Chapter 19: No Pain, No Gain
"The freaking nerve of my cousin, saying that I look like a pansy after the way I helped him out last night!" Artie thought bitterly to himself as he pulled the Sentinel into the parking lot of Silver's Gym in Horgate, "He would've fucking died out there if I wasn't covering his ass from above."
Silver's Gym was a small ivory building that would have looked like any typical shop had it not been for the winged man effortlessly lifting the large weights painted on the exterior wall facing the street.
"I'll show his ass. Besides, it's been a while since I've really managed to get myself a good workout anyway, at least one that doesn't involve me nearly getting myself killed," he thought stepping into the late morning sunlight, still feeling a little tired after all the strenuous work he had been put through the night before. He was clad in a blue track jacket with gold trim, a pair of matching athletic shorts, a white muscle t-shirt underneath and some black, blue and gold athletic shoes.
"Time to shut Donnie up once and for all," he thought to himself approaching the front door, until he heard the thumping bass of a car stereo and jumped as a cobalt blue Banshee with a white racing stripe peeled into the gym's parking lot and skidded to a halt in the first available parking spot, which Artie coincidentally stood in front of.
"Speak of the Devil," the Italian-American thought to himself as his cousin Donnie sat in the driver's seat, bopping his head to the beat of Eminem's "Without Me" before killing the engine.
"Well I'll be fucking damned, my little cousin decided not to pussy out after all!" the elder Cappelli cousin boomed stepping out of the sports car and removing his blue-tinted shades. "Good to see ya' Cuz. You here to get all nice and bulked up just like Big D?" he asked, flexing his covered muscles. Donnie himself was clad in a purple and black track suit with a duffel bag slung over his shoulder.
"Gee, I thought I was big enough already," Artie retorted, "Guess I have to eat steroids for breakfast in order to be 'big' enough for you, don't I?"
Donnie laughed stridently at the remark, "Aw c'mon Cuz, you know I'm just yanking your chain," he said with a playful punch to his cousin's shoulder.
Inside the place was much larger than what it appeared to be and definitely much cleaner than expected.
There were a few people peddling on exercise bikes, running on treadmills or just lifting weights. A boxing ring sat off to the left, where two men were engaged in a sparring session. In an adjoining room he could hear Gina G's "Ooh Aah…Just a Little Bit" booming from within, which he assumed was probably an aerobics class.
"I guess this place shouldn't have been too much of a dump if it was recommended by Donnie of all people," Artie thought looking over to his cousin as he removed his track jacket.
"So what's first on the agenda Cuz? Lifting weights? Some cardio? Gonna climb into the ring and whoop some pansy ass?" Donnie asked shadow boxing while motioning towards the ring.
"Hmmm, now that I think about it, I might lift some weights, maybe then I won't look like such a 'pansy' to you then," Artie said looking over to a freed up weight bench and then back to his cousin, "How about you Cuz?"
Donnie wasn't looking at any of the equipment, focusing entirely on a light-skinned African-American woman with long straight black hair in a light blue sports bra that barely contained her ample breasts and some tight black spandex shorts that showed most of her long toned legs and emphasized her thick round ass.
"I think I've got my own kind of 'workout' in mind," he replied with a wink, "Now if you'll excuse me," he said following the woman towards the locker room area.
"Pervert," Artie hissed while approaching the workout bench and laying back. Taking a couple of deep breaths he gripped the bar and began performing a series of reps.
It had been a while since he had worked out in an actual gym and it came back to him rather quickly, strong enough he was able to lift the weights without a spotter present, not exactly the smartest workout strategy, but one he still felt comfortable enough with.
"At least this place is more sanitary and actually looks like a gym compared to that crumbling shack I had to work out at up in Bohan," he thought while completing his final rep and taking another deep breath, letting his arms fall limply to the sides. Slowly sitting up he looked around for more ideas, seeing men doing sit ups and pushups on the mats next to him, another doing pull ups and a few more guys punching away at the heavy bags in front of them.
"Nah, I don't think I wanna be too sore after what I did the night before," Artie told himself as he climbed onto an exercise bike and started peddling at a gentle pace.
"Besides, who knows when I'll be needed again-" the hired gun was thinking to himself until L.L. Cool J's "Mama Said Knock You Out" suddenly filled the air.
All of the other patrons stopped everything they were doing and turned their attention to the front entrance, where a short man wearing shades and a turned around baseball cap came in with a boombox on his shoulder, blasting the tune and trying to dance simultaneously.
Behind him came two other men, the first being another short man with a shaved head and prominent red eyebrows, wearing a Rushmore City Statesmen baseball cap and dark blue jogging outfit with a towel draped around his neck, looking like an athletic coach.
"Oh yeah! Whoo! Whoo! Whoo! I'm feeling the intensity today baby!" the final entrant called out shuffling his way into the gym, grunting loudly and jabbing away at the air in front of him. The man was roughly around Artie's height with his auburn hair shaved in a crewcut and wearing a pair of aviator-style sunglasses, a black and gold track suit, black and white athletic shoes, and had several rings on his fingers and several necklaces dangling around his neck, "That's right bitches, the 'Almighty Southern Stomper' has entered the building and he's ready to kick some serious ass!"
"Who the fuck is this clown?" Artie asked aloud, unimpressed as the loudmouthed maniac bounced around like he was in a boxing ring, stopping to growl and pound his chest at anybody unfortunate enough to be standing near him.
"C'mon you bitches! I'm feeling fucking bulletproof! Any of you scrawny weaklings wanna step into my ring? Goddamn I'm so stoked right now I could rip a man's fucking arms off and fucking beat him to death with them, and then rip his head off and shit down his fucking neck!" the man screamed climbing into the ring, so intensely his veined looked like they were just seconds away from bursting out of his neck.
"Seriously, who is this guy?" Artie asked a guy riding an exercise bike next to him.
"Clancy Mays, he's some wannabe M.M.A. loser who comes in here all the time wanting to fight everything in sight. He claims to have killed over a hundred people with his bare hands, but seriously I doubt it," the guy replied.
"Alright, which one of you flaming fairies wants to climb into the ring today?" Clancy called out as his assistant switched off the boombox, "I haven't got all fucking day bitches! I could be off fucking five different women in the time it takes any of you wimps to make one tiny little decision!"
"And I thought Donnie was bad," Artie whispered as he joined the other patrons gathering around the ring. Inside Clancy had removed his shades and was calling out to whoever was present, including a Mexican janitor who spoke no English.
"Hey Paco, you go about your measly existence of sweeping up other peoples' shit! You can tell this country's going to the dogs when the liberal bitches who run this place allow your kind to work here without shipping your sorry ass back to the uneducated, inferior pit you crawled out of in the first place!" Clancy called out before guzzling down an entire water bottle and then tossing it at the janitor. "Wait, let me guess, you no speak any English, right? Well me no speak any 'wetback' either bub!"
"Christ, the only thing this loser is capable of killing is a person's eardrums," Artie thought clenching his eyes shut and his teeth together as Mays leapt onto the turnbuckle closest to him and started screaming.
"C'mon you losers, this is your chance to step into the ring with greatness! This is your chance to witness the next stage in human evolution! Or is that not good enough motivation to make you all stop being a bunch of sniveling, spineless punk bitches?" he screamed at the top of his lungs while shaking the ropes wildly.
"Aw fuck it, I'm just gonna pick some little punk to take my frustrations out on," he said while dancing around the ring, sizing up the other patrons before finally pointing towards Artie, "Hey you! Yeah you pal, the scrawny loser next to that tub of lard disguised as a woman!"
Artie felt the eyes upon him and sighed loudly, "Let me guess 'Almighty Southern Stomper,' you want me to be the 'limp dicked pansy' to climb into 'your ring' am I correct?"
Clancy suddenly stopped dead in his tracks, "Eh, we got ourselves a comedian in the ranks don't we?" he asked before mock laughing and then staring sharply towards him in an attempt to look intimidating, yet failing miserably, "Well do you see me laughing? Do you bitch? Huh?" he shouted, leaning over the ropes and pointing down towards him.
Artie shrugged his shoulders and replied sarcastically, "No sir, I don't."
"Damn right you don't bitch and you're not gonna be laughing either when you're six feet under! Now get your fucking ass in here so I can beat some respect into your sorry worthless ass!" Clancy hollered and backed himself into the red corner, removing his jacket and sinking onto the stool behind him. His corner man pulled out a towel and began dabbing his head before inserting a mouthpiece into his mouth. "C'mon fruitcake, let's get this shit over with!"
"Once again Artie, what have you gotten yourself into?" the Italian-American asked himself climbing the steps and then between the ropes, taking a position in the blue corner.
"Ha! I'm so gonna fuck your little bitch ass up," Clancy called out as he lowered himself to the canvas and began doing pushups to get himself psyched out. Once those were done he began jogging around in circles.
"Should be a piece of cake," Artie smirked approaching the center of the ring.
"What are you smiling at faggot?" Clancy spat, "You look pretty happy for somebody who's about to get his teeth knocked down his throat so he can chew his own ass out!"
"Do you really think you should be calling everybody 'faggots' like that? Seriously, you're going to really get yourself into trouble if you keep that up," Artie asked, only to receive a harsh laugh from his opponent.
"Ooh, is that a threat 'macho man?' Huh? Huh? I can already tell you've spent too much time in the liberal schools around these parts, bitch! Well I'm gonna give you a Grade A ass whooping and then I'm gonna go home and fuck your girlfriend!" Clancy shouted back, pushing him hard against the ropes.
Artie caught himself and furrowed his brow at the boastful man, "Alright, you're seriously starting to annoy me."
"Am I? Ooh, is the poor little faggot all butt hurt now? Do you have any idea who you're talking to boy? I'm the 'Almighty Southern Stomper!' I would be the 'Pain Giver' if that faggot Clay Jackson hadn't stolen my nickname and had it copyrighted!
"Anyways, I'm the man who once walked into a Derby City bank right in the middle of a holdup, killed all the robbers with my bare hands, disarmed the bomb strapped to some hot teller lady's chest, and then fucked the same woman all in under seven minutes flat!" the man screamed getting into Artie's face and jabbing his index finger into his chest.
"And you talk about me taking all the time in the world, sheesh, look who's talking bitch!" Artie shouted back, getting some cheers from the crowd, "For a guy who claims to be such a man of action you sure talk a lot!"
Clancy Mays seethed at the interruption, his skin now turning a bright shade of red, "Grr…nobody talks to the 'Almighty Southern Stomper' like that! Nobody! I'm so gonna stomp a mud hole into your faggot ass-"
THWACK!
Artie had finally had enough and before the arrogant fighter could continue his homily, he delivered a hard right hook to the man's cheek and sent him falling to the mat.
Clancy Mays looked to the hired gun in disbelief before he finally started writhing about like he was in serious pain, bawling like a baby.
His trainer and boombox carrying assistant both stumbled into the ring and took a position over their fallen charge.
"Oh my god, Clancy, speak to me!" his trainer called out trying to stabilize his client's head, "Speak to me damn it!"
"My face! He touched my beautiful face!" the downed fighter shrieked as if somebody had just blasted him with a shotgun, "He touched my beautiful face!"
Artie couldn't help but chuckle at the pathetic sight lying before him, knowing the man would probably have just a bruise and that's it.
"I could've blown the bastard's head off for all I care," he told himself as he was about to exit the ring, only to be stopped by Clancy's trainer grabbing him by the shoulder.
"Boy, do you have any idea what you just did?" the smaller man demanded.
"Yeah, I just shut his fucking big mouth for him," Artie said freeing himself from the man's grasp.
"No, you just royally fucked over the card at the Bear Cage! Clancy was supposed to be fighting in the main event!" the trainer whined.
"So what pal? That's not my problem. You should've told your meal ticket over there to keep his goddamned mouth shut and then maybe you wouldn't be in this situation right now," Artie grunted.
"Look mister, you don't understand, if we don't have a card happen there we don't make any money and that means that snake Johnny Sneed is going to send some of his goons down and fucking bomb the place all to hell!" the trainer whimpered.
"Johnny Sneed?" Artie repeated, halted by the mention of the antagonistic loan shark's name. The trainer now had his full attention.
"Yeah Johnny Sneed, that bastard has been breathing down our necks for God knows how long, always threatening to 'deal with us' if we don't repay that loan he gave us for repairing my gym," the trainer continued.
"That son of a bitch," Artie said shaking his head before looking towards the trainer, "Hmm, tell me is there any way I can help you deal with this matter so that nobody else has to worry about being bullied by that no good piece of shit? I have my own history with him terrorizing my cousin."
The trainer looked at him oddly before glancing back to the fallen Clancy and his assistant, the former babbling incoherently as an ice pack was applied to the side of his face. Reaching into his pocket the trainer produced a business card and handed it to him.
"Alright, that's where it's at. Just show up and be ready to fight," the trainer said before returning his attention to his fallen charge, who had a faraway glance in his eyes and continued to babble nonstop as he was helped from the ring.
The name on the card was listed as that of Murphy Molineaux, a 'trainer of future stars,' and saying the club was located on Jutland Drive in the accursed Steel Junction district.
"Well if it means I can help strike a blow against that Johnny Sneed fucker, then I guess it's worth another trip," Artie thought hearing some loud clapping.
Turning around the hired gun found Donnie standing behind him clapping loudly, "That's how a Cappelli does it! You sure shut his fucking trap!"
Upon closer inspection, Artie saw his cousin was dripping wet underneath his track suit, "What the hell man?"
Donnie looked down at the water stains beneath his outfit, "Oh…that…"
"I thought you were doing some kind of 'workout,'" the younger Cappelli inquired making his way down the ring steps.
"Umm yeah…it sort of ended up in the women's shower area," Donnie chuckled dabbing his forehead with a towel.
"Whatever you say," Artie said rolling his eyes before displaying the business card, "Well I guess I've just found myself in another jam and surprisingly, it's one you didn't get me into."
"Going back to the Steel Junction district, huh?" Donnie asked reading the business card, "Sucks to be you, Cuz."
"Well at least it's a chance to strike another blow at that Johnny Sneed prick, can't go wrong with that. Fuck, I'd walk barefoot over ten miles of broken glass and razor wire just to punch him in the face if I could," Artie said walking over to pick up his track jacket.
"I'd love to see that happen too, but unfortunately I have a prior commitment," Donnie explained as they made their way outside.
"Let me guess, one of your 'friends' is having you over for Scrabble tonight, huh?" Artie asked as Donnie approached his Banshee, "Or am I wrong and you have some random sexual encounter with yet another woman to attend to?"
Donnie only laughed in reply, "Something involving the friends, you got that part right."
"Would be nice if you were that committed to your own brother," Artie muttered under his breath, going unheard as Donnie fired up the convertible's engine and began blasting some tunes with the bass turned up, this time it was "Still D.R.E." by Dr. Dre featuring Snoop Dogg. Screeching out of its parking spot, the convertible sped off down the street and rounded a corner, disappearing from sight.
"Sometimes I don't know about that guy," Artie said shaking his head, "What the fuck am I saying? I never know with that guy."
He was interrupted from his thoughts by his ringing cell phone and he looked down at the caller ID screen to see Zeke was calling him.
Switching on the phone he spoke, "What's up?"
"Hey Artie, dude Randy and I are going to see 'Cyber Dude 2.' We were wondering if you wanted to join us. It's 'Official Cyber Dude Bobblehead Night' over at the Cosmo-Plex. Whatta ya' say?"
"I'm sorry Zeke, but I've kind of got a dilemma," Artie said climbing into the Sentinel, not wanting the rest of the world to hear what was going on in his life.
"Dude what the fuck? This is fucking Cyber Dude we're talking about here! This movie has fucking Jack Howitzer playing his arch nemesis Angry Dragon! How they finally got that one dimensional has been to play a villain is beyond me, but believe me, I'm itching to finally watch him be the one getting his fucking head blown off!" Zeke hooted from the other end.
"I'm afraid this isn't something I can just back out of Zeke. I fucked up some schmuck down at the gym and now I have to take his place down at some fighting tournament in some dump called the Bear Cage in that Steel Junction shithole," Artie grunted.
"The Bear Cage? Holy shit dude, Randy and I know a guy who fights there! He's one of our 'war buddies.' Why didn't you say something man? Maybe he could help us out!" Zeke replied.
"Because you were in the middle of having a wet dream about Cyber Dude," Artie retorted, "Besides, I hear Johnny Sneed has some kind of vested interest in this whole operation and I'm only doing my part to make sure he can't push somebody else around. It's bad enough he already pushes you and Gino around."
"I'm hearing you on that bro', hmm maybe we can afford to put Cyber Dude off for one day, but if we end up having to miss it again tomorrow, then so be it I'll finally follow through with my threat of shoving my shotgun up your ass and pulling the trigger," Zeke said, the pumping of a shotgun sounding in the background.
"I take it you and Randy wanna tag along then?"
"Sure thing, be over to pick us up as soon as you can. You'd better make it quick, or else Randy's gonna up and go to the theater anyway."
"Alright, I'll be over in a little bit," Artie said switching his phone off.
Turning on his radio he flipped through the channels until he happened across Rock of Rushmore 89.5, which was currently playing "Dangerous Bastard" by Love Fist, a song he hadn't heard in quite a while.
He snickered to himself, remembering how Gino used to be really into Love Fist back in their heyday and attempted to grow his hair out long, just like frontman Jezz Torrent, only to receive a ladle upside the head from Aunt Sophie for 'looking like a savage.' The thought of the now balding Gino with long, feathered hair never failed to crack him up.
"Those were the days," he thought, pondering what had happened to the rest of Love Fist, knowing only of Jezz Torrent's current whereabouts on his MeTV reality show 'Fist of Love.'
It was another largely uneventful ride back to The Little Black Book, with the hired gun passing more of those blue vested Aces outside of a records store and crossing paths with more than one biker gang on occasion.
Pulling up outside the bar, Artie saw both Zeke and Randy waiting for him and honked the horn to signal his arrival. Both men quickly ran to the car and climbed in, Zeke taking shotgun while Randy climbed into the backseat.
"Good to see you again," Zeke said fastening his seatbelt.
"This has better be damned good if it means we have to miss the premiere of 'Cyber Dude 2,' I wanted a damned bobblehead and I'm not waiting to go on eSwype to get one!" Randy groaned from the backseat.
"Randy, will you please shut the fuck up for once? We're going down to see Dal," Zeke shot back, "Besides, there'll probably be a late night show anyway, then you can say you still saw it on opening night."
"You'd so better not be yanking my chain, or else I swear to God I will make you my bitch a million times over," the former Cluckin' Bell cashier retorted.
"Good luck with that," Artie chuckled while waving back to some ladies in a passing Blade lowrider convertible.
"Hey, I've been watching martial arts movies! Who says I can't learn a thing here and there?" Randy asked climbing forth and almost shouting in Artie's ear.
"Well if you learned anything you certainly weren't showing it the other day when I had to save your ass from those 'roid freaks," Artie replied.
"And it's not the first time he's bitten off far more than he can chew," Zeke laughed.
"Hey fuck you Zeke! You're supposed to have my back man! Don't think I won't kick your fucking ass too!" Randy shouted back.
"Randy, are you fucking kidding me? I still remember the time you tried fighting that frat boy when we were at that Alpha Omega Pi beer blast! You thought you were going to be able to nail him with that 'Barn Burner' move you saw Deliverance Dick perform on Iron Toe on R.S.W.A.'s 'Saturday Night Showcase,' but instead you ended up throwing out your back and with your head shoved into a toilet filled with turds the size of anacondas!" Zeke shouted, eliciting a few snickers from Artie.
"Did you really have to bring that up?" Randy groaned covering his eyes in shame, "You have no idea how much time I spent in therapy over that…"
"Okay, you guys can stop your lovers' quarrel now, we're almost there," Artie said while struggling not to laugh.
Artie slowed down a little as he turned onto Jutland Drive, keeping a close eye out for any buildings where there seemed to be a lot of activity. He kept driving until he happened across an opened gate and peering through it, saw a bunch of vehicles parked outside an old Sprunk bottling factory, ranging from shabby Declasse Yosemites and rusted out Stallions to high-performance Turismo, Bullet GT and Cheetah sports cars to the more luxurious Stinger and Super Diamonds.
"This must be the place," he said pulling into the yard and taking a spot next to 1940 Fjord Thunder-Rodd. Stepping out of the car he activated the alarm, prompting a few stares from several tough-looking men who were standing around either smoking or drinking, some of them probably being fighters who had just participated judging by their fresh cuts and bruises. One of them looked the Sentinel up and down, only to be met by a rough glare from Artie, as if to tell him "Go ahead, I dare you to try."
"Yeah this is the place, now can we please get inside already?" Randy asked as he noticed a few of the patrons checking him out the way a lifer checks out a prospective prison bitch.
"Sure thing," Artie said letting Zeke lead the way.
The trio made their way inside and walked down a long, narrow hallway before descending a flight of stairs which had been guarded by two men in biker outfits with baseball bats in hand, only serving to heighten the existing tension.
They eventually entered an open area converted into a makeshift club, where people were either sitting around on the ratty couches getting drunk, downing shots at the crudely set up bar in the corner, playing pool, air hockey or darts, or just socializing in general. Slayer's song "Cult" blasted over the hastily set up speakers, causing Randy to cover his ears and lower his head.
"Okay, my allergies are acting up," he snorted as he did whatever he could to dodge the plumes of cigarette and marijuana smoke congesting the air.
Artie ignored the comment and made his way towards the back of the room, where two more bikers stood guard near a curtained entranceway, leading to a room where they could hear loud cheers and grunts of pain coming from within.
"Sorry princess, we don't allow any weapons in here…unless they're provided for the actual fights," one of the bikers, a long-haired man said placing his meaty arm in front of the curtain, "Anything you have has to go."
Sighing in frustration, Artie pulled out his Glock 22 and surrendered it to the biker.
"Go on in. If you're here to fight you sit on the benches up front," the man said in his husky tone before pulling the curtain aside.
The fighting arena was literally set up like a cage, an octagon to be exact, which took up most of the space and left little room for the overzealous spectators to stand, forcing them to literally press themselves against the chain-link structure. The same music playing in the club area blared over the speakers in the arena, adding to the atmosphere's intensity.
Inside there were two men fighting in a back and forth contest, one a tall man with his brown hair cropped closely to his head and wearing a sleeveless t-shirt advertising Condoleeza-Cheney brand beer, bloodstained blue jeans and a pair of black leather gloves.
His opponent was an African-American male with a shaved head and wearing a sweat-stained wife beater with flecks of blood on it and black track pants with white trim.
"Holy shit, Dal's fighting!" Zeke called out motioning towards the African-American fighter.
Both men circled each other before locking into a clinch, the white man then proceeding to drive his fist into Dal's side, while stomping on both of his feet at the same time.
Dal tried pushing the man off, but soon found himself thrust into the fencing, where some of the riotous fans grabbed onto him and left him open for his opponent to pound away at him.
"C'mon Dal, fuck his ass up!" Zeke shouted as the black man struggled, until he finally managed to get a foot up and strike his opponent in the stomach. Shaking himself away from the spectators, Dal threw himself at his opponent and mounted him, punching away until he was stopped by an elbow to the face.
"Excuse me, but just how good is this friend of yours?" Artie asked as the white man pushed himself back to his feet and then kicked Dal hard in his right kneecap before flooring him again with an uppercut.
"So far he's had 20 victories, 16 of them being knockouts, 3 losses and 1 draw, pretty good overall record if you ask me," Randy explained before wincing as Dal took a knee to the groin, "This normally isn't like him, trust me," he said before the other man threw his friend face first into the fencing, busting his forehead wide open.
Rearing his leg back, the other fighter went for a big boot directed at Dal's neck, but the trained boxer was the quicker of the two and spun out of the way, bringing his leg up to strike his opponent in the hamstring area while the man's foot was still pressed against the fencing.
"I ain't dead yet," Dal said to his opponent before he unleashed a flurry of rapid fire punches upon his opponent's face, following with a blow to the man's stomach, a stomp on his left foot and then a sweeping kick that took the man to the ground. He then performed a picture perfect elbow drop and then followed up with a knee bar submission hold like the kind Artie had seen plenty of times on W.T.F.'s (Worldwide Technical Fighters) weekly programming, wrenching on the other man's leg before he finally tapped the ground, indicating he had submitted.
A bell rang and an announcer's voice suddenly boomed over the intercom, "Ladies and gentlemen, your winner is Dallas 'the Street Sweeper' Morrow!"
"Hell yeah!" Zeke and Randy cried in unison and began hooting and hollering wildly as their friend raised his fists in triumph, soaking up the crowd's adulation before limping out of the cage.
"Holy shit Dal; you sure kicked that guy's fucking ass!" Zeke shouted towards the exiting fighter, who perked up at the mention of his name.
"Well I'll be damned, Zeke Jones and Randy Spitz, what brings your cracker asses down here?" the triumphant fighter boomed as he wiped some blood away from his face with a towel before reaching over to shake hands with his two friends.
"Our friend is here to fight," the bartender said motioning towards Artie, "Dal Morrow, this is our friend Artie Cappelli, my boss' cousin."
"Pleased to meet you," Artie said reaching over to shake the man's hand.
"Likewise bro'," Dal said before grabbing his personal bag, "Man, if you're here to fight then it looks like you're going to be in the main event. I hope you're ready for that."
Artie looked at him awkwardly, while Zeke and Randy suddenly looked terrified.
"What are you talking about?" he demanded looking into the cage to see Dal's opponent being helped outside.
"The main events around here get pretty brutal," Randy said, "Seriously man; people have actually died in some of them, especially when weapons are allowed."
"Yeah, I remember watching some fucker going hog wild with a chainsaw in there one time," Dal added looking at some long ago dried bloodstains, "He holds the record for the shortest match in Bear Cage history."
"Boy, you sure know how to lift one's spirits," Artie sarcastically retorted.
"Oh shit, that bastard Sneed's here!" Zeke said pointing towards a catwalk, where the loan shark stood in all his haughty, pretentious glory with his ever present bodyguards at his side.
The hired gun forced himself to suppress a feral growl that wanted to escape his lips. Every time he saw the man or even thought of him, he wanted to kill him in cold blood. The malicious thought burned bright in his mind, nearly overpowering his sense of self-control.
"I don't fucking believe it," Zeke grunted, shifting his gaze back and forth between the catwalk and his friends before looking back to Artie, "If he sees you here who knows what'll happen."
"Well it's too late to back out now," Artie said looking around to the raucous fans, who were hungry for blood and would likely raze the place to the ground if they were denied their fix of carnage. He felt someone tap on his shoulder and turned around to find Randy pulling a black and gold mask from his pocket.
"I knew this would come in handy sooner or later," he said placing the mask in Artie's hand, "It's my brother's El Abejorro Luchador mask."
"Lucha what?" Artie asked staring at his companion in puzzlement.
"A Luchador is a Mexican professional wrestler," Randy explained, "Look; just wear this for now and that way Sneed won't know who you are."
"Fine," Artie replied accepting the mask and pulling it over his head.
He turned around and looked to the cage, where seven more men were already entering.
"What the hell is this?" Artie asked looking towards the other men.
"Ooh, looks like they're going for the eight man match," Dal explained, "Those get pretty bloody, so I'd really watch my ass if I were you."
"Like I said Dal, you're really a lot of help," the Italian-American sarcastically replied as he approached the cage door and made his way inside.
Right away the other fighters were looking him over closely and beginning to make smart comments.
"What's the matter boy? Afraid you're gonna wreck your pretty little face?" taunted one man, a tall, burly guy with his curly hair covered by a Confederate flag pattern bandana, a pair of torn blue jeans and black biker boots. A denim vest identified him as a member of the Children of Chaos Motorcycle Club, the biker gang acting as security outside.
"And what do we call you? El Joto?" asked a bald Hispanic man wearing camouflage pants and a black hoodie.
"Mask or not, you're still getting your ass kicked boy!" shouted a shirtless black guy who had his hair dyed green and shaved into a Tri-Hawk hairstyle.
"I'm a make ya' squeal baby boy!" called out a tubby man who looked like a hillbilly with his denim overalls, flannel shirt, straw hat and horseshoe necklace.
Aside from the four men making smart comments, his other three challengers were a large Oriental man in a white Asian-style vest with his arms covered in tattoos, who stared towards him menacingly, punching his right fist into his opened left palm, a bald African-American wearing a white dress shirt, red tie and black slacks, who looked more like an office worker than a fighter, and lastly a scrawny man who looked like a medieval knight wearing an iron helmet and makeshift armor, how he did not collapse given his scrawny frame was a mystery to all.
"Alright ladies and gentlemen, it is time for the main event!" the announcer called out over a microphone hanging from the ceiling, the crowd cheering wildly at the announcement. "As always, this is a no holds barred contest where eight men will go until only one man is left standing and to make things more interesting…there will be weapons involved!"
The crowd went wild as several objects were tossed into the cage, such as baseball bats, beer bottles, wooden planks, wooden chairs, an old TV set, a frying pan, a steel chair wrapped in barbed wire and even a kitchen sink.
"Oh yes, there will be blood!" the announcer cackled excitedly, "Oh and there is only one rule, don't be a goddamned pussy! Now ring that fucking bell!"
A bell soon resounded and on cue, each of the fighters focused their attention on Artie.
"You're dead pretty boy!" the biker shouted, "I'm gonna rip your mask off and hang it from my bike's antenna!"
"Now this is officially not cool," Artie told himself as he dodged a haymaker thrown in his direction. The biker followed with a combo of punches and he brought his arms up to deflect the blows, or managed to dodge them completely.
Leaping backwards to avoid the biker, he soon found himself within the grasp of the Oriental man, who licked his lips in anticipation.
Dodging an attempted grab, Artie shot his foot out and caught the larger man in the groin, following up with a right cross that caught him in the face, then a punching combo that forced him backward and tripping over the TV set.
"I'm gonna be punching more than my timecard today!" another voice called out, this one belonging to the office worker. The man tried to deliver a right hook, which Artie managed to avoid, responding with a kick to the man's stomach and then an uppercut that floored him.
"Come here!" he heard the Tri-Hawk guy call out and found himself trapped in a crushing bear hug, clamping down on his ribs with all the force he could muster while lifting him into the air and shaking him wildly.
Artie tried punching the man in the side of his head, but the force left him unable to move his arms and out of desperation, he head butted the man hard in the face, breaking his nose beneath his masked cranium. Finally released from his grasp, he shoved the man backwards into the recovering Oriental, who had just risen back to his feet and took great offense. It provided a welcome distraction as the two men began pounding away at each other.
Before Artie could celebrate his reprieve, he found himself being shoved into the cage and then being held in place by the rowdy spectators.
"Gotcha where I want cha' now, little bitch!" the Hispanic chuckled as he began to pound away at the hired gun, driving his fist repeatedly into Artie's face, chest and stomach before taking a forearm to the stomach that felt like he was being hit by a steel girder. "The end is near chico!" the man shouted before throwing him to the ground and stomping away at his back.
"Fuck!" Artie grunted in pain as the man pounded away leaving him with no room to move. All he could do now was lay there and take it as any attempts to crawl away were met with him having his hands stomped on. The beating continued until the officer worker attempted to join in but then there was a loud 'thwack' and he looked up to see the Hispanic brawler clubbing the office worker with his forearm.
"Pussy Libre is mine bitch!" the brawler shouted back, his repeated blows busting the worker's forehead open and staining his white dress shirt a dark shade of crimson before the latter man was knocked to the ground. Before the Hispanic man could react, he was tackled to the ground by the armored man.
Artie tried to push himself back to his feet, but before he could rise he was met by a hard blow to the back, followed by several pointed barbs digging their way into his flesh.
"Don't think I forgot about you little man," the biker called out from behind him, placing a boot to his lower back and pushing him away, forcefully ripping the steel chair wrapped in barbed wire away from him.
The hired gun roared in pain as he felt the fresh tears all over his back and the warm coppery blood streaming from the newly-inflicted wounds.
"Oh shit, c'mon Artie! C'mon damn it!" Zeke shouted as he watched the biker drawing the chair back and winding up for a powerful blow that would likely both scramble his friend's brains and rip most of the flesh away from his head along with his mask.
Artie had to avoid getting too close to the fence, knowing what the rowdy fans would do to him if he got too close. He staggered about feeling the pain wracking throughout his upper torso, the fresh blood covering his hands.
"Artie look out!" he heard Randy's voice shout above everyone else's and he instinctively ducked to the ground, just as the biker went for a power swing with the chair that would instead clash with the fencing.
"Shit," Artie muttered to himself finding himself on his hands and knees just as the hillbilly fell to the ground next to him, landing atop several bottles and sending one rolling towards him. Driven by instinct alone, the hitman grabbed the glass bottle and twisted his body around to toss the beer bottle right into the biker's face, forcing the man to finally drop his chair.
"That son of a fucking bitch! There's gonna be payback for that!" the hired gun thought as he reached down for the closest weapon he could find, being the frying pan, and struck the biker in the face as hard as he could, breaking the man's nose and sending him falling back against the fencing a bloody mess. He brutally pummeled the man with the kitchen utensil until his skull was busted open.
He swung around to find the officer worker lying on the pavement, in the middle of receiving a brutal beating at the hands of the Tri-Hawk guy, who would then finish him off by grabbing the wooden chair and proceeding to pound his skull in until the chair was reduced to splinters and the man's head was nothing but a bloody mess.
At the other side of the cage the Oriental and the hillbilly continued to duke it out in a mini war of attrition with neither side showing any signs of backing down, the former now attempting to fight back with a wooden baseball bat as his opponent had scooped up another wooden chair.
Looking down Artie found the old television set and an evil grin crossed his features beneath the mask.
Scooping it up, he grunted beneath its weight before getting it into position and with a mighty heave, chucked it right into the hillbilly's back, an explosion of plastic, glass and wood as it connected. Judging by the man's labored breathing it had not killed him, but had injured him a great deal and left him wide open for the Asian man to split his skull open with a powerful swing for the fences.
In one of the corners the hoodie-wearing thug pounded the crap out of the armored man, whose heavy armor had proven to be his downfall and left him wide open to be beaten mercilessly by a wooden plank and his armor now resembled a crumpled soda can. The beating continued until the plank broke and the armored man screamed no more.
It was now down to the final four, Artie, the Oriental, Tri-Hawk Guy and the Mexican.
"It ain't over yet puta!" the Mexican said spotting a wooden chair lying nearby and charging towards it.
Artie knew of the man's intention and knew there was no way he would beat the man to that chair. He had to think fast and knew he was going to need a weapon and looked down for whatever he could find, his only alternative being a beer bottle. He quickly scooped it up and tossed it towards the Mexican, who raised the chair to block the incoming projectile.
"You're gonna have to do better than that, holmes" the man laughed, poking the chair towards him like a fencer would his sword to deter his opponent from advancing.
The kitchen sink lay near the downed office worker and seeing it as a means of defense; Artie rushed over and scooped it up, barely dodging the ensuing struggle between Tri-Hawk and the Oriental, and then slowly advanced towards his opponent, using it as a crude shield when the man swung the chair at him. A loud clang echoed, followed by another as the man took a second swing. Kicking his leg out, he heard a grunt from the other end, followed by the clanging of wood on concrete. He then attempted to toss the sink at his opponent, but the man leapt out of the way.
"Too slow ese," the man laughed as he leapt at Artie and shoulder tackled him to the ground.
Before he could react, Artie grunted as he was assailed by a flurry of fists driven into his masked face, followed by a knee being driven into his stomach.
"This is gonna be your gravesite gringo!" the man said before spitting in his face and then punching and kicking him some more.
"Goddamn it Artie! Think damn it think!" his mind screamed as his arms flailed about while taking another boot to the side. He pulled himself forth, feeling his hand brushing against something glass, another beer bottle. Wiggling his fingers, he rolled the bottle into his grasp and brought his arm up to strike his opponent in the side of the head.
Freed from the man's grasp, Artie rolled off to the side and struggled back to his feet, watching as the hoodie-wearing man howled in pain.
"Time to finish this," he told himself before charging the man and delivering a powerful haymaker that sent the man staggering backwards, yet the man caught himself before he could collide with the fencing. Keeping on his opponent, the hitman drove his fist into the man's gut, only to wince in pain and shake his aching hand. Out of desperation the Mexican launched a forearm strike and again it felt like he was being struck by steel.
"What the fuck is that guy made of?" Artie asked himself feeling the fresh wave of pain coursing through his midsection as the Oriental fell next to him, blood gushing from countless gashes following a series of wet hacking noises. The Tri-Hawk guy stood tall over him with a broken beer bottle in hand, fresh blood dripping from its jagged edges.
"Now you're next bitch!" the man laughed, only to be knocked from his feet by a baseball bat.
"This is my kill nigger boy!" the Mexican thug shouted before striking the downed man repeatedly.
It was now down to Artie and the hoodie-wearing man, who glared menacingly at him.
"Now where was I, joto? Oh yeah, I was gonna bash your fucking skull in, but before I do that, why don't I embarrass your punk ass a little more?" the man asked and then Artie could feel him tugging at his mask.
"Shit, this crazy bastard's gonna unmask me! If he does that, Zeke and Randy are as good as dead!" Artie thought to himself as the thug wrenched back on his neck, remembering Johnny's presence.
"I bet you're pretty ugly if you gotta hide behind a mask cabron," the thug spat yanking harder on the mask, the crowd calling for him to get it off.
Again finding himself acting out of desperation, Artie bit down on the man's fingers and managed to free one of his hands, tearing at the man's sleeve and revealing the steel plate strapped to his forearm underneath.
"Motherfucker," Artie rasped as he began to shake his head wildly trying to get the man off of him, but the thug managed to wrap an arm around his neck, trying to snap it like a twig.
Summoning his strength, the Italian-American rolled himself over onto his back with the thug still on top of him, freeing one of his arms and driving it into the man until he finally let go and mounted him, pounding the man into bloody submission until he was sure the man wouldn't get up again.
When the man didn't rise the bell rang and several onlookers fell silent in disbelief.
"Well I'll be damned ladies and gentlemen, looks like we have ourselves a winner, some random mask-wearing guy!" the announcer called out with forced enthusiasm.
Some people cheered while others booed, but none of it mattered to Artie as he looked up towards the catwalk, where Johnny Sneed clapped half-heartedly at the end result and then said something to his bodyguards before disappearing from sight.
"That's right, you get the fuck out of here you slimy bastard. It's bad enough when you're pushing my family around, but worse when I know he's not the only one being harassed," the victorious fighter thought before staggering towards the door he came from.
As he exited, he looked over his shoulder to see the Hispanic man being tended to by some onlookers, while the dead bodies were hauled out by some of the bikers. Aside from the hoodie-wearing fighter, no one else showed any signs of life.
"Time to get the hell outta here," he thought stepping outside to be met by Zeke, Randy and Dal.
"Dude, now that was some fucking badass fighting in there!" Zeke called out excitedly as he helped his friend over to a nearby bench, while Dal pulled out some towels to help stop his bleeding.
"El Abejorro would be proud my friend," Randy said offering him a water bottle.
"Yeah, whatever," Artie grunted as he accepted the water and took a long chug.
Everybody quieted down as the hired gun was approached by a bald man in a Children of Chaos vest, holding a stack of bills in his hand.
"Alright Mask Guy, you might've taken out a brother, but you still won fair and square so here are your earnings. Now get the fuck outta here before we change our minds about letting you leave here alive!" the man said before disappearing from sight.
Zeke shuffled through the stack of bills to see Artie had just made one thousand dollars for his troubles.
"Shit, that's more than I made," Dal grunted, "although I doubt I'd wanna be in any main event with you bro', not after the way you fucking killed those guys in there."
Artie managed a weak laugh at the comment, until he was halted by the pain coursing throughout his torso, "Okay guys, I really think I need to get my ass to a hospital now."
"No problem, I'll drive," Zeke said as Randy helped Artie remove his mask.
"Sure thing," the hired gun said weakly reaching into his pocket and the keys clattered to the floor, the bartender quickly scooping them up.
"Well it was nice meeting you Artie, but I've gotta be going now," Dal said offering a wave before motioning towards Zeke and Randy, "I'll see you two online again soon."
"Hell yeah man! We've still gotta show those bitches in Carcer who's boss!" Randy called back as he and Zeke helped their friend out of the club.
"Whatever, I hate to be a turd in your punch bowl right now, but I really need help," Artie said before passing out from blood loss.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXX
Author's Note: And so ends yet another installment where our beloved antihero triumphs against the odds! The fight sequence in this chapter is inspired by both the "Fight Club" side missions from "Saints Row 2," which I highly enjoyed and was pissed off over when they weren't included in "The Third," as well as the "Cage Fighter" from "The Ballad of Gay Tony." The club's name the Bear Cage is a reference to the 'Bear Fighter' achievement when you beat the fight club on T.B.o.G.T.
In other random notes, Silver's Gym is a parody of Gold's Gym; "Cyber Dude 2" is a spoof of "Iron Man 2," and Condoleeza-Cheney brand beer is a spoof of Anheuser-Busch brand beer (with obvious political references thrown in).
Clancy Mays was to an extent inspired by both Brucie and Mori Kibbutz from the GTA4 arc and his last name is a tribute to Billy Mays, as Clancy would have spoken in the loud booming tone that Billy Mays used.
Jezz Torrent's reality TV show "Fist of Love" is an obvious spoof of Bret Michaels' "Rock of Love."
eSwype is a parody of eBay.
Worldwide Technical Fighters (W.T.F.) is a spoof of Ultimate Fighting Championships and R.S.W.A. is the Rock Star Wrestling Alliance. Deliverance Dick would be my spoof of the hillbilly gimmick wrestlers like Haystacks Calhoun and Hillbilly Jim, whereas Iron Toe would have been a spoof of the martial arts-based wrestlers like Ricky "the Dragon" Steamboat.
Dallas Morrow's physical appearance would be inspired by Quinton "Rampage" Jackson.
For the random bits of Spanish I included, "Abejorro" means "bumblebee," (the colors of the mask were inspired by Bumblebee from the 'Transformer' movies) whereas "joto" (pronounced 'ho-to') is a Mexican Spanish slang term for gay man or "faggot."
Well alright, I think that's everything covered so as always read and review! This is Metal Harbinger saying SPREAD THE SICKNESS, ONE MIND AT A TIME! \m/