The cut on his eye stung like a bastard as Otis rinsed away the blood and smeared Vaseline over it. “I told ya to watch his elbows” the corner man hissed as he threw the bloody sponge into the bucket and removed the ice-pack from Cole’s neck. His trainer’s words were clear to Cole, despite the incessant baying of the twenty thousand plus crowd outside the cage that had come to the Seers to see him take on Martinez. “Relax, coach, ain’t nothing coming between me and that title. Certainly not that preening cock” he snarled, eyes fixed on the wiry Latino currently stood atop his stool, arms held wide like the statue of Christ the Redeemer in his native Rio. He raised them up, flexing the muscles and whipping the crowd into a further frenzy. “You must admit he has a certain flair, though” the trainer conceded as the bell sounded for the fourth round. “Now go knock his punk ass into next week.”
Cole’s rise from a minor player in the Nevada leagues, fighting in clumsily welded cages for a hundred bucks a night to having a shot at the title could only be described as meteoric ; a term he’d never understood – didn’t meteors come crashing down?
Like most things in life in Cole’s experience, it had all come about thanks to dumb luck, or to be more accurate a dumb fuck, stupid enough to try and mug him outside the bus station in Parumph. Cole had been walking to his motel thinking of the steak he was going to order from the diner off of East Street, when the guy had sidled up alongside him, pulled a knife and demanded Cole’s wallet. Cole had stared at the knife for a few seconds, not exactly in shock, more out of disbelief; not comprehending why the guy had picked him when he had the choice of any number of potential victims, all of them less physically imposing than Cole’s six foot two, two hundred and forty pounds frame. He shifted his gaze to the man’s eyes. They were a rich hazel colour, though the whites were tinged with red as if the man had rubbed them recently – probably trying to keep the flop sweat that covered his forehead from blurring his vision. His hair was a short, mousy brown fuzz, as if just growing back in after being shaved to the scalp. That and the slightly too big clothes, all of them at least five years out of date, worn beneath a denim jacket that had seen better days and a crudely drawn skull tatt on the back of his hand suggested his would-be assailant wasn’t long out of prison.
Cole’s eyes quickly swept across his surroundings, the street was quiet but not deserted, though the nearest person to them was a good hundred yards away and oblivious to all but their destination and the music pumping through their oversized headphones. Cars passed, but no-one was really paying any attention to Cole and his mugger. Back from where he’s came he saw the bus pulling away from the station.
“Look, friend, walk away. You don’t want to do this” Cole said calmly, as he subconsciously flexed his fingers and shifted onto the balls of his feet. Apparently the man had wanted to though, and Cole had been forced to defend himself, neatly side-stepping the attack, blocking the clumsy lunge with the knife, and breaking the man’s arm in the process. The move that instinctively followed had caught the stumbling attacker across the back of the neck speeding his rendezvous with the sun-baked asphalt and leaving his assailant with a broken nose, a shattered jaw and three missing teeth.
And that could have been that if not for the girl on the bus who’d caught the whole thing on her phone. It had gone viral. Within a week he was competing in matches in Vegas, within a month he had an agent and had fought on both coasts. And now six months after ‘PUNK GETS PUMMELLED’ had took the internet by storm, Cole was back in Vegas – and this time he wasn’t just on the Strip, but sharing the bill with Hector ‘El Gallo’ Martinez at Seers Casino in a title fight with a purse worth a cool five mill.
“You think you can take me, Puto?” The words were sharp in his ear as Cole desperately struggled for air as Martinez pushed his face into the mesh of the cage. The champion was a lot stronger than his size suggested and coupled with his speed he’d caught Cole a sucker punch to the kidneys that had resulted in him being pinned to the cage as the crowd outside bayed for blood. And he was pinned. He’d exhausted all his options and knew his opponent had enough experience not to give him an opening. Not now. Not with the title so close.
What the hell? Martinez was switching his grip on Cole’s wrists where they were painfully held halfway up his back. This was it; time to man up and take the title, or go back to being paid peanuts to fight has-beens and wannabes in Fuknows, Nevada.
Cole groaned as he pulled himself out of bed, grimaced as he stood and the arthritis in his knees sent knives of fire screaming through his body. Five years at the top were beginning to take their toll; a fact confirmed as he stared back at his haggard reflection in the bathroom mirror as he took his first piss of the day. Maybe he should get a face-lift? Would that help or hinder his acting career? Probably hinder; action heroes were meant to be rugged. Maybe he should grow a moustache? But a proper one like Charles Bronson or Warren Oates. He had a few weeks before he started shooting his next picture; he’d start today.
He pulled on a pair of sweat pants and a T-shirt and headed downstairs, instructing Maria, his cook, that he’d take breakfast by the pool this morning as he grabbed a mug of coffee and stepped into the California sun. He paused at the door, letting his eyes adjust to the glare, and smiled as he watched Rachel glide through the crystal clear water as she carried out her morning ritual of fifty lengths before breakfast.
Cole stared at the leaves floating on the pool’s murky surface, wondering if he should take the deal. He hadn’t fought in over three years – a long time in the MMA game – and, if he was honest with himself, wasn’t sure if he was in good enough shape to defend his title. He’d managed to avoid it so far thanks to his agents and management team, who used his Hollywood status and shooting schedules to sidestep any challenges, but his last couple of films had thanked and the same people who had been so keen to help were now worrying about where their next slice of Cole Tanner pie was coming from. Still, if he won, it could just be the boost his career needed. That and the five million fee, regardless of whether he won or lost, meant that deep down he already knew the answer.
Cole roared his contempt for his opponent as he slammed his forearm across his chest, sending the punk crashing to the floor. He quickly followed up by dropping onto him, leading with an elbow to the gut that forced the air from his lungs in a violent, spittle-flecked gasp. Whilst the challenger was still recovering, Cole flipped him onto his stomach and locked his arms behind his back. The crowd were going frantic. They were chanting his name. This was it. The match was almost his. All he needed to do was hang on for ten more seconds. Ten short seconds.
Not that short. Not short enough. Maybe he should just switch to a more secure group? Yeah, the more he thought about it, the more changing his grip seemed like a good idea.
Cole eased off for a second…