Counterpunch by Aleksandr Voinov
Oh God. Brooklyn wished he couldn’t imagine that, but he could. The way Odysseus had lain there, an inanimate, bleeding object. The fight shouldn’t have happened. None of this was any good. He didn’t want any of this.
“The title, of course, is yours.” Les raised an eyebrow. “There was a discussion on whether you should be disqualified because you hit him again as he was going down, but titles are politics. People figured you’d be a great heavyweight champion. A big ticket seller. The world wants to see you get your just deserts and watch you die.” Les stepped closer. “I told you never to kill a man in the ring. You didn’t fucking listen. Now you’ll have to deal with what you did.”
I’m sorry, Brooklyn thought, but he bit down on the words. Apologising to Les for Odysseus was pointless. If anything, he should apologise to those Odysseus had left behind. Did he have a lover? Children? Who knew?
“I didn’t do it on purpose.”
“As if you didn’t know how strong you are. Bullshit,” Les growled. “You had so much promise. If you could just let go of all that bullshit in your head, but no, you’re bent on self-destruction, and I’ve had it with you. I tried to be nice to you. I tried to win your trust, your friendship. I fucking cared about you, Brooklyn.” Les pulled back. “But I’ve let you down too. I should have been firmer with you. Treated you like a slave. No wonder you’re confused about what you are and what’s expected of you. Well, I brought Miller here to freshen up your memory.”
“So he’s going to beat me to a pulp to put me back in my place?”
Les didn’t answer him. “Miller. Proceed.”
Curtis pulled the tonfa free. “With pleasure.”
No. Fucking. Doubt.
What Curtis gave him now made the beatings he’d received during his “slave training” feel like love taps. A powerful blow to the back of his knees took away control over his legs and crumpled Brooklyn to the floor. Two powerful swings struck his shoulder blades and back and pushed him onto hands and knees. He fell farther, onto his elbows, because his hands couldn’t take it. The broken bones protested any kind of movement, and Brooklyn swallowed the tears stinging in his eyes. He wouldn’t cry when Curtis was watching. He’d rather get beaten to death.
He managed to glance at Les, but there was absolutely nothing in his face. The very fact that he kept standing there, out of the way but close enough to watch, felt like a kick to the teeth. At least, though, this turned the sense of guilt into numb anger.
Curtis hit him in the kidney and liver, sending him flat to the ground. Getting punched there was bad enough, but the tonfa was a real bitch.
Brooklyn coughed against the cold brick floor, and he wasn’t at all surprised when Curtis’s heavy boot kicked him hard in the thigh. He should do something to protect himself, but whatever he could attempt, Curtis would break through. He couldn’t use his hands—the thought that Curtis might hit his broken bones was a cold, sharp horror right in the centre of his brain.
Curtis grabbed him by the neck and forced him towards the pillory. Brooklyn followed. What else could he do? It might only get worse, but as long as the bastard was given free rein, there was nothing Brooklyn could do. If he just took it, it would be over faster. Resistance would only make it worse.
Curtis strapped him in, making sure he couldn’t move at all. His torso rested on his bent legs, which pushed out his arse in a way that made him wonder if Curtis was going to fuck him.
After the hundred wankers who had done exactly that, Curtis was still worse. Once the straps were tightened, he couldn’t escape. His hands rested on a leather-padded bench at least, his neck fastened in place with a broad, stiff leather strap. After sprawling on the ground, this position was almost comfortable, if it hadn’t made his heart race and stutter. Helpless.
The doctor examined his hands, but Brooklyn didn’t pay attention. He didn’t care. “It will take a few more weeks before he can start boxing again,” the doctor said. “Injuries like these shouldn’t be trifled with.”
“I’ll start building his stamina first, anyway,” Les said. “As long as he’s cleared for that.”
“Oh yes. Just give the hands a rest,” the doctor said.
Brooklyn stood when Les indicated they were done. He followed Les out of the practice and sat down in the car, staring at nothing. His hands. Keeping his eyes on his hands was safe. Looking at anything on the outside might remind him there was something else. Something more.
“I’ll put him back to work tonight,” Les said to Curtis. “Been long enough.”
Curtis nodded. “Any offers?”
“Several.”
Brooklyn shuddered but was reasonably sure they didn’t notice. Not that he had a choice. Not that he’d protest. Not that he’d do anything they might see as resistance.
He stayed out of the way as much as he could, spending the free time on his bed, resting. Not doing anything much, not reading, not daydreaming, just empty and drifting. It did pass the time.
When it was getting dark outside, Les appeared with a pile of clothes. Blue jeans, red T-shirt, underwear, socks. Brooklyn got up, took them, went for a shower, and got dressed in the changing rooms. Checked his appearance in the mirror. He thought it was tacky in the extreme to be wearing a “Mean Machine — Fitzhughes Gym 1945–2012” T-shirt. Maybe a concession to a crazy fan. Fuck the boxer, keep the T-shirt as a trophy.
He went to the car, too aware of Curtis’s presence. Curtis watched him extremely closely, always itching to use the tonfa. And not necessarily only to hit him with it.
Hilton. Brooklyn released a long-held breath.
Not Nathaniel. No word from him for weeks, and it wasn’t like asking would do any good. Nathaniel had given up on him.
Killing Odysseus had ruined everything. Sure, it had made him slave world heavyweight champion, but dreams could turn to ashes when they finally came within reach.
They brought him up to a suite. Brooklyn tried to focus, tried to concentrate. He’d have to perform, or the consequences would be dire. Thing was, he had no idea if he could. The alternative was worse, unthinkable. But it wasn’t his choice. Nobody asked him. He’d fuck, or be fucked; he’d fight, sleep, take a shit, and eat when they told him to. Sometimes, having those choices taken away almost gave him something like solace. Not his choices anymore. Following orders was easy, even if it was hard.
Inside the suite, a big black guy in a suit who looked more like a bodyguard than a customer motioned him to the couch.
“That will be all, Mr. Miller,” the guy said in a heavy American twang.
Brooklyn sat on the couch, trying to ignore the pile of magazines. Hello! OK! Nuts. Apex Fighters. Even an issue of Sublime. He couldn’t help noticing a few headlines. “RIP—Odysseus the Spartan,” “Body Count Ramps Up—Doctors Seek to Ban Boxing,” and, Les hadn’t lied, “The Killer Cop Strikes Again”—in whimsical Star Wars font.
“Marshall, stand up.”
Brooklyn lifted his head, then stood before he realised who the man in plaid chinos, sandals, and a cream-coloured cashmere sweater was.
Dragan Thorne looked like a golfer or a yacht guy in that getup. Regardless of the poncy dress, the man himself was absolutely enormous. Part of why he drew crowds was because of his screen presence. If he hadn’t been a boxer, he could easily have made it as a leading man in cheap action flicks.
“Congratulations. That was an impressive fight. I haven’t seen many boxers that could turn things around the way you did.” Thorne came closer and offered him a hand.
Brooklyn wasn’t quite sure what that meant and hesitated. It came as a shock when Thorne just took his hand and held it for a while, looking into his eyes.
“But they punished you for it, isn’t that right?”
Brooklyn swallowed. Thorne was a freeman. He couldn’t just pull away. Couldn’t protest. Couldn’t do a thing if Thorne decided that fucking that uppity slave would deal with any insult to his freeman status. He wasn’t sure he could bear it.
“May I speak?”
Thorne let his hand go. “Yes. Didn’t think you needed permission. Or is that whole thing in the ring an act? Could have fooled me.”
“I’m . . .” Brooklyn cleared his throat and watched Thorne sit down on the other couch. God, the guy was huge. Ten, fifteen pounds more than him when he’d boiled down to fighting weight, and right now a fair bit more than that. Currently on the soft side too. If “soft” was the right word for a world-class heavyweight. “I’m just surprised. What do you want from me?”
“I’m here to talk. Just talk.” Thorne smiled. “Sit down, Marshall. No master and slave games. First, I like women; second, I appreciate a woman taking charge of me.” He laughed. “Not that many can.”
Brooklyn shook his head. “Okay. So I know I insulted you.”
“You challenged me.” Thorne leaned forwards, elbows on his knees. “And ignited the imaginations of a lot of boxing fans out there. The internet is full of people comparing us pound for pound. Very partisan, with more Americans on my side, of course, but you as the underdog have a big following too. The Brits like the underdog, and they like their own, like my people, too. Of course, they aren’t counting the slave votes. I’d suppose there are a lot of slaves who would love to watch you hit me.” He laughed again.
“I don’t have access to the internet or media.”
“It’s mostly bullshit; you’re not missing much. But it made me think.” Thorne tapped the side of his head. “It’s all narration. The really big fights all had a story around them. The Rumble in the Jungle. The Thrilla in Manila. Ali understood that. He was so popular not just because he was a damn good boxer, but because when he stepped into the ring, he made history. Black man versus white establishment. Muslim versus WASP culture. Man, he knew how to tell a story.” Thorne narrowed his eyes. “But when I look around, I see no story for me. I’ve beaten all comers. I’ve held my titles for six years, going on seven. I’m turning thirty-five this month. My knees hurt, my back hurts. Sometimes, even my hands hurt. I have another two, maybe three years in me, and then it’s sailing the Caribbean and playing golf with Bruce Dickinson and Alice Cooper. I need what my investment adviser calls ‘an exit strategy.’”
Brooklyn shrugged. “Where do I come in?”
“You’ll help me go out with a bang rather than a whimper. The slave champion fights the freeman champion. Brit against American. Your people will love that.”
“It couldn’t be a title fight.”
“No. What would I want with a slave championship?” Thorne laughed. “And you couldn’t wear my title, either. But you could fight me, nevertheless.”
Brooklyn’s heart leapt into his throat. Fight Thorne. He made it sound like a publicity stunt, but it would be a real fight. Even if it meant nothing in the game of titles and boxing associations. They both knew it would mean something.
“See, I want to give them one last, great show. There’s nobody else left who could do that. You demolished them on the slave side, and you’re right, the freemen aren’t worth much these days. I haven’t had a good contender in two years.”
“Willis almost got you.”
“Oh, that was a beauty of a fight. Pretty close too. I was at my best, then.”
Brooklyn managed a small grin. “Yes, you were good.”
Thorne smiled at him, almost fondly. “I like you, Marshall. You’re tough as nails, you look extremely good on camera, and you have the calibre to give me a good fight. The media will love it. I have big sponsors lined up if I can pull this together. I’m pretty sure we can raise a purse of ten million for you to show up.”
“Shouldn’t your manager talk to my manager?”
“I manage myself. Fucking bloodsuckers have stolen enough of my money.” Thorne shook his head. “Anyway, ten million for your owners should be enough. Twenty percent of the pay-per-view revenue. I’ll even fight you over here in London, on your home turf. If we do a rematch, we’ll do it in America.”
Brooklyn shrugged. “Okay. But you should talk to Cash. I’m not seeing a penny.”
“Ah, yes. Now we come to the fine print.” Thorne pursed his lips, as if pondering how to approach the topic. “You’ll wonder what’s in it for you, since it’s clearly not money.”
“I’ll fight you.” And not just because Les pointed him in the right direction.
“I’ll also need you to lose.” Thorne lifted an eyebrow. “Take just one fall in your career. I know it’s not easy, but you can make it look good. Hell, we can go the full twelve rounds if you want to, but you need to go down.”
Now that was why Cash wasn’t involved. Ten million to show up and stay down when he was down.
Rock bottom. He wouldn’t even be free in the ring now.
“I know what you’re thinking. You hate the idea. But I have a better offer. If you lose, I’ll buy you. I have a fair idea of your valuation, and I can afford that. Granted, it’s that or a new yacht, but I don’t mind. I’ve made a lot of money since I fired my manager.” Thorne leaned forwards again. “It would be an awesome fight with a great narrative. The ‘bad boy’ is punished, the ‘good boy’ wins, the world returns to its natural order. You’ll be my sparring partner while I’m still active. You can even go out there and fight. You’re only twenty-seven; you have at least, what, five to eight years left in you? I could even manage you and keep you comfortable. I’m not a bad guy, Marshall. I’d make it worth your while. And I certainly won’t fuck you or pimp you out. That’s just disgusting.”
Was that the deal—if slightly modified by things like ownership—that Rose and Em had left behind to strike out on their own? Thorne hated losing. If Brooklyn were to be his sparring partner, he would never be allowed to beat him.
But what other options did he have?
Just being free of Curtis and Les seemed worth it. Leave the country. Hell, he’d even carry the man’s golf bag across the lawn if that meant he could get away from it all. He knew it was all but impossible to track slaves who were sold internationally. America might be far enough away. Nobody would be able to find him. New start. “They would sell me?”
“Every man has a price. It would allow them to buy half a dozen promising talents. They can even raise those boys to take you on. One day, every champion falls. They all did.”
And wouldn’t Les love that? He shuddered. “Okay. I’ll do it. I’ll take the fall.”
“Thank you.” Thorne sounded genuine. “You won’t regret it. This is the start of something good, Brooklyn. For you and for me.” He leaned back. “Well, I booked you for the night, under an alias, of course. Would you like some food? I’m starving. Fucking calorie-counting can wait for a few more weeks.”
Thorne was genuinely good company. They had a lot of food delivered from the hotel kitchen. Even the bodyguard joined in. And though Thorne polished off a couple of Buds, he didn’t drink much, otherwise. Too disciplined to go on the piss once he didn’t have to maintain his fighting weight—unlike a lot of other boxers Brooklyn had known during his amateur career.
They watched some middleweight boxing on the sports channel, and Brooklyn envied the rash of talent in that weight class at the moment. But the big money was in heavyweights.
Late in the night, or what counted for “late” in Brooklyn’s usual routine, he went to the guest room and fell asleep almost immediately, cherishing the luxury of being alone, and safe.
“Les, you won’t believe who just called me!” Cash shouted, hobbling down the length of the gym. Les half turned. Brooklyn kept working the bag. Carefully, delicately, trying to get his hands used to impacts again.
“Who?”
“Dragan Thorne. I shit you not. Thorne wants Brook.”
“What the hell for?”
“Ten million purse, fight in London; everything’s ready, all we need is management’s signatures on the dotted line. Twenty-five percent of pay-per-view revenue, plus a nice down payment from the sponsors
“Twenty-five? We’re being robbed.”
“It all depends on Thorne. If he pulls out, it won’t happen. And it’s currently not that easy to book Brook for other fights. There’s no hot kid out there who could give him a good one. Might have to cast the net wider. Shit, Les, this is Dragan Thorne!”
“I’m not making that decision. Take it to the management. If he is fighting Thorne, I’ll get him ready. But make sure his insurance premium’s paid. Because right now, Thorne is going to break him.”
“Can we get him ready in four months?”
Les looked Brooklyn up and down. “Make it four and a half. The man just broke his hands.”
“Gotcha.” Cash slapped Brooklyn on the shoulder as if he didn’t realise Brooklyn was now a pariah.
Brooklyn couldn’t bring himself to smile or banter as he had just a few weeks ago. He focused on the bag.
“What’s wrong with Brook?”
“Oh, his high-society lover’s pulled out,” Les sneered. “He’ll get back into it.” Les stepped closer to him, and Brook lost his rhythm on the bag. “Nathaniel dropped that silly lawsuit, which means Brook here will be a slave until he dies.” He stepped away from the bag and closer to Brooklyn. “No freedom for you, wanker. We have time.”
Cash winced. “Why’s that?”
“I understand the rest of the management leaned hard enough on the guy.”
“The rest of the management?” Brook asked, and knew immediately that was a mistake. He’d been baited, lured, and now he’d receive the killing blow.
“Nathaniel Bishop-Edwards is one of your owners, Brooklyn. He owns a sixth of you, and we know which parts he’s been using.”
Bishop-Edwards? As in Jessica Edwards?
He was about to attack Les, an impulse, an immediate urge to kill the man to wipe out the sneer, when something hit him like a fist. Electroshock. He went down, the pain so bad, he thought he’d die. There was no way to ever get used to this. The more they used it, the more scared it made him.