Page 65 of Punchline
“Oh wow, is that who the box was from?” he asked, then started searching for the return address. “Who’s Gene Dimon, then?”
“He’s the head of the Extreme Fighting Championship,” Carson said, still looking at me. Gradually, his expression settled into “hilarious” mode, thank God. “Wait, you don’t even know who heads the group that’s trying to bring you on?” he laughed. “Do you live under a rock?”
“They haven’t tried anything other than sending me a pile of shit I don’t want,” I said, staring at the other two boxes. “Are you sure that’s who they’re from?”
“Oh yeah. It’s how Gene likes to introduce himself,” Carson said, bending down next to one of the boxes and shaking it like he could figure out what was inside it by the sound. “He sends you a bunch of stuff donated by sponsors.”
“In other words, he sends you a bunch of crap he didn’t even have to pay for so he can pretend to be generous.” Of course he did. What a goddamn corporate move. I should have guessed; I’d gotten plenty of free merch over the years from grappling brands, but it had fallen off ever since Abu Dhabi and I was happy about it. Most of it either didn’t fit or tasted disgusting. “Don’t open it,” I added as Carson headed for the office. “I’m sending it back.”
“He won’t take it back,” Carson said. “These packages only go one way. I mean, you can send it back, but you’re just wasting money on postage because it’s not like Dimon doesn’t have people to handle his mail.”
Then we could burn it, because the absolute last thing Iwanted was a bunch of merchandise courtesy of the asshole whose policies were responsible for burying Carson in medical debt. No, burning would take too long and it was fire season, I could get arrested if the wind caught an ember. “Where’s the dumpster?”
Carson stared at me. “You really want to just throw it away without even looking inside?”
“I have no interest in anything that man wants to give me,” I said honestly. “I’m not going to fight for the EFC.” It wasn’t a great time to be a classic BJJ player anyway, not with the stand-up specialists headlining every fight and making the big money. All he wanted, if he really wanted me at all, was a big old bruiser he could send in to get KO’d by whoever his golden-boy super heavyweight was right now, and that was something I could very happily decline.
“Maybe we could donate some of it,” Ethan suggested. “The food, at least.”
“It’s not even real food,” I pointed out. “It’s super-processed whey protein isolate masquerading as a banana, it’s gross.” But… “Okay, fine,” I gave in. “But do you mind sorting it all out while I get ready for class?”
Ethan smiled. “Not at all. But… ” He gestured to his cast.
“Oh, dude, I’ve got it,” Carson said. He darted back to the office, then came out holding a pair of scissors for the box.
I left them alone while I warmed up, focusing on leg locks and not the pile of junk some jackass millionaire thought was going to butter me up for a bad time and a worse contract. The people who fought for the EFC weren’t allowed to unionize, and until you got a certain number of wins under your belt you weren’t allowed to negotiate the terms of your contract either. You basically made almostnothing for your time with no benefits unless you got lucky, and then only once you had a decent fandom and some viewership could you start making things suck less. I knew because I’d advised Carson not to sign his contract with them back in the day, but…
He'd won. He’d been doing well until I fucked him up, and only then did the gaps in the system start to wear thin. Only then did the rot show enough that he was practically destitute. I’d never fully forgive myself for what I did, although goddamn was my therapist ever trying, but I’d also never forgive those assholes for not taking care of their people. They were predators, full stop.
“This one’s got… um, more protein bars… protein powder… Jesus, how much protein do they think you need? And, um… ” Ethan held up a shirt. “Cryptoguy dot com?” He stared at me. “Why would they send you a T-shirt for a cryptocurrency website?”
“The EFC has all kinds of weird sponsors, dude,” Carson said. “I bet you anything there’s a SportsKings hat in there.”
“But at least SportsKings is all about betting on sports,” Ethan argued. “What does a crypto website have to do with it?”
Ha, he’d be surprised. “Keep going.” They pulled out some energy drinks, a few bottles of CBD oil, an enormous box of condoms in the wrong size that made Ethan laugh so hard he almost fell over, and a lot more clothing.
“I think we can donate most of this,” Ethan said. “My roommates will probably take some of the protein powder, too, if you want to get rid of it.”
“They can have it,” I said.
“I’ll take it out to the car.” He managed to grab two of the cans with his good arm and waved off Carson’s offerto help. Carson started repacking the rest of it, and after a second I sighed and joined him.
“It’s okay for you to have a fight career, you know,” he said after a minute. “You shouldn’t say no just because of me.”
“I’m not,” I assured him. “I’m doing it for me too. I was pre-law, remember? Their contract is such shit, and I don’t want to be part of a system that’s so blatantly taking advantage of its fighters. I’d rather focus on my jiu-jitsu right now anyway.”
He looked relieved. “You’re sure?”
“Yeah, I’m sure.” I wasn’t going to be bought by Gene Dimon for any price, but especially not for a bunch of useless crap. It was fine—I’d ignore it and he’d stop sending things soon enough.
No problem.
CHAPTER 21
ETHAN
Spoiler—that guy did not stop sending things to Jake.
