The Deal

The air was thick with the smell of urine and puke, blood and sweat. The last three had probably been his fault. He was shirtless and barefoot, knuckles and wrists still sticky with bits of tape. Skinned knuckles with bits of broken glass in them. He'd been in here since the fights at the Gold Spike were raided. Someone had tipped off the cops, and they'd come in like storm troopers in their riot gear. They'd pulled him off of Pretty Boy Parker, but not before he'd made damn sure Parker wasn't so pretty anymore.

Darkness invaded every inch of space, but that was almost a good thing. Peering into the shadows revealed nightmares beyond imagination. Hotter than hell, there were sweaty bodies on every space. The drunk tank on a weekend in Las Vegas wasn't quite the Bellagio. If he closed his eyes, and breathed through his mouth though, it was almost like being in his room. All it was lacking was the rhythmic sound of the headboard in the room next to his thumping against the wall.

His stomach was empty, growling as he slumped against the cinderblock wall, trying like hell to pretend he was invisible. Probably shouldn't have puked on the way in here, but with the heat and the adrenaline buzz crashing out, it was inevitable.

Pressed back against the wall, he kept his eyes closed, more to conserve his energy than to avoid the sights that surrounded him. He'd been in here too long. He flexed his hands, making the crusted blood crack. New blood flowed from the scabs, but he didn't really care. They'd probably let him go in the morning. He hadn't really broken any laws. There was no paperwork. He wasn't a real employee of the casino. He was just some jackass off the street who wanted to get a little thrill, Vegas style. Hell, he hadn't even been carrying any ID, and sure as shit hadn't fed the Vegas pigs his real name. There was still a warrant out on him as a 'person of interest' back in Phoenix for that shit that had gone down last year.

The guys at the Gold Spike were probably smoothing it over with the cops, giving them a cut of the purse. He was probably just supposed to cool his heels in here, make him sweat a little before they turned him loose on The Strip again with a slap on the wrist and a warning.

The sound of quiet sobbing broke through the silence. It went ignored. It was his.



December fifteenth. Ten days to Christmas.

His eyes snapped open as a blinding light flashed by the window. Headlights, streetlight, he couldn't tell. It didn't matter anyway. Without moving, he shifted his eyes along the bus interior. It'd been crowded when he got on. The shuttles that rode out from The Strip always were. Now there were just two of them. Him and some guy lurking near the back. Probably both headed to the same place.

He lifted the wrapped burrito to his lips, taking another bite of the spicy chicken. It tasted like ass, doused in Tabasco sauce. The pigs had raided the fight, and he hadn't made a cent. Rent was due, and he was probably looking at being evicted in the morning. The air in the bus held the same distinct mixture of body odor and urine that had permeated the cell. He choked down the last bit of Del Taco goodness, and finished off the cup of strawberry lemonade. First thing to eat in three days. Maybe this time he'd keep it down.

Swiveling against the hard plastic bench, he lifted a hand and tugged the cord. Might as well get off here, and walk the rest of the way. He felt a little too confined after spending a couple days in that cell.

In the silence of the bus, the chime as the stop-light came on sounded almost deafening. Two eyes turned to watch him as he rose to his feet and shuffled to the rear door, hands stuffed in the pockets of his pants. The brakes screeched with a hiss of lost pressure as the double decker bus pulled up alongside the curb. The green light above the doors didn't illuminate. Nothing happened. Giving a slight turn of his head towards the front of the bus, he spoke for the first time in days.

"Let me off."

Silence. The light still didn't come on. In the dim shadows, he saw the driver glance up into the rear view mirror, but made no movement to unlock the rear exit. A second passed; then two, then three.

"Open the door."

He was shaking now. The man at the back of the bus rose, eyes flicking to the driver as well.

Turning back to the light, he waited. Nothing happened. The door didn't open. The driver did nothing to aid it.

Shaking his head, he backed up a step, and then lifted his left foot, mule kicking the door dead-center. There was a crunch of metal, and one of the hinges popped loose with a squeal and a groan. He grabbed hold of the gap and widened it, jumping out to the curb, and already sprinting away when the driver stood up, shouting.

A string of curses followed him into the night, but wound up dying under the endless cacophony that was Fremont Street. Hawkers and board-walkers crowded the sidewalk alongside tourists and professionals. Neon blazed against the starless sky. At least, he figured it was starless out here. Like the rest of the Nevada desert, it was impossible to see anything that wasn't man-made. Giant hotels and casinos- Eiffel Tower and the Stratosphere stabbing skyward. Giant cowboy and cowgirl. Lights everywhere. Towering billboards promoting Donnie and Marie Osmond.

Nobody called out to him. The flapper and Mardi Gras bead girls didn't try to entice him. They never did. Most of them already knew better. Cutting around the edge of the Lady Luck, he ducked into a back alley leading off the infamous Fremont Street.

Up ahead, one of the shadows took shape, growing larger into a squat, square building. There wasn't anything glamorous here. This place was a glorified hellhole. They charged fifteen bucks a night to stay in this cesspool. He owed more than six weeks behind and was starting to dodge the landlady like Thorogood.

A shadow coalesced into a body as he passed through the gate, skirting the parking lot. The other guy kept pace with him, stepping when he did, pausing when he did.

This place was a house of refuge for the lost and forgotten. Populated by the creatures of the night, it offered privacy; which meant survival for people with no wish to stay, and no means to leave.

Guys like him.

"Hey, buddy." The follower spoke as he dug for his key.

He didn't look up. All he was thinking about was a shower, and sleep. Maybe a beer if there was any left.

"Hey?" A hand touched his shoulder. He stiffened, and looked up. Grimy, with blood still caked around his nostrils and the corners of his lips dotted with taco sauce, he didn't look good. He looked a little crazy.

"Don't touch me." He wasn't polite about it as he stared daggers into the guy standing there, dressed in, of all things, the cheapest suit he'd ever seen.

"Alex, I've been looking for you." The suit said with a sunny smile, holding up a paper bag in his hand. "The guys from the Spike were really sorry. They wanted you to get your cut, but they couldn't find you… so they called me."

"Get lost, Barry." He managed to get the sticky key to turn, and kicked open the door. The room was cool. He could feel the air as he stepped inside. The suit followed, tossing the bag onto a chair that was covered in dirty, bloodstained clothes.

"Alex, c'mon… is that any way to treat me? You're like the son I never had." The suit grinned, revealing that perfect agent veneer.

"I'm not your client anymore." Lex replied, "I ain't even wrestling no more. Not since that Elite place went tits up."

Barry laughed, "yeah, I see that. Classy digs. Looks like you hit the goldmine."

"Didn't try too hard to find me. They knew where I was. Funny, I was the only one got pinched, when there was other guys fightin'." He peeled off his filthy shirt, and tossed it on the pile, burying the bag of blood money. "Maybe you should go, 'fore I decide to give you an instant replay."

"Hear me out, Alex." The agent crossed the room to the tiny kitchenette, pulling open the fridge, and withdrawing the last two cans of Budweiser. He tossed one to Lex, who caught it, popping the tab and immediately whipping his head back with it to his lips to catch the overflow.

"There ain't nothing you can say t'make me change my mind. I'm done with this wrestlin' shit. Ain't no real money in it 'less I'm strokin' some rich fucker's cock or flashin' a pair of titties. An' the only titties I got are in my Hustlers."

"No, Alex." Barry said patiently, "I'm talking about salvation and a way to get the law off your back. We both know you had nothing to do with Starr's death. I'm talking about steady pay. Six figures, maybe, if you pan out. Keep your nose clean, show up every week, and just fight. You can do that in your sleep, kid." The suit watched Alex's eyes widen, but he still said nothing. "It's not quite legal, but we both know you don't care about that."

"Fuck off." He shook his head, sliding to the floor with his back against the wall. "I ain't sellin' my soul to no more devils. Already in too deep."

"You do this, and your debts in Chicago will be erased, Alex. We're talking clean slate. We're talking about you walking away with money in the bank and a new life. They want you to do what you do best. No holds barred, Alex. No restraint. They want the kid who ended the career of that guy in Chicago. They want the guy who won the Atrocity title without even trying. They want the animal that sent Pretty Boy Parker to the ICU. They're willing to put you in the fight circle as soon as two weeks from now."

He nodded, draining off the rest of his beer as he mulled it over. It sounded like a dream come true. "What's the catch?"

"Isn't one, Alex. That's the kicker. As long as you perform, they'll back you. This is your ticket."

"Ace put you up to this, didn't he?" Ace Steel was his old trainer back in Chicago-- and the only person who still gave a shit about him one way or another. He knew Barry was a slime-ball, and the only reason he was all over this was to get his cut of the pie. This was way too good to be true otherwise. It was a Disney wish upon a star kinda deal, even if it was dirty. Not something he was ready to buy. "There's gotta be a catch. Deals like this… they don't just fall in your lap." Emotionally, he was pretty close to neutral, but Barry could see the spark in his eyes that he tried to hide.

"I'm flying back to Chicago in the morning, Alex. The invite's there. If you want to come by the office, you can look it over. Get some sleep, think about it maybe. The fight won't be until the new year if you accept... but I wouldn't stall on this, Alex. It's a once in a lifetime opportunity." The agent set down a plane ticket in its little protective sleeve and rested the beer can atop it after taking a drink from it. He eased back towards the door, still watching his client.

"Nothing to think about, Barry." He mumbled, but Barry was already gone. He was talking to himself.

"No way. I ain't goin' back," he said softly, crumpling his empty beer can, and dropping it to the floor. He picked up the paper bag, and pulled out the money. Three hundred and fifty bucks. Shit. They'd screwed him over again. It was supposed to be seven if he won. Clearly Parker would have been out if the cops hadn't picked that moment to break up the party.

Barry's offer looked a little better all of a sudden in the face of the certain death. That was chump change to the guys who held his debts-- barely enough to cover interest…