over him, Her presence imbued in the massive man, concentrated in his fists.

Stone’s eyes widened in shock. He was completely thrown off balance. The Hammer darted forward, ducking a blow that never came, then bobbed up and cut around, hitting Stone in the temple with a tight roundhouse whose strength flooded all the way up from his feet, through his knees, through his hips.

Stone reacted too late.

The punch caught him in the side of the head. It was like being hit by a Louisville slugger.

Stone was lifted off the ground, twisted in midair, and hit the ring’s side. His body crumpled as he crashed to the sawdust and lay still.

The crowd screamed and laughed and catcalled.

The Hammer rose out of his crouch, his sneer triumphant. He stared at the fallen body for a moment, then turned away, not even bothering to raise a victorious fist.

Stone blinked. His head ached. His neck burned from being so viciously yanked around. His mouth tasted of blood.

But he was used to pain.

He was used to getting back up.

He rose slowly to his feet.

The crowd went nuts.

The Hammer paused and looked back over his huge shoulder at where Stone was wiping blood off his face.

“Nice punch,” rasped Stone. “But you’re going to have to hit me harder than that.”