Violent - Chapter 1

The tops of tall buildings could be seen over the small roofs of the ones that surrounded the little alley Roger called home. Some of those buildings far off scraped the sky, down here in the alley and the street it led to, they were never given much thought. The people living down here preferred to stare up at the sky. Do they look at the clouds? Enjoy the blue or the warmth of the sun? Why look up at something so far gone you cannot hope to reach? Well, if that’s what people thought of these sky-gazers. Then, the same question can be asked about staring at those buildings in the city. Why look at the tall buildings? At the skyscrapers? When those here had as much chance of being accepted in those buildings as being up in the sky.

Roger, nonetheless, stared at them. The old man had enough of looking at the blue expanse. That which could be found above no longer interested him. Roger, staring at the tall buildings, knew he was too old to share the dream of the young, who dreamt to be bigwigs in a business or had dreams of relaxing in a sweet penthouse. Roger knew his days were long gone. Once you learn to accept reality, life becomes somewhat more bearable.

Roger moved away from his shack, a small space that he rents for only one hundred dollars a month. Paying rent to the bar owner, Lydia Flock, a grumpy, blunt but oddly caring middle-aged woman. He walked down the alley, patting his army-green jacket, in the breast-pocket he found a wrinkled ten-dollar bill. He safely tucked it deep into his front pocket of his patched, brown jeans and continued hobbling down the trash filled alley. His worn, black sneakers splashed into a puddle of liquid leaking from a black trash bag. Roger angrily shook his foot, and kept walking, scratching at his curly, messy, grey streaked brown beard.

Upon exiting the cover of the walls making the alley, he felt the cool breeze of February. Roger pulled out a worn, green knitted cap and slipped it over his balding head covering what little brown hair he had. He buttoned up the jacket, covering his stained white shirt. Roger drove his fists into his pant’s pockets, he gripped the ten-dollar bill with his right.

Roger walked down the street from the bar. This street doesn’t get much attention until night rolls around. Right now, a few bums dug around in trash bins, they gave Roger no mind as he passed. A group of men hanging outside of an apartment building eyed him, one close to Roger joked with his boys about Roger’s stench. They all laughed, keeping their focus on him as the old man continued past. Roger’s clothes were what caused the stink. He showered daily, the first thing he did every morning.

Further on, Roger took a corner, leaving behind Webb Street and walking up Dominion Street. Where Webb had bars, cheap strip joints, pawnshops, and two corner stores. Dominion was more residential, with apartment complexes lining the road and old timers hanging on porch steps or sitting on lawn chairs. There were even a few young ones out, cramping the sidewalk as they shot dice and drank at the ripe hour of nine on a Friday. There were a few sky gazers out right now, old rheumy and young pained eyes searching the sky. Roger kept on going, keeping to his own.

He took another turn, taking a right this time instead of a left to go down Torn Street which led to the infamous club, The Switch. Most clubs aren’t this crowded in the morning, but most clubs don’t offer the same entertainment as The Switch. The stench from Roger’s worn clothes helped him cut through the crowd. It also made the muscle stop him at the door.

“Yo,” a big black hand slapped his chest. “Old man, we know you won the other day. After the cut given to the boss, you should have had enough to buy some new digs or at least wash the ones you have on now. Damn, you stink,” the bouncer swiped the air in front of his nose. The ones close to the two laughed. Roger tipped his head down.

“They’ll get use to the smell. Hell, I’m used to it by now,” Roger’s voice was low and raspy.

“Listen, you wash them or get new ones because next time I’m not letting you and your stench in,” the bouncer said in his husky voice.

“You got it,” Roger looked up at the tall, wide chested man. “Can I go in now?”

Luke dropped his arm and Roger walked past him through the black frame, glass door into a black carpeted, purple walled room. Guests lined up behind black, gold rimmed counter, others stood aside speaking about their bets and holding onto yellow tickets. Some were already going downstairs to find good seats before it started. Roger got in one of the five lines; he waited five minutes to place a bet.

“Roger,” the fat man with the greasy hair behind the counter said and flashed Roger a yellow smile. “What fight you betting on today, and which fighter?”

Roger pulled his fists out his pockets, placed the ten-dollar bill down on the counter and reached into his coat pocket with his left hand, pulling out a folded white paper. He had circled three fighters from three different fights. The first fight had no red circles, but the second fight had one, and the circle was around a fighter named Alexander Krosnick. “Ten on Krosnick,” Roger’s voice could barely be heard over the others in the entrance hall.

“Only ten?” The fat man looked over at a man with his back against the purple wall. A lean, bronze skinned man with thin, black hair combed over to the side. The man shook his head and snickered, gave the fat man a nod, and the fat man took the cash.

“I’ll be back,” Roger rasped at the fat man then took his ticket and walked away. Roger hobbled to the staircase he gripped the bronze, chipped railing, and took each step slowly, heading down. It was easier going down than up. Roger hobbled into the wide basement that could hold up to three hundred. Only a third of the leather seats were full, mainly the front ones. Roger took his usual seat, far in the back, close to the staircase. Rarely did anybody sit back here with him. Only when the place was full did he have company.

The first three fights don’t gain much attention. There was still good money to be made from them if you picked the right man. And Roger had an eye for this. Though, unlike fights above ground, one never knew just how hard these fighters train. Especially the beginning fighters, some were veterans, others, newcomers. The veterans that performed in these low-draw fights were lazy, undisciplined, needing quick cash or stuck down here trying to pay off a debt. The newcomers usually won, but they wouldn’t earn you much betting on them. Yes, the new ones were full of life and ambition. The safe bet.

Krosnick is a thirty-five-year-old Czech. He’s got an impressive beer belly, wide arms, chest, and rounded shoulders. The man can take a punch, deliver a nasty left upper and a devastating overhand right. Only, countless beatings have made him susceptible to cuts and he’s a bit slow. You could hear it in his speech. If he won today, Roger would earn two hundred, one hundred will go to the boss, leaving him with only a hundred.

Krosnick’s opponent is a twenty-two-year-old southpaw from some rundown MMA gym. The kid’s name is Isiah Green, fashioning himself “The Bull”. A cocky little bastard. Cockiness can get you killed down here. Though his overconfidence in his ability is understandable. He’s won all four of his fights, three by knockout from vicious knees and one with a chokehold.

Still, Krosnick is a six-year veteran with eighty-four fights. He’s only won twenty-four, mainly against old fighters like him. Despite the damage to his head. Krosnick has been put through the ringer before and made surprising comebacks. Thirteen fights he has won against old men, but the rest were against haughty up-and-comers. They always underestimate his resilience and strength. Roger knew the boss made a special deal with Krosnick. He doesn’t need to win his fights; only show the crowd a good show and he’d still earn a decent amount.

Krosnick is a pitiful yardstick, used to measure the potential of new fighters. If he beats Isiah, the boss wouldn’t be displeased. The ones who would lose money on Isiah were little fish, their woes and anger upon losing would not damage his business. It’s the later fights the boss has to watch with a careful eye. Can’t have too crazy of an upset, that would lead to dissatisfied rich patrons. The truly rich ones, however, enjoyed those upsets more than some star of this club continuing their win streak. They are the ones who can blow thousands and not feel the impact of loss. They are essential to keep entertained. Easy outcomes will only bore them and lead to the filthy rich guests finding a show elsewhere. The boss has a delicate balance to maintain.

The air began to fill with the smell of cigarettes. Before the first four fights are over in the morning, there will be the smell of beer and cheap food like hotdogs and popcorn stinking up the place. Roger gripped his stomach; he hadn’t had a bite to eat since last afternoon. He ached more for a cig and beer. More seats filled as the first fight was ready to be announced.

All eyes were on the cement pit below. A chain link fence surrounded the edge of the pit, to the east and west of the pit are rectangular entrances which the fighters now came through. There was no build-up to their entrances, they weren’t that important. There were two men in the center, the announcer a short and squat man beside the referee, a tall and skinny man. The short one spoke into a microphone, his already loud voice amplified, making the ears of everyone in the basement quake.

“Welcome!” He smiled; the folds of his chins scrunched up at the collar of his white dress shirt. “This morning we have four fights! The first is between two veterans from the area,” the announcer waved his hand to the one that came in from the west. “Terrence Cod at my right! He comes from the fight scene over in club Delight! He stands six-feet-tall! Look at those long arms of his! He’s known to spear his opponents from a distance and leave them bloody! He’s won fifteen out of thirty-six fights!”

Terrence cod raised his hands, few cheered. The announcer pointed to his left, “Over to my left is a man who goes by the pseudonym, Bullfrog. He’s only five-nine, shorter than Terrence but he has mean power in those short legs of his! He’s a little powerhouse, winning fifteen out of twenty-eight fights.”

Bullfrog bounced up and down. Some cheered but most laughed. Both fighters wore only trunks and sneakers. Terrence has a slim, muscular build while Bullfrog is a bit pudgy, but his arms are wide, and his thighs stretched those trunks of his. The referee explained what few rules there were down here.

The rules are simple: no shots to the groin, no eye-gouging, no shots to the neck, no pulling on hair or trunks, no scratching or biting, and no clinching to defend. The fighters only have a mouthpiece and hand wraps for protection. Each round last three minutes, after each round they return to their corners and rest for a minute. A fighter loses if he is clearly knocked down and cannot stand by the count of ten. A fighter also loses if they are knocked out cold by a strike or made unconscious by a chokehold. Submission wins are not accounted for here. The time limit of rounds and the rest between them can change depending on where the fight is held, same with the rules. Here, at The Switch, these are the rules.

The fight ended in the second round. The first round Terrence was able to keep the center of the pit. Using his long punches to keep the Bullfrog from rushing in. Only, the Bullfrog’s thick neck and strong legs helped him inch closer. Terrence used kicks to keep the Bullfrog at bay. The white skin of Bullfrog’s belly and arms turned red from eating all of Terrence’s hits. In the final few seconds of the first round, the Bullfrog did manage to close in and land one short straight on Terrence’s body which clearly hurt the tall man.

The second round, the Bullfrog began to weave, the first thirty seconds went the same as the last round. Then, at the end of the first minute, Terrence began to miss and with each dodge, the Bullfrog gained ground. He bullied Terrence out of the center and pushed him up against the wall. The Bullfrog got clinched by Terrence, took two knees to his guard but managed to break free. With his back against the wall, Terrence tried to skirt around the Bullfrog. The Bullfrog use those strong legs of his to throw powerful hooks that kept Terrence trapped. Terrence desperately tried to escape to his left but in his haste, he left his body open. The Bullfrog hopped and twisted his body to the left, landing a hammer of a right hook-on Terrence’s midsection.

Terrence managed to escape the wall but nearly doubled over. The Bullfrog ran at Terrence, who backpedaled away from the shorter man and ran himself up against the wall again. Terrence defended his body as the Bullfrog fainted low with a left hook, then popped up with his muscular legs to deliver a crushing right uppercut that whipped Terrence’s head back and nearly caused it to slap the cement wall he backed up against.

Terrence fell to the ground, the referee began the count, and it was over as Terrence did not stand by the count of ten. Terrence had to be carried out of the ring as the crowd gave the Bullfrog a cheer for that strong finish.

The fighters left the ring. Betters left the basement, angry and happy. Those angry ripped up their tickets, stomped them, or let them fall to the ground. Those happy gripped their tickets as if they’d fly away. Roger stayed behind, watching the ring, the only area that the strong yellow lights shined on. Cleaners came out to wipe up the sweat and what little blood was spilt. As soon as they left, the announcer was back in the pit alongside the referee.

“What a fun fight!” His voice once again booms through the underground. “The Bullfrog gave us a fun show but how about Terrence’s long punches? He held his own just fine. Held his ground for a full round! Only, you need more than just reach to survive in the pit! You need strength! Speed! Endurance! And a burning passion for fighting or a nauseating hunger for money! AM I RIGHT!”

Those that had stayed behind answered him with “Damn Right”, “Hell Yeah”, cheers and claps.

“This next one will be a good one, I can promise you! The fighters have just arrived in the pit with me,” the announcer looked to either entrance. Isiah, the young, ebony cocky fighter came from the west. Krosnick, the young, red-faced simple-minded fighter came from the east. If Isiah is a bull, then Krosnick is a hippo.

“These two are like night and day! From the west you have Isiah Green, The Bull! A twenty-two-year-old with a southpaw stance and a kickboxing style! He trained as an MMA fighter but decided to test his mettle in the true deathmatches of the underground! He’s won all four of his fights! Will he continue his win streak today?”

There were two more fights today, none of the other fights had a promising upstart like this one. Nearly every person viewing cheered for the young bull.

“From the east you have Alexander Krosnick! Folks. Don’t let his record and flabby body fool you! Every single fight he has won was won by his devastating power! He can take the pain! And he can dish it too! His last win, Krosnick hospitalized his opponent! Breaking his opponent’s jaw and ribs! Don’t underestimate the old man!”

There were less cheers for him, but no boos were given. Rarely were veterans ever shown hate. Krosnick’s simple style of fighting and strong fists made him a favorite throughout the long-time viewers at The Switch. Roger smiled as the two were given the talk by the ref then separated. Roger leaned forward, watching intently as Krosnick tightened his guard. Pressing his ham-sized fists close to his face, tucking in his elbows, and lowering his posture. His rounded shoulders, wide back and belly, made him look like a pale, hairy boulder. Krosnick is five-foot-ten and Isiah is only an inch taller. With Krosnick’s stance, Isiah looked a head higher.

Isiah had his guard raised, kept his legs slightly bent, and he bounced up and down. “Energetic bastard, aren’t you?” Roger said to himself. “He’s going to be quick, Krosnick. He’s going to bounce around you. Cut corners and open you up for one of his knees or a kick to the gut. Keep your chin down, guard tight, and you’ll see your chance. Cocky fools like Green always give you a chance to turn it around.”

Roger smiled as the fight began. Isiah dropped his arms and ran straight at Krosnick. Isiah tried a flying knee, an amateur could have seen it coming a mile away, Krosnick stepped to the side and continued to hold his guard. Krosnick kept his head low. The boulder covered in dense, brown body hair slowly trudged towards the spastic fighter who raised his guard again.

Isiah didn’t face Krosnick head-on. His left side faced Krosnick, and he circled around the boulder clockwise. Throwing out lazy jabs that struck the guard of Krosnick and landed glancing blows to the bald of head of Krosnick. Isiah stopped, threw three quick jabs up top, Krosnick swung with his right, but Isiah pivoted to Krosnick’s left and threw a right straight at the side of the pale man’s body. Krosnick’s, fat, left arm took the straight. It didn’t raise in time to block the second right punch that immediately followed the straight. A short right hook hit Krosnick clean on his cheek. Krosnick retaliated with a slow upper and Isiah bounced away.

Afterwards, the first round and the second continued in the same way. Isiah used his quick straights to create holes in Krosnick’s guard. Then, he used his footwork to maneuver around the larger man to take advantage of the openings he created. This was a five-round fight, Roger counted fifteen clean hits to Krosnick. Three fast, short hooks to the head, two straight punches that caught Krosnick on the nose, eight jabs to Krosnick’s left eye which made it swell and caused a cut just under it, and two hooks to the left side of Krosnick’s body.

Yes, Krosnick was the one taking a beaten. Only, in the third round, the opportunity Roger had predicted came within the first minute. Isiah got too excited and went for a hasty roundhouse kick with his right foot that Krosnick slowly moved under. Krosnick took a big step in to close the gap between him and the Bull. Krosnick rose with his left uppercut which launched upwards to land on Isiah’s gut.

“Hehe,” Roger squeezed his right hand closed. “It wasn’t a bad plan, Bull. You made Krosnick raise his guard by throwing a terrifying flurry of punches and kicks at his head. Only, you should have gone for a more stable and faster strike after your lead switch kick to the head. You brought back that left foot to the ground rather too fast and performed a rushed roundhouse. Who cares about style? A win’s a win.”

For the rest of the third round, Isiah played it safe and managed to land a clean liver blow. Only, the young fighter now knew the immense strength of Krosnick’s oversized fist. The crowd noticed it too and began to heckle Isiah.

“You afraid of an old man, Bull,” somebody shouted, saying the nickname in a funny way.

“What happened? Lost your balls to fight? Go back to the gym, you don’t belong here!” Another said and one more added onto it yelling, “This is a real fight! Nobody’s stepping and there’s no towel to save you!”

Roger smiled; things were going better than he anticipated. “Woah! Seems like things are getting intense!”

Roger looked up to see a scrawny man with a scruffy beard, messy wavy hair, and a wide grin looking down at the pit where the fighters were resting before the fourth round. He held a six-pack of beers in one hand and a bag of popcorn on the other. “Old man,” the scruffy fellow spoke to Roger, looking down at him. “What’s happened?”

“Isiah, the young one. Caught a nasty upper to the body by Krosnick. He was lively up to that point, after taking the hit, he began playing it safe.”

“Oh yeah? Damn, I missed out. I thought I had enough time to run to the store and grab some beer. The ones here are too damn expensive,” the man moved past Roger and took one seat away from Roger. “I’d sit next to you, but you stink old man. Imma have to light a cig to hide the smell.”

The man took out a half-finished pack of cigarettes, put one between his lips and lit it with a zippo lighter. “Want one?” He held out the pack with the butt of a cigarette sticking out.

“Thank you,” Roger said as he took the offered cigarette and then leaned in to let the man light it for him.

“Sorry, old man. You do stink. It’s fine, the smoke will get rid of the smell soon. You have money on this fight?”

Roger took a drag then exhaled. The white smoke dispersed in the air. “I do. My money’s on Krosnick. The hairy one.”

“Oh yeah? Why him? Wouldn’t the young one have been a safer bet?” The man grabbed a brown bottle, took out a key ring with a bottle opener, and sent the cap flying.

“Safe means less money. Earlier it seemed like Isiah was the good choice. Now, everyone isn’t so sure,” Roger moved his hand through the air to showcase the state of the audience. “They’re heckling Isiah. Some have crumpled their tickets and others are cursing the young man’s name. Isiah’s a good fighter, too confident for his own good though. The last round, Krosnick showed he only needs one good, clean hit to win. And it’s coming in the next round. The heckling has for sure gotten to Isiah. He’s going to do something stupid. If Krosnick plays it safe, he’ll find his chance to land a clean one.”

The man took a swig, nodded while observing the red-faced Krosnick. “You know a lot about fighting, old man?”

“I do. There are others in here who think just like me. Some because they love fights and others because they’ve been around so long betting, they’ve learned a few things.”

“Which one are you?” The man smiled at Roger. “A gambler or a lover of fights?”

Roger’s raspy laugh echoed through the basement, “Both.” The man slapped his knee and laughed loudly as well at Roger’s response. He grabbed another brown bottle, popped the cap off, and handed it to Roger. “Here, to your imminent victory.”

“Oh, I can’t. I don’t have any money to pay you back,” Roger shook his head at the offer.

“Don’t be a bastard,” the man cried. “Besides, I ain’t asking for your money. Use your winnings to buy some fresh clothes, food, and booze. I won good on the previous match. I’m happy. I’m just going to sit back and enjoy the rest of the fights today.”

Roger cackled, “Fine. Thank you.” He took the bottle, removed the cigarette from his mouth and took a drink. The beer felt divine, wetting his parched mouth, and lubricating his throat. His stomach didn’t like it much but soon he’d shut it with food.

The rest was over, and the fourth round began. Roger had predicted the outcome. Isiah, embarrassed by the heckling, wanting to prove he wasn’t afraid. Rushed at Krosnick. He started off well with a front kick that forced Krosnick to turtle up. Then he threw wild hooks, two landed, and that only made him want to throw more. The Bull was ignorant to the fact that Krosnick had begun covering the sides of his head, leaving himself open to a nice strike up the middle. Which was a good for Krosnick. Isiah’s furry made him ignore the opening and continue the wild assault. Even the slow hippo could dodge such a wild offensive. Krosnick waited for a right to land on his left guard then dipped under the wild left that came right after. Krosnick ended the match with his overhand right, it clipped the chin of Isiah, and put the Bull to sleep on his back.

“What an upset! Krosnick, the veteran, is the winner!” The announcer yelled at the top of his lungs into the microphone.

Roger and the man rose from their seats. They cheered Krosnick on with a few others. Ther rest of the onlookers cursed, tore up their tickets, and cussed at the unconscious Isiah. Roger thanked the man for the beer and cig and hurried to turn in his ticket. Roger stopped just before the staircase to watch the audience continue to curse at Isiah as he was carried out of the pit.

That’s the problem with the underground, child, Roger thought to himself, The cheers and respect are given only to the winners down here. You can have potential. You can look great. You can fight amazingly. But that don’t matter if you lose. Down here, the winners, however they may look, act, or fight, are the only ones that receive love.

Roger’s climb was harder than the descent. He was gassed by the time he reached the top step. The thought of his winnings kept him moving to the counter. Only two people were working, the fat man and an old man. A group of three angry individuals stood close to the counter. They spoke loudly about their distaste for the loser. Roger ignored them and approached the fat man.

“I won,” he handed him the ticket. The fat man took the ticket with his stubby fingers.

“You did. Two hundred dollars. Only, a half of all your earnings go to the boss because—”

“Yeah. Yeah. Give me my damn money,” Roger said annoyed.

The old man laughed, and the fat man shook his head, his nicely combed aside hair shook. The fat man said, with a mocking grin, “Here’s your hundred. Will we be seeing you later?”

“Sure, I might skip on the next set of fights in the afternoon. I’ll come back for the ones at night.”

“That’s a shame, I won’t be here to see you,” the fat man made a pouting face.

“I guess my day just keeps getting better,” Roger cackled and walked away. He left the building, Luke called to him before Roger could go far.

“You take that money, Rog’. And you invest in some clean clothes,” Luke further shamed Roger by pinching his nose and making a disgusted face. Roger drove his winnings into his pocket and walked away with his head hanging low.

Roger did not head back to Webb Street, instead, heading further into the city. He made his way to Chancey Boulevard, where there were food vendors, a small grocery store, a single thrift store, and a bar. This place had more people. Roger stopped before the grocery store, not going in, as he waited for a mother and her four kids to exit. He stood there, finished the last of his beer and dropped it into a trashcan before entering.

Roger exited the store with a bag of snacks he got for ten dollars and a twelve pack of beer that costed another ten. Roger eyed the thrift store, he walked towards it, caught a whiff of burgers, and stopped by a food vendor. He bought himself a burger worth five dollars. Sat at a bench, scarfed the burger and washed it down with a bottle of beer. Once done, he continued to the thrift store. Only then, did he notice the three angry gentlemen who were standing outside of the bar beside the store, smoking and eyeing him. Roger remembered them from the club and immediately turned around. He went the other way he came.

The boulevard wasn’t a place where a victim would receive help. In Chancey, the vendors and pedestrians would turn a blind eye to crime. Especially, when the one getting victimized looked and smelled like Roger. There was one street that close by where trouble was less likely to happen. A lower-middle class residential area on a street named Dipple.

Roger quickened his pace. His bum left leg made his fast walk comical. He was nearly dragging that leg as if it was chained to an iron ball. Roger felt the remainder of his winnings in his pocket. The thought of losing it all made his heartbeat irregular and made him breath much harder. He nearly cried out when he almost tripped on the curb while crossing the road to get on Dipple Street. Roger could feel the perspiration on his brow. Roger could hear the footsteps gaining on him. To his dismay, there was nobody around him on Dipple Street. Roger lamented his decision.

Roger hurried up Dipple Street, hoping somebody would exit a building. They were lined up the sides, red-brick buildings with stone steps leading to their entrances and the sides of the buildings cluttered with fire escapes and shut windows. Roger hoped a family would be out on a stroll. Hoped a police cruiser would be making its round down here. His hopes were dashed when a strong grip tugged at his arm and pulled him into an alley. Roger struggled, then gave up as the view of the street disappeared and he was tossed behind a dumpster.

“Yup,” one of the men said. A mean looking man, with pockmarked skin, dirty-blonde hair, and thin lips. “He’s from the club alright,” he spoke to the other two with a crude voice.

“You did good betting on Krosnick, you old fart,” another one said lazily. His hair was braided, and he had a piercing on his nose. He stared at Roger with a sneer on his face and laughing eyes.

“Just take his money,” the shortest one said with a surprisingly deep voice. He had dreadlocks, a furrowed bushy brow, and dead eyes.

“No,” Roger pleaded, “take some but not all.” Roger held up his bag. “Take my beer. Take what I bought. I’ll give you thirty dollars. You can have all of that. I just need some leftover to bet later.”

“Fuck that,” dead eyes said, pissed off with the meagre offering. “You won more. Want us to strip you and search your clothes, you damn bum.”

“No. No. I promise I don’t have much. I owe money to the boss of The Switch. They take half of my earnings whenever I win. Sometimes even more depending on how much I earn. Please, take what I offered. Take forty if you want.” Roger held out his plastic bag.

The one with braided hair knocked the bag out of his hand. The pockmarked one put his hands on Roger. Digging into his coat pockets and finding nothing. “Check his pants,” deadeyes told pockmark.

“Shit! You freaking bum,” pockmark kicked Roger in the gut. Roger doubled over into a dirty puddle. “Look! He only has about seventy dollars! You should have earned more, where is it?”

“I…told you,” Roger tried to suck in air, but another kick emptied him.

“Let me get a hit on him,” the braided one said. Roger looked up, afraid, then felt something he hadn’t felt for a long time. The feeling of hard knuckles. The braided one punched his right cheek, and his left cheek was knocked into the puddle and the cold, hard cement the water hid underneath it.

“Hey!” Deadeyes shouted. “Get outta here!”

Roger looked up to see the three turned and staring at a man walking down the alley towards them. “Let’s get him too. He probably has some cash on him,” pockmark told the others.

“I’m game,” the braided one said.

They were angry. They were lost in bloodlust. Roger mustered up the courage to shout, “Go! Run!” Deadeyes shut him up with another kick.

“No running baby,” the braided one laughed.

The man didn’t run. He continued walking. Roger stared with eyes full of worry. What’s up with him? Roger wondered as he watched the man calmly walking forward. Roger observed the man. Roger noticed that the man was fit, his upper body was impressive. He has broad shoulders, a square chest that could be seen through the thick, black long sleeve he wore. His arms were a bit short for someone his height but bulky. He looked to be about close to six-feet in height. His dark wash, denim jeans seemed a bit too tight for him. His black-and-white shoes were dirty and old. The man walked as if he were on a stroll. Head held high, chest puffed out, and hands in his pockets.

The braided one sauntered over, tried to grab the man’s collar with his right but the man pulled back. The man struck the braided one with his left fist. Roger watched as the man’s right hip rose, he hit the braided one with a small, right upper. Grabbed his braided hair and ripped the piercing off. The braided man let out a whelp. The braided man covered his face and the man drove a knee into his crotch.

Deadeyes and pockmark moved to attack the man as soon as the braided one fell to his knees in agony. Deadeyes was closer, coming in from the man’s left but he was ignored. The man rushed pockmark. Pockmark was so surprised he didn’t know what to do so he threw a flimsy punch that the man easily dodged. He lifted pockmark by the waist and slammed him hard onto the alley ground. Then he stamped on pockmark’s chest once, twice, thrice, and stomped on his face for good measure.

Deadeyes watched the man warily. Turned around, began to run, but the man yanked on deadeye’s dreadlocks. Spun him around and struck him across the face with a clenched right fist. Dreadlocks spun the other way. The man grabbed deadeyes by his black jacket and hit deadeyes’ belly. Deadeyes tried to pull away, but the man stepped on deadeye’s foot. The man let go of the jacket, drove a left straight onto the side of Deadeye’s jaw then pummeled the stunned deadeye for five seconds. Deadeye, pockmark, and the braided one laid on the ground. Deadeye was unconscious, the braided one was holding his groin, and pockmark was having trouble catching his breath.

The wadded seventy dollars laid on the ground. The man picked it up along with the white, plastic bag. He stood over Roger, dropped the money inside the bag, and gently placed the bag on the ground in front of him. Roger stared up at the man. He has black, pointy straight hair that parted down the middle, going down the sides of head past his ears. His face was square in shape. His forehead was wrinkled, brow furrowed, and his eyes were intense. The brown pupils seemed to burn a hole into Roger’s own. He looked angry but Roger didn’t get that feeling. The man stood straight and stiff, and said, “I needed to blow off some steam.”

He walked away to the groans of the three. And Roger sat up, stunned by the man.