Start the bell/start your engines!

Bloody knuckles and a dry mouth; damn, I needed a drink. 

Stale air hung in the locker room; smelled of sweat and spit. 

Three high hanging lights cast their spots on the green floor, the paint peeled and chipped away exposing the cement. 

Wrapped my hands tight; couldn't do much else, was headin' out in a few minutes. 

Said my last hail Marys and made my way down the hall, coming out the double doors, the lights hit me, and the roar of the crowd. 

"Ladies and gentlemen," the announcer shouted. "Thank you for coming to tonight's entertainment!" 

Arena smelled of cheap food and cheaper booze; couldn't get much more broke than this. I jumped onto the ring, "Hey Pops, give me the low down-" 

"He's a nasty muthafucka, I tell ya-" said an overweight African man. 

He patted his face with a cloth, then handed it to me. "Name's Sig Barnes. Guy's got a 8-2 win streak." 

I downed half my water bottle, "Better-" I thought- 

"Don't give me the odds, give me the details-" 

"We'll…"

Pop's gestured me to move closer. 

"Word on the street, the guy has a thing for takin' bites outta opponents."

I leaned back, "Seriously? Talk about an appetite…" 

Pop's whacked me over the head with a roll of news paper- 

"Ow!"

"Now don't go acting like a dumbass Andy-" he scolded. "You know we got 10k ridin' on this match-" 

"Yeah I know, I know-" I sighed.

I stood up making my way to the middle of the ring. 

"Now for the moment you've all been waiting for…" said the announcer, "Tonight's fight! Andre Lupo, Vs Sig Barnes!" 

The opposing doors swung open as a 6' 4" man came stomping through, he was rough looking. Hair ratty down to his shoulders, one dead eye. 

We stepped up to each other, he looked down at me, my 5'11" coming up to his neck. 

He sniffed the air like a dog, "Been awhile since I've had Italian." He said licking his lips.

I glared back, "spero che ti soffochi, stronzo*" (Hope you choke on it asshole)*

"Hey, wait until the fight start's gentleman-" the ref warned.

He gnashed his teeth, yellow and crooked. "Wazzat?" leaning in his ear. "Speak English kid, you're in America, not pasta land." 

I cracked my neck, 

"I said, all that shit you eat must've rot your brain; your manners are in worse shape than your teeth." 

He laughed, clapping his hands. 

"Tough talk kid, for daddy's little cum stain." 

"What."

My fist tightened. 

"Oh yeah…" He turned away, "Heard daddy was a big time racer until he blew all his cash on drink and whores…" 

"Sig knock off the slander." Said the ref.

I grit my teeth.

"Don't let 'im get to ya kid!" Yelled Pops. "He's tryin' ta get into ya head!"

"A bit late for that" I thought. 

"…left you with all that debt, didn't he?" He looked me straight in the eyes. "Then went and offed him-"

I swung my fist hard into those yellow teeth of his. 

I heard a "crunch!" like a nut cracking. 

Sig staggered back holding his mouth, blood splashed like water onto the mat. 

"Yu nwokd my teef out…"

I grinned, "I think they actually look better now-" 

"Penalty! Early start!" Declared the Ref. 

"Yu… yu gonna pay yu lttle sht!" Sig yelled, running at me. 

I took a stance, "Ring the bell!" I yelled. 

Clouds rolled across the June night sky; I lit a cig as I stood outside. 

"Sigh…" 

My side hurt, and I had a bruise on my forehead, but nothing that a cold bath wouldn't help. 

"You know those will kill ya-" Pop said as he walked through the doors.

I took a drag, "Takes the edge off; better this than a needle."

"Smartass…" he mumbled.

"Hm?"

"Here's your cut, kid-" he said, handing me a yellow envelope.

"Finally," I said, opening it- "Wha- the hell is this?" I asked, "They said 10k, this is only 5!" 

"That's what ya get for pullin' a stunt like that-" he said, adjusting his jacket. 

"Figlio di puttana*" (Son of a bitch)* I mumbled, kicking the dirt.

"Ay, whatever ya sayin', shut it-" he scolded. 

"Be lucky they gave ya any at all-" he grunted, "When I was fightin'" he threw some punches, then turned to me, poking my chest. "They woulda kicked my teeth in." 

"Hmf, I'm just glad I ain't Sig then-" I laughed, "Bastard had it comin'."

He looked at me like a parent does their disobedient kid. 

"Mhm, my share?"

"Yeah, yeah-" I scratched my head. "Here, 2,000- forty percent." 

"Thank ya kindly," he replied, slipping the stack of 50's in his jacket. 

"You know we'd make more if you found me higher payin' fights." I said, taking a drag.

He unlatched his bike, hoping on- "You know, neither of us can afford that Andy." He sighed, "Just gotta-" 

"Roll with the punches-" I replied, rolling my eyes.

"Atta boy, see ya 'round kid-" 

He turned away making his way down the city street. 

I took another drag, "Rent, food, this month's debt… Leavin' me with… 600." I sighed.

I threw the cigarette down on the concrete, stamping it out. "Heh, just enough." 

I pulled my keys from my pocket;

getting into my car:

1988 challenger, gray, with a white racing stripe.

It had seen better days, but a full repair was too pricey.

"Yeah, you'll have to do-" I sighed; turned her in, and the engine woke up. 

"Let's go-" I said, driving out.