Total pages in book: 154
Estimated words: 148220 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 741(@200wpm)___ 593(@250wpm)___ 494(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 148220 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 741(@200wpm)___ 593(@250wpm)___ 494(@300wpm)
The Cage shoves a man across every line he’s ever drawn. Makes him fight with no honor. With no dignity. With no real victory.
And I figure there’s two ways to die in that Cage. Either you lose and are killed by another man, or you win and it kills the man you were.
The man that Handlebar is hasn’t been killed yet. But the Cage just gave him a hell of a beating. That’s likely why Handlebar doesn’t do a damn thing after winning, doesn’t look our way or even pump his bloodied fist, despite the adrenaline that has to be racing through his veins. He just returns to the bench and stares at the ground.
I glance at Crash, who knows Handlebar best. “He all right?”
“He will be tomorrow,” he says. “But you say anything to him now and he’ll rip your head off.”
That must be why Cherry doesn’t make a move to go clean up Handlebar’s cuts and scrapes. She does after Airbag is done—after he practically has to crawl out of the Cage. That fight went down to the wire, and looking at him, I’d say he needs a hospital. Not a nurse in a tiny skirt. But I have to give her credit. As she works on Airbag, then on Log Cabin, she’s as good as any field medic I’ve ever seen—at least for the injuries that I can see. She patches up what’s bleeding, splints any broken bones. Anything worse gets handed over to the doc in the morning, Crash tells me.
Then I hear him say, “Thank fucking Christ.” His attention’s on the next fighter they’re unchaining—the giant they call Tusk. I’ve barely seen him, never talked to him. But I remember Handlebar saying to kill him if we can.
Maybe someone else is about to get that chance. “You think he’ll go down?”
Crash shrugs. “All I know is, they always save him for last.”
Which means this shit’s about over. And must mean Tusk is the main show here, the one the online audience is waiting to see fight—and a hefty part of the reason they spent all that money to watch.
As they lead Tusk toward the Cage’s entrance, Cherry backs away from the benches, putting a hell of a lot of distance between them. The smile on her face never wavers but her wary gaze doesn’t stray from his hulking form for a second. Not even when shouts begin rising from the other side of the ring.
“Get in there, you fucking pussy!”
“You can take that sick bastard!”
“You’re going to let these motherfuckers win?”
Because Tusk’s opponent is refusing to go in. Christ. They jeered when someone puked but these insults are different. They’re encouraging him.
I’d be shouting the same damn thing. If you’re going to go down, then at least go down fighting.
But Crash shakes his head. “I don’t blame him. If I didn’t think I could beat Tusk, I’d take the bullet.”
No one’s taking a bullet. A raucous cheer breaks out when Tusk’s opponent finally heads into the Cage. A big guy. Solid. Not as massive as Tusk, but close. No slouch in the ring, either. The emcee calls him Draft—and says he’s already got six wins under his belt.
Tusk has eight wins. So that’s why this is the main event. They’ve got two heavyweights who’ve already proved themselves. And tonight, one will die.
The bookie taking bets must be jizzing in his pants from excitement.
“This shit’s about to get real ugly,” Crash mutters as Cherry comes back to sit between us again.
Closer to him.
And the ugly shit is what’s in my head, my chest. I shouldn’t give a fuck where she sits.
Jaw clenched, I stare ahead into the ring as the fight starts. Not seeing a damn thing.
Until Tusk bites a big chunk out of Draft’s cheek.
Oh, fuck no.
Fuck no.
There are no rules in the Cage. But there are still rules. And unless you’re real fucking desperate, you never take a bite out of someone during a fight.
Tusk isn’t desperate. He’s enjoying it.
Tearing the other man apart. Piece by piece. Breaking bone by bone. Making him scream and beg. But Draft’s not dead yet—he doesn’t even get that mercy—when Tusk shoves him face first into the chainlink fence right in front of us and begins raping him.
While staring at Cherry.
She’s not watching. Her fingers are in her ears and her eyes are closed, trying to shut it all out. I wish to fuck that I could shut it out, that I couldn’t see Draft’s face—or hear him.
That poor fucker. That poor goddamn fucker.
He should have taken the bullet.
There’s more puking coming from somewhere as Tusk grunts and finishes up. I’m not far from it myself. All that sick rot in my gut boils with rage. That Tusk would do this. That people pay to see this. That the bastards who run this place set it up to happen.