CHAPTER EIGHT

A disco ball! Didn't they go out with the dinosaurs? Or was it polyester suits?

Balanced on the top rung of a ladder wiring the bugger in, I needle Scott, "You're not even old enough to remember these things, are ya?"

He laughs, "Something like that. But hey, wasn't it torches back in your day?"

Grunting and scratching my ass, I mimic a cave man.

Scott laughs, "There ya go. Next Halloween you're all set. Don't need to buy a thing."

"I'll keep it mind but thought I might hit ya up for that cute lil' tutu and tights. Still got 'em stashed away?"

Scott's expression is priceless. "What are you talking about?"

"The photo album in the library? Think it was Hank, you, Jean, couple others I don't know?"

"Sonovabitch!"

"You'd 've made a cute girl, Scooter."

"Thanks Logan, but um, you weren't my type."

"Ya got that right, bub. So c'mon. What's the story?"

Right hand raised, he says, "I plead the fifth."

"Chicken shit."

Tucking hands under pits, he squawks and laughs. "No comment over Jean in the prize fighter costume?"

"Not if I don't want ya to pull the ladder out from under me."

"Logan, you've got no faith."

"Got lots o'faith. Faith that you'd just love to see me splat my ass on the hard marble floor."

Grinning like a hyena, Scott gets busy untangling power cables near what will become the bandstand.

Harking back to an earlier era, this multi-purpose room was once a ballroom. Up to a year ago a trio of elaborate chandeliers hung from the twenty foot ceilings. Stryker's goons made scrap out of 'em and no compensation from the government or insurance can replace 'em. Charles was fairly broke up over the loss 'cuz I think they held more sentimental than dollar value.

A string of Russian curses breaks my concentration. "'S'up Tin Man?"

"My amplifiers. They do not work. They are broken."

"Helps if ya got juice comin' through the plug, eh."

Hands on hips, Pete stares at me. Suddenly the light bulb switches on and he busts out laughing."Da, da. You are right."

"Gimme another five, okay?" I'm referring to cutting the breaker back on after I'm done playing electrician.

With a thumbs up, Pete lights out for another load of audio equipment. Before I get the final screws set in the ceiling, Pete, Bobby and Vic haul in a big-ass sound mixing board. Sheesh! Take crap tunes from no-talents, mix it up with a rap beat. What these kids call music nowdays makes my head explode.

No how, no way am I getting' roped into testing the sound system. Dropping from the ladder, grab my jacket and scram the hell out.

Scott hollers, "Where're you off too?" as I duck through the door.

None of your business is the answer that always comes to mind when he's asking but I shrug. "Dunno yet but whatever it is ain't gonna be here."

"M'kay." From Scott's expression, I get the feeling he's not keen on chaperoning a high school dance either.

"C'mon with me."

"Oh, hell no! Trying to keep up with you is not worth the pain."

"I tried t'tell ya last time tequila shots were a bad idea."

"Funny, I don't recall."

"Really?" I laugh, remembering the scene.

Crazy, fun night 'til Mister Lightweight went all technicolor over the Jeep's leather seats and my jacket. "Know what ya need, Cyke?"

"What do I need?"

"Practice. Ya need to get out o'here, kick up yer heels more often. Build up tolerance."

He grimaces and shakes his head, "Pass."

"Yeah. Whatever. Later, okay."

"Hey, Logan," he calls as I sprint toward the exit. "Take it easy." He ruins it by slipping back into chief busybody administrator mode. "Don't forget you got the watch tomorrow. Six a.m. . . ,"

"Sharp, I know. Thanks mom!" My single finger salute conveys utmost respect as I slam the door.

xXx

Dukes Dead End. Gotta love a place with a name like that.

Like everything in District X, it is a dead end. Bars on the first and second floor windows make it a firetrap. Higher up, the windows're either busted out or boarded up. Rusted fire escapes probably couldn't support a rats' weight.

Bullet holes add ambience to decayed, stained and crumbling brick. Drive-by shootings are common as houseflies on a summer day around here and a dark brown stain on the pavement says one o'those flying bullets found its mark fairly recently.

There's the usual cast of street characters. Panhandlers trying to score enough for another fifth of rotgut or their next fix. All variety of hookers catering to every taste imaginable – some of it unfucking believable and downright sick. A few sad sacks lurking in the alley pick through the dumpsters for their next meal.

Inside, cracked, stained and dull marble floors, carved columns of the same stuff says this place used to be something. Once a schmansy hotel, later converted to tenements, now it's back to a full-service hotel, the kind ya rent by the hour.

The place is divvied up into sections. You pic your poison and bouncers stationed at each section pick your pockets.

Besides standard barroom games and booze, ya got yer oxygen and hooka parlors. Going deeper into this bung hole showcases even more fun and games. Sex I'll never be desperate enough to pay for and pocket-stripping gaming. Okay, rigged 'r not, I've been known to get roped into a bit o'that.

'Course it wouldn't be complete without the burnt sweet stink of weed and sinus searing crack and meth. Need more? Take a nice little trip on Anodyne* or risk a permanent vacation, six feet under on Toad Juice.

Down a hall, past the mens room, a knock on a side door and a fifty dollar cover charge gets ya into the gentlemen's lounge. Just what I want. Spend good money to watch some scuzz ball pretendin' to fuck herself on a pole. Another door caters to the ladies and a third door caters to . . . well, never mind. Good to know a rainbow of opportunities abound.

The basement is where hardcore goes down. Bare knuckle, no rule cage fights – my kind o'joy. Then, there's a sport, if ya can call it that, that turns my stomach: Dog and cock fights.

The cock fights don't bother me near as much. Stupid fuckin' birds. Greedy retard handlers.

But, how the hell can somebody take majestic, intelligent dogs, abuse the shit out of 'em so they become slavering killing machines and let 'em tear each other to bloody chunks?

Chuckling to myself over the irony, guess I'm like one o'them dogs. At least now I have a choice.

Dog fights are for cowards, fuckers who don't have the balls to go man-to man. I'm tempted to show 'em just how I really feel. Trouble with that is, I might wanna come back. Trashing the place is pretty much a guarantee the welcome mat won't be out next time. So, I keep my distance and mind my own goddamn business.

Intent on kicking off the night right, I elbow my way to the bar and order up: Two brews, two shots. Good start, nobody gives me any shit, the bottles are frosty and the shot glasses are clean.

A mix of young, old, male and female, the patrons act like any other bunch o'barflies except for one detail. Most of 'em are Mutant. Obvious Mutant.

Reminds me of the scene in Star Wars. What's his name going into an alien bar with the old guy. Like them, I appear more normal than most present company.

"Tryin' to get hammered quick, huh," says a skinny guy with orange skin who resembles a gecko.

I set down my second shot glass,"Tell me a better way t'start a Friday night."

He raises his bottle, "I hear ya."

Looking feline, complete with claws, fangs and thick, shaggy fur, the guy next to gecko adds, "Gotta get it b'fore they start waterin' it down."

I nod then drain beer number one.

Puss in cowboy boots moves closer, sniffs and states, "You're new 'round here."

"Yep, first time."

I feel like I'm being sized up for supper when he looks me up and down, "Smell like a Mutant but ya sure don't look like one."

Rolling and unrolling his lizard tongue, Gecko mutters, "Shut up," and elbows his buddy.

Setting my bottle down, I cross my arms and stare cat-face down. I'd pop the claws except his scent carries no malice, "And your point is?"

Not a bit fazed, he leans casually against the bar, "No point. Just curious is all."

I shut 'em both down asking, "Ya know what they say about cats 'n curiosity, eh?"

Bored with these two flakes, I pick up my beer and stake out fresh territory.

Abruptly the lights go up. The crowd hoots and applauses in anticipation as bright, multi-colored spotlights bathe a stage and runway that bisects the room. A badly maintained sound system rattles to the gyrating beat.

Nice. It's floor show time.

Four babes; not half bad, if you like the type, strut and bump and grind as they take turns on the runway. Fake hair, fake tits, body piercings in places that should never be pierced and shaved – er probably waxed pubes. I don't get that; never will.

Whistles and cat calls tell me I'm probably in the minority.

Aw geeze! I can't resist chuckling openly. The babes do their thing, twats in full view, but the law says they gotta cover nipples. Heart-shaped pasties! Shouldv'e figured. Had to slip that little Cupid fucker in somewhere.

"Nuff o'this shit. Taking the long way, that is a pit stop and a refill, I find my way to the pool tables. Thanks to the floor show, the wait for a table is miminal and the competition are the true sharks.

Five games later and my wallet significantly lighter than when I first got here, I concede to the local hustler. I know exactly how to put the weight back in the wallet.

Bullying my way down two levels leads me to the real contest. There're two bouncers, built like Mastiff's, to scare off the pussies, blacklist retards and buy off the occasional cop. Wait 'til they get a handle on me.

Mutt number one checks a sheet. I growl,"Ain't no fuckin' 'lister, bub."

"Ya look kinda wet behind the ears, boy," challenges the other dogface.

The dent my bare fist lays into to brick wall behind their heads proves otherwise.

I cross my arms and stare 'em down. Rin Tin Tin shakes his head. Lassie motions me past

Signing up is simple. I belly up to the bar, order a tall one and say, "Sign me up."

The barkeep, a balding, scrawny grizzled ol' coot, looks amused asking, "What you go by?"

I tell him.

"Sure ya are," he guffaws hearing my cage moniker. "What's yer mutation, pretty boy?"

"Wha'da you care, pops?"

"It'd be a shame if that pretty face o'yours gets smeared all over the floor."

I point toward the cage with my beer bottle, "Worry about the guy over there." I chug my beer, belch and wipe my mouth on my the back of my hand. "Feral," is my answer to his question.

He's too busy laughing and chiding my obvious stupidity to hear me say, "And healing factor." I fail to mention my metal bones but hey, he only asked about my mutation.

Every pit from here to hell is the same. The meaty sound of flesh smashing flesh, sweaty, tightly packed bodies, adrenalin, blood and pain; and the stink riles my animal side into an effing frenzy.

Spying an empty corner off to the side, I grab another beer from the bar and elbow my way between benches packed with drunks.

Ugh! Jesus Christ! No wonder it's vacant. Some bozo puked and left it. Plan B; opposite corner, suffer the crowd.

The cage is standard vinyl coated wire, worn and rusty in spots, stretched double thick over fluorescent lights embedded in the ceiling. Goddamn concrete floor's gonna hurt like a mother fucker.

The current champ's a tank. I'm no scrawny weakling but this guy looks like a steriod freak that swallowed a gorilla.

I sneer, watching this prize asshole lumber around the cage like a bull moose. He's slow, stupid, fights gutter dirty and the crowd eats it up.

Can't say much more for his opponent. Pulped mug and wobbling, Tank's beating the shit outta him.

Tank snaps a cheap and nasty kick to his opponents gut. He folds over like a rubber hose. Yanking him up by the hair, Tank thrusts two fingers into the poor slobs throat. He kisses the mat, gagging and gasping.

The crowd screams approval as Tank raises his arms in victory, strutting his stuff like a fucking peacock.

A squirrelly looking little prick sidles out of the crowd an tugs at my arm , "Hey you, put in or get out."

I cut him down with a face that'd crumble granite, "Git yer hands off."

He retreats, lipping off, "Save it for the cage, ya schmuck," and shoves an old timey wooden milk crate heaped with tens and twenties at me. Maybe a couple hundred bucks at most; for the size of the crowd and reputation of the place, it's pretty sad pickin's.

"Fuck off, I'm fightin'," is my reply.

Squirrelly warns, "This ain't no dub-ya, dub-ya, dub-ya exhibition like ya see on t.v."

I feign shock, "Oh no!" then wave him off. "Beat it, bub."

Squirrelly looks me up and down and shrugs, "Your funeral." Grinning, he points behind to the ring where Tank is still posturing for the crowd. Sounding like a piglet snorting a bucket of slop, squirrelly laughs and fades back into the crowd.

As a dude with green skin and purple dreadlocks drags Tank's victim, still cacking and spitting blood, off the floor, a voice booms over the loudspeaker, "Ladies and gents, I give you a new contender."

Boos ring throughout the building punctuated with a smattering of cat calls.

"Yes siree, that's right, fresh meat on the hoof."

The crowd roars in anticipation.

"Give it up for Canada's King o'the Cage, the Wolverine."

A fat slob sitting on a bench in front of me in a biker jacket so filthy you can't tell its original color, turns to a buddy, "Wolverine? What the fuck name izzat? Whoever he is, he's gonna be chopped liver." They laugh.

They don't have a clue and that's good. It'll make takin' their money that much more fun.

Chucking off my jacket and boots I poke Biker slob in the shoulder. Hard. "Hey asshole, watch this for me 'til I get back." I stare him down 'til he drops his eyes in surrender. "And they better be here when I get back. Got it?" Biker Slob nods a vigorous yes.

I swagger up to the cage, deliberately jostling elbows and shoulders as I pass through the crowds. Shouting, "Hey asshole," to Tank, "Ya know how to really fight or ya just kissin' ass?"

Quiet falls over the crowd as the Tank shades his eyes with his hand trying to make out the mouthy upstart - me.

"You talk big, little man," Tank taunts back.

I hear a couple sissy, sarcastic ooohs from the crowd.

"Ain't size, fuckface, it's what ya do with it."

Tank stomps across the ring, "Izzat so, twat?" Leaning too close, he sprays me with spit, "Git your runty ass in here and I'll show ya what to do with it."

The crowd laughs and applauds their champ.

Shrugging my t-shirt over my head, I step into the cage and grin, "Bring it, cupcake."

He does, charging just as the spring loaded cage door slams behind me. Sidestepping, I swivel on the balls of my feet and feint punches, "Impressive. Wanna go again?"

Second act, same as the first but this time I follow with a pivot and a jackhammer kick to his ass that sends him skidding chin first on the cement floor.

He rolls, roars and springs to his feet. His chin's a bloody skinned up mess.

My turn. I fire off a pair of left hand jabs aimed at Tank's shoulder and chest. He's all laughs 'til I nail him with a hard right fist in his gut.

Tank grunts as the air empties from his lungs. He staggers backwards, grabs his stomach and gasps.

The crowd reacts with, "Oooh,"

Quick to recover, Tank surprises me, aiming a kick to my groin. I'm faster. Snagging his leg in midair, I yank him forward and twist his leg. He flips, lands flat on his back flailing like cockroach.

I get in his face, "Ya don't even know how to fight, do ya asshole?" then back off, ready for payback.

Sure enough, his faced flushed crimson, he's stinks of vengance and rage. Roaring, with fists the size of canned hams aimed to smash by face, he rushes.

I ain't playing his game. Planting my left foot, I kick, arcing my right leg and end with my heel slamming the side of Tank's face. His jaw snaps with the impact and the crack reverberates through the ring.

The crowd groans.

Tank staggers back to the wire and grabs it to keep from dropping to the floor. Dazed, he faces me, grabbing at his face while blood trickles through his fingers.

The crowd's gone quiet. Guess they ain't used to seeing their champion getting his ass beat by and stranger who's yet to break a sweat.

I snarl at Tank, "We done yet? I want another beer."

Tank's answer is to launch himself off the mesh and hurl a sloppy wide punch at my face. Ducking, I rabbit punch him in the kidneys. Staggering back, he leans over and spits blood.

I offer free advice, "Quit now before they haul ya out on a stretcher," as Tank staggers back.

Roaring like a branded bull, Tank lunges, throwing another wild punch. I duck but this time it's me who gasps. The punch is a feint; the bastard pulls back and knees me in the nuts.

I see red as a sudden shock of agony spreads up from my testicles.

Furious at myself at being suckered, I stagger back a pace and drop to one knee. I'm thinking berserker, I wanna pop the hardware. Can't let that happen 'cuz if I do that fucker's head's gonna go bouncing across the floor Growling, tense arms crossed at chest level, I flex my fingers. Lock in down, bub, I self-counsel.

Wheezing and laughing, Tank closes in behind me. His beefy arm ringing my neck, I let him yank me up. Snapping my head back, bone is no match for metal, I mash his nose across his ugly face. Spurting blood, Tank reels back, screaming like a banshee.

Grinning, I turn to face him, "Game over," I decree. The asshole looks like he just crapped his pants.

My foot to the center of his chest knocks the wind out of him. Groaning, he falls backwards, bouncing off the chicken wire.

Swift and precise, I kick out at Tank's knee. The motion results in a satisfying pop. Howling, he crashing down on his one good knee. I finish the job, delivering a fist to the side of his head. I pull the punch just enough to keep from killing him.

Tanks head snaps back. His eyes roll up as his muscled bulk drops like a sack of shit.

The crowd is stone silent and still. Some of them open-mouth, they stink of shock and morbid fascination.

Glaring through the wire at the crowd, I growl, "Next."

xXx

Got time for half a smoke and a quick beer before next makes his way to the cage. The crowds' cheers tell me it's another local but the overflowing bucket says the money's on me this time.

The announcers voice crackles over the sound system, "Are we gonna let some weasel from armpit Canada steal our money?"

Excuse me! Armpit, Canada maybe . . . and it's Wolverine, bub. Helluva difference.

The crowd roars, "No."

Fist in the air, the announcer works the crowd, "All righty, then," and aims an air punch at me. "Mister King o'The Cage get ready to eat your crown . . ."

Enough with the cheese already.

"Ladies and Gents, let's hear it for the Districts very own royalty . . ."

Fuckin' unbelievable!

Complete with an entourage, a trio of fugly biker babes, my opponent struts through the crowd. Duded up in a shiny purple and black jacket, and what the fuck's around his neck? A scarf? If it weren't for theflattened nose and cauliflower ears of a seasoned fighter I'd think this guy ought a be strutting his stuff in the fag lounge.

Stocky but no paunch, this guy's in shape. The shaved head and goatee's a fitting bad ass touch.

"Angel, The Hammer Fist, Guzman," the announcer finishes.

Screaming and stomping, the crowd pays proper homage.

Fugly number one helps him off with his jacket. Fugly two gets off massaging his shoulders. Fugly three just stands around looking fugly while Pretty Boy hams it up blowing kisses, throwing air punches and insulting my manhood in Spanish.

Cigar hanging from my lip, I'm cool rolling my neck and shoulders. I can't resist tossing back an insult, "Hey don Juan, you talk big when all you rate is a gang of ugly putas," in Spanish.

My wink says it all: That's right ya dumb shits. Yo hablo Español.

Three death glares are rightly earned and I grin back at the fuglies. One of 'em flips me off.

In your dreams, bitch.

Pretty Boy replies, "When I'm done with you, motherfucker, the putas will pay you to stay away." He says it so friendly like and if I didn't understand Spanish I'd think he was my best pal.

Crossing my arms, I chuckle, "Bring it, pendejo."

The referee counts, "One, two, three," slices downward with his hand, "Go!" and bolts out of the cage.

A vocal group in the stands stomps and chants, "Kill 'im, kill 'im." Doubtful they're on my side.

Fast and hard, Pretty Boy lays into me. His moves say training and experience.

I dodge and block a knife hand shoulder chop. Jackhammer fists land a triple treat to my shoulder, chest and a potentially debilitating knife hand to my neck, I flip him. He's lucky I don't wrench his arm from its socket.

I can barely pick out a few voices cheering, "Go Canada boy!" or "Hit 'em up Wolfman." What part of Wolverine don't they get?

I put space between us before Pretty boy's back on his feet. Feisty, stupid or both, he closes in again. I duck under a roundhouse kick and pivot to strike back. But he's too fast, faking me out with a shot upside my head .

I grunt as he fists hard contact with my liver.

Fuck! That hurts.

He knows it, too and cuts me a break. We do the dance. Circling. Feinting. Testing.

Short attention span, the crowd boo's, cat calling, "Fight. Fight. Fight." And worse.

Even with reflexes on par with mine, knowing where to strike; he don't know I can end this anytime I want. One full bore adamantium knuckle sandwich and his head'll bust like a ripe watermelon.

So, where's the fun in that?

Pretty Boy launches a high kick to the side of my head. I let it land. It smarts but hurts him more, if the gasp he swallows back is any clue. Flesh and bone versus flesh and metal? Game over.

It's his turn to yield the floor. We dance again. He's favoring his right heel and he don't smell quite so fearless.

"Wha'chu got in your head, gringo fucker?"

"Might be a fucker but I'm Canadian. Comprende?"

"Excu-use me!" He feints an upper cut to my chin.

"Meirda!" he yowls at my knife hand slice to his bicep.

"No excuses, dick cheese." Pressing fast and hard, my thumbs and fists are battering rams as I drive him into the wire.

Grunts, gasps and curses says I'm putting the hurt on him. But the scent of fresh adrenalin says he's still juiced.

"Gahhfuck!" He learns fast, scoring a helluva wallop to my outer thigh. Fire shoots up my leg as the muscles spasm and threaten to lock up.

Before my healing factor works out the kink in my thigh, he goes for another shot; elbow to my chest this time. Tightening my muscles prevents him from knocking the wind outta me when he lands a pair of jabs to my gut. Aiming for soft parts, he's set to inflict max pain. Damn if he ain't succeeding.

Screw this!

Seizing his his arm, I use his own momentum to wrench the arm and flip him onto the floor.

He rolls to a stand and shakes out his arm, "Chinga usted! Chinga tu madre!" Pissed off, he makes his first dumb move. He charges.

Fuck you too, bub! Dodging his take down and pivoting, my foot planted in his ass lands him sprawled on the floor.

It's half boo's and half laughs from the stands.

A little grand standing ain't beneath me. Fist raised, I strut and taunt, "Tu madre es una puta de cerdo." A nasty insult for me but he started it so I'm gonna jack with him 'til he blows.

Chin and elbows skinned and bloody, he pick himself up off the floor. If rage has a color, his deep purple face is it."You die for those words."

Yea-ahh, insult the mother. Works every time for Latino pricks. Flexing my pecs and biceps, my grin is predatory, "You're welcome to try."

He screws his face up. Raising his arms overhead, the veins writhe like snakes. Curling his hands into fists, flesh transforms into a pair of sledgehammers.

Holy shit!

Now's the time for that adamantium knuckle sandwich.

My fist collides head on with his fist. The thin flesh of my knuckles can't muffle the clang of metal on metal.

"Gah!" I drop my fist and stagger. Shock waves of agony vibrate the length of my metal bones. The crowd's collective gasp echoes my sentiments. This fuckin' hurts!

Defense my smartest choice, I pose my arms to block and retreat a few steps. Gotta re-evaluate. Fast.

Packin' adamantium, he ain't. Fuck all if I know what, though. Probably won't kill me but it's even money puttin' me in a bad hurt or a K O.

He advances, throwing bone crushing punches. My blocking him is an exercise in self-abuse. Every shot I block are lightning bolts shooting through my bones while blood spirals down my arms as the skin splits and heals.

Cuffed below the ribs, I gasp and fold into myself as blazing agony sears through my gut. Left side means he's done a number on my spleen.

"Gah!" An upper cut to my chin feels like French kissing a wrecking ball. Specks of light dart across my eyes as I spit blood and fall back against the cage.

"Kill 'im. Kill 'im. Kill 'im," rings in my ears.

Another potent wallop to my belly, right side this time, invites my liver to the party.

I'm down on one knee, trying not to puke, but Hammer Fist drives his knee into my nose. Forget it. My last beer mixes with the blood gushing over my mouth and chin. It forms a frothy red puddle on the concrete floor.

Might be in deep shit, here.

Hell bent for victory, Hammer Fist grabs me by the belt and hair. Impossibly, he raises me over his head. I feel myself sail across the cage. With a muted clang, my head slams intothe cement floor with enough force to scramble my brains. Stunned, I lie there watching the ceiling lights wink and turn hazy.

I am in deep shit.

The crowd counting "One, two," wavers.

Struggling to stand, the slow motion tilt-a whirl I seem to be stuck in makes it impossible. Hooking my fingers into the wire for balance and crouching is my only option.

Izzat two refs standing between me and twin Hammer Fists? I shake my head willing the doppelgangers gone.

"Three. Four," chants the crowd.

Bad idea. Think I'm gonna puke.

"Five. Six," sounds distant as darkness closes in and my spine goes as slack as my grip on the wire.

"Seven. Eight."

Can't win this 'un without claws.

"Nine. Ten," is a whisper to my ears.

In my mind I laugh, amused to finally meet my match.

The roar of the crowd buzzes in the distance before fading to absolute silence.

XXX

A/N I must give credit for my reference to Anodyne to notamos's story by the same title. Credit and thanks also go to my husband and best friend/beta, RhiannonUK. Reviews are strongly desired and taken seriously.