The quiet suburbs shelter many secrets behind its white picket fenced homes and closed doors. Everything from domestic violence to drug addictions and lustful affairs that no neighbour would be the wiser. With fake smiles and high-class vehicles, these cookie cutter box dwellers live their lives, running the rat race of life, but to know these many safe kept secrets acceptance is in order.
The street lights brightly shine with the artificial orange hue of high-pressure sodium lamps, illuminating the sidewalk outside of home 203, on Falcon manor. Individual rooms in the home are brightly shining through windows down onto the treated fertilized lawn. Faint sounds of high-end stereo equipment can be heard, but not enough to be a disturbance in the neighbourhood. As Nick walked up the cobbled stone pathway towards the door, he felt a sense of nervousness in spite of coming to this house many times before. Upon reaching the black painted pine and steel-enforced door, Nick takes a deep breath and knocks. The sound of party goers enjoying themselves behind the door is all too familiar for Nick, being in college has its perks. After a few moments standing at the door, he begins to get impatient and extends a clenched fist. The door suddenly swings open and the sight of a tall bulky figure, dressed in an all-black suit comes into view.
"Are you the guy?" The tall suited man asks.
Nick straightens his stance and nods. The doorman waves him into the home and instructs Nick to follow him. As Nick trails behind him through the house, music is playing throughout and partiers are dancing and drinking. Some young men and women are lounging on leather furniture enjoying multi-coloured cocktails while others are can be seen sniffing cocaine off mirrored tables in the living room. They appear to look around the same age as Nick, but you can`t really tell nowadays. Making their way around the house would have been difficult if the crowd didn`t part for them as they passed. The people at the party know who Nick is and why he is there, it was best not to get in his way.
The home was an image of absolute class. Intricate pieces of artwork hung off textured walls, crystal light fixtures brilliantly cast beautiful reflections of light over the home. Everything from floor patterns to luxurious high tech toys lines the space, anyone who would step into this house would be impressed with its owner.
The doorman leads Nick to another door which is located on the lower level of the house; the music and crowd are barely audible. Another tall bulky man stands outside this door with hands crossed on his chest. He spots Nick walking up and opens the door and shows him in. Nick steps through and hears the door close behind him. The lights are low and a distinctive smell of Cuban tobacco lingers in the air. Nick stands in a small room with glass windows overlooking a bloodstained ring down below with two men pummeling one another. A large group of people are gathered all around the outside of the ring with money in hand yelling at the fighters. This room is soundproof, so the cheering crowd or shouts are barely heard. In the room with him is a group of well-dressed men, Nick figures them to be white collared snobs with too much money. They sit there in single leather seat chairs smoking cigars, chuckling and conversing amongst themselves. Nick clears his throat to bring attention to himself, but no one turns to acknowledge him. Then a voice deep low and crisp rings out.
"Well hello son, you alright?" The voice asks.
"I am well Mr Stanbury, we both know why I am here so shall we...." Nick says but gets rudely interrupted.
"Are you ready to go? I grow tired and weary watching these cunts throw fairy punches at one another, poor show son. Care to show us a fight worth watching?" Mr Stanbury asks as he stands from his seat. This man was one of England`s best boxing promoters in his early days, now he enjoyed dabbling in illegal boxing matches, dog fights, gambling, really anything with dirty easy money to be had. He recently moved to North America to capitalize on the American dream and the desire for behind closed doors entertainment. He walks over and stands in front of Nick with a crooked smile. Eyes resembling pools of ash, size him up like a game trophy or something of the sort. Nick stands six feet tall with broad shoulders and a strongly defined jawline. Mr Stanbury reaches and runs his thumb over a scabbed cut on the bridge of Nick`s nose.
"I hope you don`t make a mess about the ring like the last time." Mr Stanbury says with a chuckle. Nick jerks his head back out of his reach, he takes a step back and his expression becomes tight and aggressive.
"Now, now son, save that for the fight. I`ve put you against one of my fighters from across the pond. Now he`s a little wet behind the ears, but I am sure you know how to handle that, won`t you my boy?" Mr Stanbury asks as he pats Nick`s cheek and points him toward the door. He turns away from Nick and sits back down and resumes his conversation with his colleagues. Nick stands there dwelling in his anger and frustration with the situation. Mr Stanbury notices Nick is still in the room and summons the doorman into the room. The door opens and Nick could feel a grasp on his elbow and he slightly hesitates.
"Now son, we both know how this is going to end, run along and go earn your medical tuition," Mr Stanbury barks and chuckles along with his colleagues. Nick can feel his body tense up and he exhales sharply as he turns towards the door.
Nick has fought in quite a few illegal underground bouts, with all profits going towards his medical training. Having a natural talent for inflicting pain upon others and being in a tight situation it seemed like it was the only reasonable and efficient way to pay his way through school. The whole process of fighting was all too familiar to Nick. He would always tell himself a couple more and he`s out, but in desperate times he had to do what he had to.
The "change" room is a mere storage room, with dusty shelves and a single lamp fixture hanging from the ceiling shining down on an old debilitated bench in the centre of the room. Nick enters the room and sighs. Taking off his shirt, bruises line the right side of his torso and abdomen. Wincing from pain, Nick warms his body up with light stagnant jogging and shadow boxing. Nick focuses his mind and body as best as he can to prepare himself. Taking a break, Nick lies on the weathered bench and stares up at the ceiling. The roar of the crowd sends adrenaline coursing through his body and he can`t sit still and springs up. There is always a sense of fear and anticipation waiting for the fight. Nick can hear the shouts of blood-hungry spectators and can`t help but loathe himself for what he was about to do. The flat bone slapping sounds ring out through the thin walls. Nick can almost imagine what would cause the sound; possibly a nose being broken a couple places or teeth snapping at the root, either way, it was unsettlingly uncomfortable to hear. The human body can sustain an unbelievable amount of damage, but a state of mind makes or breaks a fight Nick believes. Anatomy has always interested Nick, inspiring him to attend medical school in the first place and now here he was fighting for it, literally.
Suddenly, the distinct sound of a limp body hitting the ring floor is heard through the door followed by the clamour of the crowd. Nick knew he is up next and takes his socks off. Illegal rules can vary; Mr Stanbury`s rules were quite unique and simple. No shoes or socks. No shirt. Any hit goes and you don`t stop till eyes roll back into your opponent`s skull. "Bloody Brilliant" he finds. The only piece of protective equipment allowed are hand wraps, which were generally made of cotton or a synthetic material. The cheers from the mass slowly become a chant as they crave more bloodshed and violence. Nick`s heart begins to beat harder and harder, to the point he has to place his hand on his chest to calm himself down. The chants continue as the fighters enter into the room. The loser of the fight is held up by his arms as his feet drag behind him, he is still out cold when they place him face first on the ground. His opponent that delivered the knockout blow waltzes in with a chest puffed out as if he was the big-dick in the room. The last man to enter is Mr Stanbury`s right-hand man, Johnny, who is sharply dressed like his colleagues upstairs watching the fights. After closing the door behind them, Johnny pulls two brown envelopes, one packed so tightly that the currency creases its carrier. The other looks as if nothing at all is inside it. Johnny tosses it onto the fighters back as he lay unconscious on the cold dirty pavement and turns to Nick with a smile.
"Hello, boyo! Fancy yourself a fighter? How bout you go show dem how it`s done," Johnny states as he throws mock punches at the air in front of him. The Cockney accent thick in Johnny`s voice almost is intelligible. Nick sits down unfazed by the comment and starts to wrap his wrists and hands with dirty white hand wraps stained with blood. Wrap after wrap Nick feels his hands become more rigid and tense; he didn`t want to risk breaking any bones in this fight or any other one for that matter. With his hands tightly wrapped up, Nick stands and faces Johnny.
"I expect a larger cut this time, this is my day off and the last place I want to be is in that ring shit kicking someone`s head in and getting the usual scraps you pricks feed me," Nick says.
"Now don`t be a cheeky bastard you little cunt, Mr Stanbury has given a wonderful opportunity to pay your way through, whatever the fuck you doing. Your ungratefulness will get ya done in one day if yous` aint careful. You get, what you get, and you in this up to your nicker`s, so quit being a twat. C`mon Nick, give us a show, and do as your fucking told!" Johnny says as he points to the door. Nick would have loved to head bunt him in the face, but it was probably a better idea to leave the room as soon as possible.
Nick steps through the door of the change room and surveys his surroundings. There must be a crowd of at least fifty people, a majority of men of different ages and attire. Making his way through the parted crowd, the voices are whispers in Nick`s ears. Eyes down, the floor looks as if it has been through hell and back. Different shades of blood, burgundy and rose red, smear in an array of directions and flesh loiters between the shoes of the fans of gore. Four spotlights brightly shine down on the ring where his opponent stands waiting for Nick. The heat in the almost sardined packed room is stifling and stinks of decay and sweat. Nick feels a hand on his back shoving him towards his corner of the ring. Nick is jacked up. The hair on his body is on end. Tunnel vision is beginning to kick in and all he sees is his opponent standing there with a smug look on his face, Nick knew it wouldn`t last long. After stepping in the ring Nick gazes up at the viewing booth and sees the old bastard looking down at him. Standing there with arms crossed on his chest, he motions with his head towards Nick`s opponent and brings up his index finger and drags it across his throat. Looking across the ring, the light brightly shines down onto the blood-stained mat and the onlookers down below are out of sight. A distinctive boxing bell rings out, snapping him out of his gaze on the booth and he directs his attention to the ogre of a man across from him. Round one.
The crowd shouts and roars as Nick`s opponent suddenly starts barreling towards him at an astonishing speed for his weight and height. The opponent is at least double Nick`s weight and is slightly taller. Also, he has a stocky build that resembles a football or rugby player. Mr Stanbury needed a ringer to take this guy out. Nick was experienced enough, but that only gets him you so far, he wasn`t bet on to win.
Nick has enough time to get out of the lummox`s way and circles around him with his hands still at his sides, analyzing his opponent head to toe. Judging from facial scarring, prison tattoos and cartilage variations, this fighter was no rookie. The cold dead look in the eye of the brute, only confirms Nick`s suspicion of a veteran bruiser. More a brawler than a skilled fighter, the brute flies into the ropes. After rebounding off the ropes the fighter throws punch after punch, with Nick slipping each one, his opponent becomes more aggressive and in rage. Laughs are heard from the crowd and people start to voice their disappointment. Nick is on the balls of his feet and is primed for the right moment to strike.
The roar of the crowd dulls down, as Nick concentrates, all he hears is the sound of his opponent`s feet sliding on the floor. The sharp exhaled breaths as the fighter throws punch after punch. Nick has him in his sights and lets out a lightning quick combo. Ducking under the left hook thrown at him, Nick plants a well-placed hard left in his opponent`s liver. The hit so hard, ribs crack and the shock reverberates through the torso and the wave of flesh ripple on the skin. He winces from the pain tearing at his left side, opening up his guard down the centre of his chest, Nick shoots an uppercut landing square under the brute clenched chin. The contact makes the skull whip back, with its eyes lifeless, trailing behind in the socket. The fighter`s hands are slowly falling as Nick delivers a devastating left hook to the temple. Stiff as a board, the mass plummets. His opponent hits the mat, laying there dead still on his side, the blood-thirsty audience silences. Nick walks up to his opponent and rolls him onto his back and stares at him with a sense of accomplishment. After a few moments of silence, a lone clap rings out in the crowd. Nick turns to see Mr Stanbury walking through the swarm of people with hands held high as he slowly slaps his left palm. Nick stands over his opponent and views the crowd with expressions of disbelief. One after another the crowd breaks out into cheering and money is being thrown into the ring for lost bets. Exiting the ring, Nick finds himself surrounded at all sides by black-suited men and Mr Stanbury faces him with a toothy grin.
"Well done son, pulled through just like I thought you would, cheers. However, it would have more entertaining to watch if it weren`t so cat and mouse with him, next time will be better won't it my boy?" Mr Stanbury asks with a tense expression on his old withered face.
"I want a bigger cut if you`re sending me to the slaughter uncle," Nick says as he shakes his head and pushes past them. Nick makes his way through the crowd and disappears.
"Your brother`s boy was trained rather well, wouldn`t you say boss? Only a matter a time before he moves on, eh" Johnny says, walking up with a black duffel bag filled with blood money. Mr Stanbury looks over at the ring where Nick`s opponent still lay there unconscious or dead.
"I have plans for little Nicky, you better believe that. Johnny my boy, there are many ways to get what you want out of life, it is just far easier when you have money."