Unstoppable (2 page)

Dekk shrugged his shoulders and smiled. Ever since he got an opportunity at the Heavyweight Championship, my parents invited him every Sunday for dinner. My father always wanted me to go the distance and fight for a title fight, but I’ve never been that type of fighter. Under no circumstances did my father understand. To me, it has never been about a title, a place in a book, or being on the news.

It’s about beating another man’s ass, and
knowing
you did so. I never needed a referee to tell me I had won a fight. From just looking toward the other side of the ring – and seeing my opponent - everyone who witnessed my fights
knew
who won.

Long before it was ever announced.

“Shane and I got shit we gotta do tonight, and I damned sure don’t need to be all bloated from eating potatoes. Mom, the food’s good as always, including the potatoes,” I nodded my head in my mother’s direction.

“The food was wonderful, Mrs. Ripton,” Dekk said as he stood up from the table and carried his plate to the sink.

“Get your nose out of my mom’s ass, Shane,” I laughed as I picked up another chicken breast from my plate.

“Michael!” my mother screeched.

“Damn it son,” my father complained.

“Well, he’s always kissing your asses.
Great food, Mrs. Ripton, I like your truck, Mr. Ripton, Your hair looks great, Bug. I like your dress, Manda.
It gets a little tough to listen to,” I laughed as I dropped the breast bone onto my plate and licked my fingers.

“Where’s the girl you’re seein’ Shane?” my father asked as Dekk rinsed his plate.

“I left her at home, sir. Ripp. I mean
Mike
and I have to go…” Dekk looked over his shoulder and paused.

God damn it, Dekkar.

“Have to go where? For
what
? What were you gonna say?” my father turned away from Shane to face me.

He looked toward Dekk, and turned to face me again. As he scrunched his brow he attempted to gaze into my eyes, I looked toward Dekk in disbelief and rolled my eyes.

“What? Have to
what
? What are you two heathens doin’? Mike, are you going over to Rundberg again? Or over to the east side? Damnit it Mike, I’ve told you about that,” my father shook his head as he stood from the table.

I stood from my seat.

“Pop…” before I got started talking he interrupted me.

“Don’t
Pop
me, Mike. You’re going to get your ass handed to you one of these nights from some twenty year old kid wacked out on crack,” my father complained as he walked to the sink.

My mother looked back and forth at each of us as we stood; unaware of what was going on for certain. I suspect most mothers are, but my mother was exceptionally naïve to everything around her. If not, she did a good job of acting the part.

“Pop. You and I both know I don’t make any money to speak of by boxing. I do it because I am good at it. I can paint cars, but I fucking
hate
painting cars. Or. Well. You know what else I can do,” I explained as I followed him to the sink.

“And people don’t smoke crack anymore, do they Shane?” I laughed.

“You know what I mean, Mike. You’re not twenty years old any longer,” my father dropped his plate into the sink and reached for my shoulder.

Immediately, and in an exaggerated fashion, I leaned back, grabbed my father’s wrist, and twisted his arm behind his back.

“Damn it Mike. Turn me loose,” he demanded as I pressed his stomach into the counter top.

“Still lightning fast, old man,” I growled into his ear as I pushed my chest into his back.

“Let your father go, Mike,” my mother exhaled a half-whisper without looking up from her plate of food.

I laughed as I let go of my father’s arm.

“Pop, I’m thirty-one. You’re right. I ain’t twenty. But if my twenty year old self was here right now, I’d beat his twenty year old ass. I’m bigger, meaner, and quicker than I ever been. I’ll be fine,” I raised both my clenched fists to my mouth and kissed them independently.

As I held my hands up at eye level, I flexed my biceps.

My father shook his head, trying to change the subject, “And where’s the girl
you’re
seein’, Mike?”

“Liv? I ain’t seein’ her, Pop. I’m
screwing
her,” I laughed as I patted Dekk on the shoulder.

“Michael…” my mother said softly as soon as I said
screwing
.

It has always amazed me my mother
can’t
hear, as hard as I try to get her to. As soon as I talk about doing something with a girl, she can hear a mouse fart. Supersonic hearing when it comes to my sex life. Both my parents have maintained a level of concern about my lack of commitment regarding a relationship.

I do relationships.

Just not for very long.

“Mom, Pop, we got to get. Come on Shane,” I slapped Dekk’s shoulder again and turned toward the garage.

“Thank you Mr. and Mrs. Ripton. And tell the girls I said hi when they get home,” Dekk nodded toward my father and leaned to kiss my mother’s cheek.

“Come on, Shane. God damn,” I exhaled and shoved my hands into the pockets of my shorts.

“Mom, Pop. Thanks. We gotta get,” I patted my mother’s shoulder as I walked around the table.

“You ain’t driving that car to Rundberg are you?” my father asked.

“Pop. Just leave it alone. Shane and I and that damned car will all be fine, huh Shane?” I chuckled.

“Mr. Ripton,” Dekk nodded as he walked through the kitchen.

“Don’t fuck the car up,” my father preached.

“It ain’t yours anymore, Pop. It’ll be fine,” I shook my head and walked toward the garage as Dekk following close behind me.

As we stepped into the garage, Dekk walked around me toward the rear of the garage.

Watching Dekkar walk was something that took me time to get used to. I remember when we met, after our first fight. I had challenged him about his way of walking.

“That walk of yours is either going to get you into a hell of a lot of trouble or keep you out of it, I can’t decide which,”
I had laughed.

“I call it the Compton swagger,”
Dekkar chuckled in reply
.

“Living in Compton, you need to know how to fight or you need to act like you know how. I know I can fight, but I needed to try to keep people from challenging me. So, I developed this walk. A walk with an attitude. It’s habit now,”
he explained.

“Well, it works,”
I agreed.

And we’ve been best friends since.

“Son of a bitch Dekk. You know he hates me going to Rundberg, and you know he always worries about his old car. Jesus, you let the cat out of the bag, bro,” I complained jokingly.

“And you know I hate you fighting these
fights,” Dekk said as he walked around the car.

“It’s all I know. I ain’t painting cars anymore for money, it kills my lungs,” I said over the top of the car as I opened the door.

I had purchased my car from my father - a red 1969 Chevelle SS he had driven when he was in high school. After he graduated, he restored the car to near perfect condition. I bought it from him when I was twenty years old. Eleven years later, the car was in perfect condition, red, and race-ready. I had removed the 396 cubic inch motor, and installed a Chevy 502 cubic inch motor. The four speed transmission kept the entertainment value up, and made it damned intimidating in a street race.

As I fired up the motor, Dekk started to speak. I raised my hands and shook my head.

“You know I can’t hear you in this loud motherfucker while we’re in the garage,” I screamed as I pushed in the clutch and shifted the car into reverse.

I looked over my right shoulder and through the back glass. As I released the clutch the car started to surge backward. The
whumpity-whump
of the cam in this motor made it impossible to drive at low rpm or speed. I pressed on the gas to keep the engine from dying and backed the car out of the garage and into the street.

I pushed down on the brake pedal, stopped the car, and made eye contact with Dekk as I rotated my head to look straight ahead.

I raised my eyebrows and smiled an evil grin.

Typically, I came to my parent’s house once a week at minimum. Sunday dinner at home was a tradition. Although I used my truck during the week at times, I always drove the Chevelle to my parent’s house. Fifty percent of the time when I left, I left like I was in a drag race.

The two dozen sets of black marks in front of the house were a constant reminder to my father of the differences in how
he
drove this car, and how
I
drove it. I did it to torture him and remind him of the fact this wasn’t his car anymore.

As I pushed in the clutch and shifted it into first, he began to yell.

“Dude, not again. Your father is going to kill you. He’s already pissed about you fighting bare knuckles in Rundberg,” he half yelled as he shook his head comically from side to side.

I pressed the gas pedal half way to the floor. The sound from the exhaust was deafening. I pressed a little further, and Dekk’s hands came up to cover his ears. I pressed a little further. As the motor reached the sweet spot - the one I used to launch this car from a dead stop - my cock started to get stiff.

I turned toward Dekk and smiled.

“I love this fucking car, Dekk,” I screamed.

“Don’t,” he yelled.

“Can I get a
fuck yes
?” I tilted my head back and looked up at the headliner as I screamed.

I rotated my head to the left and looked toward my parent’s house. As the exhaust bellowed from the back of the car, my father stared out the window of the living room into the street, his hands pressed into his hips.

This ain’t your car anymore, old man.

I slid my foot off of the clutch, mashed the gas pedal to the floor, and launched the car from a dead stop like it had been hit from behind by a semi-truck. I glanced right. Dekk, pinned to his seat, unsuccessfully attempted to reach for the dash to stabilize himself.

Not in this car, you won’t.

The car slid sideways as I grabbed second gear. Half way through second the tires started to grip, pressing Dekk further into his seat. A quick glance in the rearview mirror confirmed the entire block was filled with the smoke from my tires. Two one hundred foot long black marks in front of my parent’s house would remind my father for the next month that I’m a little wilder than he is.

Just a little.

I shifted into third gear and let off the gas pedal. Dekk lowered his hands into his lap and exhaled.

As I came to a stop at the intersection, I rotated my wrist and glanced at my G-Shock. We had thirty minutes to make it to Rundberg. Ten minutes to spare if traffic was decent. I lifted my hands from the steering wheel and looked at the scars which littered my knuckles and smiled. One more wouldn’t even be noticed.

The $2500 I’d win from knocking this punk out would last me over a month, and knocking motherfuckers out is what I do.

“You alright bro?” Dekk asked as he rubbed his hands together and looked down at his lap.

I thought of another bare knuckled match in Rundberg. The rush of the adrenaline, the smell of the sweat, my muscles becoming pumped, the blood, the screaming of the people betting on the match, and taking the $2500 when it was over.

The smell of blood, sweat, and money.

Am I alright?

I gripped the steering wheel and nodded my head once.

Fuck yes.

RIPP.
“So, who’s Kane got set up?’ Dekk hollered as I pulled the car into the stall right beside the entrance.

I shut off the engine before I tried to respond.

“Some fucker that moved here from Dallas. Not sure what his name is. The kid ran an ad on Craigslist. Said he was the baddest motherfucker in Texas. I beg to differ,” I laughed as I pulled the keys out of the ignition.

The facility in Rundberg was a metal building on a concrete slab originally built for use as a storage facility. There were six parking stalls beside the front door reserved for fighters. Any question about parking in the premium spots was quickly squelched by the signs that were attached to the building in front of each stall. As I opened the door of the car to step out, I smiled and re-read the sign.

FIGHTER PARKING ONLY

TO PARK HERE

BE WILLING TO FIGHT

OR

BACK UP

AND

PARK YOUR SHIT IN THE STREET

As I shut the door of the car I shook my head and smiled over the top of the car at Dekk. I turned to face the building as I heard the door swing open.

“I figured that was you. Felt the fuckin’ walls shakin’. How’s it hangin’ Ripp?” Kane asked as he walked over and held out his hand.

“Like a fuckin’ hammer, Kane. You remember Dekk?” I asked as I shook his hand and motioned toward Dekk with my free hand.

“The man behind the hoodie. Fuck, who don’t know this cool cat? Mr. Dekkar,” Kane said as he nodded toward Dekk.

“I get a
how’s it hangin’, Ripp
. And Dekk gets a
Mr. fucking Dekkar
? Who makes you all your money, you fucking midget?” I growled as I locked the car.

“Now, come on, Ripp. I told you about calling me a midget. You gotta stop that shit,” Kane complained.

“Well, you barely clear my belt,” I laughed as I pulled my toothpick from my mouth.

Kane was in his mid-thirties, and about five foot five. He was very muscular and pretty tough for his size, but he was still only five foot five. He claimed to be five foot seven, but he wasn’t even close. Five foot five on his best day was more accurate. When he pissed me off, I would react by calling him a midget. As with most short men, he had a complex. Fact of the matter, if he was a midget, I wouldn’t talk to him. I know it’s not politically correct - but clowns, midgets, and people in wheelchairs just creep me the fuck out. I can’t be in the presence of any of them. Not even for a second.

“Seriously, Ripp,” Kane whined.