Page 9 of Violent Possession

“Who is he?” I ask.

Karpov grabs another beer from the bucket. “Ah, he’s some big shot who failed at MMA, so we took him in here. Was a winning machine... until today. That piece of shit, worthless motherfucker?—”

An idiot. I correct him, “The other one, Karpov.”

“Ah.” He stops. He’d rather curse his golden goose than talk about the one who slit its throat. “I don’t know. Some psycho from the south. A nobody who fights for pocket change.” He gestures dismissively. “Iron Arm. What a joke. He’s just a fucked-up stump with a grudge against the world.”

A stump with a grudge who just dismantled your champion with efficiency and a smile.

I could use someone like him.

I cast the bait. “He doesn’t fight like anobody.”

“Listen,” Karpov begins, pointing the beer bottle at me like a weapon. “That guy? I heard he was kicked out of Los Angeles. Banned. For behavioral problems. The worst kind...”

I’m not impressed. “We’re in a basement where men beat each other for money. What counts as ‘behavioral problems’ here?”

“He’s only in this ring because I owed a favor to his fucking agent. The guy told me, ‘he’s missing an arm, he’s deep in the shit, he’ll take any change you throw at him.’”

“Huh. You didn’t look into who he was talking about?”

“Of course I did.”

Karpov stands there with his arms crossed. A six-foot-tall child, throwing a tantrum because he knows the move that cost him his prize.

“And?”

“Andwhat? And nothing,” he answers too quickly. “Acesspool, that’s what I found. Crippled someone, killed someone else...”

“And you, knowing this, let him fight your champion?”

Karpov takes offense, which is funny—I’m not actively trying to offend him. He’d know if I were. I’m just describing his own actions.

He points a trembling finger in my direction. “Because it was a rumor, for fuck’s sake! His agent sold me a loser, not a demon with a tin arm! Do you know how many guys show up at my door claiming they killed ten mob bosses? All of fucking Sacramento claims they’ve taken off Donald Trump’s head—if the guy was kicked out of LA for being out of control, half the guys here are too. Welcome to fucking Sacramento. Rat, that lazy bastard, should have crushed him in thirty seconds, not stood there with his arms wide open for a cripple.” He turns back to the railing. His face contorts in disgust.

He’s going to drown his financial loss and wounded ego in cheap beer and self-pity. Useless.

“I’ll have this cripple erased. Nobody makes a fool out of me in my own backyard,” he mutters to himself.

It’s the reaction of a petulant child:destroy. This imbecile is about to break his final playing card.

“Killing him? Is that your grand business strategy?”

Karpov blinks. “Hehumiliatedme! He cost me money!”

His problem is obvious. He doesn’t know how to manage the one business he has the slightest taste for.

“He could make you more money than you can imagine,” I say, taking a step toward him. The power shifts on our small, elevated platform. “Were you deaf? Didn’t you hear the crowd? They would paydoubleto see him again.”

The gears turn slowly in his head. Greed fighting against wounded pride.

“So what do we do?”

We, in the plural. A new development. This basement game has nothing to do with me. I prefer to professionalize it.

“That depends. Does he have a brain, or just a metal arm and a temper?”

Karpov frowns. “How the fuck should I know? I’ve never seen him solve an algebra problem.”