Hell on Earth

by Bernard Lee DeLeo

  Jafar parked my old Chevy up from the warehouse about a block. I grabbed my bag and we walked together toward a very loud, raucous crowd filing into our dilapidated fight arena. It was only eight o’clock and a November chilling breeze blew in our faces. Tommy, Dev, and Jesse met us halfway. They didn’t look happy.

  Tommy starts the ball rolling. “This Abdul looks impressive. We saw him warming up when we went in to check out the warehouse. I wish we could have seen him fight.”

  Jesse’s nodding in agreement. His ever present smile is not present. “He looks like Iron Man, John. The guy’s as tall as you and ripped like I’ve never seen out here. He reminds me of that UFC Champ Georges St. Pierre.”

  Dev laughed and clapped me on the shoulder. “My condolences, dude.”

  Wow, maybe I should forfeit. It seemed like they were hiding something but I couldn’t figure out why they’d bother. “Hey, can we get on with this before you guys throw the towel in before I even get on the mat? Jafar here says I’m a cinch.”

  The three laughed at my using Jafar as a fight reference.

  “Yeah, well Jafar didn’t see this guy yet, or our new arena, or a few other little hitches we have from the Slayer’s backers. We’re just trying to warn you,” Tommy said.

  That sounded ominous. What new hitches? I guess I’d see soon enough. I speeded up the pace. “Man, T, you’re really getting to be a downer lately in the fight game.”

  “That’s because we need you in our real business and not in intensive care.”

  There were grunts of agreement from my crew. See, this is why whenever a guy acquires a lucrative business or something tangible in life, everyone around him figures he’s got too much to lose in a risky venture. They forget all about how the guy got there by taking chances. It’s that bunker mentality. I keep striding toward the warehouse.

  My crew falls in around me. I can almost sense them eyeballing each other behind my back. “Let’s do it. I have to make it to UFC in Dubai, and I won’t be getting there ducking good paying fights. You guys know the score with my other job.”

  We reach the warehouse entrance and Pete McCormick’s at the door with Earl backing him up as he takes money in. They see me and stop everyone for us to pass. I notice Earl’s not smiling either. He gives me a little salute like I’m on my way to the gas chamber.

  “Good luck, John, you’re goin’ to need it.”

  “Gee thanks, Earl. The drinks are on you at the Warehouse after, right?”

  “If you can still swallow, partner.”

  I point at him as I go by. “I’m holding you to it.”

  Inside, I stop in stunned amazement. They’d reworked the entire inside of the warehouse. Scrubbed out and painted, the place no longer exuded desperation. It was still barren but for a brand new fight-cage and bleacher seats around it. Professional lighting had been added. Now, I’m getting confused. Where the hell did they get the money to do all this for a backstreet fight with illegal betting? I whipped around looking at my buddies… my crew… and they’re staring right back at me… waiting.

  “Okay, guys, the warehouse gets a facelift. Bonasera, Alexander, and probably Fiialkov get a cage and bleachers. And what does old Long John Silver get?”

  Tommy shrugs. “He gets hosed. There will be five, five minute rounds, with one minute rest in between, just like a UFC championship match.”

  Oh crap. “This can go the distance and I can lose on points then?”

  “Yep, and before you ask, no, I was not told anything about it. We waited for you to see this place for yourself. Abdul’s backers from Europe want this bad. They had the place revamped with state of the art lighting and cameras. They’re making a ton of money overseas on this using some agreement Al Jazeera has with the FAA. No mention will be made about illegal betting. They brought three judges along and we got no one on the panel any of us ever heard of. I don’t know what to tell you, John. I’d say let’s walk but we’d probably need all three Oakland PD to draw on the crowd and fire for us to get out in one piece.”

  “Gee, this is exciting, guys. How much are we all in on this, Tommy? I know you told me the bets had to be made in advance.”

  “I got twenty-five on us.”

  “I’m only in for a couple grand, John,” Devon says. “I made more than that when you blasted the Big O. Don’t worry about it. With a strange ref, I just don’t want you getting buried in there.”

  Jesse smiled finally. “Easy come, easy go, brother. It ain’t your fault we got set up. Speakin’ of setups, here comes Bonasera now.”

  Bonasera ran up with his hands moving in placating fashion and fear on his face. “I know what you’re thinkin’, John. Ray told me he called Tommy and gave him the whole picture before you agreed. I only found out now he never told you guys anything about this.”

  I look toward where Bonasera came up to us from. Ray Alexander is smilin’ and pointing at me. “I thought you guys were happy with ‘The Big O’ fight, Jim.”

  “Ray lied about not betting on Okoye. He dropped twenty large on the fight which wiped his profits out for the match and put him in the hole. I’m done with him after tonight. You did right by us. Ray’s got a hard-on for you and he can’t let go. He knows you can’t walk out, John. I’m sorry.”

  I smiled while still making eye contact with Ray the Rat. Some folks don’t ever learn. “Does Ray have money on Abdul?”

  Bonasera hesitates, glancing back at his supposedly ex-partner. “I think he went all in on it, John.”

  “If I’m destined to get my ass kicked tonight, who the hell covered Ray’s bet?”

  “Same guy who took him on the Okoye fight: Alexi Fiialkov.”

  That makes sense. Alexi’s playing with Ray’s money. It’s notable Fiialkov gambled on me last time out even though he was having second thoughts about me going up against his boy Rankin. “Okay, Jim. I’m sorry ain’t going to cut it. Tommy went even odds because he didn’t know about this setup.”

  “I…I’ll throw in five large more out of my end.”

  “Ten would be a more sincere apology… but alright, I’ll play this hand out. Is the ref a setup too? It won’t be much of a fight if Abdul owns the ref along with the judges.”

  “He supposedly worked the MMA circuit in Europe and Japan. I don’t know him. You’ll get a fair shake from the judges though, John.”

  “Bullshit. We both know if this fight goes the distance I’m toast.”

  Bonasera wisely kept his mouth shut.

  No use keeping the fans waiting. “Show us where you want us to set up.”

  “Follow me.”

  Abdul and his retinue were across the way at the cage door closest to the back. He was dancing around throwing punches with a very nice hooded black robe on, emblazoned with twin crossed scimitars on the back in red. His crew stood circled around him. A guy with longish black hair and short beard waited inside the ring with his hands clasped behind his back. He wore black pants and black, short sleeved shirt. He looked competent enough to referee the fight, but boy did I miss old Jack Korlos tonight. The ref doesn’t have to do much to turn a fight. The panel of judges sat stone-faced in between Abdul’s end and mine at a raised table. They looked like paunchy, executives in dark suits, ties, and badges.

  I stripped down to my worn, navy blue gym pants and put on my gloves with Tommy silently helping me with the gloves. The crowd’s big and noisy in spite of probably paying a hundred and up for seats. I’m getting a lot of catcalls and dire predictions of doom. I know my usual followers wouldn’t pay fees like they ginned up for tonight’s new arena so I have even less fans in attendance. You can bet these folks all lost money on me, including many of Oakland’s political hierarchy sitting in the ringside seats I figured they got to look the other way tonight. A microphone lowered on a boom so the referee could intro us and pick up sounds from the fight. He announced me first in English with a very slight Arabic accent so Tommy popped my mouth-guard in and I entered through the cage door held open by
one of Alexander and Bonasera’s grips. He closed it behind me as the crowd booed.

  When the ref announced Abdul, he leaped through the door and up on top of the cage with his right fist pounding upwards, roaring something unintelligible. The crowd went wild. I had to hand it to the guy. He knew how to play a crowd. Abdul jumped down after a few moments, his feet and hands moving in a blur. The referee motioned us to the middle. Abdul immediately jutted forward toward me threateningly. I went into a defensive stance, moving to keep the playacting clown in front of me while guarding against some kind of sucker punch. Abdul’s hair was black stubble that matched the three days’ growth on his face. Big as me and chiseled in a way only really good steroids can make you, it explained my crew’s uneasiness about the Syrian Slayer. He had the enlarged head, wild-ass dark eyes, and growling countenance of a guy who’d been doing them for a while.

  I kept in guarded position until the referee finally got his cue from the puppet-masters to end the preliminaries. He quickly motioned the Slayer to calm down. Abdul kept hopping slightly, punching downward, while trying to scare me with his monster-menace stare. I listened to the referee going through the actual UFC litany of rules in English and Arabic. When he finished he asked if we understood. We both indicated we did. The referee backed us up and started us.

  Abdul stuck his gloves out in a motion meant to show good sportsmanship when two honorable opponents tap gloves before getting it on. Not having fallen off the proverbial fruit truck that morning I stuck my gloves out to tap his and immediately launched backward when the Slayer tried to head butt me. I spun, whipping a heel around and under his rib cage. I heard the whoosh of air when I connected. Oh baby, Abdul did not like that one. I was already back in full guard, watching the Slayer try to hide the pain while sucking air into his lungs. The referee stopped the fight and took a point away from me for a low blow. My corner went nuts, screaming out insults for me. Even the crowd quieted on that call. I didn’t say a word. I’d lose no matter what if this went the distance, and I knew this guy couldn’t stop the fight. The ref gave Abdul as much time needed as if he’d actually been kicked in the nuts. He needed it because my heel kick woke him up from steroid land. His corner screamed at Abdul in Arabic which they didn’t know I understood, telling him to stick with the plan.

  We went at it the rest of the round in frenzied fashion. Abdul impressed me with the number of rules he broke in five minutes. He tried low blows with both feet and fists, eye gouges, and throat strikes. My counter punches and kicks landed solidly because Abdul concentrated so hard on his no-holds-barred offense his defense suffered. By the end of the round the Slayer’s breath was a bit labored and he had a cut over his right eye. The bell rang. He of course waited to see if I’d turn my back. I smiled and waved at him while backing to my corner.

  My crew waited with wet towels and a bottled water Jafar must have had to borrow from someone in the crowd. We didn’t normally stop for anything so this was new ground. Tommy took my mouthpiece out and I drank a swallow while Jafar tilted the bottle.

  “You got him good with the heel kick, brother,” Jesse told me as he worked my shoulders.

  “He drops his right when he kicks, John,” Dev added. “He recovers quick like he knows he messed up but the lag time is still there.”

  Damn, I didn’t notice that. “Thanks Dev.”

  “Every time he’s getting ready to do something against the rules he hunches his shoulders,” Tommy said, popping my mouthpiece back in.

  I nod my thanks and get ready as they hustle out of the cage. Good thing too, because the bell no sooner rang than Abdul rushed me. I only partially blocked the flying knee which clips me in the temple. Stars explode behind my eyeballs. In a split second we’re on the mat with him on top. His speed going for eyes and throat strikes while maintaining control in full mount had me focusing all my attention on survival. For nearly two minutes I’m grappling and guarding while all I get from my crew behind me is ‘get up, John’. I hear Jafar start insulting Abdul’s mother in Arabic which didn’t help the Slayer’s attitude.

  I’m frustrating him. His full mount is as good as I’ve ever experienced. Contrary to popular belief, defending against a pro from full and half guard usually ends badly. Abdul goes for it, choking me with his left hand while going for a strike with his right. I grabbed his left wrist, forced it across to his right while pinning his right leg with my left foot. Off and over to his side went Abdul with his left arm trapped under us. I smash a forearm into his left temple, getting ready to pummel him with about fifty more when the ref leaps in between us. He stands us up and takes another point away from me for a throat strike. This time not only do my guys scream in protest, scattered boos ring out from the crowd. I’m just glad to get the hell out from under him. The Slayer had mangled my left ear and I could feel blood trickling down from a cut in my scalp.

  The ref signals us to fight again. Abdul instantly launches another flying knee. This time I’m ready. I catch his right knee while shooting out a right leg strike with the side of my foot into his straight left leg just below the knee. He tumbles to his right and leaps up before I can catch him. The Slayer tries a roundhouse kick to my head. As Dev noticed, his left arm goes down. I partially block his right leg kick, going with the force of the strike, and pivoting into a straight right to his head. I ring his bell. He stumbles back into the cage and my flying knee gets him a little high in the chest but it still scores hard enough to draw an anguished gasp. Abdul goes into full flight with me following carefully with punches and kicks. The round ends before I can really deal him some pain. This time he turns his back on me and trudges to his corner without another look. I can tell the ref doesn’t know what to do. He’s looking off into the crowd somewhere as if to get a signal while I back away to my guys.

  “Don’t let that punk take you down again, John,” Jesse screams at me from behind as he starts toweling me off. The cool wetness is like heaven. Tommy takes my mouthpiece out while Dev puts pressure with a peroxide gauze pad on my head cut.

  “I’m not lettin’ him do anything, Jess. Hey, kid, could you hold off on the insults while Sammy Steroid is pummeling me please.”

  “Sorry, John.” Jafar gives me a sip of water.

  I trade bemused looks with Tommy. I go for the ‘Rocky’ imitation. “Cut me, Mick… cut me.”

  Tommy laughs and shoves my mouthpiece back in. “You better get busy pal. That fuckin’ referee will use any excuse to stop it, including that little cut on your head.”

  Shit, I hadn’t thought of that. Okay then. The bell rings but Abdul ain’t rushin’ across to blister me with hands, knees, or feet. He advances slowly, hands up, and body turned sideways. Tommy hit it right on the nose. Abdul starts jabbing at my head. That’s when I get the idea. My idea depended on me being able to absorb one of his right hands. I move in and fire a couple of wicked hooks to his body, leaving an opening for his right. Quick as a snake he nailed me with a right that I didn’t have to pretend much going down to the mat on.

  I rolled to my back, hands flayed out over my head like he’d caught me a good one. The crowd roars approval because bad match or not, they had their money on him. Abdul drops down on me in full mount, elbow leading for a maiming blow. I block it at the last second. He starts raining blows down on me which I counter by putting both my arms tight in over my face. When he throws a right hook to get around my guard I snake my left arm around his right and grab my right wrist as I lock his leg and roll. In UFC I’d go for a real hurtful hammer lock and the match would end in a submission win. Instead, I rolled full bore and broke the Slayer’s arm. He screamed in agony. I didn’t wait to get sapped or bludgeoned by the ref. I got the hell up and got ready with my crew going nuts, screamin’ and yellin’ in jubilation. The ref eyeballed me, glancing off to the crowd and the judges’ table, but there wasn’t much to be done.

  Abdul’s corner rushed in yelling at me in Arabic but my guys had that shit covered. They came in hard, strong, and rea
dy. Jafar unleashed a torrent of bad mouthin’ gems with Tommy, Jesse, and Dev backing his play from between me and them. Meanwhile, poor old Abdul the Terrible is writhing around on the mat crying in agony. The med techs finally rushed in to help him while Abdul’s crew realized the better part of valor would be to turn their attention to Abdul. To his credit, Jim Bonasera entered the cage as the microphone was lowered to the center area. He held up my right arm and announced me the winner by technical knockout. There were even a few scattered cheers and very little booing.

  We waited until Abdul was taken out on a stretcher with his crew giving us death stares. I waited for one of them to make a throat slitting gesture because I would have given the crowd a real treat then. I was so pumped up I wanted all of them. I thought about bringin’ the Dark Lord out and doing the robot right there in the cage, but then I remembered Tommy’s threat about cappin’ me if I did. I cleaned up in the cage while the guys watched my back. Dev put a gauze pad over my ear loaded with antibiotic cream and then added a large band-aid over my scalp cut. Tommy left to collect our money with Jesse and Jafar.

  Dev checked the rest of me for damage. “Did you fake goin’ down?”

  “Sorta.”

  “If he’d landed that damn elbow you’d have been dead, brother.”

  I grin and nod.

  “I saw your face when you broke that prick’s arm. You smiled.”

  “Did not.” Yeah, I did.

  Dev laughed, clapping me on the back. “Oh, you so did. C’mon, it looks like Tommy’s got our winnings.”

  “I’m cuttin’ you guys in for an extra two large out of my share.”

  “I won’t turn it down. We celebratin’?”

  “Yeah, but remember, tomorrow’s Thanksgiving.”

  “Sweet mother of mercy! I blanked out about everything. I’m sippin’ a few with you no matter what though.”

  We sent the reluctant Jafar home. It was party time at the Warehouse Bar & Grill. Earl, ‘Rique, and Jeff beat us over there, having left as soon as they cleared the crowd out. There had been no sign of Ray Alexander or Abdul’s flock after the cage cleared. The judges had disappeared the moment they saw bone showing out of Abdul’s arm. I received a surprise standing ovation when I walked in with the guys. The OPD from the fight met me at the door, all smiles. Earl handed me a Bud and Beam. We all walked to the bar where Marla gave me a hug hello before scooting around furnishing drinks for everyone.