“Why don’t you bail out the club yourself, if that’s the case?”
“I may be rich, but not that rich,” the fighter says, shaking his head, “Besides, most of my money is tied up in investments that aren't exactly liquid. The cash flow I have on hand won’t come close to saving the club. We need a big pay day, boss. That’s why I agreed to go through with these fights.”
“Well, your sacrifice is paying off incredibly well,” the man smiles, “I’ve made more than I ever expected to on you. I suppose Las Vegas is the city to snatch up the money of impulsive, filthy rich gamblers.”
“I suppose so,” the fighter says, dropping his towel and stepping into a pair of well-loved blue jeans. “I’ll make sure to train hard for the next match, then.”
“That’s the other thing I wanted to talk to you about,” the visitor sighs, “About your next match, my boy...”
“What is it?” the fighter asks gruffly, pulling on a plain black tee.
“We want the same thing out of this fourth and final fight: to make a whole helluva lot of money,” the man begins, “And I intend to, with your help. The thing is, though, you may not be a huge fan of the finish I have in mind.”
“What, do you have a side bet on the killing blow? I doubt that you could come up with any finish that would shock me,” the fighter scoffs, “I saw shit in Afghanistan that would make your worst nightmares look like goddamn Saturday morning cartoons. Just tell me what I need to do.”
The shrewd man locks eyes with the fighter. “I need you to lose,” he says.
For a long moment, the fighter is silent, processing this unheard of request. He hasn’t lost a fight since he was a boy of twelve, overpowered by his lush of a father. He’s forgotten what it’s like to lose to another man.
“These fights...are to the death,” he says slowly.
“There’s the rub,” the boss says with a shrug.
“You want me to throw the last fight. To let myself get killed.”
“That’s the idea. It turns out that I stand to make a whole lot more money if you go down than if you win. Who would've thought? I know it’s not the best case scenario, but I’m afraid you have no choice.”
“There was nothing about fixing fights in the contract,” the fighter says heatedly.
“Should have read the fine print,” the boss winks, “The outcomes of these matches are mine to decide. And I’ve decided that, come August, you’re going to throw the last one.”
“August...that’s only four months from now.”
“Plenty of time to get your affairs in order,” the boss says, “Just think about how much money you’ll be bringing in for your gang.”
“It’s a club, not a gang,” the fighter snaps.
“Really? So if I went to the police with your club’s history of dealing drugs, running guns, and pimping out anything with enough holes to fuck, that wouldn’t be an issue? Let’s be honest with each other, my boy. Your gang needs this money. And unless you throw the last fight, I’m not going to give it to them. You’ll die, sure, but you’ll leave them quite the parting gift.”
The fighter is silent as the polished man turns to go. What is there to say? It isn’t as though he has any choice.
“I’ll do it,” he says quietly, his hands balled into fists, “For them.”
“I knew you would, Dante’s Son,” the man smiles, “Until next time.”
He disappears into the shadows once more, leaving the fighter alone. All at once, rage takes hold of the warrior. He strikes out at the metal lockers, punching and kicking, turning over benches, smashing mirrors. He’s faced so much injustice in his life, but this has finally pushed him too far. He doesn’t stop until the locker room is destroyed. Only then does he snatch up his leather cut and slip into it like a second skin.
His retreating back bears the name of Dante’s Nine, and below, the club’s sigil: a pair of dice, one that’s rolled a four, the other a five. It’s the fighter’s family crest. His flag. The one thing he’s willing to die for. And now, he knows he will.
“There he is,” grins a burly bearded brother, as the fighter steps out the back door of the arena, into the May night. The eight other members of his motorcycle club are all there, waiting for him. A regular family reunion.
“Hey guys,” the fighter smiles, pulling a young man with a tribal tattoo around his eye into a fierce embrace, “Thanks for being there tonight.”
“You kidding?” laughs a grizzled, short man with a gut to be reckoned with, “As if we’d miss you representing our club like a damn hero. Well done, man.”
“Holding up ok?” asks the bearded man, clapping the fighter on the back, “These fights must be wearing on you.”
“Nah, I’m fine,” the fighter says, shrugging off their concern. “Let’s just get back to headquarters, all right? I could use a drink.”
“It’s on us,” two gigantic men with shaved heads answer in unison. The twin enforcers of the group rarely waste words.
“I was gonna buy the first round,” insists a small, ferocious man, leaning back against his bike, “Let me have a share of the glory for once.”
“First round will be on the club,” says a sure, even voice.
The eight younger members of the club look up at their silver-haired leader, the man who nodded encouragement to the fighter when he needed it most. He and the fighter share a silent look of respect, and with that, the meeting is over. His word is law, that much is clear.
The nine men mount their rides and set off, one by one, through the streets of Las Vegas. From the outside, the underground arena is totally hidden. Known only to those with a lot of money to spend on watching men die. The whole thing turns his stomach, if he’s honest with himself. If only all these tourists knew about what went on just out of sight, the fighter thinks, looking around at the colorful strip, this place would be a ghost town before daybreak.
As a pack, they arrive back at their club’s headquarters. From the street, their home looks like nothing more than an old biker bar. And in a way, it is. But within the walls of the Dante’s Nine club house, a thriving club has lived and breathed for decades. Of course, the “thriving” part hasn’t been applicable, of late. A deal gone south with a neighboring MC has bankrupted Dante’s Nine to the point of oblivion. The fighter’s last ditch gambit is all that’s keeping up hopes, these days. And he has to see it through. There’s no other option.