rag that looked dirtier than the counter. "You ain't going to
find no loans in here tonight, just bad decisions." He
nodded toward the center of the room. "Though, if you're
feeling suicidal, there's always the open challenge."
Big Eli followed his gaze. In the center of the makeshift
ring—a twenty-by-twenty square of interlocking foam mats
held together by duct tape—stood Trent Larson. Trent was
twenty-four, aggressively tanned, and smelled violently of
aerosol body spray. He wore black board shorts and tightly
wrapped hand tape. Bouncing on his toes, he threw
lightning-fast jabs at the empty air.
Trent ran a martial arts gym two towns over. He had three
amateur MMA belts, a tribal tattoo wrapping around his
bicep, and the kind of loud, unearned confidence that
made Big Eli's stomach physically churn.
"T hree minutes!" Trent shouted to the crowd, his
voice cracking slightly with adrenaline. "Anyone
lasts three minutes, you walk away with $500 cash. No
gloves, submission, or knockout."
Trent wasn't fighting for the money. He was fighting for the
dopamine hit of watching someone lesser fold under his
hands. Big Eli watched him throw a spinning hook kick. It
was technically perfect, beautiful even. The crowd of
mechanics and mill workers collectively oohed.
But Big Eli stared at Trent’s feet. They were clean,
uncalloused—the feet of a man who fought on padded
mats under bright fluorescent lights with a referee
standing by to make sure nobody actually died. "$500," Big
Eli muttered, staring into his club soda.
"Don't do it, Eli," Rusty warned, dropping the jovial
bartender act. "That kid's broken two jaws this month. He's
fast, and he likes hurting people."
Big Eli closed his eyes. The headache at the base of his skull
throbbed. He hated violence. He had spent his twenties
drowning in it. As a young soldier in Vietnam, he hadn't
just seen violence; he had survived it in the worst ways
imaginable. He had spent the last forty years trying to
scrub that cold, calculating part of his brain away. But his
grandson needed the farm.
"Hold my drink, Rusty."
The crowd parted with a low murmur of
confusion as the large older Black man stepped off the
sticky floor and approached the edge of the mats. He didn't
vault over the makeshift rope barrier. He awkwardly lifted
one leg over the rope, then the other, looking like a
grandfather stepping over a low fence to check on a stray
calf.
Trent stopped his shadowboxing. He dropped his hands to
his hips, a smirk cutting across his face. He looked Big Eli
up and down—the muddy boots, the oil-stained shirt, the
slight stoop in his powerful posture. "You lost, old man?"
Trent asked.
The crowd snickered. "I heard $500," Big Eli said mildly. His
voice barely carried over the whir of the industrial fans.
He looked at the duct tape holding the blue mats together.
"You got a death wish, grandpa," Trent laughed, stepping
closer and invading Big Eli's personal space. Trent smelled
like spearmint gum and raw adrenaline. "I hit hard. I'm not
going to go easy on you just because you got dirt on your
jeans."
Big Eli slowly reached down and untied his work
boots. He pulled them off, placing them neatly
outside the ring. He peeled off his thick wool socks next.
His large, bare feet stepped onto the mats, scarred with
thick calluses built up from decades of hard living.
"Just ring the bell, Trent," Big Eli said.
Rusty chopped his hand down. Trent closed the distance
instantly. Disrespecting his opponent meant he didn't
bother with a feeler jab. He threw a heavy, looping
overhand right, aiming to end it in three seconds.
Big Eli didn't slip with the graceful fluidity of a boxer. He
simply hunched his massive shoulders and tucked his chin
—a brutal, pragmatic movement. Trent’s fist crashed into
Big Eli’s forehead, the thickest, hardest bone in the human
skull.
A sickening crack echoed. Trent winced, stumbling back a
half-step, shaking his right hand. He had aimed for the jaw
and hit solid bone. Big Eli felt a flash of white light behind
his eyes, followed by a wave of nausea. It hurt. He was
sixty-four years old. He tasted the sharp tang of blood
where he had bitten the inside of his cheek.