He stood near the back keeping his shoulders rolled forward making his six-foot frame look smaller. He wore faded Carhartt pants stiff with dried mud and a plain gray T-shirt stained with engine oil. He ordered a club soda from the bar. “You look like hell, Clayton,” Rusty grunted sliding the sweating glass across the sticky plywood counter.
“Combine died,” Clayton said. His voice was a low, gravelly rasp. He took a sip. The carbonation burned the back of his throat.
“Need cash.” Rusty let out a raspy laugh wiping down the bar with a rag that looked dirtier than the counter. “You ain’t going to find no loans in here tonight, just bad decisions.” He nodded toward the center of the room. “Though, if you’re feeling suicidal, there’s always the open challenge.” Clayton followed Rusty’s gaze. In the center of the makeshift ring, a 20-by-20 square of interlocking foam mats held together by duct tape, stood Trent Larson.
Trent was 24, aggressively tanned and smelled violently of aerosol body spray. He wore black board shorts and tightly wrapped hand tape. He was bouncing on his toes throwing lightning fast jabs at the empty air. A sharp snap-snap echoed as his punches broke the stagnant air.
Trent ran a martial arts gym two towns over. He had three amateur MMA belts, a tribal tattoo wrapping around his bicep, and the kind of loud, unearned confidence that made Clayton’s stomach physically churn. Not with fear, with a bone-deep exhaustion. “Three minutes!” Trent shouted to the crowd, his voice cracking slightly with adrenaline.
“Anyone last three minutes, you walk away with $500 cash. No gloves, submission or knockout.” Trent wasn’t fighting for the money. He was fighting for the dopamine hit of watching someone lesser fold under his hands. Clayton watched him throw a spinning hook kick.
It was technically perfect, beautiful even. The crowd of mechanics and mill workers collectively oohed. Clayton stared at Trent’s feet. They were clean, uncalloused, the feet of a man who fought on padded mats under bright fluorescent lights with a referee standing by to make sure nobody actually died.
