It's in the Blood

This is a large story, I shall update it every now and then, all in this thread alone. Starting with the prologue. Hope you enjoy it:

Prologue
It was on.
In Chicago, deep within the sprawl, where no one could see. It was buried in the concrete. Underground. In a decently-sized room; dirty, dark with fluorescent lighting, illuminating the faces of the screaming audience, all crying out for blood.
Sitting in a boxed room above, staring through the glass at the ring located in the center of the room, the management of the organization watched like hawks from their nest. They had labored to set this night up, and they were going to see it through with satisfaction. Several of them, all smoking or drinking champagne. Dressed up nicely.
The three men in the ring were not dressed so nicely. One wore all white, the referee, standing anxiously between the two men who would soon fight. This was a good one; the lighting made it hard for any newcomers to see who was fighting, but the hardcore fans knew these two men; lots of wars had been waged by these two. And a lot of those wars had been won by them. Both were slicked with sweat, seen through the dim lighting. One was tan, bald, and wearing white shorts. He was barefoot. The other wore blue shorts, with wrestling shoes on. His hair was fairly short, and he was clean shaven.
The rules were simple; and everyone knew the rules. One ten minute round, and one five minute round. No submissions. Just boxing, kicking boxing, and Muay Thai fighting styles, as well as any other kind of martial arts that involved kicks, punches, and knees. The exceptions? No headbutts. No groin shots. No eye-gouging. Everything else had the green light to go.
The mob was surging, a nonstop headache, viciously demanding another war. The ref stepped back, and the fighters were now both aware that they were, indeed, about to throw down. Their hands were taped up tightly, and four-ounce gloves dwarfed what was left of their hands.
And just like that, the ref brought his arm downwards in a chopping motion, shouting, “Go!” and it was on.
The two fighters paced each other around the ring, Baldy taking the center, stalking the smaller fighter with the seasoned grace of a veteran. The other guy, Smalls, small for his weight, weighed in at one hundred and ninety pounds at five-eleven. His body was somewhat chubby, but that was merely a deception. At least to those who knew him, at any rate. Like the man he faced, he had done his time in this ring before. He was a warrior.
They circled about, but it seemed that Smalls was reluctant to start throwing. Baldy obliged him, leaping forward with a testy jab combo, keeping Smalls on the outside. This happened for a few moments, until Baldy began to get a bit more confident. He started throwing one-two’s; Smalls blocked most, but the last salvo got through, catching him on the nose. He stepped back, ducking as Baldy got cocky, over swinging, and then Smalls started to throw, right to the body. He couldn’t kick; the rules were clear that if you wore shoes into the fight, you couldn’t throw kicks. Knees were fine, kicks were not.
And that was unfortunate. Baldy was a Muay Thai practitioner. Once they clinched, He fired knees to body, again and again, when he could. Smalls hung in tough, but he couldn’t take it forever, and he knew this.
He let go, pushing Baldy slightly back, and then hurled bombs upon him, his arms like wrecking balls, swinging towards Baldy in a rapid flurry that saw Baldy take several hard blows before covering up and getting out of range.
This whipped the crowd up into a riot. This was what they had come for. It was unfathomable how these people were stimulated by such raw violence so easy; but it wasn’t a church. God had no place in the club. No one came for Jesus. They came for blood.
And once the two combatants clinched up again, blood the crowd received. A knee from Baldy struck Smalls on the forehead, almost dropping him.
And as Smalls staggered backwards, Baldy surged forward as blood started to leak to the mat from the large cut on Small’s forehead. Baldy was trying to knock Smalls out; a task that was near impossible. Those that knew Smalls knew that he had more than a jaw of iron; he had a jaw of steel. He had never been knocked out before. Whenever he had lost, it was either by decision or the ref stopped it. Smalls was not a quitter.
And so he was against the ropes, as he usually was for the first few minutes of a fight. Baldy didn’t seem to care as he struck Smalls with a few punches, and then switched to elbows. He tried to latch his hands behind Smalls’ head, so that he could end the fight with a knee, but Smalls denied this. Gripping Baldy around the belly, he reversed his position, pushing Baldy against the ropes. At this lull, the crowd started to boo.
The fighters weren’t just warriors; they were entertainers. They knew when they were being boring. This was the case as Baldy and Smalls, almost as if they were in agreement, let go of each other, stepped back, and started to unload again. Most of their punches missed, slipping past their heads barely, or hitting their arms or shoulders. But then, Baldy threw an overhand right, which Smalls immediately ducked and countered with his own right, landing perfectly at the tip of the jaw.
Baldy was gassed; his mouth was slightly open as Smalls’ fist struck it perfectly. Baldy’s hands dropped, his eyes took on that “What just hit me?” look, and he stepped back, hands falling. The ref was starting to move forward-
But too late. Smalls hit him again, and Baldy went down, splayed on the ground, looking like a horrible depiction of Christ on the cross.
It was over. Smalls by knockout, his twenty-third win by K.O. The crowd lifted his name up, his real one, as his arm was raised by the ref. The business suits in the glass box applauded with the audience.
And though his face was shadowed by the dim lighting, there was no mistaking that Smalls was smiling.
Winning was good. Doing so without getting your head taken off was even better.

Chapter 1
Tara Fields sat down in the Starbuck’s, her coffee in hand, a copy of Kate Chopin’s The Awakening in front of her. She loved the little coffee shop; its location was wonderful, right in the midst of the bustling downtown. People came in and out all day, and she loved the teeming atmosphere the city of Chicago.
Tara was a diamond in the rough; a junior attending the University of Chicago, she’d been accepted as a freshman with a GPA of 4.2 and a large amount of awards she’d won during high school, including class president, captain of the track team, and so on. She was also a diamond that glittered in the sun every day.
It was hard not to stare at her when she walked by. Born to and Irish-American father and a Puerto Rican mother, their combined genes gave her lovely dark hair, always smooth. Her eyes were yet another great achievement; dark blue, perfectly flawless. Her skin was finely tanned, naturally. In winter it lost its luster, but during that time her skin was hardly what you could call pale. Her hands were slender, and her nails were finely trimmed. She was also slender around the waist. Now this would make most guys consider her a final sale, but then came the hard part; Tara was a firm Christian; the kind that didn’t back away from her faith at any time or place.
She sat studying the novel, dissecting it word for word, trying to get a connection between the imagery and the story plot. Kate Chopin was a fascinating read to Tara; always seeking independence and never quite finding it. Tara felt the same way sometimes; her parents might’ve been living in Springfield, but they still called her any time they could; at least, Tara’s mom did. Felicia Fields was a loving mother, overprotective at most.
But Tara didn’t mind; she loved her parents dearly. She missed them sometimes, despite her love of being independent now. She missed her quality time with her dad, who was always kidding about serious issues, and she missed teasing her little brother, Jonathan. She even missed her mother, but Felicia Fields was sometimes a bit too strict. She was angry if Tara hung around boys too much, or was furious if Tara wasn’t studying. But those were rare occasions, and they passed into obscurity quickly enough.
Tara’s sanctuary was here; in the Starbuck’s she could meet her friends, or be at peace when she was by herself. She knew the manager of the shop, Richard Tessier. She knew most of the employees as well.
Rich himself appeared from behind her, saying a quick hello as he tidied up the area Tara was sitting near; it was littered with magazines that were in heaps. As Tara watched, Rich organized them into stacks, speaking while he did so, “So how’s school?”
“It’s going great, thank you. How’s life?” She adjusted her glasses as she replied. The glasses were the one curse that Tara had to bear. She was nearsighted. Without her glasses, she couldn’t see further than thirty feet out.
It was an unfortunate piece of luck, but it kept her humble. She didn’t mind; she hardly ever took the glasses off. They had become a part of her body, her skin.
“Not so bad, I guess.” Tara glanced up from her book to look at Rich. The man was huge; when he hunched, he was six-five. Standing straight, he was six-seven easily. He proudly kept a bright blonde mullet, despite its fashionable suicide. He was a Canadian fed up with his home country; Rich had come to Illinois over the Great Lakes. Tara had met him a year ago, and they’d been friends since.
Looking at Rich, she saw frustration in his sky-blue eyes. His lips were pulled tight into a slight frown. But nevertheless, he dealt with the magazines quickly. Rich hated clutters, regardless of where he was. If he was in a friend’s house and saw a clutter, he’d clean it up.
“You seem bothered about something.” Tara ventured.
“You could say that,” growled the large Canadian. “I just got this new employee, what, three or four weeks ago? Yeah, four sounds about right,” He stood up and put the table against the nearby wall, next to the window. “Four weeks ago, this guy came to me, bein’ real polite. He seemed like a really, really decent worker, so I hired him on the spot. But the trouble is, I think he’s retarded.”
“What?” Tara burst out laughing, completely caught off guard by Rich’s brutally-honest comment. “Rich, come on, you shouldn’t use that word like that.”
“I’m not kidding!” He protested. “He stutters worse than anyone I’ve ever met - and believe me, I’ve met my share of idiots – and even when he doesn’t stutter, he’s mumbling at a tone where I can’t hear him.” He shook his head. “But that’s beside the point. The guy’s weird. Strange. I think he’s a cutter.”
“Why, he’s got scars on his wrists?” Tara said.
“No,” Rich shook his head. “No, it’s not like that. He’s just got scars. All over him. Arms, hands, fingers, neck. I don’t get it. It’s creepy looking.” He sighed moodily. “The only consolation I’ve got is that he’s a good, hard worker. He locks down every night, does everything I ask of him and more, and he’s always looking to do something after he’s finished a job.” Rich shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s just odd. Not normal.”
“Maybe you’re just being hard on him.” Tara suggested. “Give him time; maybe you’ll really like him later on.”
Rich nodded. “Yeah. I hope. Hopefully he’s not some kind of psycho.” He left after that, leaving Tara to laugh softly to herself about him. She did admire Rich; he was a kind man, and she really, really admired that in a man.
Just then, another employee called out to her. Stan, a graduate from the University of Chicago. A scrawny kid with a thick neck and a tattoo on both forearms. He hailed her from behind the register.
“Hey, sweetheart, what’cha readin’?”
“The Awakening, Stan.”
“Any good?”
“Pieces of it, yes. Kate Chopin’s an extraordinary writer.” Tara looked over Stan and did a double take when she saw him. Stan usually had a brush back haircut, but not now it was all gone. He had shaved his hair completely off.
“You like the new ‘dew?” He grinned.
“Not particularly. Grow your hair back.”
“Aw, come on, give it a chance,” he laughed. “You’ll like it. Hey, by the way, the fellas and I were thinking about a get-together tonight. You wanna come with?”
Tara sighed. She had too much work to do. She thought about the several hours’ worth of Spanish she had to do, and the Math she hadn’t done yet. “No chance tonight. Sorry. Maybe next time.”
“You need to lighten up, sister. Give life a go, ya know?” She laughed as he did a little spin, tossing the Starbuck’s cap he was supposed to be wearing in the air. It flew away from him, and he dived after it, missing entirely.
“Hey!” Rich hissed at him. “Get up and quit screwing around! I’ll thrash you, so help me, if I see you flirting with customers anymore.”
“Does Tara count?” Tara smiled at his question. Richard wasn’t in the mood for jokes though. He shook his head.
“Just get back to work, will ya? God give me strength.” He left Stan be. Stan just rolled his eyes theatrically for Tara. She laughed aloud this time; a beautiful one, as sweet as an acoustic guitar playing a perfect note.
Just then, behind Stan the door to the office opened, and out came another guy. Tara immediately recognized the new guy that Rich had recently hired. She winced when she took stock of him. He was indeed a scarred character. The scratches were small, but noticeable, regardless of how he moved. The boy shifted uncomfortably back and forth, his small brown eyes darting back and forth, searching, searching, searching for what? Tara didn’t know. She found him fascinating to watch, despite the scars. He was taller than her by maybe four inches, and he looked…strong wasn’t the right word for his appearance. Tara didn’t know how to describe him; insecure, yet independent enough to hold his own. That was what it looked like. His hair was a healthy shade of brown, similar to his eyes. He hunched over, and he looked like he was going to faint, despite having no reason for it.
He was sweating viciously as well, yet Tara found him interesting. She couldn’t help it. She realized too late that she was staring, because he glanced her way and saw it.
The moment their eyes met, he blushed, and ducked his head. Stan finally noticed him and clapped him on the back. “Hey bud. What’s up?”
The boy mumbled. Stan put his ear closer to the boy. “What? I didn’t hear ya the first time.” This time, the boy spoke clearly enough. Tara could hear him; but his speech was peppered by halts and pauses.
“Boss uh, boss wants me to – to close.” He finally got out.
Stan nodded. Hey put an arm around the boy’s shoulders, directing him so that he was facing in Tara’s direction. “Hey Tara, this is Justin Kelly. Kelly, this is Tara.”
“Hi,” Tara waved at him. “Nice to meet you.”
“Hi.” It seemed simpler for him to speak in monosyllables than anything complex. He didn’t even want to be standing there; that was evident.
“Well, I better get going,” Stan nudged Kelly. “I’ll see you tonight?”
“I g-guess so.” Stan laughed and clapped him on the back, making him wince. He then waved bye to Tara, and was out the door.
Kelly went back to work. He kept his eyes down, so that they wouldn’t meet with Tara’s. She went back to reading for a while. Justin cleaned everything. He served customers whenever they came in, and Tara couldn’t help but hear the stutters or pauses as they reached her ears. “H-h-here you are. Wish you w-wu-w-well.” She smiled softly. She couldn’t help it; she felt sorry for the guy.
Finally, after reading for a full hour, Tara stood up. It was almost time to close shop. Richard came out, putting a coat on. “Take care of everything, will ya?” He asked Kelly.
Kelly nodded. “Yes sir. See you.”
“See you later, Kelly. Don’t do anything crazy.” This got a laugh from Kelly, but when Rich turned to say goodbye to Tara, his eyes suggested that he was completely serious. “You need a walk?” Rich asked her.
“No thanks. I’m all right.” He left her then. She looked once more Kelly as Kelly was wiping down the counters, and getting ready to sweep and mop the Starbuck’s.
“Are you gonna be okay?” She asked him.
He looked up, surprised that she was still standing there, no doubt. “Yes.” He said so quietly, she almost didn’t hear him.
“All right,” She said, getting her purse and book. “I know I would be lonely.” She turned to walk away, and was on her way out the door when she heard a mutter. It wasn’t soft or meek. There was no stutter. It wasn’t kind or pleasant. It was dark and ominous.
“I was born lonely.” Kelly muttered.

Chapter 2
That night, it was full house in the bar. Fred’s was the place to be if you were of age. It was also the place where Stan Pullman, Sam Young, Mel Kirby, and Justin Kelly all met up and had a few drinks to celebrate life as it was, and what it would hopefully be in the future.
The bar was a smaller bar than some in the town. A few pool tables in the very center of the room, bar and stools at the front of the building, Arcade games at the back. Seats and tables were all around, but all of them were placed along the walls. There was a kitchen behind the bar, where Mauricio, one of Fred’s only employees, cooked great wings and ribs and the such.
There were no bums that came here. Just the young or the rich or the students. The Rich went upstairs to a quieter lounge for their drinking. The students remained at the bottom level, taking turns playing pool, trying to hit on the bartender’s daughter, or betting on sports when they were on.
The floors were made of concrete, and they remained that way. Nothing covered them to hide their gray ugliness. The bartender and owner, Fred, was proud of the ‘raw natural beauty’ his joint showed, so it remained this way.
There were no fights in this bar. Everyone was a good boy or girl when it was happy hour. Fred himself also played the role of bouncer. He was huge, weighing at almost three hundred pounds and stood at six-four. No one messed around or they found his thick yet undeniably strong hands seizing them, and throwing them bodily out the door.
Fred also had two bouncers who helped out every other day. One was a professional boxer, and the other was a mixed martial artist in the making. So there was no trouble in the bar; and Fred never saw a cop enter through the front doors unless they were off duty.
This particular night Stan and Justin Kelly arrived early. They both sat down at their usual spot; at the end of the bar near the pool tables. A flatscreen television hung three feet above their heads, and a little to the left, where they could see it. Fred’s daughter Kayla came over to them, dressed in her usual attire; a sleeveless tank top, and shorts that revealed more than they should’ve. Fred always complained about it, but knew that no one in the bar would dare hit on her while he was present or within earshot. And frankly, Fred was always nearby or within earshot.
“Hey guys,” She smiled at them. Stan said hello back while Kelly brought up his hand in a waving gesture. She touched Stan’s lower back as she passed by him, on her way to get somebody’s order in the back. Stan stared at her as she walked away, noticing her hips swinging to and fro, and then forgot where he was sitting as he turned around to find Fred leaning on the bar, his face inches away from Stan’s, eyebrows up high, a small smile on his face.
“I see you enjoy my daughter’s company.” Fred didn’t accuse; he didn’t do anything but comment.
Stan’s hands went up in defense. “It was all her, Fred. She did it of her own will. My hands were on the bar.”
Kelly laughed as Fred glared for a few moments, letting the heat of his glare sink in, and then he broke out into a smile. He smacked Stan on the cheek lightly. “You’re lucky, son.” They all shared a small laugh; Stan’s laugh was hollow. “You want the usual?” Fred inquired. They both nodded.
He went away for a moment, and then came back with a Bud Light for Stan, and a glass of water for Kelly.
“You know,” Stan said, eyeing their drinks. “You can get a beer every now and then. It wouldn’t kill ya.”
“Beer’s unhealthy.” Kelly took a sip of his water. “Not that you care.”
“’Course I don’t care.” Stan tipped his back. “I never care.”
They both sat there, quiet as they consumed their drinks. Stan was sucking the Bud Light up, but Kelly took his time with the water.
“So what’cha think of Tara?” Stan nudged Kelly, who tried to keep a straight face but failed miserably. “Huh? Yeah, that’s what I thought. Like her, huh?”
“N-none-none of your business.”
Stan chuckled. “Yeah, she’s a looker. Not bad in my book. Could be the best, if she wore a little more makeup.”
Kelly said nothing. This was just Stan being Stan. He’d known the guy for all of five weeks and they were friends. They’d met days before Kelly applied for a job at the Starbuck’s Stan worked at. Stan had thought his stutter amusing, and told Kelly he would find him a good job.
And he did. Now Stan wanted Kelly to hang out with him and his bud Sam more. Kelly wasn’t sure why, but why complain? As long as the times were fun, and no one heard him speak much, there couldn’t be much that could go wrong. At least, not to Kelly. The only other guy he knew besides Stan and Sam was Mel, who put a roof over Kelly’s head.
Just then, Sam and Mel both came through the front door. Mel was shortest guy of the group, almost a midget. He grabbed the stool adjacent to Stan and pulled himself up, slamming his fists on the bar, hollering for Fred, while Sam sat next to Kelly. “How you doing bud.” He shook hands with Kelly, patting him on the back.
“M’alright.” Kelly said in return.
Fred gave Sam and Mel both Bud Light as well. So the four were gathered, and it was happy hour. Two of them were graduated from college, the other two never went. Mel was an electrician apprentice, and Kelly had barely graduated high school.
Yet the four were comrades without a sense of difference. They didn’t care about color (Mel was black) or size (Mel took that one as well) or personality (Kelly won that in a landslide of anxiety and shyness) or even class; Kelly lived with Mel. He had nowhere else to go. Sam and Stan had been living in the same apartment for the last two years.
It was in this that these four twenty-some-year-olds adapted and overcame their difficulties. They were good friends because of their troubles. They were determined to take life lightly and enjoy it while it lasted. Otherwise there was no point in life at all.
“So how’s Starbuck’s Kelly? You gonna keep working there?” Mel asked him.
“Yes.” Kelly said.
“Nice place, huh?” Mel grinned. “Just don’t take this guy’s crap.” He pointed at Stan, who made to kick at him.
“He met Tara Fields today.” Stan announced then. The three others then dogged Kelly for details.
“Well? On a scale of one to ten?” Mel started first.
Kelly shrugged, head into his drink.
“Eight for me.” Stan replied.
“Seven.” Mel said.
“What? That’s it?” Stan was appalled. “A seven? What’s wrong with you?”
“I’ve got a girl that’s not afraid to experiment in things, that’s what’s wrong.” Mel said calmly. “Why? You like good girls?”
Sam rolled his eyes. “Nine.” He said. He then said quietly to Kelly, “What about you?”
Kelly looked him straight in the eye. He leaned close so the other two wouldn’t hear while they were debating. “Ten.” He said.
Sam smiled and patted him on the back. “I agree. She’s a ten.”
“T-thought you s-said she was a nine.”
“I was just testing the waters; I wanted to see what you would say.” Sam grinned. Kelly punched him in the arm, and Sam just laughed.

Later that night, the happy hour was over, and everyone had to go home. Mel had brought his car; Sam and Stan were going to walk. They were ready to part ways.
“Okay, so who’s not drank anything?” Mel asked in an obnoxious voice. “Oh wait, that’s right. Here’s the keys, Kelly.”
Kelly took them. “Good night, guys.” He slapped hands with Stan. Sam pulled him into a hug.
“Hey, we gotta talk tomorrow,” he said to Kelly. “Important stuff, right?”
“Yeah. Important stuff.”
“Take care, kid.” Sam
“Later.” Kelly got in the car, started it, and swung into the driving lane. Mel was muttering lyrics to a radio hit. Some hip-hop mumbo-jumbo.
Kelly wished Stan hadn’t brought up Tara. As he drove home in the dark, he kept glancing up at the street lights, which he mistook for Tara’s eyes; light and full of happiness. Her smile like the light at the end of a long, dark and cold tunnel; much like the drive home with Mel was at the time. Dark, cold, and gloomy.

Fight night came again, and this time was no different from the other time. Deafening crowd, lights actually brighter than usual, but the same amount of blood lust was in the air.
Smalls was in the same corner, facing a different opponent. This guy was Smalls’ size, ducking and weaving in his corner; a boxer without a doubt. He too was wearing shoes like Smalls. Smalls wore his traditional blue shorts. He stood and remained calm as he ran through his head the info he’d gotten from his partner about the guy in the other corner. His opponent’s name was Chalkline; he apparently had retained the nickname because he hit so hard, bodies dropped, and were “Dead On Arrival.” Chalkline had a mowhawk, and tattoos ran wild all over his body; hideous looking tats that promised acts of hate and violence. Rape. Murder. Satan. The Book of Revelations. Chalkline was rumored to be a Satanist, but there was no evidence to support that. Smalls didn’t care. He just wanted the ref to get the fight on.
And the ref made a show of doing so, like he always did. He looked in both of the fighters’ directions, checked to make sure the judges were watching, and then brought his arm down, shouting, “Go!” and the bell rang.
It was obvious from the start Chalkline had no desire to stand and trade the usual way fighters in this organization did; he started to dance in a circle around the ring, forcing Smalls to pursue him.
Smalls didn’t throw. He waited, waited, waited. Patience was a trait of his. It always served well.
He threw a lazy jab, just waiting. And Chalkline bit. Chalkline threw a jab back, hitting Smalls square in the forehead, rocking him. It stunned Smalls for a moment, and the lapse was all Chalkline needed as he charged in, throwing combos, trying to put Smalls down.
But Smalls recovered, clinching up with the fellow boxer. Both traded knees, and Smalls threw a few elbows, but once his back was against the corner, he knew he’d made a horrible mistake of letting Chalkline put him where he wanted Smalls to be.
Chalkline fired rapidly then, and two of the twelve punches were all it took to bring the white light from God down upon Smalls. The punches landed on his chin unanswered, and Smalls went down.
Everyone roared. Could this be? Could Smalls be down? No one knew for sure. The ref pushed a taunting Chalkline towards a separate corner, and gave Smalls a standing ten count.
Smalls, despite feeling like he’d been run over by a truck, got up at seven. Shaking his head, he walked towards the ref, who beckoned.
“Walk to me. Good. What’s the date?”
“It’s March third, 2008. I’m fine.”
The ref stepped back, and shouted “Go!” again. This time, Chalkline dashed at Smalls, intending to finish the fight off. But Smalls did likewise, and their fists both hit each other multiple times. It was a question of who was going to take it and who wasn’t.
But Chalkline made a mistake of trading straight up with Smalls. He had never seen Smalls fight before; he didn’t know the dynamite hands that Smalls carried. He underestimated his opponent.
And in doing so, paid dearly when a left hook followed by a right handed uppercut struck him. He fell over, scrambling back to his feet quickly as the ref stepped between him and Smalls. Seeing Chalkline get up so quickly, the ref let the action continue.
Chalkine backed up against the ropes, and Smalls kept hitting him. Smalls’ left hand was on Chalkline’s shoulder, holding him while he used his right to beat the man senseless. The ref stopped the fight as Smalls hit Chalkline one last time. As the ref pushed Smalls away, Chalkline staggered over to his corner as the bell rung out for the victorious Smalls. Chalkline didn’t even make it to his corner before collapsing to the floor.
It was considered a T.K.O. victory for Smalls. His fourth win in a row in the organization. And he left the building smiling once again.

Chapter 3
Sam Young was up early, in the gym. It was a ritual he’d been performing for years and years, since he was fifteen. Get up early, run six miles as a warm up, and then hit the gym. Working on technique, learning something new, it was all the same to Sam. He was a warrior in heart and spirit; the same as his father had been before him.
He was sweating heavily after his run. He had just finished stretching, and he was ready for some time with the punching bag. He did several conditioning drills, punching the bag with various combos, and then mixing it up, threw straights and jabs as fast as he could for two whole minutes.
The pain was a welcoming committee to success. His whole body was sore; particularly his jaw, neck, and his right hand. It had hurt hitting that guy the previous night, but it was well worth it. Worth aside, Sam hadn’t had a choice either; the man was going to hit a friend. Sam had no tolerance for sore losers and pussies that lost their fights, and then took it out on everyone but themselves.
Finished with his boxing for the day, he slapped hands with a friend, Mark, who was the Illinois state champ at 160 pounds in high school. Mark was lanky, and always crafty; technique came first before speed or strength. Sam played his game, using the techniques Mark taught him for the past two years. It was a close match, with Mark getting six takedowns on Sam, while Sam managed to take him down three times. Once it hit the ground, Sam had even more trouble maintaining position with a man like Mark, who knew every trick in the book.
“Nice match,” They shook hands afterwards. “You’re getting better,” Mark told him as they both sat on the mat, taking a breather.
“Thanks.” Sam said in between breaths. “It’s all because of you.”
“Yeah, well, remember me when you’re a champion someday.” They both laughed, and Mark stood up. “You ready for some submissions?”
“Let’s go.” Mark got up, winded, but still game. This was his favorite part of the day; submissions were his greatest skill. Mark was decent; but he was hardly the black belt in Brazilian Jiu Jitsu. Sam, on the other hand, was a brown belt, having been training in Judo and Jiu Jitsu for years.
Four minutes into the grappling match, after Mark initiated things with a takedown, Sam had him trapped in an armbar. Being covered in sweat from their already intense, previous workout, Mark slipped out. He fell heavily back on top of Sam, only for Sam to catch him in a rolling triangle choke, which catapulted Mark to the bottom, choking, while Sam was on top, pulling on his head, which forced Mark to tap him on the leg, signaling that he quit.
Two out of the three matches, Sam dominated Mark. In the third and final match, however, Mark the Cardio Machine took him down repeatedly, and would stand back up, forcing Sam to try and pull him into submissions, or make him walk into them. It didn’t happen again. Mark caught on quickly.
Once the third match was finished, they sat down again, both exhausted. “Ah, today was a good day,” Mark sighed contentedly. Sam looked closely as Mark’s skin, and he saw steam slowly coming off of his friend. He checked himself and found it the same.
“Yeah. Today was a good day.” He said.

Maybe it was his father in the beginning; back when Sam was young, skinny, and just enjoying hanging out with his friends in sixth grade and holding hands with his girlfriend before he even considered training. His father was an ex-Green Beret; the man had no time or patience for lazy slobs. And at that time of youth when boys need their father the most, Sam’s father was there. In a way. A large way that Sam couldn’t have understood at the time.
“You know you’re a slob, right?” His father would comment as he came in the door. “You wanna change that? You sure look like it.” His father would be reading a newspaper on the latest of politics, or something like that.
Or later, his father would see him sitting with his friends inside, just fooling around and doing nothing in particular. He would shake his head. “Dear God, out of all the kids in the world, I had to get the lazy one. Get off yer butt and go do something physical! Get!” he would kick Sam and his friends out of the house.
“Pushups are for the weak. Do some pull-ups, or dips.” He would kick Sam lightly in the shin. “And don’t tell me that it’s impossible to do, or that size has something to do with it. I knew guys way smaller than you who could do thirty without breaking a sweat.”
And as Sam sat outside of the gym, waiting for Stan to come pick him up, he reflected how his old man had finally pushed him into wrestling; something he had loathed and hated more than anything in his life. He’d gotten his butt handed to him for three whole years in high school before tearing it up in his senior year, winning a regional title at 152 pounds. After that, working hard in the gym became a hobby. A complete one, after he had met Mark, who was trying to become a mixed martial artist.
Sam was sitting on a bench, head back, eyes shut when Stan finally arrived.
“Hey, let’s go.” Stan called at Sam as Sam got up slowly to saunter over to the car. “What, you run into your lover, Mark, again? Hurry it up. I’m runnin’ late.”
Sam got in the car, slamming the door shut quickly as Stan took off. “Dude, I’ll drop you off at the apartment. I’ve gotta get to work.”
“Why do you keep leaving so late?” Sam shook his head. “You really gotta stop doing this.”
“I’ll stop doing it when you stop working out. How’s that?”
“Horrible. Get a new compromise.”
“Never.” Stan said, shaking his head. “You’ll just have to walk from now on.”
“Yeah, right. Promises.” Sam looked at him out of the corner of his eye; Stan was smiling.
“One of these days, man. One of these days.” Stan did promise.
They got to the apartment quickly enough, and after dropping Sam off, Stan darted the car towards the Starbucks downtown, knowing Rich was going to kill him for being late again.

Justin Kelly woke up late, wondering what in the world happened to him during the night. His head hurt. Getting a sledgehammer to the face would’ve felt like a tickle compared to how his head felt at the moment. He held a hand to his head, and moaned.
Getting up, he scratched his jaw absent-mindedly. He got up and went to the bathroom, taking a long piss, followed by a short, five minute shower, and then a shave. As the razor blade removed the stubble, his skin screamed aloud. He gritted his teeth as he layered on some aftershave.
Slipping on his working clothes, he went out to the kitchen to find Mel’s girl, Claudia, cooking breakfast.
“Morning,” she said to him.
“Good m-morning.” He always was struck by how good-looking she was. He only knew one girl that could top her. That Tara girl that he had just met.
But Claudia was striking. A nice and simple white girl from Gary, Indiana, Claudia had gotten a degree in Culinary Arts, and god, was she good at cooking. She was a few inches shorter than Kelly, but three inches taller than Mel. Whenever Kelly saw the two of them standing next to each other, he always burst out laughing. Mel would always curse him for it.
But Mel was a lucky guy; Claudia had looks indeed to back up her intelligence and cooking skills. A blonde that hardly catered to the stereotypical ‘dumb-blonde’ crap, she often took care of the bills for Mel and Kelly, and Mel let her stay. It was more than that, however. She was simply beautiful. Her eyes stuck out as much as her bright hair; her eyes were a milky blue, and her lips were thin, yet absolutely tantalizing. She had a way of smiling that could turn the nearest man into a lover.
You add on to that that she was a wild girl into a lot of fun things (According to Mel) and you got a great girl. Kelly found himself stumbling around his words often when girls such as this were speaking to him, or were within earshot of him.
He just felt like a fool around girls, period.
Nevertheless, she made him some breakfast, and he ate it quickly, desperate to get out, away from this wonderful girl, who had never done him any harm. He just couldn’t stand the smile on her face, the way she was kind to him. He couldn’t.
Mel strolled in a minute after Kelly finished breakfast. Mel pinched his girl on the rear, and she squealed, smacking his hand playfully. “You goin’ to work, man?” Mel asked Kelly.
Kelly opted not to speak. He just nodded; afraid his words would get twisted under Claudia’s divine eyes.
“All right. See you around.” Mel went back to her, just playing around with her. “Woman, make me a sandwich. I’m hungry.”
Kelly stood up so fast he almost lost his balance and fell. With what dignity he had left, he thanked Claudia for breakfast in a stuttering fashion, and couldn’t get out of the apartment any faster.
Outside, walking down the steps, he cleared his mind of anything about girls or Mel or the apartment or his life. He just wanted to work. That was all he wanted to do.
He was born alone, he would stand alone, he would die alone.

Later during the day, Stan had shown up late for work. After getting chewed out by Rich, Stan had taken up the register. Rich had Kelly on cleaning duty again; cleaning the second floor and the first floor. That meant cleaning and wiping tables that weren’t in use by customers. It also taking care of the trashcans and such.
But Kelly did not complain much about this work; he’d been doing it for most of his life, dirty work. It was merely a step towards humility; and humility was a gift that Kelly had been given from birth. He had never taken it on himself to place himself above others. He never had the desire to do so.
And so when Rich yelled at him that morning for failing to greet a customer, he took it in a stride. Stan got sour after taking Rich’s verbal abuse. He would swear vengeance against Rich in some way, shape, or form, but he never carried through with his threats.
“When you gonna do it?” Kelly would ask him when no one else was around.
“Next time,” Stan would say. “I swear, by God, I will get him. If it’s the last thing I do in this world, I swear it.”’ “Yeah. S-sure-sure thing, Stan. C-can’t wait.” He started to catch, and he paused, waiting it out. “It’s gonna be f-fireworks.” As he spoke, a woman dressed in a business suit and glasses came in. Stan peered over the register at her. She sat down at the back, at the table Kelly had just cleaned.
Stan whistled. “How old do you think she is?”
Seeing her caused the stutter to make a comeback. “Too old for me, man.” Kelly said it after giving it a moment to concentrate.
“Why don’t you go and be real casual,” Stan was starting to get a crazy look in his eye, “And ask her if you can serve her in any way,” before Kelly could protest, Stan covered his mouth. “Not-uh. Shhh. Listen to me; make sure you say, serve. Don’t ask if you can help you. Ask her if you can serve her.”
“N-n-n-“ Kelly tried to wait it, but his heart was leaping in his throat. “No. N-no way man.”
“Aw, come on, when ya gonna get a better chance then this?” Stan couldn’t believe his answer. “Rich is busy. He ain’t gonna see this; I’ll tell him I put you up to it if he comes.”
“No!” Kelly almost shouted it. The lady looked up casually, then went back to reading something from her briefcase that she had carried in with her.
“What are you, a pussy?” Stan was pushing it.
“Leave it be, s-Stan!” Stan then saw the fire in Kelly’s eyes, and he was tempted to goad it a tad further, just to see what Kelly had in him.
But Rich opened the door before a further word could be said. “Are you two busy?” he asked them.
“Not yet. No one’s come in.” Stan said.
“Then go find something to do, will ya? Make yourself useful around here!” Rich shut the door before either of them could blink.
“You know,” Stan said calmly. “I think I’m going to hit him with my car. I wouldn’t hit him hard; maybe ten miles an hour or so. Just enough to put him in the hospital for a week. What’cha think?”
Kelly didn’t bother answering. He went back upstairs to get back to what he was good at; cleaning. Stan just chuckled. “Don’t worry, buddy,” he called up the spiral stairway after Kelly. “We’re gonna find you a girl, and that’s a promise. If I can’t get it done, then Mel or Sam will.”
“T-thanks.” Kelly was just wishing Stan would leave him alone. He was tired of it all. He just wanted to be by himself for a while.

The day wore on, and Stan and Kelly were getting tired of the Starbuck’s and Rich. Rich was going around to people, being polite, as he usually was. But then when he could get a chance he would berate Kelly and Stan for slacking off. Stan was usually the catalyst, with Kelly ending up and getting the blame.
“Did you get those tables over there, Stan?” Rich would point to some.
“Kelly said he would take care of it.” Stan would offer.
“Kelly, get over there and clean them. Vamos, you!” he took Kelly by the arm and gently shoved him in that direction.
But despite this annoyance, Kelly was inwardly content. The work was good; he was getting paid. He had a home to go to after this. What more could he want? He had pretty much everything in life that a man could want.
Right?
Or maybe not.
Stan started to sing a Black Sabbath song aloud, “I’m gooowang thaaaaaroooo CHANGES.”
And Kelly, knowing some of the song would sing with him. “She was my woman; I loved her soooo…” when it came to singing, Kelly rarely had difficulty with his stuttering speech. For some reason, musically his tongue wasn’t affected.
Rich shot them down quickly, however. “When I finally pay people to sing, I’ll be in my grave.” He called from the office.
“That can be easily arranged.” Stan hissed when the door shut. He was busy helping a gentleman get a coffee.
“When? W-w-when ya gonna do it?” Kelly laughed, feeling at ease now. The crowd of people coming in and going out didn’t affect him; he blocked them out, ignoring them so that he could work comfortably.
“When I’m ready.” Stan said.
“Sure, Stan, sure.”
The day finally ended, and Kelly was glad to go home to some good cooking, and managed to block out the sounds of Mel and his girl’s midnight antics.