“Last time I saw you fight on UFC,” Philo said, glancing at Mifumo’s hard stomach under his tight top, “I had you and your fat ass on the way to going full sumo. Look at you now. Thank God for steroids, right? Don’t forget your shoes…”
“When we’re done here, Trout,” Mifumo growled, “I am going to eat you.”
The referee pushed both fighters back a step so he could insert himself between them. He spoke in Japanese-accented English, Philo still mumbling about Mifumo needing shoes.
“Only instruction is to Mr. Mifumo. Mifumo-san, please do not kill this man.” Then came the bluster appropriate enough for the bareknuckle fight parlance each boxer knew was coming, the referee puffing out his chest to deliver it.
“Mifumo-san! Trout-san! Bring your toes to the line!”
No touch of each other’s fists for good sportsmanship, no head nods in deference to each man’s stellar pugilistic resume, just death stares, something Philo never knew he had in him, yet always had to muster. But still on Philo’s mind…
“What about your shoes, Jerry—”
Mifumo flexed his upper torso, bounced from bare foot to bare foot. He barked a Japanese slur at Philo, then followed it up with, “Your promoter insulted the oyabun! Prepare to get the beating of your life.”
“But your shoes…”
Mifumo inserted his mouth guard, Philo mirrored him.
“And… fight!” the ref said.
Philo knew what no shoes meant—mixed martial arts, not a bareknuckles bout—knew he’d need to adjust, but didn’t expect it to be this soon. Open hand deflections met thrown fists as each fighter felt the other out, speed, power, reflexes, and their ability to parry, until a spinning leg kick whizzed into Philo’s jaw, knocking him sideways into a stutter step before he regained his balance. Heel to mouth, one of the hardest blows he’d ever received in a fight, bareknuckles or otherwise, and a near knockout so soon after the referee’s opening break. He wiggled his jaw to check it. It had been broken before; not this time. But damn, this guy’s legs and feet were just as juiced as the rest of his body…
Lanakai bolted forward, Magpie restraining him, an arm across his chest, Wally barking through Magpie’s hold.
“What the hell is this, Yabuki! We agreed no MMA! Bareknuckle boxing! No martial arts…!”
“You insulted me,” Yabuki yelled, “which means you insulted Yakuza, which means you insulted the Samurai. You shouldn’t have done that.”
Now on notice, Philo stayed in retreat mode, readying his head for a different kind of fight. Sixty-five wins, no losses in bareknuckle boxing; 0-0 in mixed martial arts. Philo’s heavy hands were devastating, his best physical trait, so many men KO’d by punches that were crisp and with pin-point accuracy, but in MMA, fists were only part of the required weaponry.
Mifumo waded in, cutting off the ring. Kicks went to Philo’s calves and thighs, meant to sweep his legs out or cripple him, which they didn’t, but they redirected Philo’s retreat each time they connected. Thwap, thwap, thwap…
Philo’s jeans took some of the brunt and canceled the sting he would have otherwise gotten from bone-to-bone contact. Plus Philo was now gauging the timing, the repetition of the leg kicks, their order, left-left-right, right-right-left, then left-left-right again. On the third sequence Philo snapped an open-fisted grab at the right leg, snagging an ankle in his large hand, raising and twisting it until Mifumo lost his balance and left his feet. Philo was on him, a knee to Mifumo’s chest, fists a-blazing to the man’s head until Mifumo could only defend himself by a tuck inside his arms and a roll, stumbling into a crouch on a single knee, now out of breath. Rather than attack, Philo used the breather to kick off his sneakers and socks. His corner erupted, screaming at him to screw removing his shoes, just go for the kill. Mifumo regained his footing, was steadying himself but remained dazed. The spectators exploded, the noise now at a fever pitch, one side imploring their fighter to engage, the other imploring their fighter to avoid engagement.
Philo’s assessment: Mifumo should be unconscious with the punches he’d delivered to his temples, chin, and cheeks, but he wasn’t. More of the same might not be enough.
While Mifumo shook out the cobwebs, Philo loosened his belt and stepped out of his jeans.
“Philo! Get on him!” Lanakai screamed, Magpie and Patrick pleading as well. “Don’t lose him…”
Philo instead kicked his jeans in Patrick’s direction, talking to himself. His muscular thighs and calves, now exposed from the bottom of his black boxer briefs to his ankles, bore tattoos in brilliant colors—some reds, blues, greens, yellows, but predominately black. Beautiful artwork showcasing symbolism that Patrick was the first to appreciate.
“Whoa,” Patrick said, awestruck.
On Philo’s right calf in black, the kouf-mem open circle for the Hebrew letters kouf and mem, logo for the elite Israel Defense Forces’ self-defense system known as Krav Maga. On the left calf, the Navy SEAL trident logo. His calves and thighs had enough definition to make the tats really pop. Philo stripped off his sleeveless tee, showing a buff upper torso. Tattooed in black around his waist, including a 3D image of the cloth knot, was a martial arts black belt.
Philo would now fight shirtless and in his underpants, his only real protection the steel cup inside his jock.
Mifumo, pacing, his wits returned, took notice. “The honors that your ink showcases… they pale in comparison, Trout,” he said, panting, “to jiu-jitsu. Jiu-jitsu will always reign supreme…”
“A lot to be said for that, Jerry. A lot to be said for this, too—”
He marched across the floor, fists raised, bobbed left then right, then came up underneath Mifumo’s forearms with an uppercutting fist to his chin with more bad intention than the one he’d thrown at Magpie during
