"T hree minutes!" Trent shouted to the crowd, his
voice cracking slightly with adrenaline. "Anyone
lasts three minutes, you walk away with $500 cash. No
gloves, submission, or knockout."
Trent wasn't fighting for the money. He was fighting for the
dopamine hit of watching someone lesser fold under his
hands. Big Eli watched him throw a spinning hook kick. It
was technically perfect, beautiful even. The crowd of
mechanics and mill workers collectively oohed.
But Big Eli stared at Trent’s feet. They were clean,
uncalloused—the feet of a man who fought on padded
mats under bright fluorescent lights with a referee
standing by to make sure nobody actually died. "$500," Big
Eli muttered, staring into his club soda.
"Don't do it, Eli," Rusty warned, dropping the jovial
bartender act. "That kid's broken two jaws this month. He's
fast, and he likes hurting people."
Big Eli closed his eyes. The headache at the base of his skull
throbbed. He hated violence. He had spent his twenties
drowning in it. As a young soldier in Vietnam, he hadn't
just seen violence; he had survived it in the worst ways