The dying rays of sun at the end of the day never managed to hit the one of the many ramshackle terraces that disguised by a door and a flight of stairs was one of Rio de Janeiro's most infamous fight club. This wasn't just the backstreets, this was the backstreets backstreet. This was the slums. In this very clubs bathroom, a young man was staring at his reflection. Raimundo Pedrosa was only a little more than a boy, yet this was not his first time getting geared up for a fight in this bathroom. Not by a long shot. The face in the mirror mocked him. Taunted him, made him remember things he'd rather forget.
His hair was dark and tousled, his tanned face and skin smeared permanently with grime and dirt. He stepped back from the mirror and rolled his shoulders, which were exposed in what once was a white vest. He then began to wrap his beaten bruised hands and wrists in over-used, bloody bandages, slowly, carefully, using the same care and precision that was usually seen by a skilled craftsman. He then closed his eyes, breathed in and out rhythmically. He thought out his battle plan in his brain. Dodge, weave, left jab, right hook, roundhouse kick. One last look in the mirror, and he was ready.
He swaggered out into the club, which was in full swing. Like Raimundo, most people in the club were filthy, but there was one large difference. Most of these people had large wads of cash in their hands.
"Shut up! You'll all get your turn!" hollered a tall man, who was stood on platform, taking bets for the next fight. He was unusually pale, and his accent showed that he wasn't from the area. He seemed quite relaxed, taunting and mocking the betters. The only thing that stopped them from beating the man to a pulp was the fact that he could make them very rich men.
"Ah! Raimundo! My man!" The man jumped of the platform, and ran over to him, ignoring the shouts and complaints of his customers.
Raimundo groaned "Whad'ya want, Spicer?"
"What do I want?" The man laughed. "Oh Raimundo, Raimundo. I don't need to want anything to speak to my buddy!"
Raimundo shivered. Jack Spicer was creepy, scary and rotten to the core. He was only young, a couple years older than Raimundo. He only acted like his friend because he had to. Raimundo was one of the clubs most prized fighters.
"I'm not your friend, Spicer." Raimundo snarled, trying to shrug him off.
"Look, pal," Jack spat, changing his tone suddenly and staring strait into Raimundo's face "Are you fighting tonight, or what?"
Raimundo broke his glare, turning away.
"Yeah."
Jacks face broke back into the creepy smile.
"Good." He pointed to the ring in the centre of the club, where a very large man with bulging muscles was smiling smugly,
"Mad Mike's waiting for you. Good luck!" Jack chirped. Just as Raimundo thought Jack had gone, he heard a whisper in his ear.
"Your gonna need it."
Raimundo shuddered again. After talking to Jack, he always felt he should have a very long shower, just to wash off all the grease and slime.
As he made his way up to the ring, he thought about what Jack had said. It didn't faze him. It never did. He climbed into the ring, and stared so-called "Mad" Mike in the face.
"Today you're gonna feel pain! So much pain that… er… you will be in ULTIMATE PAIN!" Yelled Mad Mike.
"Sure dude," sighed Raimundo confidently "sure."
This won't take long, he thought.
Hey, thanks for reading! Sorry that this chapter is short, but there is more to come, I promise!
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