“Sounds good to me,” Crip said.
Crip was another who I’d rather not fight. I’d seen him take on three men in a bar fight and whip all their asses to the ground before they knew what happened. Although movies and T.V. shows made fighting three or four men look like a breeze, it wasn’t. Doing it in real life took someone that was very skilled with their hands and feet that was also able to anticipate each opponent’s next move before he made it.
Crip, being a former Navy SEAL himself, had an uncanny sense of everything that brought danger in his direction.
But, no differently than Pee Bee, he had no business boxing in a match where he couldn’t use his feet.
“Downey!” Duntz shouted.
I turned around. “What?”
“I’ll go four.”
“Fuck you,” I spat, still angry at the asshole who called me a Beaner. “I’m half drunk. $5,000, or we’re leaving.”
When I fought in Duntz’s fights, or in any fights for that matter, I had no nick-name, no road name, and no first name. I simply went by Downey.
He looked around the unruly crowd, and then met my gaze. “Fine. I’ll go five.”
“Holy shit,” Crip said, spitting out a laugh with his words. “You’re going to fight this prick?”
I took off my kutte and handed it to him.
He wrinkled his nose. “Seriously?”
“It’s $5,000 toward a house.” I handed him my hat, and then reached for the hem of my shirt, and shrugged. “I’ve fought a hell of a lot meaner for a hell of a lot less.”
I pulled off my shirt over my head and then tossed it at Pee Bee. “Hold this.”
Duntz raised his hands and turned toward the crowd. “We’ve got a fight!”
He turned to face me. “Downey has agreed to fight The Butcher.”
The crowd cheered.
I stepped into the taped area, did 30 pushups, stood, and then did 30 burpees to loosen up a little. As the crowd began to step away from the tape, I ran in place until my heartrate was elevated.
A man wearing a red sweatshirt stepped into the tape with the big Marine at his side. Slowly, they walked in my direction. Barefoot, and dressed in a pair of red USMC sweats and a gray tee shirt, my opponent didn’t look much bigger than me.
I glared at the Marine. With his eyes locked on mine, he took off his shirt and tossed it aside.
Correction.
He was considerably bigger than me.
It wasn’t going to be an easy $5,000, that was for sure. He was undefeated, I knew that much about him. Other than that, I couldn’t recall having ever seen him fight. After looking him over, I decided I needed to crawl inside his head before we crawled inside the tape.
“Understand why they call you jarheads now,” I growled. “With that high and tight buzz-cut, your nugget looks like the top of a fuckin’ Mason jar.”
“Fuck you,” he spat.
“You know what bikers do after they beat someone’s ass?” I asked.
He glared at me.
“We piss on ‘em.”
His jaw tightened. “Where’d you find this asshole?”
“He’s a regular,” Duntz said.
Butcher shook his head and narrowed his eyes to slits. “Not after tonight.”
“Listen. You’ve both fought in my fights,” Duntz said. “No biting, no kicking, no rabbit punching, neither of you have hair, so we don’t have to worry about hair pulling. If a man hits the floor, step away. I’ll have two men in the tape with you, both will be wearing red hooded sweatshirts. If one of them gives an order to step away, do it. If one of them grabs you, don’t swing at him. If you do, you’ll lose your prize money”
He glanced at each of us. “Both of you ready?”
I reached down and pulled off one of my shoes. “As soon as I get my shoes off.”
“You ready?” he asked Butcher.
He barked a cackle of a laugh. “Roger that.”
I pulled off my shoes, shoved my socks inside of them, and tossed them toward the fellas. Crip gave me a nod and pressed his fist to his chest.
I pressed my fist to my chest in return.
Duntz stepped aside, and one of the two idiots wedged his way between us. He looked at me. “Ready?”
I nodded.
He looked at Butcher. “Ready?”
Butcher nodded. “Roger that.”
He raised his hands in the air and held them in place.
Much different than a conventional boxing match in all respects, there were no bells, no rounds, and no stopping. When he dropped his hands, we simply fought until someone won.
His hands fell. “Fight!”
Everything surrounding me disappeared. There was no warehouse, no crowd, and none of the fellas from the MC. It was me and Butcher, and that was it.
I shifted my left foot forward and took an orthodox stance. His eyes fell to my feet, made note of my right-handed intentions, and he took the same stance. I had no idea if he could fight southpaw, but I knew if I needed to, I could.
I lowered my hands slightly and raised my chin. “I’ll give you one free shot, you big squid.”
I knew he was a Marine, and I further knew calling him a squid, the derogatory term for a Navy Sailor, would piss him off. Based solely on his undefeated record, I needed him as rattled as I could get him.
He took a step toward me. “You dumb fuck. I’m a god damned Marine!”
“One unfit to train, from what I hear,” I said. “Pretty sad when you’re too stupid be a bullet sponge.”
Give me an opening, big boy.
He swung a hard left hook that barely missed my chin. His left side was mine for the taking.
Thank you.
As he recovered from the punch, I swung a right cross that glanced off his left cheek.
His eyes shot wide.
Apparently, he’d either never been hit. Or at least not hard. Getting smacked seemed to really piss him off.
He lowered his chin, tucked his elbows, and began to crowd his way toward me.
Come on, you big dumb, son-of-a-bitch.
I’ve got plenty more for you.
I noticed a drop of blood where my knuckle caught him. If I continued to pound the left side of his face in the same spot, his eye would be closed in no time.
He swung a few jabs that were intended for my face. I dodged most of them, but one glancing punch caught my left shoulder. His hands were quick, he had good form, and his punches had considerable power behind them.
I threw a quick four punch combination to get him on his heels, and give me a little more room to fight. As he stumbled back to avoid the punches, I took a step toward him and swung a right uppercut.
My bare knuckles crashed into the left side of his jaw.
See what you think about that, you big dumb fuck.
The uppercut, at least in my opinion, was my best punch. With me being over 200 pounds and solid muscle, there weren’t many men who could take a solid punch from me and walk away.
Yet.
The punch simply appeared to piss him off.
Fuck.
He came at me, swinging like a mad man. His punches weren’t wild, nor were they haphazardly thrown. They were well-placed and powerful.
After four jabs that I leaned away from, he swung a left hook that caught me in the ribs.
The air shot from my lungs.
Naturally, I tucked my elbows close to my midsection, which lowered my hands.
The next punch caught me straight in the jaw, knocking me three or four steps back. As I shook my head to regain my senses, he swung another hook into my ribs.
Hell, I hadn’t even found my breath since the first punch.
Mother…fucker.
Through my ringing ears, I heard Crip’s unmistakable voice. “Beat that motherfucker’s ass, or turn in your patch, Cholo!”
“Hear that, Cholo?” Butcher taunted. “Your Beaner ass is unfit to be a biker.”
I was one of those people who was accu
rately described in the old cliché you can dish it out, but you can’t take it. I would talk a mad line of shit to another man, but as soon as anyone said something derogatory to me, I was ready to fight.
And, what he’d said was enough to make my blood boil.
“I’m half Beaner, half Mick, asshole,” I seethed. “And the Irish half of my blood gives me a temper I can’t control.”
I shifted my stance to southpaw, and his eyes shot wide. He glanced at my right side, undoubtedly trying to figure out which was my lead hand, and which was my rear. I threw a quick right jab to catch him off-guard, and then swung a left cross toward his jaw with every ounce of my being.
The punch landed square on his mouth.
I felt his teeth loosen beneath my knuckles.
The crowd cheered.
His eyes went glassy. I had him right where I wanted.
“You can get Uncle Sam to fix those teeth,” I said as he stumbled to catch his footing. “Oh wait. You can’t. They kicked you out for being a dip-shit.”
I swung a wide right hook. The punch crashed into his temple, and spun him halfway around. As the left side of his face became fully exposed, I swung a left hook into his ribs, and then another hard right into his open jaw.
The second punch caused his knees to buckle. He stood before me, wavering, one punch away from his first loss.
Technically, he was out on his feet – standing, but in an unconscious state. I could have stepped aside and let the referee make note of it, or simply waited for him to recover.
Following the Beaner comment, I planned on giving him what I felt he deserved.
I planted my feet firm on the concrete floor, lowered my chin, and took my mind to the day that I found Alexandra in the back room of the dope house. I thought of her standing there, scared and shaking, trying to protect the other girls from harm.
I thought of what they’d done to her, and what they’d taken from her mentally, physically, and emotionally.
My hands reacted in accordance with my thoughts, plastering punch after punch into his thick skull.
My fists pounded into the sides of his face, opening up the cut on his upper cheek. As he slowly melted into a pile on the floor at my feet, my hands followed, pummeling him until he was in a pile of his own blood at my feet.
Two red sweatshirts stepped between us.
“It’s over!” one shouted.
I raised my swollen fists into the air and glanced around the crowd
People were cheering and waving their fists. As they tried to raise Butcher to his feet, the crowd began to cheer.
“Downey! Downey! Downey!”
And, for that short moment, I wasn’t a half-breed, I wasn’t a Mexican, and I wasn’t Irish.
I was simply the man I was supposed to be.
I was me.
Chapter Eighty-Four
Lex
I totaled the receipts, figured what I owed the restaurant from my cash payments, and then counted what remained. Shocked, I carefully recounted. While Sandy got her things together and grabbed her purse, I looked up.
“Is something wrong?” she asked.
“I’ve done this twice.”
“What’s wrong?”
“It’s uhhm. Well. I put cash receipts over here, and credit card receipts over here. I’m just trying to get my cash straight. So, after totaling my cash receipts, this is left over.”
I slid the pile of money to the side.
She counted it. “$325.00? That’s about what I made. In cash, I mean.”
“Seriously?”
She nodded.
I waved a handful of receipts. “There’s another $150 in credit card tips.”
“We were slammed,” she said. “It’s like that on Fridays. Everyone comes in from work, and they’re in and out quick. Then, there are the regulars who come anyway.”
“Almost $500 in one shift?”
“That’s about right for a Friday, yeah.”
I looked at the pile of cash. “Holy crap.”
“Wait ‘till you work a weekend. It’s crazy good money,” she said.
I separated the piles. “I love this job.”
After we paid the restaurant we walked into the parking lot together.
“Are you working tonight?” I asked.
“No. I have the night off.”
I looked at her. “You want to go somewhere?”
She grinned. “Sure. What are you thinking?”
It was 4:30 in the afternoon. Although I didn’t really feel safe going out at night yet, I wasn’t scared to go out during the day, depending on where she wanted to go.
“I don’t know. Just around the corner, on Harbor. Maybe one of the places on the water. Just sit and talk?”
“Sure. I’ll follow you.”
“Okay.”
I drove around the corner, past the more expensive restaurants, and ended up parking at Joe’s Crab Shack on Harbor Drive. I didn’t particularly care for chains, but the place was on the water and was likely to be a mellow atmosphere compared to other bars.
We sat at a table facing the water and each ordered a beer.
“Do you have a boyfriend?” I asked.
“I’m not really girlfriend material,” she said. “No.”
She truly was pretty, and looked like a little Barbie doll with grotesquely large boobs. I was intrigued by her response. “You’re a man’s dream girl. Blonde, big boobs, you’re pretty…”
“Thanks.” She grinned, and then shrugged one shoulder. “It just doesn’t work for me.”
“Huh? Why not?”
“Guys cheat on me. I’m not, I don’t know. I’m not whatever I have to be to make them want to be loyal or whatever. They cheat. I find out. We break up. It happens over and over.”
I took a drink of beer. “Maybe it’s not you, but the guys. You’re picking the wrong ones or something.”
She looked down at the table, scrunched her nose, and after a moment, looked up. “I don’t think I’ve ever picked one. They pick me.”
“Pick the next one.” I lifted my bottle of beer. “A good one.”
She chuckled and raised her bottle. “You’re funny.”
“I wasn’t trying to be.”
“No,” she said. “I mean you’re different. You’re quiet and don’t talk shit. I like that. Most of the other girls that I work with are catty and competitive. I hate it. It’s like, I don’t know, they talk shit behind your back just to get others to look at you a certain way. It’s non-stop at the club.”
“I’m not a big fan of girls. They’re mean.”
“I know, right?”
“I can kick it with you, though,” I said. “You seem pretty genuine.”
“Genuine?”
“Yeah. Not like everyone else. Genuine.”
“I don’t feel very genuine.” She turned toward the window, took a drink of beer, and then looked at me.
“Why?”
She glanced down at her boobs, and then laughed. “Really?”
I chuckled. “What?”
“They’re fake. I’m a phony.”
“I think they’re awesome,” I said, although they were ridiculously large for her small frame. “And they have nothing to do with who you are on the inside.”
“Thanks. I bet if you had them for a month, you’d hate them.”
I looked her over. As far as fake boobs were concerned, hers were pretty perfect. They looked dumb on her, though.
I shrugged. “I don’t know if I’d hate them.”
“You’d hate how they make your back feel.”
“Is it bad?”
She let out a laugh. “Terrible.”
“That sucks. Maybe if they weren’t so, I don’t know, big?”
“Yeah.” She starting laughing. “They are pretty ridiculous.”
“Good for business at the club though, huh?”
“They make me tips, that’s for sure.” She nodded her head toward me. “So, what about you?”
“Boyfriend?”
“No.”
She cocked her head to the side. “How come?”
“The last one used me for a punching bag, so I left.”
“You don’t put up with any shit, do you?”
I laughed. “No, not really. Why?”
“You just don’t seem like the type.”
She was right, I didn’t. The minute someone started trying to bullshit me, or treat me poorly, I cast them aside. It was another one of my many strengths.
Or defects. Depending how one wanted to view it.
“I’ve got a pretty low tolerance for putting up with bullshit,” I said. “And then, I have an issue with telling people what I think. I always just say exactly what I’m thinking. I don’t pull any punches.”
“No filter,” she said. “You don’t have a filter.”
“If I do, it’s a really little one.”
“I keep everything inside. It makes me sick. Like, it makes my stomach sick.”
“If you don’t like it, change it,” I said.
“It’s not that easy. I hate conflict. Fighting. Arguing. It’s weird. I hate being in an argument, even a little one. But, when it comes to sex…”
She wagged her eyebrows.
“What?”
She leaned forward, looked in each direction, and then met my curious gaze.
“I like being pushed around,” she whispered.
“Just during sex?”
She nodded.
I laughed. “Who doesn’t? There’s two types of girls. Girls who like it rough, and girls who don’t. The girls who don’t haven’t been with the right guy yet.”
“That’s funny. Sheri used to say I was weird.”
“Who’s Sheri?”
“The girl you replaced at work.”
“She’s an idiot. She probably didn’t show up because some guy finally pulled her hair just right, and she didn’t want it to stop.”
“I doubt that. She was kind of uptight.”
“Most girls who aren’t sexually satisfied are uptight. Seriously. Have you ever met a girl who’s getting it – and getting it good – that’s in a bad mood?”
She grabbed her beer, leaned back, and looked beyond me. After a moment, she shook her head. “I don’t think so.”
“Okay. Have you ever met a girl who’s madly in love – and getting laid on a daily basis –that’s a total bitch?”
Filthy F*ckers: The Complete Series Box Set Page 43