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  FIGHT CARD MMA: WELCOME TO THE OCTAGON

  ANOTHER FAST ACTION

  FIGHT CARD MMA

  STORY

  JACK TUNNEY

  FIGHT CARD MMA

  CREATED BY PAUL BISHOP AND MEL ODOM

  OTHER TITLES IN THE

  FIGHT CARD MMA SERIES

  FIGHT CARD MMA: THE KALAMAZOO KID

  COMING SOON

  FIGHT CARD MMA: ROSIE THE RIPPER

  FIGHT CARD

  CREATED BY PAUL BISHOP AND MEL ODOM

  TITLES IN THE FIGHT CARD SERIES

  FIGHT CARD: FELONY FISTS

  FIGHT CARD: THE CUTMAN

  FIGHT CARD: SPLIT DECISION

  FIGHT CARD: COUNTERPUNCH

  FIGHT CARD: HARD ROAD

  FIGHT CARD: KING OF THE OUTBACK

  FIGHT CARD: A MOUTH FULL OF BLOOD

  FIGHT CARD: TOMATO CAN COMEBACK

  FIGHT CARD: BLUFF CITY BRAWLER

  FIGHT CARD: GOLDEN GATE GLOVES

  FIGHT CARD: IRISH DUKES

  FIGHT CARD: THE KNOCKOUT

  FIGHT CARD: RUMBLE IN THE JUNGLE

  FIGHT CARD: AGAINST THE ROPES

  FIGHT CARD: THE LAST ROUND OF ARCHIE MANNIS

  FIGHT CARD: SWAMP WALLOPER

  FIGHT CARD: GET HIT, HIT BACK

  FIGHT CARD MMA: WELCOME TO THE OCTAGON

  e-Book Edition – First Published April 2013

  Copyright © 2013 Gerard Brennan

  Cover by Keith Birdsong

  This is a work of fiction. Characters, corporations, institutions and organizations mentioned in this novel are either the product of the author's imagination or, if real, used fictitiously without any intent to describe actual conduct.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission from the publisher.

  ROUND 1

  BELFAST, IRELAND, 2013

  I was fighting from my back. Slugging it out under pressure, as usual. You could say I’m a slow learner when it comes to the ground game. I’ve always been a toe-to-toe banger, first and foremost. All other elements of my fight-skills had to play catch-up.

  My opponent dripped vodka-sweat on me. I’d been off the loopy-juice for six months by then and was more frightened of his sweat making it past my lips than I was of his clumsy attempts at submissions holds. The joys of unlicensed MMA. Your opponent could step up to you, half in the bag on booze or jacked on steroids. There were no blood tests. Hell, there were barely weight divisions. My opponent, Psycho Sid, outweighed me by about a stone and I could feel every flabby pound of him squeeze the air from my lungs.

  I closed my eyes and sought my centre. Not in a hippy-dippy way, you understand. That’s just fancy talk for keeping claustrophobia at bay. But I drew strength from my forced moment of Zen. When I opened my eyes I had an eyeful of the big lump’s faded tattoos. Names and stick drawings in Indian ink. I’ll never understand why these wannabe hard men felt the need to advertise their prison histories. Surely the best ones didn’t get caught?

  Get back in the fight.

  Sid tried to gain side control. He dug his knees into the padded mats that served as our ring and wriggled about until his body was perpendicular to mine. Then Sid moved his left arm to grab hold of my wrist. The movement exposed his flank and I drove the point of my right elbow into his floating ribs. I heard him grunt. Delivered two more strikes. I could actually feel his ribs parting with each blow. He’d suffer the next day.

  He changed tactics and tried to mount me. I was still too with it to let him past my guard, though. I wrapped my legs around his waist and locked my ankles together behind his back. He tried to rain down the hammer blows, but to get a decent ground and pound on the go he’d have to get past my thighs. I wasn’t going to let that happen.

  Sid drew back slightly, as if to take a breather. I’d damaged him with those elbows to the ribs. Each breath hurt him. I saw a look pass over his face and I knew he was going to try something desperate. But I bided my time. I’m better at reacting and countering than mounting my own attack. Sweat rolled down old Psycho Sid’s scarred face. He wiped it out of his eyes with a forearm, daring me to attack. I didn’t take the bait. His lips split in a maniacal smile that showed off his mouth guard. He looked like a kid with a wedge of orange in his mouth.

  I looked up at the ref and held my hands out to him. We’d been locked in this inactive pose for about ten seconds and the small crowd of spectators were starting to boo. He nodded and barked for Sid to stand up. My opponent moved slowly, getting the most out of this break in the action. Suited me fine. I was in much better shape than Sid who looked like his gym membership had expired a few years ago. My recovery time was bound to exceed his. And I knew what I was targeting when this fight went back to a banging match.

  I planned to turn those floating ribs into dust.

  The ref chopped the air between us and called the fight back into play. Sid charged at me like a rhino. I sidestepped and clipped his ear with a quick jab. He trundled off the foam mats and almost crushed half a dozen bloodthirsty spectators. Some people talk about ‘cage-fighting’ like the chain link barrier makes it all the more brutal. I imagine none of those folks ever had to dodge a sweaty Psycho Sid.

  The ref warned Sid to keep the fight on the mat and he nodded vigorously. He pushed the official out of his way and charged me again, this time with a little more control. I swatted his clumsy haymakers away and closed the gap to clinch with him. This is a technique that’s much more effective when you can shove the other guy against the ropes or the fence, but I made it work for me. I got both hands on the back of his neck and pulled him down as I launched a knee strike into his ribs. Sid wheezed like a stabbed accordion.

  I rag-dolled him from side-to-side to disorient and shake the fight out of him. He tried to retain his balance by grabbing hold of my upper arms. That was all the invitation I needed to send another knee into that same battered spot. One of his legs buckled, but he managed to stay upright, using me as a crutch for the most part. This fight would be over soon. The guy could only be catching half-breaths in that damaged chest of his.

  I threw another knee in for good measure.

  Sid realised that if he didn’t escape the clinch he’d have no ribs left intact on that side. He upped his squirming and twisting and managed to slip a hand in under my elbows. His fingers Incy-Wincyed up my chest until he caught a hold of my face. Sid tried to throw me off balance by forcing my head back. The grip I had around his neck meant I was going nowhere. But he wasn’t ready to give up just yet. His hand slid up my face and I realised what he was up to.

  Psycho Sid was trying to get his fingertips to my eyes. He was going for a gouge.

  I turned my head from side to side in an effort to shake off his insidious advances. His hand held steady. He’d slipped a thumb inside my mouth and it acted like a snare. A fishhook. The ref couldn’t see what Sid was up to. He couldn’t hear my muffled protests over the yelled insults from the audience. I had no choice.

  My teeth clamped down on Sid’s thumb. His eyes widened and he shook his head. Sweat sprayed from his hair onto my face. I wanted to crush his thumb. Maybe sever it and spit it at him. But I couldn’t risk disqualification. I needed this purse. We needed it.

  I opened my mouth slightly and Sid snatched back his hand. My bite hadn’t even broken the skin. But Sid was too busy examining his thumb to defend himself properly. Silly psycho. I grabbed his forearms and pulled them down. Held them steady at waist height. Then I launc
hed a big head butt. The setup was slow and clumsy, but there was nothing Sid could do about it. I connected with his nose. Busted it. Then I pulled back and fired another at him. This time I pulled him towards the blow. Caught him on the point of the chin.

  Good night, sweetheart.

  ROUND 2

  It’s funny. You get a clear win like I just did against Psycho Sid and the adrenaline courses through your body like the best drug in the world. You’re the victor, a winner, a trained killer. And you hold your arms high and lap up the applause and the screams. This is your reward. The money is secondary to the glory in those fleeting moments after the ref raises your hand.

  Then you make your way to your ‘dressing room’.

  Talk about coming back to Earth with a bump.

  I’d drawn the short straw this time around. Our fight had been held in a closed down primary school in West Belfast. The ‘promoters’ had broken in and used the assembly hall for the main event. Even the blue mats we’d fought on came from the school’s PE supplies. And for dressing rooms we’d been allocated a bathroom each. I got the little girls room and felt like a complete creep. I towered over the miniature stalls and had to hunker down to check out the damage in the mirrors over the miniature sinks.

  At least my face was relatively intact – what I could see of it anyway; the electric was out and all I had was the little light that filtered through the windows from outside. In the shadowy reflection I could make out that I’d have a few bruises in the morning, maybe. A black eye at the very least. But he hadn’t managed to cut me or break my nose. Not that another break in my nose would make much difference. Already it had more kinks than a swingers’ Christmas get together.

  I ran some cold water and rubbed it into my face and over the top of my shaved head. Droplets landed on my shoulders and I wondered if there was anywhere in this old building that I could catch a quick shower. I doubted it. And in any case, the prospect of a freezing cold soaking didn’t appeal. There’d hardly be any hot water in this old place. It’d have to wait until I got back to the apartment, then. I’d be stiffer than a post in the morning.

  Throughout my facial examination, I’d managed to avoid eye contact with my reflection. But I couldn’t avoid it forever. Finally I relented and gave myself a long hard look.

  “You proud of yourself, mate?”

  I’d won my fight, yes, but by means that would have gotten me disqualified from a licensed bout. There was no honour in it. Maybe I could argue that if I hadn’t won that way I’d have had Sid’s fingertips buried in my eye sockets, but two wrongs don’t make a right. Really, if I was half the fighter I wanted to be, I’d have finished it on the ground while Sid had been flailing about on top of me looking for that submission.

  But a win was a win and I was due a decent wedge of cash now.

  “Yeah, mate. Enjoy your blood money, sure.”

  The bathroom door creaked open and I jerked around to face whoever had pushed it. Part of me thought it might be Psycho Sid or one of his cronies looking to settle the score. He didn’t earn his nickname by playing nice. But it was somebody with a lot more potential for danger. My number one fan, Mona, stood in the doorway.

  “You talking to yourself, champ?”

  I looked her up and down. Mona was a stunner. She got freelance work as a model and a ring girl. I don’t know how much money that brought in, but it must have been enough to keep her in makeup, hair styles and fashionable clothes. She invested a lot into her livelihood and it was money well spent.

  Unlicensed MMA has no need for the pomp and ceremony, so Mona wasn’t working as a ring girl tonight. She’d come out to watch me fight and that thrilled and scared me at the same time. Her clothes showed off her figure. Leggings and a long T-shirt, both white to make the most of her tan. In the hazy light she looked like an apparition.

  “Hiya, Mona. I have to say, love, you’re too nice a girl to be hanging out with a crowd of savages in a rundown building. I’d hate to see you get into trouble.”

  “I am trouble.”

  “That I’d believe.”

  I was becoming painfully aware that I was dressed in my fighting gear. Just a pair of shorts. Mona unashamedly stared at my torso while she twiddled with a long lock of black hair. I lifted my towel from the side of the sink and rubbed my chest with it, creating a subtle shield. I shouldn’t complain, though. I’d checked her out enough times when she stalked the ring with a placard raised above her head. It was how we met, in fact. I’d asked her for a photo after a Cage Frenzy event – Northern Ireland’s most prestigious MMA organisation -- and then I chanced my arm by inviting her out for a drink. It was a stupid move. On the spot, booze-fuelled bravado. And she’d said yes. We’d had a great night, boozing and snogging. Since then we’d been playing a cat and mouse game with her taking on the feline role with gusto. I think she thought I was playing hard to get and that was something she’d never been on the receiving end of before.

  Mona sashayed on in to the bathroom. The door swung shut and the surreal little room darkened. I could just about make her out in the moonlight coming from the tiny windows set high in the wall. She stopped in front of me, so close I could smell her spray tan.

  “Good fight tonight, Mickey.”

  “I should have ended it quicker.”

  “Shoulda, woulda, coulda. You won didn’t you?”

  “Suppose you could call it that.”

  “When are you going to break out of this underground stuff? You know you’re good enough for Cage Frenzy. I’m sure I could put a word in with the organisers.”

  “I’d take that shot if I could get it but… It’s complicated, Mona. I have to make do with what fights I can get for now.”

  I didn’t need to bore Mona with my bad luck tales. And I didn’t need to bore myself either.

  “Well, when things get less complicated, you give me a call and I’ll put that word in. You still have my number, don’t you?”

  She arched a shapely eyebrow that said all that needed to be said on that score. I’d taken her digits that night we went for drinks but never did call her. She brought it up every time we bumped into each other, usually at an MMA event.

  “Yeah, I’ve still got it, Mona. I’ll call you soon, I promise. You know, when things are less…”

  “Complicated?”

  “Right.”

  Mona took another step forward and I wanted to back up, get her back outside the danger zone. But my legs locked up. She was more dangerous than any man I ever stood in front of.

  “I’ve been very patient with you these last few weeks, Mickey.”

  I nodded. It was about all I could manage.

  “But I’m not going to wait around forever,” she said.

  Mona leant in and placed a lingering kiss on my lips. My toes actually curled. She laid her hand on my chest and pushed herself away from me.

  “You better call me soon, Mickey.”

  She walked away from me, hips swaying hypnotically, never looking back. My heart all but burst out of my chest and rolled after her. Mona had me bad.

  But I had my other girl to think about.

  ROUND 3

  I’ve never been much of a cook, but the plate in front of me held one of the most pathetic meals I’d ever slopped out of a pot. Macaroni and cheese -- or to give it a more honest name -- rubbery pasta disaster. Lily looked even less impressed with it than I was.

  “Can we phone for a Chinese takeaway?”

  I thought about the money in my pocket and subtracted rent, groceries and other essentials. It came up short. Then I tasted the pasta. I worked hard to swallow it down so I wouldn’t have to spit it out in front of Lily. Kids got their eating habits from their parents and I was damned if I was going to raise a savage.

  “So, what do you think, Daddy? Is it nice?”

  “Go get the Chinese menu, kiddo.”

  She treated me to that smile that crushed my heart every time and scampered off to the kitchen area. The menu was stuc
k to the fridge with a magnet. Lily plucked it off the big white door and came back and sat on my lap. She spread the menu out on our table for two and ran down the choices with her little finger. Eight years old and this little doll could read better than I could. She was more decisive too. She picked her food in a few seconds. I laboured over my choice until she poked me in the ribs.

  “Just get the beef and black bean sauce, Daddy. You always get that.”

  “Yeah, but what about the starter?”

  “Get some ribs.”

  I could almost taste the tender fatty meat as soon as she said it.

  “Barbecue or Peking flavour?”

  “Salt and chilli. I love that smell.”

  “Do you want to phone for it?”

  “Yeah!”

  Lily took my phone from the table and paced the apartment floor while she waited for somebody to answer her call. Her mother used to do that. Never sat when she was on the phone. Even after all these years, Lily still had a bunch of little habits she’d inherited from Angela. My heart ached a little as I watched her.

  After she put the order through she came back to the table and cleared up. She scraped the uneaten pasta into the bin and sat the plates in the sink for me to wash later. I noticed she left the pot I’d cooked up the mess in, though. That was something I’d have to tackle myself. I wondered if I could borrow a welding torch or a hand grenade from somebody. Lily poured us a couple of glasses of orange juice and came back to the table. She sat in her own seat this time and rested her elbows on the tabletop.

  “How was school today, kiddo?”

  “Fine.”

  “You learn much?”

  “Not really. We did times tables but I already knew them.”

  “How come?”

  “I don’t know. It’s just easy for me, like the way some kids are better at football, you know?”