Mac snorted back at the godfather.
“Shit – I may be old, but I’ve handled far tougher than anything or anyone you have in this place.”
The godfather gave Mac a second glass.
“Oh, I have been told you were a tough man once, Mr. Walker, but it would appear that time came and went long ago. Now you’re like me, a shadow of what you once were, whose fighting is better left to others.”
Mac finished off his second glass of wine.
“Another.”
Bear touched Mac’s shoulder, concerned for his friend’s safety.
“Hey, Mac, maybe you want to lay off the drinks, and let me stand in for you.”
The godfather shook his head at Bear while placing another glass of wine in Mac’s hand.
“That’s not the deal we struck. Mac is to be the one who takes on my man. The odds favor me, which is why I took the bet. Now if everyone could make their way downstairs, we’ll prepare for the show!”
Mac and the others were escorted to the main room of the nightclub, which now held many more people than when they had arrived earlier. Marcini instructed them to sit around a table and wait for his return.
Mac appeared unconcerned at the challenge that awaited him. Imran on the other hand, was clearly upset.
“This is a very bad idea. Santos is a monster! He’s almost as big as Bear, and he’s younger! Maybe even stronger! I’ve seen him throw people out of here three at a time!”
Mac looked over at Imran and told him to shut up, which in turn caused Bear to start laughing.
“This is just like that time in Dominatus, Mac! You and August Hess.”
Mac shook his head.
“Not quite – I felt a whole lot younger then.”
The godfather had stepped to the small stage to address the hundred or so people who were packed inside the night club.
“Ladies and gentleman I am so happy to be able to introduce you to some friends of ours from across the ice fields of Alaska. And not just any Alaskans mind you – some of the actual survivors of Dominatus! In fact, the gentleman who gave the radio address we all listened to as the drones were dropping bombs on top of them, is among the group! Please, Mr. Reese Neeson, could you stand up and give a wave to the audience? Go ahead, stand up, Mr. Neeson.”
Reese stood up slowly while briefly waving at the people around him, many of whom were clapping for him.
“Thank you, Reese – wonderful to have you here with us all tonight. Now in addition to Mr. Neeson, we also have the gentleman who provided security for Dominatus for many-many years. His name is Mr. Mac Walker and I would like everyone to give him a round of applause as well.”
Mac stood up and nodded, and then sat back down.
“Now folks, we have a very special treat for you tonight. Mr. Walker is something of a legend in Alaska, known for being among the toughest men you’ll find in that part of the world. So tough in fact, he is confident he can handle our own toughest in Wilfrid, even at Mr. Walker’s advanced age, which I’ll remind him, and all you – is even older than yours truly! That’s right ladies and gentlemen – that old man who just stood up, has made a personal wager with me that he can best our own Santos in hand to hand combat! Unbelievable! I know – unbelievable!”
People were turning to look back at Mac, some pointing, shaking their heads, and laughing.
Bear glared back at them, livid.
“What a bunch of assholes.”
The godfather was pointing to the left of the stage at someone.
“Hello there, Santos! Are you ready to introduce yourself to Mr. Walker sitting over there?”
Santos lived up to the hype the godfather had delivered. Standing nearly as tall as Bear, though perhaps slightly leaner, he looked every bit the warrior. Not quite yet thirty years old, his dark hair was cut short in the crew cut style of the godfather’s beloved 1950’s. Deep set dark eyes peered out from a prominent brow, while his mouth was framed in a square jaw that looked to be chiseled from stone. His thick neck sat atop very wide, muscular shoulders that appeared ready to burst from his black, v-neck t-shirt.
Mac looked over at the very large and soon-to-be opponent and laughed, causing Imran to turn around and stare at Mac in amazed and increasingly concerned confusion.
“How can you be laughing when you are supposed to be facing THAT?”
Mac waved away the threat that was Santos.
“Anyone who tries that hard to look tough – isn’t. I’ve run across tons of guys like that Imran. Right now it’s more a matter of me deciding how bad I should hurt him.”
Imran’s concern persisted.
“You are not that person anymore! Mac…I’m sorry to have to remind you – you’re an old man!”
Mac’s hand darted out toward Imran and grasped him by the throat with just his thumb and two other fingers as he slowly stood up from his chair. Imran struggled for breath as Mac’s grip tightened.
“Tired of people reminding me of what I already know. You just sit here and wait for me to get back, Imran. This won’t take long.”
Mac walked toward the stage, his eyes never leaving those of Santos, who was glaring back at the older man who he had just been ordered to fight.
Standing near the godfather, Mac motioned to the microphone, indicating he wanted to speak a few words before beginning the wager.
The godfather smiled and passed the microphone to Mac.
“Hello, everyone. I just wanted to ask something before I get started. Now I can hurt this big guy over here a little bit, or a lot. Could kill him too, but I’d rather not do that. So I just want to make sure I meet the obligations of the bet I have with the…godfather over here. I hurt him enough that he don’t want to fight on, and the conditions of our little bet are met, right?”
Though the godfather’s mouth was smiling, his eyes held Mac’s gaze for a moment, and there was no smile to be found within them.
“That is fine, Mr. Walker – if you truly believe yourself capable, which of course is absurd. Ok, then, ladies and gentlemen, if you would please make sure to clear out an area around the dance floor. That’s it, move the tables back. We don’t want anyone getting hurt – well, except for Mr. Walker of course. Just a little hurt though Mac, I promise.”
Santos stepped down onto the dance floor area, looming over Mac who stood with both arms relaxed at his side. Despite Mac’s outward disinterest, his mind was noting every movement his opponent had just made. The dominant foot he used to step down from the stage, which foot he placed forward, the tilt of the shoulders, where his eyes looked. The big man, though confident, had just a touch of uncertainty, and Mac knew then he faced an individual who had very little actual fighting experience – a common trait in men big enough to scare away potential trouble without ever having to prove themselves capable.
This was going to be even easier than he thought. Mac’s biggest concern was not killing Santos. He didn’t even know the man, who was clearly just following the orders of the godfather.
“Ok everybody, it’s hand to hand combat! Our Santos against the great defender of Dominatus – the legendary Mac Walker! Gentlemen, are you ready?”
Santos nodded while Mac merely smiled up at him as he did so.
Mac waited for the big man to move first, which Santos did with a somewhat awkward lunge at him where his right fist flew over Mac’s ducking head. Mac stepped slightly to his right and brought his left elbow up into Santos’s chin. The momentum of both the big man’s lunging move and Mac’s arm caused Santos’s head to snap back for a brief moment. That moment was all Mac needed to bring his right thumb and jab it almost too fast for the eye to see into Santos’s throat. Mac held back when delivering the blow, not wanting to seriously harm the other man. The audience gasped at how quickly and efficiently Mac had injured his much larger opponent.
The effect on Santos was immediate as both of his hands covered the just struck part of his throat as he gasped for breath. Mac stepped away from him and
looked to the godfather, indicating the fight should be over. The godfather in turn waited to see if Santos would recover enough to continue.
Santos did, and for the first time, Mac’s confidence wavered.
The big man lunged again at Mac, who attempted to sidestep Santos, but this time proved just a bit too slow in reacting. Santos managed to hit Mac a glancing blow with his shoulder, sending the seventy five year old backward as he struggled to remain on his feet. Santos then swung his huge right fist directly toward the side of Mac’s head.
At this point Mac realized the fight must end very soon or the cancer in his lungs and body was going to incapacitate him long before Santos could. Already each breath was becoming more difficult and painful. Oddly though, for as poorly as Mac felt, his mind remained calm as it was trained to do all those years ago during his time both in the military and as a hired gun for the government. Thousands and thousands of hours of training and experience had left Mac’s mind as capable as ever – even as his body grew weak.
Santos’s punch flew past Mac’s face, just as another left hook was attempted. This one too flew over Mac’s head as he ducked under the arms of his opponent only to re-emerge back up directly in front of Santos with no space between their bodies. The move, as Mac had predicted in his mind, startled Santos just enough to allow Mac to snap his neck back and then forward again, causing the top of his forehead to pound into the bridge of Santos’s nose with a satisfying crunch.
His nose broken, and blood already flowing over his mouth and chin, Santos again fell back, though this time falling to his left knee as he attempted to wipe the blood from the front of his face with a forearm.
For the second time, Mac Walker looked to the godfather for the fight to end, his chest heaving with the exertion, but satisfied in how easily he had defeated a far younger and more powerful man. It was, minus the cancer and his impending death, just like old times.
The godfather nodded to Mac and waved Marcini over to assist Santos, who was holding his head back and holding his nose in an attempt to stop the bleeding.
“How about a big round of applause for our combatants! Let them know how well they did. Especially YOU, Mr. Walker – especially you!”
The nightclub erupted in applause for Mac, as several people offered to buy him his drinks for the remainder of the evening. Mac ignored their attention though, turning instead to the godfather.
“So we have a deal? We get use of that train?”
The godfather smiled down at Mac from the stage and extended his left hand toward a long table to his left.
“Please, Mr. Walker, let us enjoy the evening. Some food, some drink, and yes, perhaps a little business. I am very impressed with you, Mac. Very, very impressed! You give hope for an old man like me you know. Perhaps there’s life yet left in this world for ghosts such as ourselves. Bring your friends to my table and let’s try and enjoy our company this evening. You’ve proven yourself worthy of my attention – and for that I am truly grateful, Mr. Walker. Truly grateful! We haven’t had this much entertainment around here in quite some time!”
Mac was quickly becoming convinced the godfather had lost his mind. A madman trapped in an odd world of nostalgia where he had taken on the persona of a mafia boss from some long ago movie. The streets, the cars, the fake grass and trees…it all pointed to some form of willful communal dementia by everyone living in Wilfrid – Imran included. In Dominatus they lived in a real world, left alone to do as they pleased. Here, in Wilfrid, it all felt so contrived, odd, and given the people inside the nightclub’s clear lust for violence, likely very dangerous.
They needed the use of that train, though, and so, Mac nodded to the others in his group and pointed over to the godfather’s table.
An hour and several drinks later, Mac, Reese, and the others found themselves more relaxed as the godfather, also having consumed several more glasses of wine, began to speak to them not as some small time mob dictator, but rather an older man wanting to share stories with others willing to listen.
“I hope the terms of our wager, and Mac’s involvement, didn’t offend any of you. Remember, it wasn’t my idea – it was Cooper’s plan! So Cooper is the one to blame.”
Cooper tipped his hat to the godfather and then looked over at Mac.
“Clearly our best was a lot better than yours, sir. Which by the way, is there something I can call you besides “godfather”? That just sounds, all due respect…damn stupid.”
Bear nodded enthusiastically in response to Cooper’s words.
“Hell, yeah! Damn stupid is putting it mildly.”
The godfather took another sip of wine while peeking over his glass at Bear. Returning the glass to the table, he then took his glasses off and began to clean the thick lenses with one of the white napkins that were placed around the table.
“Yes Bear, there was a time I had what you would consider, a regular name. It’s the name of this place – Wilfrid. My family name. But you know, we don’t live in regular times anymore, now do we? So now, I’m simply the godfather, and I stopped trying to be something else, a long time ago. We all play a part, Bear…you, me, Mac, all of us. Whether you like it or not, people put you in those shoes and make you walk that walk. So, I just keep walking, and in that regard, I ain’t no different than you.”
Bear shook his head and chuckled.
“What a bowl of bullshit! I don’t play a part I don’t want to. As for my shoes, they fit me just fine.”
Surprisingly, it was Mac who came to the godfather’s defense.
“Maybe it’s the years, the sense a person gets when they know they have a lot fewer days in front of them than before. I get what he’s saying, Bear. The feeling of being trapped by your past, and not enough days left to change your future. I get it.”
The godfather raised his glass to Mac, and took another drink of the dark red wine.
“I was told you were from Louisiana, Mac. Is that right?”
Mac nodded slowly, his eyes staring down at the table.
“You miss it? Where you come from? Your people?”
Mac left the godfather’s question unanswered for a moment, as his eyes closed and his chin fell down toward his chest.
“Yeah, I suppose I do. Hadn’t thought about it much until recently, but yeah, I miss it.”
The godfather persisted, his voice hinting at both kindness and understanding for Mac’s yearning to return to the place of his birth.
“If you don’t mind my asking, Mac, where do you see yourself dying, when it’s all over? Was it Dominatus? You were up there for what – twenty years? Me…I always wanted to be back in Steubenville. That’s a big reason why this place looks like it does you know. The cars and all that. It’s me trying to get back to where I came from. Actually, to where my dad grew up. He was always telling me when I was a kid in the 70’s how it was all going to hell. He’d say those damn words all the time, man. Over and over again how the country, the neighborhood, the whole damn world was going to hell, and how better things were back when he was younger in the 1950’s. How America was still America. He went on and on about it. Sure glad him and my mom didn’t live long enough to see just how bad it really got. So I created Wilfrid. You might think I’m crazy for doing it, you might think I’ve lost my mind, but I say it’s what’s keeping me together. I’ve created something that doesn’t exist anymore outside of here in this fucked up world. So call me crazy – I don’t give a shit.
“But what about you Mac? Where did you plan to be in the end? Back home in Louisiana?”
Mac leaned back in his chair and looked over at an older woman making her way to the stage to sing one of the Karaoke songs. He recalled Imran saying something about how much the godfather enjoyed Karaoke.
“Yeah, actually, as little sense as it made, I always felt I’d end up back there someday. Somehow. Looks like that won’t happen though. So…whatever.”
Dublin reached over and squeezed Mac’s forearm.
“I never k
new that, Mac. You felt like you would go back to Louisiana someday?”
Mac shrugged, his eyes looking into his half full drink glass containing a brand of whiskey the godfather had recommended to him earlier.
“Sure. I don’t know…maybe it was more a feeling of wanting to see it one last time. You know, before I got too old. I do miss it though. The warm weather. The smell of the trees, the food and the music. It wasn’t the perfect place. We had our problems just like anywhere else, but it was my place. My home. My people, and yeah…a part of me always felt like I’d go back.”
The woman who had walked to the stage moments earlier was singing a song she had introduced as “Freight Train” by an artist named Elizabeth Cotton. The crowd grew quiet as her soft voice strained to carry the lyrics out across to those seated at the nightclub tables.
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