Brain Dead Blues

by Matt Hayward

  Michael's father shook his head. “You should have just stayed where you were, you know that? You were done with all this shite. Do you have any idea how hard it was for me to keep the Connolly lads off your back all this time? Then what do you do? You go and call them and walk right up to their doorstep. Why'd ye do it, Michael?”

  Michael scoffed. “You know damn well why I did it, Da. Angie's six months along now. We need the money. And judging by how many people showed up, I'm guessing that's a five-figure fight we're dealing with here. Right?”

  His father didn't answer. Michael knew from experience that at least ten of the men here tonight were brokers, taking bets for some privileged assholes back in their homes. They'd be sitting in their cosy living rooms with friends all around, getting drunk and waiting for regular updates. Two brokers stuck out from the crowd already, their second-hand suits giving them away. They shouted into their large phones to be heard over the wind and the people.

  “Just remember that you did this to yourself then. That's all.”

  “Thanks for the support.”

  Michael shouldered past his father and pushed further into the clearing. Heads turned instantly. Some cheers went up, but not many. To support a Connolly opponent on their own ground was a very stupid thing to do, so even though many were there for Michael the Mountain Rourke, they wouldn't show it. Folks slapped his back with good nature as he passed by, but most only glared. They wanted his blood spilled.

  Michael made a beeline for Georgie Connolly. He kept his posture under control, breathing slow and deep through his nose. The sooner it’s over with, he thought, the better. Besides, what was the old saying about wandering into a new environment? Seek out the biggest guy and go straight for him. In this case, that man was clearly Georgie Connolly.

  Georgie's voice cut in mid-laugh as he turned and watched Michael walk toward him. He whispered something to the man next to him and the crowd that were surrounding him dispersed. Georgie lowered his half-finished bottle of whiskey to the ground and stood back up, adjusting his leather jacket as he did. He hocked a wad of phlegm at the Hell Fire Club wall and waited, his face unreadable. One by one, the onlooking crowd fell silent. Michael stood face to face with the King of the Gypsies.

  “Georgie Connolly?”

  “Yer damn right Georgie Connolly.”

  The wind blew, whistling through the tress. From behind, somebody coughed.

  “Back in '85, I fought Brady Connolly. But I did not kill him. I think it's important for you to know that.”

  Georgie arched an eyebrow. “I think it's important for you to know that it doesn't matter if you did or didn't. He's still dead. Now, what's the reason for you to get back in the game?”

  “I'm here for the money, Connolly. That's all. I have a child on the way, and I only want the money. Nothing more.”

  “Well there's sure to be a lot of green on the table for this one. But you won't be getting any of it.”

  Georgie waited for a response, but all he got was a nervous chuckle from someone in the crowd. Michael didn't take the bait. Instead, he asked, “Who is it you're having me fight?”

  Georgie smiled and made his way past Michael, addressing the crowd. They backed away, matching him step for step. “Who is it I'd have Michael the Mountain Rourke fight?”

  No one replied.

  “Would it be my youngest, Sean?”

  A resounding no from the crowd, followed by a few laughs.

  “How about me middle lad then? Patrick Connolly?”

  Another no from the crowd, this time louder.

  “Well then, would it be me eldest? Derry Connolly? Derry the Widow Maker?”

  A cheer erupted from the assemblage, fists punching towards the sky, feet stomping. Their words garbled together in a sea of white noise. Michael continued to breathe low and steady, keeping his nerves in check. If he let the fear take him over now, he knew he wouldn't stand a chance in the fight.

  Georgie Connolly yelled for quiet and the crowd shut up instantly.

  “No. No, this one is special, lads. Michael the feckin' Mountain is out of retirement, after all. Isn't this a special occasion?”

  A mumbling from the crowd, too afraid to voice their agreement.

  “Well, it is. It's very special. I don't give two shites about it, meself, but I do know that a lot of you think he's a good fighter. One of the best, in fact. So you know what? Two people are coming out of retirement today, it seems. Lads…” Georgie smacked at his chest with a balled fist. “The King is fighting the fuckin' Mountain.”

  With that, the gathering went crazy. The noise sounded like an old train ripping along a dodgy line on a stormy night. Men slapped at each other, jumping from foot to foot, and in their eyes lurked a look of wild excitement. The men on their phones broke away, updating their clients on the change of events. Michael knew that many of those clients were sure to be putting their money on The King now.

  The King of the Gypsies had never lost a fight in his life.

  Michael's body shook as he pulled a breath deep down into his lungs to try and steady himself. The crowd was too busy with the news of The King to pay him any attention. Good, Michael thought. He didn't want anyone to see the Mountain shaking like a tree.

  Georgie clapped his calloused hands and the audience fell silent once more. “All right, listen up! I want the circle going, lads, just like old times. Make sure it’s as big and tight as a ol' nun's cunt. There's no gettin' out until one of us is down and not getting back up, Mikey. You know the rules. In front of the Hell Fire Club, come on!”

  The crowd shuffled towards the front of the old building, moving like a single organism. The wind blew their overcoats and hair every which way, but their faces were filled with wild anticipation. Georgie didn't spare Michael a single glance as he followed them. The last to leave was Michael's father.

  “You should have stayed well away from this life, Michael,” he said. “But it just called you back didn't it? Back home… It's where you belong. It's in your blood. We're family, not just me and you, lad, but all of us. This is a pack. And you don't just leave a pack, do you?”

  “I guess not,” Michael said, making his way towards the ring of people. “But it's just this one time. One more round, that's all.”

  Michael's father bared his teeth like an angry dog. “It's always just one more with you, you gobshite.”

  Ignoring the man, Michael approached the circle. The fifty or sixty men with their arms locked around each other’s shoulders created an inescapable cage of bodies. Two of the men broke away to allow Michael entrance, and once he got in, they closed the gap. All eyes were on him. Despite the high winds, the smell of sweat hung heavy in the air. Michael stood in the ring.

  One man shouted for Georgie to “Go on and knock the shite out of him.” The cheer that followed sent a shiver up Michael's spine. On the other side of the ring stood Georgie Connolly, a smirk on his face.

  Georgie dropped his leather jacket to the dying grass and kicked it away into the crowd. One of the audience members caught it and placed it behind the ring, out of sight. Georgie flexed his large arms, the tattoo of a crown showing on his hairy right forearm. His plain black t-shirt clung tightly to his large stomach. That stomach, Michael thought, wasn't loose and flabby like most old men's. It might seem that way at first glance, but Michael knew that that stomach was hard as a rock from years of built-up muscle. The old man's hands were like hardened concrete as he slapped them together, large and tough. Through rumors, Michael had heard that Georgie would soak his fists in petrol for an hour each day to harden the skin, make it like leather. From the looks of them, that seemed highly plausible.

  Michael sighed and removed his denim jacket. The howling wind made the hair on his arms prickle, but he knew from experience that leaving the jacket on was a rookie mistake. Once adrenaline kicked in, his body temperature wouldn't matter, and besides, with all the moving he'd be doing, he'd be hotter than an oven either way. A jacket could als
o be yanked and used against you. Michael wasn't taking any chances.

  “All right, lads,” Georgie shouted. “Shall we give young Michael his birthday present early?”

  The crowd went crazy, stomping their feet and roaring, their faces wild with excitement. Michael began circling the ring, breathing through his nose and balling his fists, looking to their faces for an answer as to what was about to happen, but the men only leered and shouted as he passed, some salivating like rabid animals. They leaned their heads forward, screaming in his face.

  Georgie barked a laugh from the far side of the ring. “Look to the door of the Hell Fire Club, young Michael. Look!”

  Michael did, and his legs nearly buckled.

  From the darkness of the main door, out stepped a nervous looking young woman. At the sight of her, the crowd began to dog-whistled and howl. She was beautiful. Blonde, fair skinned, and all too familiar. Those brown eyes had melted Michael for the past number of years. Angie stood and rubbed at her belly, comforting the growing child within.

  “Wha—” Michael's voice deserted him. His throat felt like sandpaper. “What's happening?”

  “We've made a deal with the lovely lady, Michael,” Georgie said. The place roared with laughter that sounded too loud. “You know that we've been keeping tabs on you. Sure I thought Willie would have told you by accident and blown it!”

  The audience giggled, including Willie.

  “See, we told little Angie about your stunt you were planning. Told her all about you and your past, and you know what? Turns out she wasn't too impressed. Turns out, actually, she hates being lied to. Who would have thought that, eh? Even said to us she told you a million times she hates being lied to! Now, as it also turns out, all she wanted from you was the little bah-bah in her belly!”

  The words hit Michael like a bullet, each one smacking a little deeper. He squeezed at the bridge of his nose, trying to concentrate. It seemed the air had gotten too thin and he suddenly found it hard to breathe.

  Just beyond this circle of testosterone-fueled madmen stood the love of his life. But if what was happening was true, she was a liar and a traitor. All she wanted was a baby. An involuntary sound escaped Michael's mouth and he began to shake. Had the child been the only reason for him and nothing more? Did she ever really love him? How could she look him in the eye each night and let those words fall from her lips if they weren't true? Michael's whirling thoughts were cut short by the sound of Georgie's voice.

  “We've agreed to give little Angie all of the winnings from the fight, regardless of the outcome. How nice is that, eh? Money's not an issue to us, lad. She can have that. Don't worry, the baby will be well taken care of. Just as long as we can have you. You don't just leave this lifestyle, Michael Rourke!” Georgie bellowed a laugh that sparked a chuckle from all the other men around. “Especially not when you've spilled blood of our own! Your Da knows the rules, and he's held us off for long enough, us pesky Connollys! But then, then Micky, you actually had the cheek to call us out? You had the nerve to walk right back to us?”

  “Stupid cunt!” Someone yelled. To Michael, it sounded like Willie.

  “She gets the money, lad. And we get you. Deal's a deal, and fair's fair.”

  Michael finally found his voice. Adrenaline was coursing through his veins now, and all he wanted, all he needed, was to plant a good solid fist into The King's face. “What do you mean you get me? No one gets me.”

  “Oh, but we do… We do. Welcome back to the pack, brother.”

  Two things happened simultaneously.

  The first was that Georgie Connolly dropped to his knees. He wailed in agony, his thick neck standing out in fat veins, looking like slugs wriggling just beneath the surface of his red skin. Spit flew from his lips, his body seeming to vibrate in pain. There was a sharp snapping noise as things beneath his skin began to protrude all over. Bone, Michael thought. That's the sound of bone breaking. What the hell?

  Some of the men from the circle tried backing away, looking terrified and confused, but others held them back. The ones who tried to run, Michael noticed, were his supporters. The ones who had given him a sly, brief smile when he'd made eye contact. The ones doing the holding were the Connollys. They giggled like hyenas as they kept the men in place. Patrick looked to his father. The old man, he noticed, hadn't tried to run. When Michael caught his attention, he shook his head, the message clear— I told you to leave it be, Michael. You shouldn't have come back.

  The second thing that happened was that Michael pissed himself.

  He was terrified. The supporters of Michael began shouting for help, but they were silenced by fists. A riot broke out. Screams mingled with wet thuds. People fell about, the brawl in full swing. Michael stalked about the ring, looking for an exit. An escape. But it was useless. The similarity to '85 when he'd fought Brady Connolly made him sick to his stomach. But there was one difference between that night and this— No one was dead. Yet.

  Michael searched for Angie but couldn't see her. He guessed she'd slunk back inside the Hell Fire Club when things had started to go down. Maybe, if what Georgie said was true, she'd gotten scared and had second thoughts. Perhaps she was hiding away until the entire nightmare ended. If that was the case, then he could go to her later. Talk. If he lived through this, that was. The chance of that happening looked less likely by the second. But if he did, he could hear, in her own words, the reason for this. Maybe salvage something of the relationship, and if not, then at least give the entire catastrophe some closure. Ignoring Georgie as he wriggled on the ground between the mob's feet, Michael spotted a break in the circle and made for the Hell Fire Club door.

  Something grabbed at his ankle.

  The ground whooshed towards his face but Michael managed to get his hands up at the last moment. He thudded down, the pain zapping through his arms. With a grunt, he turned — and screamed.

  The King of the Gypsies was no longer human. What crawled towards him on all fours was an abomination.

  The creature's scrawny body looked freakishly out of proportion to its mutated head. Two large eyes pulsated, full of primal aggression. Thinning grey hair stuck out in clumps all over its blackened skin. Michael spotted something crawling around there, what looked like giant ticks. That creature looked sickly, spotted here and there with fat warts and blisters. A large tail whipped back and forth, slapping at the earth. Then the Wolfman stood, forcing half the crowd to scream.

  Scrambling on his back, Michael pushed himself away, scampering through the dead grass and staring at the daemon before him. All around, the Connolly crew linked arms again, gaining control of the situation and recreating The Ring. Even some of Michael's supporters had given in. The men linked with the others. Including Michael's father. The ones who didn't give in were already dead. Michael saw some of them from the corner of his eye, stab wounds visible in most their bodies. The Connolly supporters had gutted the opposition.

  The circle of men looked at the Wolfman with awe and admiration, completely enraptured. One of them was crying.

  The King of the Gypsies howled, the earsplitting noise like a canine wailing through a Marshall amplifier. Michael's hair stood on end and his legs went weak. When the howl finally died down, he noticed he'd been screaming the whole time.

  “Hail Georgie!” One man hollered. Another replied with, “Hail the King of the Gypsies!”

  Standing at full height, the beast easily reached six and a half feet. His balding skin stretched tight across his visible ribcage and his legs shook from the upper body weight. To Michael, the Wolfman looked like a rotting, wild beast from a nightmare. He muttered a silent prayer under his breath.

  Then something happened. A familiar feeling began to build inside Michael. In the past, his body had went into autopilot whenever he couldn't take any more physical or mental pain, he retreated somewhere in the back of his mind while someone else seemed to steer the wheel. As far as he could remember, it had only happened three times before. One of thos
e times being the infamous fight with Brady Connolly. His fists had flown, his legs had moved, but he hadn't been conscious to it. Now, it was happening again.

  Michael shouted, “Hey!”

  The place fell still. All eyes were on him, including the beast's.

  “It's typical, isn't it, Georgie? You get some curse, or gift, if that's what you want to think of it, and it makes you thin, huge, and scary as shit, but it couldn't make your cock bigger, could it?”

  The beast grunted, hot air shooting from its wet nose.

  “You want to go? Come on, you rancid sack of shit.”

  The crowd stepped back together as the monster formerly known as Georgie Connolly staggered forward, its huge claws balling into fists.

  The creature swung and Michael ducked. The stench of wet dog wafted by. Michael kicked out, smashing the beast on the kneecap. If it hurt, the Wolfman didn't let it show. Instead, it threw its head forward, bearing those long, yellowed teeth in front of Michael's face. Michael didn't allow himself time to think. He head-butted it.

  Michael's forehead collided with the creature's wet nose. A sickening crack came as the bone broke. He stumbled backwards, cradling his aching head. The Wolfman howled in agony, its shovel-like hands reaching up to its face. Dark crimson leaked from between its fingers, soaking its fur. With a roar that made Michael want to vomit, it charged.

  The Wolfman crashed into Michael, sending them both to the dirt. Despite the malnourished look of the creature, its weight bore down as heavy as a car. Michael's lungs screamed for air. He could taste the bitterness of the beast’s breath, all brown and wrong. His eyes blurred from the pressure in his chest and his vision started to go dark.

  Hot blood trickled from the monster's nose and spattered Michael's face. He shook his head from side to side, trying to avoid it, but it was everywhere. The Wolfman brought its head closer, the stink of foul meat unbearable. Its lips shriveled away from its hideous teeth, putting them on display. It was taking its time, Michael knew, savoring the struggle of its prey.

  I'm going to pass out, He thought. I can't take it.