Total pages in book: 30
Estimated words: 29003 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 145(@200wpm)___ 116(@250wpm)___ 97(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 29003 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 145(@200wpm)___ 116(@250wpm)___ 97(@300wpm)
I miss the feeling of making a difference. Of being a protector.
What I really miss is the feeling of sliding that thick black paste on my face before a mission and knowing I’m doing good in the world.
I’m a long way from all that.
“You okay, Marv?” I ask as he shuffles past me.
He gives me a look and shakes his head. “Kick the shit out of him,” he whispers before exiting the cage and locking it on the other side.
“Who the fuck is this?” Goliath shouts as he glances back at his buddies. “Grandpa?”
His team bursts out laughing. I grab my lit cigarette through the cage, take a puff, and hand it back to Stan.
This guy is larger than I am and that’s not something I say very often. He’s got about half a foot and fifty pounds on me.
“You going to stretch first, old man?” Goliath shouts loud enough for the crowd to hear. “A geriatric like you should warm up.”
“You are my warm up,” I say in a low stone-cold voice.
He scoffs. “We’ll see about that.”
The beast lunges forward with his big mitts up. He comes at me, throwing a combination of punches—left jab, right jab, left hook. I dodge them all and step out of the way.
My body creaks and groans as I move. I squeeze my hands into fists and keep them by my sides as we circle the cage.
I’m fifty-three years old. My body doesn’t move like it used to, but it still moves fast enough.
I’m fighting guys in their twenties. These guys are in their prime. I’m way past my prime, but I can still kick the shit out of anyone who steps into the cage with me.
He charges forward with a booming war cry. I plant my legs, rotate my hips, and punch him as hard as I can in the jaw. The war cry turns into a gurgle as his legs wobble and he falls to a knee.
I see his eyes roll back in his head for a second and he looks dazed as his hand hits the matt. I can hit him again—there are no rules on Fight Night, but I hold back my fist and walk over to Stan. He sticks the neck of my beer bottle through the cage and tilts it into my open mouth. I swallow it down and then turn around, watching as Goliath gets to his shaky feet.
He’s a tough motherfucker, I’ll give him that. I doubt anyone else in the place can take a hit like that and get up after.
A low growl rumbles out of his throat as he glares at me. He reaches up, yanks a section of the barbed wire off the top of the cage, and stares me down as he wraps it around his arm.
That’s a new one.
I’ve never seen a guy do that before.
Blood leaks down his thick forearm as he secures it around his fist. His buddies are going mental—screaming and hollering and having the time of their lives.
I glance at Stan and he gives me a shrug. Next time I’m having my three beers first. It’s too early in the night to be dealing with this shit.
I let out a sigh as I cock my fists and get back to work. I head right for him. He swings that barbed wire fist, but I easily duck under it and smash him in the gut with a hard right hook. It takes the air out of his lungs, but he recovers fast and tries to hit me again.
I land three more punches—two in his stomach and one on his cheek.
And then he lands one on me.
Right in the eye. Pain shoots through my brain like a jolt of lightning. I fly back as my eyes fill with water and my back slams into the cage.
His buddies erupt.
He charges forward and connects again, this time with the barbed wire. I feel skin shred off my face as I’m thrown into the fence. Hot blood drips onto my chest as I take a deep breath, trying to get my brain to stop swirling.
At the last second, it clears. Goliath is charging at me like an angry bull. I duck down, wrap my arms around his legs, and pick him up in a double-leg sweep. I dig my shoulder into his stomach as I slam him into the blood-stained plywood.
He doesn’t know what hit him and I take advantage of his confusion to mount up on the bully. I sit on his chest, pinning him down, and then I start raining down bombs on his face.
I’m done showing mercy.
I ground and pound the shit out of him. Crack. Crack. Crack.
Pound the pain away.
When I exited the Navy SEALs, my military-issued shrink said that my fighting was a defense mechanism. She said I had to fight to keep myself distracted from the loneliness and the pain.