It pisses me off.
“Fuck,” I growl, squeezing my eyes closed before I roll back out from beneath the car and stand. I can’t fucking work when my whole body feels like it’s about to buckle under the pressure. I need an out.
I need pain.
Throwing the tools down, they clang as they meet concrete, but I don’t bother cleaning it up as I head through to the small living area I converted at the garage. It only has a small bedroom, bathroom and kitchenette but it’s enough for me.
I grab a shower before I change into my sweats and a tee and then grab the keys to the jeep. I don’t drive the Barracuda outside of racing and it’s currently parked up in the second garage behind this one. The track is only on the other side of these woods and by nightfall it’ll be teeming with people like it is most nights, but racing won’t help me now. I need the bloody kind of release I can only find in the city.
I lock up before I hop into the jeep and then I peel out of the lot and hit the dirt road at speed, kicking up gravel in my rear-view mirror. Wind whips through the wet strands of my hair, my sunglasses covering my eyes. By the time I reach the city it’ll be dark so I enjoy the sun now, letting it warm me in the hopes it can chase away the chill I feel deep in my damn bones. My scarsaren’t as painful today, a little tight but they won’t stop me, I know my limits.
It takes almost two hours to get to the city and evening has long since fallen, turning the sky a deep purple color, not quite dark. The roads are busy, and the sound of horns fills the space around me, overpowering the music I play in my car.
I park on the corner and look across the street to the bar. On the outside that’s what it looks like, just like any other venue in this city. Customers spill out the door, wine and beer being spilled over rims of glasses but I’m not here to drink their shitty, lukewarm beer.
Hopping out, I jog across the street and slip down the alley at the side of the building, heading all the way to the end and knock three times against the rusted metal door. It creaks open a moment later and Frankie, one of the security guys, lets me in.
“Been a while, kid,” He grunts at me, narrowing his eyes on the scarring. It’s not the first time he’s seen them but every time he does, he always appears damn offended by it.
“Yeah well, shits been busy,” I snap back.
“You’re an angry little fucker,” He gives me a grin, showing the gaps in his teeth, “Head on down and don’t die.”
I roll my eyes and take the stairs down to the pits below. My brother and I used to come here all the time before he died, it’s the only reason I know it’s here, but I have no idea how he even found this place.
We used to team up in the ring, the two of us against two opponents, and we never fucking lost. We were a damn good team. And then he died.
Anger worms through me, like a serpent, it travels through my veins, warming my blood until it feels like I’m back in that barn listening to his screams.
The noise of the fighting pits reaches my ears when I make it down the stairs, the smell of blood, piss and sweat stuffing itself up my nose as I enter through the only door into the area. There are several fighting rings, a bigger one in the center and smaller ones set off to the sides and a one-man bar is in the corner. Despite the early hour, it’s packed to the brim, the crowd shoulder to shoulder around each ring as the fights play out ahead of them.
These walls have seen a lot of death.
You don’t want to die down here; you’ll never be found.
I make it to the booth and give my name to the attendant, putting myself into the draw for a fight tonight. It’s quick cash too, which helps even if money isn’t the reason I’m here. I’ve fought here plenty of times, I’ve ended up in the hospital with broken bones and deep cuts but I’ve yet to find another medium that helps with the intense hatred I feel inside of me all the fucking time.
With my name down I head across the space to the small roped off area reserved for the fighters. It isn’t glamorous, there’s blood on the floors and on the benches, piss-soaked clothes in the corners and I’m pretty sure that’s a tooth in front of my foot but in here is better than out there.
I find the only clean spot on the bench and sit, resting my elbows on my knees as I watch the fight play out in the closest ring to me. Some guy is being absolutely destroyed, his face is a mess of cuts and swelling and by the look of it, he has a bad break in his forearm, but he fights with every last ounce of his strength. The guy he is up against is bigger, meaner looking and haszero mercy for his opponent. Not that mercy is expected when fighting here. There are no rules, and the fight only ends when you either KO or die.
Brutality is a given, mercy is a weakness.
Another two fights happen before my name is called and I stand, pulling my tee off with one hand before I throw it down onto the bench and make my way to the larger ring in the center. It’s reserved for regular fighters, the ones that very rarely lose and the guy I’ve been paired with is really good. He’s a mean fighter but he fights fair and clean, a rarity in these rings.
I shake his hand when I step up, “Good to see you, man.” He greets me.
“Likewise,” I roll my shoulder, the tightness in my scarring a little bothersome but it’ll all go away when my mind closes in on the fight.
“I’ll try not to break that pretty face too much,” He chuckles lightly, “Wouldn’t want to ruin your game.”
Sucking my tongue against my top teeth I glance at him, it’s all in good fun and I almost feel bad for what I’m about to do. I need to get this out and by the end of it, he’s not going to be standing.
“I wouldn’t worry too much about my face, bro,” I use the ropes around the ring to haul myself up, “I’d worry about what I’m about to do to yours.”
He laughs, “We’ll see.”
I get in position on the left side of the ring while he moves on the right, rolling his neck as he watches me and bounces from foot to foot. One of the pit workers is shouting into the crowd, getting them hyped for the fight, not that they need it, the crowds here have always and will always be feral for blood. It’s a way of life, an adrenaline rush as much as speeding around a track is.
