“Hold my drink, Rusty.” The crowd parted with a low murmur of confusion as the large older Black man stepped off the sticky floor and approached the edge of the mats. He didn’t vault over the makeshift rope barrier. He awkwardly lifted one leg over the rope, then the other, looking like a grandfather stepping over a low fence to check on a stray calf.
Trent stopped his shadowboxing. He dropped his hands to his hips, a smirk cutting across his face. He looked Big Eli up and down, the muddy boots, the oil-stained shirt, the slight stoop in his powerful posture. “You lost, old man.” Trent asked.
The crowd snickered. “I heard $500.” Big Eli said. His voice barely carried over the whir of the industrial fans. He didn’t look Trent in the eye. He looked at the duct tape holding the blue mats together. It was peeling at the corners. “You got a death wish, grandpa.” Trent laughed, stepping closer. He invaded Big Eli’s personal space, trying to force eye contact.
Up close, Trent smelled like spearmint gum and raw adrenaline. His pupils were blown wide. “I hit hard. I’m not going to go easy on you just because you got dirt on your jeans.” Big Eli slowly reached down and untied his work boots.
He pulled them off, placing them neatly outside the ring. He peeled off his thick wool socks next. His large, pale-soled bare feet stepped onto the mats. They were scarred with thick calluses built up from years of walking on uneven furrows and decades of hard living.
“Just ring the bell, Trent.” Big Eli said mildly. Rusty walked to the edge of the mat holding a thick wad of bills. He looked at Big Eli with genuine pity. “All right. Three minutes. You go limp, you tap, or you don’t get up, it’s over. No eye gouging, no biting.” “Easy money.” Trent announced to the room, raising his taped hands. He bounced from foot to foot, his breathing hissing through his teeth in sharp, rhythmic bursts.
Rusty chopped his hand down. Trent closed the distance instantly. He didn’t respect Big Eli, which meant he didn’t bother with a feeler jab. He threw a heavy looping overhand right, aiming to end it in three seconds.
Big Eli didn’t slip with the graceful fluidity of a boxer. He simply hunched his massive shoulders and tucked his chin, a brutal, pragmatic movement. Trent’s fist crashed into Big Eli’s forehead, the thickest, hardest bone in the human skull. A sickening crack echoed.
Trent winced, stumbling back a half step, shaking his right hand. He had aimed for the jaw and hit solid bone. Big Eli felt a flash of white light behind his eyes. A dull, sickening wave of nausea rolled through his stomach. It hurt. It hurt badly. He wasn’t invincible. He was sixty-four years old. His knees ached from the damp, and his lower back was a constant knot of pain. He tasted the sharp, metallic tang of blood where he had bitten the inside of his cheek. “Stay small.” A cold, dead voice whispered in his mind. The voice he hadn’t heard since the jungles and rice paddies of Vietnam.
