"You look like hell, Eli," Rusty grunted, sliding the
sweating glass across the sticky plywood counter.
"Combine died," Big Eli said. His voice was a low, gravelly
rasp. He took a sip. The carbonation burned the back of his
throat. "Need cash."
Rusty let out a rough laugh, wiping down the bar with a
rag that looked dirtier than the counter. "You ain't going to
find no loans in here tonight, just bad decisions." He
nodded toward the center of the room. "Though, if you're
feeling suicidal, there's always the open challenge."
Big Eli followed his gaze. In the center of the makeshift
ring—a twenty-by-twenty square of interlocking foam mats
held together by duct tape—stood Trent Larson. Trent was
twenty-four, aggressively tanned, and smelled violently of
aerosol body spray. He wore black board shorts and tightly
wrapped hand tape. Bouncing on his toes, he threw
lightning-fast jabs at the empty air.
Trent ran a martial arts gym two towns over. He had three
amateur MMA belts, a tribal tattoo wrapping around his
bicep, and the kind of loud, unearned confidence that
made Big Eli's stomach physically churn.