The name of the scrapyard changed when I sold it, but other than a new sign that I can't quite read in the dark, it looks pretty much like it did when I left. Tall wire fences around big piles of different types of rusted metal scrap, dwarfing the trailer home near the front of the property. Containers in a row, vaguely sorted by type of trash. I built my first bike out of the shit people sold us. Rode it out of here and kept it going until I could afford something that wasn't a goddamn death trap. Just me and my dog Gruzzler. He was already old then.
The three of us pass through the gate with little fanfare. A couple of guys are watching, but they just nod. One of them nudges the other, points at us and smirks. Yeah, laugh it up. I don't think anyone's gonna be smiling by the time we leave.
"Is Roscoe here?" I shout their way.
"Around the back, where the fights are. Want me to show you?"
I fucking grew up on this lot. "I know the way."
Zero and Beast follow, quietly looking around and leaving me to my thoughts. This place isn’t somewhere I’ve ever shown them, but they know my story. This place forged who I am. Some of my greatest victories and defeats happened in the back of the lot. But if the earth opened up and swallowed it all, I’d spit on its grave and never look back.
I pat the aluminum siding of the trailer I grew up in with my father and my grandmother. It looks smaller than I remember, but otherwise about the same. Just as shitty. No more, no less.
Flashing neon lights and a couple of floodlights pointed at the sky make the makeshift arena in the back seem more like a nightclub than a scrapyard, especially with the loud music pounding out of speakers attached under the lights. Roscoe’s expanded since he took over. I remember when I first cleared space for this, spreading word that I had a place we could set up where the cops wouldn’t bust our fights.
It’s a busy night. People are mingling between fights. Money changes hands, along with drugs, information and whatever else people are willing to trade. This isn’t a boxing gym, it’s a marketplace disguised as a brutal gladiatorial arena. As always, the real winners are the bookmakers, but that's none of our business tonight. Squinting, I search the dark crowd for my mark.
Instead, it finds me. "Holy shit, is that who I think it is?" Swaggering past a couple of curious bystanders, before they're back to watching the fight, is Roscoe, the guy I sold this mess to a few years ago. "You’re looking good. Here to take back your title? Could make some damn good money betting on you, but it would be better if I had some warning and could drum up interest."
"Fuck off. You know I'm done with that shit. You, me, and my brothers here, need to talk." I point at Zero and Beast.
"Oh yeah, sure. The big, bad Screaming Eagles, coming to give me trouble. If it's not one thing, it's the fucking other." He waves for us to follow him. "Come join me in my office."
If anyone expects quiet, four walls and a fancy coffee machine, they'll be disappointed. He brings us up a ramp up to a platform that gives us a good look at the whole lot. He’s expanded a bit, but it still looks something out of a post-apocalyptic movie where everything is built from scavenged parts. The center fighting ring is a wide, shallow pit fenced in by metal scrap. Up here, there are a couple of chairs, a table, and a small fridge plugged into an extension cord that runs towards the house.
Roscoe pops open the fridge as he sits down. "Beer?"
With a shrug, I take one and drop into the chair on the other side of the little table. Beast takes one, too, but Zero shakes his head. They choose to stand.
From Roscoe's perch, we have a full view of the fighting rings. In one of them, two guys—fuck, kids really—are going at it. They're both bleeding, and it's already obvious who's going to drop first. One of them is looking unsteady and he’s getting desperate. I wonder if he’s going to eat tonight if he loses.
Roscoe misreads my interest completely. "Miss it, right? The thrill of the fight, not knowing if this is the time you go down, or if it's gonna be the other guy. The rush of knowing you’ll survive another night. Yeah? I knew you wouldn’t go soft."
"Are you fucking kidding me? These days I eat three meals a day and have a fucking memory foam mattress. I fight for fun or toprotect shit that’s actually worth risking my life for, not to put on a show for people who would love to watch me bleed."
"So why the fuck are you here then? Am I talking to you, or the Screaming Eagles right now?"
I tear my eyes away from the guys fighting down there and grin at him. "I’m here on business."
"What do you want?" His joviality fades when he realizes I'm not here to relive glory days.
"Kozlov."
His face shutters. “What about him?”
“He’s going to get a lot of people killed if he stays on his current path.”
Roscoe’s eyes narrow. "Don't see how that's any of my business."
"Cut the bullshit. We’re here as a courtesy because I know you’ll get our message into the right ears. The Screaming Eagles aren’t going to give a square fucking inch of our territory, and wewillpurge the zone around our borders if we have to. Kozlov is peddling shit."
“Not everyone thinks so,” Roscoe says snidely.
“Then tell them to think for one motherfucking second. Two things will happen to anyone taking orders from him: they piss us off and we wipe them out, or they end up under his thumb. Either way, they lose.”
"Or nibble away at you boys until there’s nothing left." Roscoe spits over the edge of the platform. “I could make a call right now and you’d never walk off this lot.”
Maybe it’s being back here that makes it easier, but I can feel my body shift into readiness. There’s a switch in our brains that understands ‘kill or be killed’, and every time you hit it, the kill side comes easier and faster. Roscoe’s eyes widen just a little. He sees it, too. The direct threat was a step too far.
