The crowd backed up as a dwarf-sized fella stepped into the midst of them wailing like a chipmunk through a megaphone. After a brief introduction he took out a handkerchief and waved it between them. “Let’s go to war!”
Jack stood there as the Hispanic bounced on the soles of his feet edging closer. He shot out a leg and Jack shifted. Another followed and Jack smashed into it with both forearms. The guy felt the brunt force and knew this wasn’t going to be as easy as he had thought. He limbered up and bounced forward, the crowd moving with them to give more room in the confined space that was no wider than eight and a half feet.
His opponent shot out a straight punch to Jack’s chest and instead of moving, Jack let it strike him. He wanted to lull him into a false sense of superiority. The impact let out a dull sound and he stumbled back just a foot. The whooping and clapping of the crowd as they edged in for more followed a smile on his opponent’s face.
Jack hadn’t yet fired off one shot, causing Pope to offer a puzzled look.
Dragon boy whipped out a roundhouse nearly taking off a few heads of spectators. Jack ducked and slammed his fist into the soft, flat part of his leg and then followed with a spinning back punch to the side of the guy’s temple. It struck him so hard that his head rattled and his eyes teared up. He lunged forward throwing punches clumsily at Jack, his movement slow and sloppy, more theatrical than effective.
Jack parried a blow by grabbing his arm and yanking him in and driving his forehead into the man’s nose. It burst and blood and snot streamed down. Before the guy could get his bearings, Jack fired off a front kick into his chest knocking him back into a line of spectators. They acted like a soccer net grasping him and thrusting him back out only to have Jack’s meaty fist collide with his face. The guy buckled and Jack dashed around and looped his arm over his neck and began to choke him. The crowd jeered and all the while Jack stared at Pope. He kept constant pressure on the throat. His arms locked together. Squeeze too hard, too long and it would cut the oxygen off to the brain and he would die. That wasn’t his goal. He waited until he felt the guy’s body go limp and then he released him. He could still hear him breathing when he rose to his feet. Some in the crowd went wild, others groaned. Tyson went berserk, bouncing around flipping the bird out, making it clear why those guys had jumped him earlier. Though it didn’t last long. He clasped hold of Jack and cut a path through the crowd.
“That’s it, get out of the way. Let the champ through.”
The music died.
“Tyson. He’s not done!” Pope yelled.
Both of them looked back with a confused expression. The Hispanic was still out; a few of his team holding him glared at Jack. Pope sauntered over, a look of glee on his face. “Nice work. Nice. But I’ve got to give the crowd their money’s worth.”
“There are another four fights,” Tyson said.
“There was. Two have just dropped out. So I’m short a man. I figure your guy here made short work of our friend over there so he should have no problem taking out the next two. How about it…” Pope waited for a name.
“Jack. Jack Weslo.”
“Mr. Weslo. You want to walk away with hundreds or thousands?”
Tyson threw up a hand. “With all respect, Mr. Pope, he’s just fought.”
“I’m not asking you, Tyson.”
“Well I’m managing him.”
Pope cast him a look of disbelief. “Huh, fancy yourself as a promoter, do you?”
“Just give me a moment.” Tyson pulled Jack to one side, away from Pope. “You don’t have to do this but the opportunity to walk out of here with a considerable amount is on the table. It’s your call.”
Jack nodded. “Let’s do it.”
Tyson slapped him on the shoulder and smiled. “Let’s go to war!” he yelled turning and giving Pope the thumbs-up. There was a brief intermission, alcohol was served to spectators and Jack eyed Pope talking on the phone. Jack and Tyson waited outside getting some fresh air while others looked on in awe of the unknown fighter.
The anticipation for the next fight was high.
As the odds were revealed, Tyson was surprised to see they were against Jack.
That’s when he found out why.
What Pope had forgot to mention was that Jack wasn’t going to fight the next two men one after the next. He would fight both at the same time.
“That bastard! He keeps changing the rules. It’s shit like this that put Nicky in a coma. I’m calling it off.”
He turned to go speak with Pope when Jack stopped him. “Tyson. Leave it.”
“But…”
“It’s okay.”
Tyson stared back at him, shaking his head. “I’m not being held responsible.”
“You’re not.”
Jack patted him on the back and made his way back inside the trailer. Two, three, it was all the same to him. In many ways when he was up against more he felt as if he had the advantage. Fighters in a group thought differently. They assumed they had the upper hand and so they became sloppier with their decisions. It slowed them down. Revealed preemptive strikes and made them more susceptible to the unexpected.
The fight was over before it really began.
Jack knocked the first guy unconscious with one hell of a
