Page 19 of Damaged

We get to a warehouse where a bouncer around my height but far fatter is standing in front of a metal door. He doesn’t look like he’d be much good in a fight, but he does look extraordinarily difficult to get past. He’s a human barricade.

“These are my boys, Alex and James. I know Tiger. It’s all tight,” Roman says.

The bouncer just stares at Bangs and then at us for a moment. Apparently, the right words were spoken, because he finally relents and steps to the side. No IDs checked.

Yes, this is definitely something illegal. Inside it smells like cigarettes, and the concrete hallway is still lined with old work lockers.

There’s heavy bass thumping behind another set of closed doors.

“Gentlemen. Welcome to Hell Ring,” Bangs says and opens the set of double doors. On the other side is a large warehouse with four sets of bleachers set up around a dirt boxing ring.

Great. An underground fight club. One thing I will say for these is they bring a diverse audience. The place is packed. There are Guatemalan gangsters with tattoos on their bald heads and also a plethora of finance guys ready to bet their Rolexes.

But they’re all the same. Insecure. Angry about what they don’t have. Wishing they had it. Money. Strength. Height. Women.

Apparently watching two broke dudes beat the shit out of each other is a fair substitute to boost their masculinity.

I don’t mind being here. It's important to see this. It’s important to understand what entertains the masses.

“I got us some spots in the front row. My boy Tiger hooked us up,” says Bangs. He leads us to the first set of bleachers in front of the dirt ring. We’re elevated, so the ring is several feet below us. Everybody is looking down like this is a… Wait a minute.

I look around. There are big signs on the support beams sayingNo Videos or Pictures.

The ring is too small for boxing.

This isn’t right.

“Alex,” I say to get his attention right as the cages are brought out. Two gigantic roosters. One black, the other piebald. “This kid brought us to a goddamn cock fight.”

It’s repulsive. The idea of these drunk man-children betting on which animal will kill the other makes my face twist in disgust.

“This is pathetic,” I tell Roman. “Do you think we like dog fights, too?”

He looks like I just slapped him. “Man, just wait. Once they start fighting, there’s feathers and blood flying. They’re scary, dude. Trust me, it ain’t boring.” Bangs seem to think my disapproval comes from the fact that the animals pitted against each other are mere chickens.

Alex looks pissed, too. He can’t seriously care about a small gold mine in Nevada enough to stick around here to please this tiny tool.

Alex and I make eye contact and come to what I understand as an unspoken agreement—fuck this guy.

The roosters are let into the ring. They dance around the outer wall for a moment before realizing they’re trapped. Before realizing they’re sharing a space so small with an adversary. They stop and stare at each other.

I can’t watch this.

The claws on their legs shine under the lights. They’ve been filed and sharpened to kill.

“Fuck him up, Cortez! Show no mercy!” Roman shouts.

I’m not even thinking when I start to pick Roman up at the knees. He’s so small I lift him like a child. “Hey man! Hey! What’re you doing?”

I glance over to see Alex’s brow ridged with confusion, but it’s only a moment before he seems to realize my plan and joins in. We both hold one of his legs as we hoist Bangs up to the height of our shoulders and toss him into the ring.

He hits the dirt on his back in a little dusty cloud. He coughs, his eyes wide in pain as the wind was probably knocked out of him.

The crowd seems to approve. There is a mix of cheers, whistles, and jeers.

The roosters are quick to find a common enemy. Thereisa flurry of feathers and blood and, in this case, screams.

The roosters attack Roman.

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