by Jinx, Hondo
“Anytime.”
“Anytime, huh? You mean that?”
“I do. Well, other than when I’m working.”
“You want to start running together?”
“Sure. That sounds great, actually.”
“Cool. At least, I’ll know I’m not the only idiot getting up at a quarter to four.”
“Wait, a quarter to four? But Marvella said—”
Freddie shook her head. “I don’t want to do just what Marvella says. I want to push harder than anybody. I want to be the best. I have to be the best. When I get in the ring, I never want to be thinking I should’ve done more to get ready, you know? I don’t even want to think I could have done more to prepare. So yeah, a quarter to four. You tough enough to hang?”
“Definitely. Want to meditate afterward?”
Freddie smiled. “Sounds great. Every day?”
“That’s what I’m proposing.” Johnny held out his fist. “A pact, then. Partners to the bitter end. You push me, I push you. We both make it to the top. We both become the best.”
Grinning, Freddie pounded his fist with hers. “Deal, Johnny. Now, what do you say we head over to the fights? A lot of people don’t show up until the pros get started, but I want you to see the amateurs, even the novice class fighters. Especially the novice class. Might as well see what you’re getting into—and why our crazy asses are getting up at a quarter to four!”
Chapter 22
Johnny put on his dress shirt, but Freddie told him not to wear the suit coat or he’d sweat to death. While he waited on the street in front of her apartment, she took his jacket upstairs and came back down fifteen minutes later in a short black dress and heels.
She smirked at him, stopped ten feet away, and twirled, making her dress lift to her upper thighs. “Yeah, I’m a girl. Now pick your jaw off the sidewalk and let’s go.”
“You look great, Freddie.”
“Thanks. Here, take my arm. I have practically zero practice walking in these stupid things.”
They walked up to 10th, hung a right on Trinidad, passed a weird-looking store called Angel Ramon’s Roman Artifacts, and walked several blocks, the sidewalks growing more crowded as they neared Chavez Street.
The Arena towered overtop a subway station and took up three city blocks. A big electronic billboard over the main entrance displayed the faces of two scowling fighters and the message, Harper vs. Prince: This time it’s for keeps!
Despite all of Fight Town’s neon lights, this was the first time, he’d seen an electronic billboard that looked like something from Times Square. Actually, The Arena reminded him of Madison Square Garden, only bigger.
A crowd milled below the marquee, people just hanging around, talking, fooling around. Most were hustlers scalping tickets, offering bets, or selling companionship at an hourly rate.
Freddie clung to Johnny’s arm and navigated through the laughing, catcalling crowd.
As they passed, a few people called out to Freddie by name. She nodded or waved but didn’t stop to talk to any of them.
At the gate the ticket taker smiled. Freddie gave her a fist bump, and before Johnny could offer to pay, she’d ordered two tickets and handed her friend a dollar.
Beyond the gate, they entered a big lobby lined with concession booths, the air redolent with the smells of beer and popcorn, the ceiling flowing with flashing ads that put Times Square to shame. Every square inch of ceiling space writhed in lurid colors, selling beer and razor blades and betting booths to those passing underneath.
“Here,” Johnny said, offering Freddie a dollar. “I was going to pay.”
Freddie batted his dollar away. “Your money’s no good here, Johnny. My treat.”
“Thanks,” Johnny grumbled. It felt weird, having a girl pay his way. Sure, this might be normal here, but you grow up poor, you live in fear of moments like that. “But lunch is on me, and don’t give me any shit about it, Lopez.”
Freddie laughed. “Why do you think I paid admission? A fighter always has to think ahead. No way I was getting stuck with the lunch tab!”
The fights hadn’t started yet, so they decided to eat first.
“Want a cheesesteak?” Johnny said as they passed a place that smelled like someone had left the door to heaven’s kitchen wide open.
Freddie punched him in the arm. “Are you cruel or just dumb, Johnny? I’m cutting weight, remember? Besides, if Marvella sees you eating shit like that, she’ll have you do the steps for an hour straight… carrying her on your back.”
“Yeah, I forgot. I blame the cheesesteaks.”
“Sometimes, that’s the toughest part of the fight game. Cutting weight, sticking to the straight and narrow. No cheesesteaks, no pizza, no ice cream, no partying. It’s enough to drive a girl out of her mind.”
“So what do you eat, cucumber slices and a glass of diet water?”
Freddie laughed and pointed across the lobby. “Let’s go to Midtown Noodle. It’s awesome, and they have a fighter’s menu, too, if you don’t mind spending a little more.”
“For you? Anything.”
“I knew I liked you,” Freddie said, and they got in line.
“Hey, Johnny,” a girl’s voice called, and Johnny turned to see one of the waitresses from work smiling from the midst of several girls in short dresses. They were all grinning at him.
“Hey, Ginny. How you doing?”
“Great, Johnny. Nice to see you. Are you fighting tonight?”
He laughed. “Not me.”
“Ah, that’s too bad. I would’ve put my money on you.”
“Me too,” another girl said.
Three others leaned together, whispering and giggling.
“Have a good one, Ginny,” Johnny said.
“All right, Johnny. See you at the diner!”
“Wow, Johnny,” Freddie teased, “no fights yet and you already have a fan club.”
“What can I say? I’m pretty awesome.”
Freddie rolled her eyes. “Well, Ginny and her girlfriends sure think so.”
Johnny hip-bumped her. “Jealous much?”
“Please,” Freddie said. “I’m way out of your league, hotshot.”
When they reached the counter, Freddie asked for the fighters’ menu, and the guy reached under the counter and passed them two long, slender slips of paper that read Fighters’ Menu: Cultivation Neutral and Positive Cuisine.
Mentally, Johnny nodded, putting more pieces of his new reality together. So, this sort of food wasn’t available solely through the Vicarus Rewards Store.
“Cult food’s all about ingredients and processing, apparently,” Freddie said.
The prices weren’t bad. They were a little more expensive than regular food for cultivation-neutral choices, maybe a ten or fifteen-percent markup, and a bit more for cultivation-positive varieties, which Freddie explained that everyone called “cult” food.
He wondered about the benefits. “Will this stuff help you cut weight?”
“Sadly, no. But it’s good for us. The more of this stuff we eat, the faster we increase our juice. Premier fighters, the ones pulling down big purses, they eat cult food all the time. That’s part of what Reina does with her clients, nutrition.”
“What’s good?”
“Normally, I’d say the pho, but that’s a pain in the ass to eat in the arena seats. You like peanut sauce?”
“I guess? I like everything except butternut squash.”
“Weirdly specific, my friend. Try #7, the rice noodle with chicken and peanut sauce. It’s pretty awesome. Then sometime, we’ll hit the main store and try the pho.”
“Sounds good. Is that what you’re having, then, #7?”
“Please.”
Scanning the paper, he saw neutral beer, too.
Pointing, he said, “Want a beer with that?”
“No thanks. Just water for me. I still gotta cut weight. But you go ahead.”
“You won’t mind? I mean, it won’t drive you nuts, sipping w
ater while I’m enjoying a beer?”
“Hell no. If I was that weak, I’d never make weight.”
“All right, then,” he said, and ordered two cultivation-positive #7s and two twenty-four-ounce neutral beers.
“Hey,” Freddie said as they stepped aside to wait for their order. “I was serious. I’m not drinking.”
“I know,” Johnny said, hefting the beers. “Both of these are for me.”
“Great, I’m in the company of a degenerate.”
“You have no idea… yet.”
“Don’t make any promises you can’t keep, big talker,” Freddie said. “And hey—thanks for lunch, Johnny, but you didn’t have to spend extra on me. Neutral would’ve been great.”
“Screw that,” Johnny said, and held out his fist. “We’re going to be the best, right?”
Freddie beamed and brought her fist down on his. “Right!”
“Ladies and gentlemen,” a magnified voice called from the main arena. “A very good day to you all. Our first bout of this amazing card will be starting in five minutes. Let’s hear it, Fight Town… are you psyched for the fights?”
Johnny howled, adding his voice to everyone in the corridor and the main arena clapping and hooting their readiness.
“You’re crazy,” Freddie laughed.
They got their food and cut across the river of fight-goers. The crowd was growing by the minute.
“It pays to get here early,” Freddie said. “Now we can get to our seats without having to—”
“Here, Kitty Kitty… hey Fearful! Fearful Freddie!”
Freddie scowled and half-turned to face a pack of wolves in red track suits that read 110th Street Gym. A wolfgirl with thick, black hair and a glowing nose ring leered at her from the front of the group.
“What do you want, Dominica?” Freddie asked.
“When I want something from you,” the wolfgirl said, “you’ll be the first to know. Because when I want something, I take it. You still fooling around in the novice class?”
“I got one bout left.”
“I’m surprised you didn’t drag your feet and wait for the city championship. But hey, no fur off my tail. Just means I get to gobble you up sooner rather than later.”
“We’ll see,” Freddie said and turned away.
“Well, she seemed nice,” Johnny said.
“I can’t stand Dominica,” Freddie said as they climbed the stairs to the main arena. “She comes by the gym for sparring sometimes. When I was first starting out, she used to kick the living shit out of me. It’s gotten closer over recent months, but she’s really good.”
“She’s open class.”
Freddie nodded. “And city champ. She has sixty-some fights and has only lost a couple of times. She’s really strong. I mean, she has good power too, but she’s so strong and physical in there. Every time we spar, I feel like I’ve been run over by a taxi. Part of it’s that nose ring. I wish I had juice gear. If I did, I’d give her a run for her money.”
Johnny had seen a few fighters wearing glowing bling in the gym but had assumed they were just for show. “What’s a ring like that do, boost your juice?”
“Yeah. We can’t wear them during a fight, but they still build you up if you wear them when you’re not fighting. With juice bling, you can train harder for longer, and everything you do builds up your natural juice faster than you could alone. It’s so unfair.”
“Seems like rich kids would have a huge advantage in the ring.”
“Shit, rich kids never hang. If you don’t need money, you never last. Doesn’t matter how much bling you have. Once you take a shot to the liver, you don’t need bling. You need a reason not to quit.”
They topped the stairs. The main arena sprawled away. It was epic, even larger than a professional football stadium—the place had to hold 150,000 people—and every inch of the domed ceiling pulsed with streaming advertisements, beautiful models a hundred feet tall selling beer they would never drink if they wanted to keep fitting in their skimpy bikinis.
That ceiling was seriously straight out of some cyberpunk game.
They found their seats in the middle of the arena, settled in, and ate their food.
It was great, some of the tastiest food Johnny had ever eaten, and he had to keep reminding himself to pump the brakes and savor each bite. If it weren’t for his riders, he’d pound the whole thing. That’s how good it was.
As Johnny ate, warmth suffused his body. Was the food warming his blood?
He mentioned it to Freddie, who was fanning herself. “It’s powerful, right? Feel it working on your juice?”
“I feel like I’m all shot through with lines of fire.”
“That’s your grid,” Freddie said. “That’s how your juice moves through you. Picture a city grid, like a street map, but running through your mind and body. That’s your juice grid.”
“Weird,” Johnny said, feeling it.
“I guess? Honestly, it doesn’t seem weird to me, though. There’s never been a time when I didn’t know about juice and grids. Coming from the sticks, this must be strange for you.”
Johnny shrugged. “At least I have a good teacher.”
The beer was great, too—and strong. He drank the first one quickly and already felt that back-brain tickling that meant a buzz was setting up shop in his skull.
“Ladies and gentlemen, fight fans of all ages,” the announcer called from the center of the ring. “Are you ready to rock?”
Everyone, including Johnny and Freddie, applauded and cheered.
The ring was far enough away that Johnny couldn’t even make out the announcer’s facial features, but big screens over the ring and high up on each of the arena walls offered a close-up view of the smiling catman in a black-and-white tuxedo.
Two fighters in headgear and their small entourages climbed into the ring. One wore a black robe with Rich Post Security Services on the back. The other’s robe, royal blue in color, advertised Schinhofen’s Gaming Emporium.
Compared to the flashing advertisements streaming up and down the columns and across the ceiling, these simple logos seemed incredibly old-timey.
But that was the nature of this Vicarus simulation, Johnny supposed; it offered the best of two worlds: the calm of days gone by married to the pulsing excitement of a lurid cyberpunk scenario.
The designers were wise, he thought, limiting the futuristic touches to neon signs and this Mecca of strobing stimulation. This world would never have evolved on its own, of course, but what about it? It seemed to Johnny that a life-replacement system could easily overdo realism. This situation offered long stretches of calm comfort and—at the fights, anyway—as much noise and excitement as you could ever want.
“Our first fight of the evening pits two young men in the 175-pound weight division, both in their debut bout. Fighting out of the red corner, representing Dogville, Yeorgi Parks!”
Halfhearted applause rippled across the mostly empty arena, punctuated by howls of support from a section apparently comprised of fans from Dogville.
“And in the blue corner, the Ward’s own Joey Burton.”
Fight fans filled only a third of the seats at this early hour, but they erupted with applause, cheering on the local boy.
Freddie elbowed Johnny. “What do you know? Two light-heavies, one from the Ward. That could be you down there.”
“Cool,” Johnny said, sipping his beer and feeling oddly tense. “You know the guy from the Ward?”
Freddie shook her head. “Never heard of him. Must fight out of a different gym.”
Everyone came together at the center of the ring. The ref talked to the fighters and had them touch gloves. Then everyone left the ring except the fighters and the ref, who gestured to someone at ringside.
The bell rang, and the two fighters came charging out of their corners, swinging haymakers.
The awkward slugfest continued for three hard-fought rounds until the kid from Dogville was, much to the chagrin of the crowd,
declared the winner by split decision.
Johnny figured he could, with some training and better wind, whip either guy. But then again, it’s easy to judge people from a comfy chair.
Until it’s you getting punched in the mouth, you’re better off keeping your mouth shut. And when it is you taking a shot to the jaw, you’d better damn well keep your mouth shut tight or you’ll likely end up sipping soup through a straw for six months.
Chapter 23
In the intermission between the novice and open bouts, they left their seats and went back to the concession area, where they used the restrooms and walked around for a while just to move their legs.
“You getting another beer?” Freddie asked.
“Nah,” Johnny said. “I’m good.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah, I’m sure. One more beer and you’d meet uninhibited Johnny.”
Grinning, Freddie bumped into him. “Why do you think I’m egging you on?”
“Hey, Freddie Lopez, how you doing?” a voice said.
They stopped, and an older guy with his hair dyed dark brown stepped forward to hold both of Freddie’s hands. They were the same height, the guy maybe sixty-five or seventy with an expensive looking suit and the most perfect set of teeth Johnny had ever seen. Big, square, and bright white, these were teeth made for smiling.
“You look good, kid,” he said, leaning in to kiss both of her cheeks. “I mean, you look fantastic.”
“Thanks, Mr. Trongo,” Freddie said.
Johnny studied her for an instant, trying to read her reactions to this guy Trongo. She was happy enough but nervous, too.
Trongo glanced at Johnny and hooked a thumb toward Freddie. “Doesn’t she look fantastic?”
“She does.”
“But hey,” Trongo said. “You staying in shape, Freddie? Good. Always stay in shape. Don’t ever become one of these yo-yo fighters, gain twenty pounds between fights. It’s bad for the heart. When you fighting again?”
“Next month,” Freddie said.
“Oh yeah? Where is that?”
“Down on Hog Island. It's just a small card.”