Fight Night

Loud bass echoes. A fight breaks out in the back. The impromptu violence competes with the music in the lowest level of the condemned multi structure garage.

The situation gets dangerous fast and a gun goes off. Following the shot, a shrill cry of “No, no, not Morris, no,” bounces off the cold, wet cement parking garage walls.

The drama plays out, drawing a fair amount of attention from the rear of the crowd, but someone at least manages to shut off the music.

George is happy at least the music has been turned off.

He is the giant slab of meat that has just finished rolling the sleeves of his white oxford button down past his forearms. He stands in his assigned corner getting ready to fight in the make shift ring.

“Don’t pay that shit no mind, Georgie. This is your night. This is your fight.”

George doesn’t look down. The smaller Gorkut is wrapping the fighter’s huge fists in stiff hemp rope. He doesn’t need to look at his cousin’s face. He has it memorized. They have been participating in these types of events together for over a century.

They have a system. Horace trains and George never loses.

They are obviously related if not for the difference in bulk. Horace is green-skinned, like a fresh lime. Eyes, like little black olives, brown chiclets for teeth that are surrounded by boiled beef jerky for lips.

George’s stomach growls.

“I’m hungry.’

“I told you we should have stopped.”

George’s eyes never leave the thing across the makeshift ring of spectators casting last minute bets.

His opponent is some kind of conjuration. Maybe crawled straight from the nethers. Maybe from the end of some magician’s wand. It won’t matter. Horns, teeth, claws, rippling muscles, a tail, runes glowing a golden color along its bony forehead, a good four feet taller than George.

Built to intimidate.

Magic, mortal, they all fall.

“Fuck, Horace?”

‘Yes, George?”

“Take this tie off. Kids gave it to me for father’s day, can’t get blood on it, Babs’ll kill me.”

Horace reaches over and works at the windsor as the fight host goes over the rules.

The Aos Sí flies to the center of the ring with a cordless mic. Holds it to his beaked mouth and says, “First one to die loses. Let’s get this over with,” and flies out again.

Horace manages to take the tie off just as the air horn announces the beginning of the first round.

George calmly watches the demon take flight. It goes up through three or four of of the broken through cement floors. George decides its plans on a bombing attack. He waits for it to start a descent. he watches it approach. He doesn’t. When it is a floor and a half a way he leaps and grabs it by an ankle and pulls down hard.

The cement buckles under them with the impact.

The remains of the creature are dust and a purple smear.


“How much?” Horace asks as they reach George’s mini-van.

“Couple hundred,” he says settling in behind the wheel.

“Not even worth it.”

“It’s worth it. Let’s go grab a steak.”

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