Victor
"Tonight, we have Brazilian fighter Emilio taking on the reigning champion, the mighty Zeus, who has held the title for five years running!"
"Fighters, take your places."
This guy from Brazil was one of the new entrants to the tournament this year. I don't usually attend matches I'm not in, but when I heard that this guy managed to take out "The Punisher," I wanted to see him up close. The Punisher is an eight-foot, three-hundred-pound muscled ex-mercenary from Russia, with an unhealthy obsession with blood and making his opponents bleed. He was taken out in the first round by this guy, who then made it to the semi-finals. I had to see for myself.
"Fight!" the match referee yells, and we start circling each other. I wasn't worried about him causing any damage; I was a freaking werewolf, after all. But the way this guy fought intrigued me. He could take a hit; I'll tell you that. I broke his nose with the first right hook, and he shook it off like it was a paper cut. His blows were precise and targeted all my pressure points, which made the match last longer than it normally would have.
He attempted a spin kick, but I grabbed his extended leg and spun him around. When his torso faced my direction, I sent my fist flying into his ribs while simultaneously letting go of his foot. He went flying across the ring into the steel-bar cage that surrounded it.
Ten seconds later, he was on his feet. Granted, I didn't use any wolf strength, but still. I was pretty strong on my own, and I knew for sure I had broken at least two ribs with that punch. Nevertheless, he was up, and we were charging at each other again. He threw a punch, and I ducked, sidestepping him. I brought my knee up into his gut, but he caught on quickly, bringing his hand down on my knee and effectively blocking my attack.
The bastard head-butted me. I stumbled back, shaking off a bit of dizziness. We assumed fighting positions again, with fists raised and legs spread, circling each other. Over his shoulder, I caught Felix chatting with two other guys. He looked up, caught my eye, and tapped his watch, telling me to wrap it up. My opponent took advantage of my momentary distraction and landed a combo: a right hook and an uppercut. His assault caught me off guard, but I was able to recover quickly, blocking when I could. He was a persistent little fucker, though, and kept coming at me, eventually backing me into the grill.
I watched him closely and saw his unyielding determination not to lose. I had to admire the guy, but as Felix said, it was time to wrap this up. He had already broken my nose, knocked out a tooth, and given me a god-almighty headache. He had me backed into the cage. I was about to duck under his arm and put him in a headlock until he passed out, but as he planted his feet and put everything he had behind his oncoming fist, I figured we'd gone on this long; what's five more minutes? At the last moment, I shifted my upper body to the right, and his fist—intended to take me out—connected with the steel bars of the cage. The sound of bones breaking was followed by his scream of pain. He stumbled back, cradling his arm to his chest. I advanced on him, seeing my opening. My fist connected with his already broken ribs, and as he doubled over, I brought my knee up under his neck with enough force to break his jaw, and that was that. He hit the mat and was out cold, his body going into shock from three breaks.
I collected my winnings and bid Felix goodbye. I stopped by the hospital to check on Emilio; he was in pretty bad shape but would be okay. I left a message and my number with his manager, and that was that. It was 4:00 a.m. when I got back to my hotel room. I felt like a new person when I stepped out of the shower. I hadn't brought much with me, and the little I did bring was already packed and in my car. I dressed in the clothes I laid out yesterday before leaving for my fight. Everything I'd worn the day before went into the trash.
Crossing state lines with six million dollars in the trunk of my car probably wasn't the wisest idea, but I couldn't just walk into a bank with that much cash and no explanation as to how I came to have it. So, into my trunk, it went, along with another duffle bag that Felix's guys had left in there, and it was time to head home.
Pulling out of the hotel parking lot, I headed north, taking the long way home. I hadn't listened to any of the fifty voice messages my mom had left me, not to mention the two hundred missed calls. I hadn't seen my parents in a month, and my mom gets panicky if she doesn't see or hear from me at least every other day. I'm twenty-five, for fuck's sake.
When I finally pulled into my driveway, I wasn't surprised to see my lights were on. My mom's three-cheese lasagna was the only thing I could smell for at least a mile. The front door flew open as I stepped out of my car.
"Brace yourself, boy!" I'm not sure if there was more to my dad's sentence because my mom came shooting out of the house like a bat out of hell. I braced myself for what I thought would be her usual smothering, but instead, she started hitting me with a dish towel that I swear she did not have when she came out.
"What's wrong with you, boy? Trying to give your poor mother a heart attack?"
"Mom, stop hitting me, please. This is unnecessary."
"I'll show you unnecessary, you spoiled brat." Her tiny fists rained hits all over my upper body, and I raised my hands to protect myself.
"Mom, please." What the hell is her problem?
"Don't 'Mom, please' me! Where have you been? I've been worried sick about you! You don't answer your poor mother's calls, and your dad showed me how to text!" While she ranted, her tiny hands kept hitting anywhere they could find flesh. I was shocked, really. I've only ever known her to smother and be overbearing in the best possible but annoying way. She had never once raised her hand at me in all my twenty-five years. The ear-biting and occasional swat to behave didn't count.
"Ow, ow, ow, Mom! Jesus!" Now she was dragging me by my ear to the house. If this was happening to anyone else, I'd be laughing my ass off, considering I'm six-three and she's barely five-two. My dad stood in the doorway, trying hard and failing not to laugh as I was carried off like a wayward child and deposited on the couch.
"That hurt!" I hated when she pulled my ears. "What the fuck!" Another hit over my head. "Mom! Stop hitting me!" I was losing my patience with her. "Jesus."
"Jess, leave the boy alone. He's not your baby anymore," my dad said, coming in with my bags from the car.
"Hey, Jess, I'm done with the flowers. Anything else you need help with?"
I knew that voice. Why did I know that voice? Zeus pushed for control, and I had to fight him back. But when she walked into the room and our eyes met, whatever control I had slipped away. My mom's surprised gasp told me my eyes were pitch black, like the pits of hell. My chest rumbled with anger, and the roar that ripped from my mouth in her direction made the foundation shake.