Jove Brand is Near Death

by J. A. Crawford

  The players in this building were a different breed. They had come for the games. The serving girls were largely ignored here. There was less alcohol and more food. Gambling was a rush, and the problem with a rush was your tolerance only went up. You had to play for enough so the next card made you sweat. The gamers celebrated and commiserated, talked trash and thought deep. Rivalries were born and friendships forged, based on grudging respect and shared experience. Built on mutual, consensual attempted destruction.

  The best kind.

  I didn’t see anyone who looked like they owned the place, so after feigning interest in several hands, I headed out the door to the last building. Even if I hadn’t already reasoned out its purpose, stepping through the door would have told me. From the muffled gasps and horrified cheers. From the smell of sweat and triumph and fear. The years I had spent around all of it had penetrated every fiber of my being.

  The last building was an arena.

  The doorman waved me in as the humid air welcomed me. There was no view from the doors, which was smart. If there were, the casuals would pile up in the threshold, not willing to fully participate but not able to look away. Instead I was facing a digital screen mounted in a curving hallway. The screen displayed the faces of the fighters, their specifics, and the odds.

  The hall was finished in old-school padded leather, making it look like the back of a swanky couch. It led into a lobby lined with betting cages. Screens were everywhere, showing sporting events from around the world. The days of chalkboards were over. Monitors displayed the odds, updated in real time.

  The odds boards for the bouts were different from the norm. The upcoming fighters were stacked against each other as usual, one at a minus and the other at a plus, but each fighter also had a second number, set across from to 1. The first fighter was 6 to 1, the second 8 to 1. That’s how I knew what kind of event I had walked into.

  A brass handrail split the lobby stair down the middle. I walked up. In place of stadium-style seating, there was a series of boxed booths, each one sheltered from the others by a curved half wall. The booths were only 50 percent occupied. The main event was yet to begin.

  The cage I was expecting wasn’t there. Instead, I was looking down into a fighting pit. The wall was eight feet high and made up of rectangular panels, which made the arena a twelve-sided bolt hole. The mat and walls were canvassed off-white, to display any spilled blood without the lights glaring off them too harshly.

  The fight world perennially generated rumors of underground matches. Secret tournaments fought to the death. Private duels held between two patrons for huge purses, each with their chosen champion. Gladiator events with teams or weapons. It always turned out to be grifters blowing smoke or wannabes spinning yarns to impress the ill-informed. Soldiers had stolen valor, fighters fabricated honor.

  Had someone described to me what I saw, I would have written it off as a tall tale. But here I was, standing in a modern coliseum. Standing for too long. I slipped into the first empty booth and thought about what to do next. I was on the right track. Here were the fighters Runshaw Shensei had warned me about. This was where I wanted to be. The clubs and casinos, those were for the VIPs. This place was different. This place was a labor of love.

  I was studying the screens mounted over the pit when a Russian stepped in front of my booth. He had classic Slavic features: a high forehead with a strong brow that cast his eyes into shadow, a long blade of a nose and a slash for a mouth. The only way to tell what century he was from was by his clothes. His gray blazer displayed rather than obscured the solidity of functional strength. Russians could give a shit about muscle tone. They just wanted to be able to move bodies.

  “I cannot believe it! It is you. Brand. Ken Allen Brand!”

  The only thing scarier than a stoic Russian was an excited one. The man spread his hands in my direction as if he were revealing me to myself. Denying it was pointless. The few times I had been spotted on the street it had never worked, and on those occasions I wasn’t running around dressed as Jove Brand.

  “Please, don’t rise,” the Russian said as he slid in next to me, pointing to a giant man who had followed in his wake. “Anatoly, he says it can’t be. But me I am sure. Anatoly, I say, have you seen Near Death thirteen times? No. Do you wish to wager then? No.”

  Anatoly loomed to the right of the booth, saying nothing despite his reputation as a chatterbox. I guess it was hard enough to train a bear to wear a suit, much less teach them to speak on command.

  “But Ken Allen is not on the list, he says. Ah, you are right Anatoly, but Connor Shaw is. And who was Connor Shaw? Second-best Brand. Think, Anatoly. A big star like Ken Allen does not use his real name.”

  “I don’t like a fuss,” I managed to get in.

  “Grounded,” replied the Russian. “He is no prima donna. This is not a charlatan who needs fast cuts to look tough. Put the camera on Ken Allen, wide shot, and let him do the rest.”

  I rooted around for a pen. “Who should I make this out to?”

  “Good, very good. He’s funny, Anatoly. To your new friend, Grigori Fedorov.”

  I was hoping he wouldn’t say that.

  “I keep a pen here,” Fedorov said, reaching into my jacket near the breast pocket. “So it does not poke.” He pulled the Quarreler out of its holster and studied it. From his casual competence, it was clear this was not his first time around a firearm. “Now, this is method. Become the character. Wear his skin.”

  Fedorov leaned back, stretching his arms along the top of the booth, which aimed the Quarreler right at my head. I figured Fedorov might recognize me. He was ready to spend billions on the rights to the Jove Brand franchise. He’d know it like the back of his hand. What I wasn’t sure about was how I was going to get an audience. But Fedorov seemed as eager to talk to me as I was to talk to him.

  A girl in a fur-lined teddy, whose great-grandmother likely fled the Bolsheviks, brought over two club sodas with lime. She didn’t make eye contact with either of us. I took a drink to be polite. It didn’t escape me that Fedorov knew what I had ordered on the boat.

  “This is a dream come true—the chance to watch fights with Ken Allen. I love this country. You are hungry, Ken?”

  “Ever since I can remember.”

  Fedorov reached across himself to pat me on the shoulder. Using his close hand would have meant putting the Quarreler down. “Yes. Serve dinner to your enemy. You have a little Russian in you, Ken.”

  Thankfully Fedorov didn’t ask if I would like some more. He kept his hand where it was, clamping down on my shoulder. “Very good. Thick. Solid. You’ve kept tight all these years. I hear you never stopped training.”

  “It gets to be a habit,” I said.

  “A warrior does not know any other way.” Fedorov pulled out a brick of a phone and used it like a walkie-talkie. I didn’t speak Russian but all the warmth he’d shown me was absent in his tone. “Are you a fight fan, Ken Allen?”

  “I like to keep up.”

  “Keep up, yes.” Fedorov nodded as if I had given some sage insight. “So much has changed. At first the Brazilians had dominance. But only because no one knew their style. Except us, of course.”

  I saw my chance to get in two words edgewise. “With Sambo.”

  “Yes, with Sambo! You do not disappoint me, Ken Allen.” Fedorov sampled his club soda. His expression didn’t change but when he put it down, he said, “A warrior.”

  “Striking is opening back up,” I said to keep it going. Whether by design or not, Fedorov had chosen one of my passions as the topic of conversation.

  “Yes, because now all fighters know how to wrestle,” he said.

  “The fear of the takedown is gone.”

  “Exactly, exactly. You know who brought kicks back into practice, Ken Allen?”

  “Eastern Europeans.”

  “Right again. Because they do not fear.”

  I would have argued it was because Thai boxing was so big in Holland or cited the
thriving full-contact kickboxing scene in Japan, but I didn’t want to smear the polish I had going. The arena was filling up with surprising speed. Attendance was around three hundred.

  “But not all change is progress,” Fedorov lamented. “Now with the gloves and the rules. America is the worst offender. No knees on the ground. No football kicks. No stomps.”

  “Because of boxing,” I said.

  “Because of boxing,” Fedorov confirmed. “Now it is less a fight and more a sport. I will never understand boxing. For a decade my people have dominated the ring, exposed what a farce it has become. Soon we will have killed it.”

  I took a drink to hide my reaction. Did Fedorov just tell me he conspired to destroy boxing because he didn’t like it? Whether he was full of it or not, it was hard to wrap my head around a guy with an ego that big.

  The announcer came out, entering the pit through a door secreted behind one of the panels. He was exactly who you’re thinking.

  “Wow,” I said.

  “Real fights, Ken Allen,” Fedorov replied.

  Wall panels opposite each other opened up to admit the fighters. Handlers in the tunnels beyond pulled the panels back into place. The fighters were announced. The one I recognized was a contender before he caught a year’s suspension for PEDs. From the shape he was in, he looked to be back on the cycle.

  The announcer retreated through a panel, which closed behind him. As the bell sounded, I realized someone was missing.

  “No official,” I said.

  “No official,” Fedorov confirmed. “No corner men shouting instructions. No rounds. The fight stops when it is over. And no judges. The winner is the man who can walk out.”

  “Real fights,” I said, my jaw tight.

  In the pit, the two fighters cautiously stalked each other, each man acting as if he were caged with a cobra. Neither was wearing gloves. I began to feel the sympathetic tension I always felt watching, my hands drifting, my shoulders making miniature slips and rolls. Knowing the rules, or lack thereof, put an extra edge on the bout. I slipped into fight breath, regulating through the nostrils with my lips sealed.

  The once-contender rushed in, seeking the clinch. Once he got it, he didn’t let go.

  I lost count of how many knees he connected with after ten. He dumped his unconscious opponent on the mat and decided against a soccer kick, which spared the loser a coma.

  “If you can break, the pit will break you,” Fedorov commented, clearly not impressed with the loser. The should-have-been-a-princess brought us refills. I got a new club soda and Fedorov got something also clear but higher proof.

  The doors opened as what I hoped were licensed medical professionals entered the pit to wheel the loser out on a collapsible stretcher. Above the pit, the four screens boxing in the lights came to life. I watched as the odds were adjusted, one fighter wiped off as the other’s chances rose.

  “The winner might make it to the next round,” I said. “He didn’t take much damage.”

  Fedorov leaned back as he appraised me. His eyes were black beads devoid of concern for social convention. “You have spoiled my reveal.”

  “You like tournaments.”

  “We all have our weaknesses, Ken Allen.”

  The next two fighters came out. I didn’t recognize either, but I also didn’t follow freestyle wrestling or submission grappling closely.

  Their fight dragged on for three-quarters of an hour, all of it on the mat. Both men were looking to avoid damage, but in doing so they burned each other out. The loser ended up involuntarily asleep. It took the winner three tries to get on his feet, rolling up then lying back like a turtle in trouble.

  “He’s not moving on,” I said. “You have alternates?”

  “The need occurred to me,” Fedorov said.

  The next fight got underway. The fighters were both strikers. They went high movement, low volume, jousting as each hunted for a walk-off knockout.

  “Were you ever tempted, Ken Allen?” Fedorov asked, nodding toward the pit.

  I shook my head. “I got back from China in ’99. I’d heard of submission grappling, but went west of California instead of south. By the time I caught up on mat work, I was over thirty.”

  “Fighters have started later,” Fedorov said.

  “But also sooner. The guys you’re talking about were wrestling at seven, eight years old. I considered coaching, but by then I had my first A-list clients.”

  “Still you must wonder, being untested.”

  “Not much,” I shrugged. “I know right where I rank. I’m a highly experienced amateur, which does not equal a professional.”

  The fight between the two jousters ended with predictable suddenness and finality, with one man landing a massive overhand right that instantly dropped his opponent. I heard the winner’s hand break on the other guy’s skull. We all did.

  Faced with a tournament-ending injury, the winner gave his unconscious foe a kick out of frustration.

  “He will continue,” Fedorov said. From his certainty, he knew something I didn’t.

  “What’s the purse?”

  “Five hundred thousand American,” Fedorov said.

  “And for second?”

  “Often fighters bet on themselves.” Fedorov didn’t get a chance to set down his empty glass. The princess was waiting to exchange it for a fresh one.

  The last two fighters came out. I blinked hard, sure I was mistaken, but then the announcer called out his name and removed my doubts.

  Alexi Mirovich, the Bull of St. Petersburg. Once heavyweight champion of the world, before his title was stripped.

  “Isn’t he in prison?” I asked.

  “Work release,” Fedorov said. His self-amused exhale fogged up his glass.

  Alexi Mirovich was the what-might-have-been in the combat sports world, smashing his way up the rankings with apathetic precision. Raised by his father—a former Olympian—from the moment of his birth to be the perfect fighting machine. People speculated Alexi was secretly a cyborg, citing that he never bled and could function anaerobically.

  Five years back, Yama O’Hara fed Alexi a right hand that would have dropped an ox. It only made Alexi mad. O’Hara was staring up at the lights less than a minute after. A year later, Randal Cobb suplexed Alexi so hard it left a dent in the mat. Alexi transitioned immediately into a lock that about tore Randal’s arm off. Randal was never the same after. It wasn’t just his rotator cuff. It was permanently disheartening, giving a guy the best shot you’ve ever dished out and them eating it with a yawn.

  I missed who Alexi was fighting. I was too busy studying the greatest of all time. He looked bored. He was so immune to stress it made me wonder if he was on the spectrum. He didn’t acknowledge the crowd or his opponent. He made no attempt to study or intimidate, which was demoralizing all on its own.

  Alexi’s opponent was scared and it showed. The fear pushed him into going for a takedown from too far out. Alexi sidestepped, sprawled, and threw a right hook all at once, ending up in the blind spot behind his opponent’s hip, where he choked the guy unconscious without bothering to set his hooks in. Convenient, because Alexi didn’t have to untangle himself when the poor slob went limp. Alexi stood up like a robot, knee before foot, the fight instantly forgotten. He turned a slow three-sixty looking for an exit. When one of the wall panels opened, he vanished through it.

  I whistled under my breath. Alexi had it all. Perfect timing and speed. Incredible efficiency. There was no plan, only instant reaction. He had attained what all fighters strove for: technique transmuted into pure instinct.

  “Now we must set matchups for the semifinals,” Fedorov said.

  My mouth had gone dry from hanging open. I took a drink while I thought. “The good news is you have two fairly fresh fighters, likely your finalists, though anything can happen. The bad is you have one guy with a broken hand and another who can’t continue. Looks like you’ll need two alternates.”

  Fedorov rocked slightly as he nodded
agreement with my assessment. “Broken Hand will have to continue, as I have only one.”

  It was the first oversight Fedorov had shown. As a fight fan, he must have known tournaments were affairs of attrition.

  “To be truthful, I had none.” Fedorov looked at the Quarreler he was pointing at my head like he had forgotten it was there. “But here you arrive, delivered by fate.”

  The idea was so absurd I almost laughed, but I didn’t find Fedorov’s expression the slightest bit amusing. He raised his eyebrows with the barest suggestion of a smile, which was the Russian equivalent of a Cheshire grin. The maniac thought he was doing me a favor.

  “I’m not prepared,” I said.

  “A warrior is always ready,” Fedorov replied.

  It was an effort to swallow my club soda. The ice cubes rattled around in the glass like dice in a cup. My adrenaline was already spiking at the thought of having to fight, which was bad. A professional bout wasn’t only about being physically prepared, which I was not, for a match at this level. It was also about being mentally prepared.

  “I don’t stand a chance on this notice,” I said.

  Fedorov snuggled in to put his arm around me, resting the Quarreler on my shoulder. “This is not what I hear. I hear you have honed your skills, all these years. That you have done well against professionals. Very recently.”

  He knew about me and Chevalier. “They weren’t prepared either.”

  “Nor are these fighters,” Fedorov replied. “I want real fights. The participants do not know who they will be facing. They receive only three days’ notice. There is no training camp, no chance to cycle or to peak. No time to cut weight. Of course, without weight classes there is no need.”

  There was a reason why weight classes existed. If you took two guys of equal skill, the bigger guy won. Sure, there was always luck. But luck ran both ways. Two of the remaining fighters had twenty pounds on me. Alexi was small for a heavyweight, but he had at least thirty. That was on top of him being plain better than me. I was leading in the one category you didn’t want to be.