The thrashing became sluggish. The wild wide-eyed panic in his eyes began to glaze over, replaced by the dark encroaching tunnel of unconsciousness. At the edge of the mat, Rusty stood frozen, a wet rag dangling from his hand. The entire tavern was dead silent, save for the hum of the broken AC units and the frantic squeaking of Trent’s bare heels against the mat.
Before Trent’s eyes rolled back completely, his right hand slapped the mat in a weak frantic rhythm. Tap. Tap. Tap.
Clayton let go instantly. He didn’t jump up and pound his chest. He didn’t glare at the crowd. He slowly pushed himself off the younger man, rolling to the side and getting to his knees.
His breath was coming slightly faster now, catching sharply on the broken rib. He pressed a hand against his left side, his face tightening into a grimace of pure exhaustion. Trent rolled onto his side coughing violently. Huge ragged gasps of air tore through his bruised throat.
He curled into a fetal position clutching his neck, humiliating tears of oxygen starvation pricking the corners of his eyes. He looked up at Clayton expecting a taunt, a sneer, a kick. Clayton wasn’t even looking at him. He was looking at his work boots sitting neatly at the edge of the mat.
Clayton stood up. A severe limp dragged his left leg down as he walked over and picked up his socks. He sat on a nearby wooden stool methodically pulling the thick wool over his pale feet, then sliding his boots on. He left the laces loose.
Bending over hurt too much. The silence in the room was absolute. It was thick, heavy, and intensely uncomfortable. The men who had been screaming for blood a minute ago were now staring at the bottom of their beer bottles, suddenly very interested in peeling the labels.
They had come to watch a flashy show. They had just watched a man get dismantled with terrifying emotionless efficiency. It felt too real. Too intimate.
Rusty walked over his heavy boots thudding against the plywood floor. He extended a thick calloused hand holding five crumpled hundred-dollar bills. Clayton took the money. The paper felt damp with Rusty’s sweat.
He folded it neatly once and shoved it deep into the front pocket of his oil-stained Carhartts. “Christ, James,” Rusty muttered, his voice barely a whisper. “Where the hell did you learn to move like that?” Clayton looked at the bartender. The dull headache at the base of his skull was roaring back to life fueled by the receding adrenaline crash.
His hands were beginning to tremble slightly, a physiological reaction he hated more than anything else. He gripped the edge of the stool to hide the shaking. “Just wanted to get back to my truck, Rusty.” Clayton said quietly. He stood up favoring his bruised ribs and began the long walk to the door.
