“So, this is it,” Zak said, smoking his cigar in the bar. “The final match. You did what I told you to, right?”
“I didn’t do shit,” I replied. “And please don’t raid this place before they pay me.”
“There’s no confirmation we’re even going to raid this place,” Zak sighed. “It would be a pain in the ass and we would need to bring in some heavy-hitters. This is just some light investigating into a possible scheme or plot.”
“Light investigation meaning pimping out your younger brother?”
“Call it whatever you want, but you’ve been really useful. I’ll remember your birthday this year.”
“Thanks, Zachary.”
“Hey, so Khanma’s still in critical condition.” Aria said.
“That means the final match won’t happen, then?” Zak asked.
I rolled my eyes.
“Zak, you dumbass. Giovanni would rather hang himself than let the most profitable part of the event go to waste. He’d go so far as to fucking clone Khanma if it came down to it.”
“I don’t know, I’d think if I shot you ten times in the legs you wouldn’t be able to fight out there, theoretically.” Zak shrugged.
“That greedy slick bastard would push me out in a wheelchair with boxing gloves,” I chuckled, checking my watch. “So, it looks like we’re at the end of the night, I guess I’ll go get my fat paycheck from Giovanni.”
“Don’t get assassinated,” Zak said.
I walked down the crowded corridor, as I bumped into Giovanni’s bodyguard, who led me to his office. At the end of a dark-ass hallway adorned with fancy shit, he led me into his office, yet again, as I sat down in front of his cigar smoke cloud.
“Alright, alright,” Giovanni sighed. “I know what you’re here for, right?”
“Yes, that's exactly. My money.”
“So, from all the bets, funding, and pay-per-views from your fights, I made something like ten million dollars, but of course we take a huge cut of that because, really, we put in the work to let that happen. You just did your fighting thing. As customary as it is, I give fighters half their due cash right after their last fight, and the other half after the entire tournament is over. Since you just fought your last fight a couple hours ago or whatever, I guess it’s time for your big payday. Fucking congratulations and shit. Do you want it in Bitcoin or just cash?”
“Cash, duh.” I said, greedily rubbing my hands.
I felt like I had just hit the jackpot in Vegas and I was standing in front of the depressed casino employee handing out ten times their paycheck in one night.
Giovanni reached under his table, pulling out a massive plastic bag filled to the brim with stacks of hundred-dollar bills wrapped in rubber bands, heavy as hell and smelling like freedom.
“Here, take it.” He said. “Two million dollars and five hundred thousand.”
He threw me a kiddie backpack, and I stuffed the cash in there, clapping my hands and giddy as hell as Giovanni looked pissed he actually had to pay his fighters. Then again, if he held out on me or ‘refused’ to pay me, I probably would have jumped over his table and beat the shit out of him. Dancing my way out of his office, now a fucking millionare, I didn’t have a care in the world. Well, I kind of did, if Zak did something when the tournament ended that would fuck up me getting the other two and a half million. I walked back in the bar and took out a small stack of cash, taking off the rubber bands and throwing the bills everywhere as people scrambled to get them.
“Check this shit out,” I told Zak. “Guess who’s going to Monaco?”
“It’s just two million, Rocco, relax. I make that shit in a week.”
“Blah blah blah, go back to your trailer home.” I whistled.
“Yo, Rocco!!” An annoying, familiar, cholo-sounding voice yelled. “You just got paid?”
“Fuck yeah!!” I yelled. “Suck my dick, pussy.”
Santiago rumbled into the bar, drunk as hell and probably cross-faded off weed and cocaine.
“You owe me… you owe me that fucking ten-thousand!!” He roared.
“For what?!” I yelled.
Oh shit.
Back a few years ago when I was homeless and bare-knuckle boxing in abandoned LA parking lots with homeless people for two hundred dollars a night, I remembered I had bought a stolen El Camino off jolly old Santa when I was high off my rocker on cocaine. I vaguely remembered he had told me something about ‘pay half, pay half later’ which was probably just an excuse for him to kill me later because I wouldn’t be able to come up with the other half.
“Fuck you and fuck that car!!” I yelled. “It broke down in a day anyway!! Go fuck yourself, sell some coke and make some money, loser.”
He rushed forward picking up a bar stool as he chucked it at me, and I ducked it as he bull-rushed me and picked me up, slamming me on the bar table and pushing shot glasses and alcohol everywhere.
“Fuck!!” I yelled again, smashing a beer bottle on his smooth head.
He dropped me and I kicked his face, as the entire bar exploded into chaos. Half the patrons were running out, while the other half were either jumping in the brawl, instigating it, recording, or making a fight circle.
“DON’T JUMP IN!!” I yelled to Zak, who was picking up an entire table to bash on Santa.
I got my feet back on the ground and grabbed one of my crutches, swinging it at break-neck speed into his face, smashing his jaw and crushing his nose. One of his buddies jumped in and grabbed a hold of my back, then was thrown across the room by Zak. I still had my backpack full of millions of dollars in cash on my back, and I could feel Santa trying to rip it off and make a break for it. I elbowed him in the back of the head as he swung a haymaker into my throat, as I coughed for a few seconds before I ended up back on the ground, rolling around and wrestling amid the pools of piss and liquor.
“Fucking bastard!!” He punched me in the face, as I rolled him over and got the mount.
“Fuck it,” I said, feeling my extremely worn fists.
I grabbed a whiskey bottle and slammed the flat part into Santa’s chin, as he roared in fury and pushed me over another table. One of his goons handed him a knife, and I picked up a barstool, breaking one of the legs, making a jagged point from the wood. He threw the knife at me, the handle hitting my shoulder as he tried tackling me, exhausted, and I kneed upwards with all my force, hitting him in the chin and upper throat, knocking his ass out cold.
“Holy shit,” I panted, as everything settled back to normal, and the janitors began mopping up the shit.
Just to be a petty dick, I reached into Santa’s pockets, took his wallet, phone, keys, and pants (I wanted to see him when he woke up without pants and just a shirt on).
Then, I pissed on him.
“There was no fucking reason why that happened,” Zak groaned, as we left the bar and just walked around like nothing happened.
“I know, right? Fucker wanted his money back and ended up losing everything. I’m glad that at least the MSMAT allows fighting in their venues and premises, in fact, they encourage it.”
“He’s not dead, right?” Zak asked.
“I don’t know, dude got shot like ten times by the LAPD once and he’s still walking around being all jolly and shit.” I replied.
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