“Sure, but we’re ordering the jalapeño poppers for an appetizer, and they aren’t good cold,” Janice replied.
“Point taken; I don’t think we’ll be too long.”
“Let’s get up front, be seen, and leave as soon as it’s over,” said James. “And thank you, Jason, for the chair.”
“This one wasn’t mine, and I don’t even know when or if it will be completed,” replied Jason.
“They said it was from the town,” said James, “but it was your idea from the start. That’s all that matters. So once again, thank you.”
“You’re welcome, James.”
* * * *
Sheriff Johnson gave the nod to his deputies as he backed away from the men he had already sentenced.
“Your weapons will be placed twenty feet behind you,” he said to the two men. “Whether you choose to use them or not is up to each of you. Once unshackled, you will remain still until the air horn signals the start of the battle. Good luck, gentlemen, and may the best man win.”
With that, the Sheriff turned and walked back to the excited and agitated crowd.
* * * * * * *
Chapter Seven
Weston, Colorado
The leg shackles dropped to the ground, and the cuffs were removed.
“Easy guys. Easy,” said the head deputy, as if he were talking to a penned bull before opening the chute. “Nobody jumps the gun.”
“Let’s make this a fair fight—no weapons,” offered Richard as his hands were uncuffed and he walked around in a semicircle. “I’ll even give you the first punch, he offered.”
His opponent circled slowly but didn’t speak.
“You know, I told you I would make this quick, but seeing all of my fans on the bleachers over there, I feel like I need to give them a show!” said the big man.
With this last statement, he raised his arm, fist punching the air to the Red Team’s chants. The crowd, now stomping on every level of the twenty-three rows of seats, didn’t seem to notice how they shook.
Richard’s opponent made the first move, catching the big man off guard. It wasn’t particularly hard, not knockout power he was sure, but it was fast and it stung, drawing a small amount of blood from his nose.
“Good shot!” yelled Richard as his rivals yelled “Blue Team!”—thirsty for more blood.
The Sheriff smiled, thinking that this could not have gone better.
“My turn,” said Richard, still the only one talking.
He swung a heavy right arm, arcing around in a semicircle and catching his opponent in the left rib cage with a thud. “That had to hurt!” he called out, forgetting where he was.
He moved forward, as his man had fallen five feet back, landing in a fetal position. “No bell here,” he laughed. “No rounds, no referees, and absolutely no decisions. Winner takes all!” he called out, raising his fist to the raucous crowd. “Come on in; I’ll give you another free...”
This one came fast again, but harder as the foot-shorter man sprung up from the ground, getting in close for the uppercut landing just under Richard’s chin. He stumbled back two steps when the next two shots hit him in the gut and liver, buckling him over. A right knee to his chin finished the onslaught as he dropped facedown onto the ground.
The smaller opponent took several precious seconds to pander to his base, raising both arms and turning in a circle. The stunt gained him most of his fair-weather fans back, and then some.
“It’s not over,” said Sheriff Johnson to James. “That slob Richard still has some fight in him. I’m sure of it.”
The man danced around Richard, as if the fight were over minutes ago…
A swung leg from the big man caught his opponent on the left knee with a pop.
“Oooh,” came from the crowd of nearly 500 as he fell to the ground, screaming in pain.
“Get up,” his fans cried. “Get up! Get up!”
Richard gave him a chance to rise again, and he did on one leg. Richard walked in a circle around him as a once-young Mohammad Ali would do to his opponents while talking to them about how great he was. “It’s not bragging if it’s true,” said somebody somewhere, and the champ was arguably that. Richard could have stayed all night. Who hates a large audience calling for blood, after all? he thought. If it wasn’t for the popcorn’s smell wafting down from the stands, tempting his near-empty stomach, he might have dragged this out.
He thought about his favorite MMA fighter, “Country Roy Richard” he called him, since he couldn’t remember his last name. The fighter was big like him, a heavyweight, and usually underestimated by both fighters and fans for his lack of a chiseled exterior. He did, however, hit like a mule, could stay in a full five rounds, and had a signature move. Once his opponent was on the ground, he would lay all 360 pounds on him and just count the punches to the face and head until the referee had no choice but to stop the fight. He usually got to fifteen or twenty, thought Richard, before they would callit.
“Down you go, boy,” Richard called, sweeping his opponent’s good leg in another devastating kick. He went down hard, turning away from Richard.
The crowds on both sides of the aisle were yelling and taunting the fighters. A few small fights broke out between Red and Blue rivals. “Finish him!” came a chant, nearly drowned out by something he couldn’t quite make out.
“Finish him. Pick up the…! Finish him—pick up the...”
“Pick up the…the what?” Richard kept asking, not being able to hear above the raucous crowd.
Clarity was cold as a slap in the face as he saw his opponent reach for the blade he had been falling back towards the whole time. The fans knew where it was all along, but Richard had forgotten.
“How did I forget that?!” he yelled, when he first saw
