Fight: Sometimes Life Only Leaves You One Option

By Dustin Bass

Why would you avenge the murder of someone you hardly know? For a small time criminal like Fight, the answer is simple: principle.

After hearing his father has been knocked off by the citys biggest crime boss, Fight, joined by several friends, goes on a violent rampage to settle the score. New to the game of high stakes crime, their rookie criminal mistakes start to catch up to them when they accidentally double-cross another crime boss.

Lies and deceit are the only two options Fight has to stay a step ahead of the crime bosses. With nothing to live for in a city shot to hell, he decides to engage in an all-out war, but soon finds he is fighting for a lot more than just principle.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Archway Publishing
• Release date: Jul 21, 2014
• ISBN: 9781480808874

Dustin Bass

Dustin Bass grew up in Houston, Texas. He earned his bachelor’s degree in journalism from Sam Houston State University. Bass is an avid sportsman, delving into surfing, skiing, fishing, and boxing, for which he won the Southeast Texas Regional Golden Gloves Championship in 2010. He currently resides in Houston.

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Copyright © 2012, 2014 Dustin Bass..

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

ISBN: 978-1-4808-0886-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4808-0887-4 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2014911057

Archway Publishing rev. date: 9/2/2014

Contents

Preface

The Start

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Acknowledgements

For my grandparents:

To Papaw,

For showing me that an ordinary man can live an extraordinary life.

To Monzy,

No more questioning the age and extent of your purpose. Sometimes purpose is sitting in the back room learning the piano or writing a book.

You both will stay in my heart until my last note is played and my last word is typed.

Preface

During my first couple of years in journalism as a sports writer for a community newspaper I remember having the opportunity to write columns. It was a chance to write from my heart, while also writing with more edge than the common hard news story. Although I’m not certain how hard news high school sports can be. As I wrote, people began to read. More of them began to comment. And so the more I continued to write columns.

Then the question arose: When are you going to write a book? My answer was unequivocally Never. Books are huge and I don’t have the patience nor the attention span to write one.

It would only be about a year or two later since receiving that first question that I accidentally started writing my first novel—this one that you’re holding. It began as a short story of two men discussing death and dying, and in that order; but somehow it continued. Or should I say I let it continue? I allowed this story to take me on an incredible, yet rather violent journey. Strangely enough, this book also became a book for me. I was never certain of how things would end up, until things just ended.

The style of writing is very choppy with an inordinate amount of fragment sentences, which, I feel, enabled me to embody Fight and personify him to the reader. One of my friends and proofers, Kari Lee Bush, commented that she was editing away through the first five pages before she realized it was the style I had chosen, and kindly made the comparison to William Faulkner’s style. And I kindly accepted the comparison. Although please don’t assume I think of myself anywhere in the vicinity of that realm.

When reading, I advise the reader not to skim, especially during dialogue. I have chosen, due to my preference, not to identify the speaker in quotes. In fact, I never do. I do, however, identify them within the context of the story—whether before or after they speak. The reader is not left to guess who is speaking. That would be quite counterproductive, yes?

But who am I to tell anyone how to read something? I’m just a writer trying to write something worthwhile.

If you get anything out of this book, I hope it is the idea that it’s OK to be wrong as long as you strive to be right. Because eventually you’ll get it.

The Start

I WAS A BIT SURPRISED BY THE SURROUNDING DARKNESS UNTIL I REALIZED someone had turned out the lights.

The faint scent of bourbon sifted through my nostrils as I reached for the light switch. It was obvious someone was coming, but instincts are rarely helpful when you can’t see.

Someone did come. And the darkness suddenly reached a blackening pitch.

• • •

A splash of cold water across my face forced my eyes open. I tried to rub the water from my face, but my hands were tied behind the old wooden chair I was sitting in.

The room was dark, save the one light bulb hanging in front of me. Its brightness was unsettling. Bulb must have been new.

But light isn’t the worst part of waking up from those forced sleeps. It’s the blunt-force trauma your face takes when someone notices their opportunity for answers. And that’s what they wanted: answers.

But I didn’t have any. I was busy searching for my own. Not that being tied to a chair and having the shit beat out of you is the most opportune spot for pondering, but unfortunately, for the time being, it was going to have to do.

Unhappy with my dishonest ignorance, my face and ribs took the brunt of the suits’ displeasure. I don’t even think they knew what questions to ask. They were mostly the same. Something about why I killed someone. The specifics of their questions felt vague. Then again, it may have been my brain trying to catch up to the current events while taking punches to the head.

The light granted me the opportunity to see blood drip from my nose onto my jeans and mesh with the water that soaked them. Not much pleasure held in that sight, but when it feels like your last moment, anything will do to keep your mind off your ending.

My wrists wrestled with the ropes, tearing skin, but no pain seemed more real than what awaited me. One in and quickly out of the chamber. Couldn’t afford that. But I figured if I answered them truthfully, my pain may not just be my own.

I was finally gathering whom they were talking about. A dead man. A friend of mine. None of my concern though, despite the fact I had killed him.

Time wasn’t affording me many options. As much as I wanted to sit back and take their anger with a smile, I knew my clock was ticking. But even if the ropes somehow unraveled, there were three, perhaps four others standing there. Surviving that beating would be unlikely.

So this was one of my options. If not my only one.

Chapter 1

LIFE IS FULL OF THEM. OPTIONS THAT IS. STRANGELY, SO IS DEATH.

It started with a conversation with an old friend. A friend I would never trust with my life, and those are the only friends I had ever known. But this friend I had known my whole life, so it only made sense for him to think I trusted him with my life. But I didn’t. I swear to that.

The corner table kept us a few feet apart. His black suit, however, proved we were nowhere near each other. Suits have a begrudgingly appreciated power here, and there’s no mistaking why. Brutality can offer a convincing argument.

The dimly lit, rather rundown restaurant offered little refuge for my thoughts. My eyes were squinting, and it wasn’t just from the burnt coffee.

What’s wrong?

Nothing.

Yeah.

I could sense his sarcasm.

You ever think about dying?

He smiled at my question. Our conversations were mostly about life and death—and usually in that order.

You find a way to change the outcome?

Another sip of coffee informed him I had no answer.

It’s not you who should be worried about dying anyway.

I had no response to his revealing offering.

You’ll die. There are options to it though. You can choose how to die. Well, you can sort of choose.

I don’t think I want to choose.

His gesture of thirst informed me of his response.

So who should be worried about dying?

He took another sip and then glanced at the light switch behind me near the kitchen door.

I knew his response wouldn’t be pretty. Responses from a guy like him are never pretty. Insightful. But never pretty.

I’ve got a bit of bad news. Something delicate you may want to go home with for a while.

Yeah?

He paused a second before continuing, almost like he was speaking on cue.

Apparently, your dad didn’t mind choosing.

Here we were back at options. He was a guy who gave too much detail too soon. Always liked one-sided conversations. Thought they were more interesting that way. Probably because he figured he was a bit more interesting than even he gave himself credit for.

You know what I’m talking about.

I did. But I didn’t mind pretending I didn’t.

No. I’m not sure what you mean. You telling me he ran out of options?

I’m afraid so.

I didn’t know my dad too well. Didn’t care to know him. Knew he was a bit of a smuggler. Small crimes. Nothing too vicious. Had a way of finding things vital to important people.

It wasn’t too shocking to hear. Everyone here knows they have it coming. Even the ones who haven’t done anything wrong. My dad doesn’t fit that category, but it was still upsetting.

You grab him in the end? Do the dirty work for someone who won’t?

He just shook his head with a smirk and twisted his glass on the tabletop.

His silent responses were even more upsetting than his recent news.

But you knew it was coming?

He glanced back at the light switch and back at me and slightly nodded. One more sip of his bourbon and my fist rushed through his glass. Came as a bit of a surprise to him I think. He had to know it was coming though. Everyone does. Sure, I didn’t know my dad that well, but it didn’t change the fact he was my dad. He was off somewhere being chopped to bits and this one knew about how many more limbs needed to be severed.

I’m not exactly sure how thin that glass was, but apparently it was thin enough. There he was. Lifeless, but still choking on shards. I almost felt bad about it.

Then the lights went out. All of them.

• • •

My nose didn’t feel too much. My face felt a shot of electricity from it breaking. First thing I wanted to do was grab my nose but my wrists were no closer to being free than when I took that first pipe to the ribs. Sort of funny though. The pipe made a ringing sound when it hit me. Kind of took it as a compliment.

These suits had no idea what had just happened. But that’s what suits are paid to do. Punch and don’t think. Simplicity was their main function.

Luckily they were no boy scouts either. From the feel of it, it seemed they expected me not to wrestle with the rope. The sting from my torn skin didn’t help the situation, but I could feel the rope finally loosening. I also felt I was down to my last punch. When you’re in a situation like that, you pray for a distraction.

One of the suits’ cell phones began ringing. A big man needed answers. You can always tell when a superior is on the line—straightening the tie always precedes a clearing of the throat and a Yes, sir? He walked out of the room, leaving me with only two suits. Both standing off to the left, near the door. Their whispers were all that could be heard in the darkness. There were two different voices, so I assumed there were only two in the room. One would have been better, but two would do.

I finally felt the knot in the rope come untied. It was a relief. Even if they killed me before I made a move, they would at least be impressed at how I had untied the knot. Not that I needed to impress them. But I had impressed myself, so I figured it would only be natural.

I had no plan, but I needed to get one’s attention in the worst way.

Everyone is close to their mom in this city. I’m close to mine so I know exactly what would get me riled up. If someone insulted my mom the way I did the suit’s, I would have tried my hand at his face too. Lucky for me these boys are simple. Punch and don’t think.

One thing my dad did teach me was to be light on my feet, quick with my hands, and one move ahead of somebody else’s violence. Situations always give you options to come out on top.

Here I am with these options again.

By the time he reached me and swung my way, I had moved under his fist and behind him, using the rope to my advantage around his neck. When I stood up, my head hit the light hanging from the ceiling causing it to sway back and forth. I was surprised there wasn’t much of a struggle from the suit. He may have been in a state of shock from the unexpected result of his rage.

His gun fell right into my hand after I stripped it from his side. The light swayed to and fro, lighting the doorway where the other suit stood fumbling for his pistol. I was pleased to find out I was correct about there being only two in the room. I only needed the split second of light to locate him. Two shots across the room and one close range left me standing alone. I grabbed the light to stop its swaying and walked to the door’s opening. I waited for the return of the third suit.

Hesitance can get you killed here, but I hesitated. The volume on the phone call couldn’t have been that deafening. Impossible.

I could hear myself breathing over the silence. When boredom takes over then you know you’ve waited long enough.

I stepped out into a hallway. Wherever I was it looked abandoned or at least not in operable use. The white walls had turned a disobedient shade of yellow and the cement flooring displayed patches of glue from where carpet had once been.

The hallway led straight to an exit. I walked past a restroom. I figured staying any longer would only be asking for more trouble. I stumbled outside pointing my gun in the general direction of no one. It was quiet and dark as a shaded moon lit the sky.

The highway stretched out close to where I stood. At least I would have an idea of where I was while trying to find my way back home.

I spit out what tasted like too much blood and began walking.

• • •

It would’ve been the same had I not even owned a car. Mine was as good as gone now. I just walked. No wallet. No keys. No cell phone. Not even a cigarette; lucky for me I had given up smoking the day before.

But that’s what happens when the lights go out. Everything goes with it.

With each footstep the pain in my head increased. I wanted to just sit and let my head rest, but I needed to get away from wherever I was as quickly as my painful steps would take me.

My feet walked through the high weeds in the grass that followed alongside the highway. I could tell by the street signs I was far away from my apartment, but at least I knew the way.

I began noticing the pain in my ribs where the pipe had solidly landed. A definite bruise or a crack. Either way, the walk wasn’t helping with the pain. My hands were free to touch my nose, but I decided against. I had put myself in enough pain. I didn’t need to add to it.

A car passed by. I saw the quick glances from the driver and passenger. I waited for brake lights. Luckily they kept going. People in this city see a man beaten, they take to it like blood in the water. There is very little sympathy here. And never from a stranger. Trust is rarely offered to those you know well, much less to those you don’t.

I noticed I had covered several miles by keeping an eye on the signs. My legs weren’t too tired, but I was weary of walking. Of having my head pound with each step.

My surroundings began looking somewhat familiar. I could tell I wasn’t too far away.

Another car passed me, but I paid it no mind. Until the brake lights came on.

You can always sense trouble when it’s close by.

The car sat there for a while. As if it were studying me. I pulled my pistol back out and stood still waiting for whoever’s next move.

White lights appeared in the red and the car slowly began rolling back. It finally came into better view.

Get in.

I’m not even sure where my friend came from, but somehow he found me.

Not much for spreading names around. A bit dangerous. Bad habits don’t die nearly as quickly as those you get into trouble by those habits. We call him Black Hair, or BH for short.

He’s known not so much for his generosity as he is for his hair. Jet black. I mean really black. Like midnight, no-moon-in-the-sky black. I almost at times don’t think it’s real. His height is about the same as mine, around the six-foot mark, but his build is much smaller. Still a good fighter though. And a lover, according to his own reports, which is why he tries to keep his five o’clock shadow present at all times. Says it helps the ladies make their decision.

Damn.

His response and his grimace were justified. He had a hard time looking back at the road after getting a glimpse of my face.

That bad?

He turned his eyes back to the road and started driving. He wanted to forget about his sudden response. And was probably trying to forget what he had just seen.

Why’d you kill Glassface?

Is that what we’re calling him now?

You left quite an impression with that. So, yeah.

He knew my dad was getting done and he didn’t say anything.

He was slow to respond to that. I knew why. He knew my dad had it coming. Probably a few decades past due.

Not even to your dad?

I don’t think so. Conversation never got that far.

Fight, you didn’t get anything else but bourbon on your shirt and a notice your dad was getting done before you put him down?

Oh yeah, I forgot to mention. My name is Fight. I suppose now you probably see why.

Didn’t think it was important at the time.

I don’t think thinking was part of the equation in your brain at the time.

Black Hair always had a way of smoothing things over. This time he wasn’t doing such a hot job.

You think it was stupid?

Righteously stupid.

What do you mean?

I mean it was stupid, but I understand why you did it.

I guess he wasn’t doing such a bad job. I didn’t bother to ask him how he knew where I was. He would tell me if there was importance to it.

The sky finally broke open with some rain. I grabbed a handful while on the highway. Hard to get your hands wet at that pace. Black Hair never has a clean towel on him; in fact, the only thing clean he ever has is his shirt. Says the smell is too close for it to not be clean.

His blue towel, soaked with rain and grease, now had a red tint to it. It didn’t take my headache away. Actually adding the mechanic smell made things worse, so I stuck my head out the window while Black Hair talked.

Zips and Sketch.

I figured those two. They know everything on the street and by the hour’s end the street knows the same. Apparently that’s where the grapevine stemmed about me killing Glassface.

Think my dad’s still good?

Black Hair got me home without saying another word. I guess there was no use in putting hope into that. No use in pretending with Mom either. Her heart would break for a bit, but Dad had broken it enough times she wouldn’t be too down about it for more than a few hours.

Chapter 2

DAD HAD A STRANGE RELATIONSHIP WITH MOM. SILLY SHE DIDN’T TAKE anyone else’s invites. She could’ve married a hundred other men, but she chose Dad. Didn’t last long though. Even I showed up before they got hitched. I was seven when they made it right in the eyes of God.

She didn’t cry. She just kept cleaning like we were rehashing it from years before. It was new and yet she regarded it as an old book she had already read. I don’t know if she really believed me.

Detachment. That’s what makes this family a bit different than most. She didn’t even find my face. She could tell I was hurt. Probably best she didn’t poke around. Yeah, her brown eyes don’t see too well. She can’t drive. Nearly can’t walk without causing an accident.

Poor Mom. I miss her though I see her most every day. There’s an emptiness about her.

Her slippers scratching against the yellow, linoleum tile seemed to echo her irritation. She continued to work around the kitchen in her pink, flower-filled gown. A gown actually is a compliment for her attire. A muumuu would be more accurate.

I don’t think that’s smart.

Pretty much falls on me.

Nothing falls on you, boy. You just happen to be near it when it collapses.

She likes words. Always speaks to make me use logic.

If…

If you go, then what difference will it make? And don’t talk of foolishness like principle.

He was my dad.

He was no father.

I didn’t say that.

No, you didn’t. I did. I’m proving the difference.

He was a good man.

She paused to blindly look at me with a confused and slightly humored smile.

Even you don’t believe lies like that, Fight.

No. I don’t believe lies like that. I believe some lies. Like when a girl says I love you, or when a waiter says Thank you. But that type of lie I can’t even keep a straight spirit about believing.

So what…

What should you do? Do what you want. But don’t believe anything you’re doing is for the right reason. Or for any reason at all. There’s little reason behind what this family does.

I’m not sure what she hates worse. This family. Her future. Or this light and dark green, faux-marble apartment she’s keeping. Cigarette smells. Always coming from neighbors who only visit through open windows, although not for conversation.

Sometimes I think she hates me. Maybe because I remind her of her broken heart.

Our conversations usually end with one of us abruptly exiting the room. Saying goodbye stopped a long time ago.

• • •

Maybe revenge wasn’t my best option. It was my worst option. But what’s the point in having options if you never use them?

I tried to steer clear of the common places where people like me hang out. Even though most of the faces I would know, there would be a few there I’d rather not recognize. I could sense there was an urgency to find me. Three bodies will do that.

I had never killed anyone before. Well, I can’t really say for certain. Never watched the life leave them. I always left before that. Felt I owed it to them to leave them alone with those last few breaths. You know, just in case things got misty eyed with God and all. I try to respect my fellowman as much as possible.

Two who don’t respect much of anything are Zips and Sketch. Troublemakers, but not the worst kind. Just talkers. But talking can hurt someone just as bad as putting a knife in their hip.

I didn’t ask Black Hair anything else about those two. Figured I really didn’t need to. Sort of knew their hang out.

It had been a little more than two hours since I had killed the two suits and more than four hours since I killed Glassface. Sort of a fun name they gave him. But someone was pissed. Obviously. Three unaccounted for. A big man waited for an answer I’m sure. I wouldn’t mind having an answer myself. I’m pretty sure my dad was more important to me than those three were to whoever put their money down.

Yeah, my dad wasn’t brittle with words. Probably spoke them too loudly to someone who wasn’t deaf. Now he’s hearing the worst of it. Not sure why I keep thinking he’s still in the present and not the past.

Those two just left.

Anklet always speaks in whispers. I’m guessing she’s always ready. Her ankle bracelets are like mood rings, although she only has two. One for church and one for the saints. She takes anyone who’s willing, but she doesn’t keep the whispers to one-word gestures. Whole conversations she’ll have while you’re trying to get the most out of it.

She’s thin. Too thin to be healthy, but she thinks it helps her look like a model. Her skin matches her eyes and hair at a slight shade of brown. She’s Puerto Rican last time I guessed. They all run the same; I can never keep up. And she has more scars than one can count. None of them visible. Prostitutes never come in handy except for two things. Uncovered secrets are one of them.

You know where they went?

You could probably follow their scent.

I knew what that meant. A place I probably didn’t need to go. Cologne meant you weren’t going home for a while.

Pretty strong, yeah?

Even for my taste.

Didn’t know you had a taste for that type of thing.

My suggestive reply was best kept to myself. My jokes have a way of finding myself an early exit.

Seems darker with these streetlights on than when they’re off. Not sure their exact purpose. Perhaps to hide the trash along the streets.

It’s a novice area. Like everyone gets their beginning here. It’s no place to start. Most end before they get going. I hate it. Sad to hate home.

• • •

It’s rather rundown, but Catch’s is one of the more frequented bars in the city. Always packed. The red and white paint job nearly makes it resemble a barn. The number of animals inside on any given night also give it that similarity.

Most people know how to get into Catch’s with their eyes closed. The one dull bulb at the entrance wouldn’t help guide the way even if you did look.

You think Catch’ll ever get a new light?

I looked at the door, but it was just Sleeve’s laugh emanating from his massive body that was making it shake.

He can’t afford one. Spending his money on other bright ideas.

Sleeve’s a bit smarter than most give him credit. For a brute with a knack for keeping people out of Catch’s, he knows his way around a meaningful conversation.

That hurt getting all those tats?

He got his name for getting his whole left side tattooed.

Only when it got here.

I didn’t need to look. Common sense said to change the conversation.

Zips and Sketch inside?

Got a bit of questioning?

Another testament to him. That’s probably his best asset. He knows not just how to listen, but what to listen for.

Just a bit.

Without my wallet, which Sleeve informed me I didn’t have, I couldn’t get in. Not that a missing wallet was ever a problem. But his decision was made more for his employer than for me. Guesswork would have suggested a fight to break out if I did find Zips and Sketch in there.

Stick with it though. You’ll find the worth of your time.

A point of his finger that covered most of my forehead told me that standing away under a streetlight would be more suitable for him.

A stench met me under the dark light. As did patience.

• • •

A slight scream or laugh, not sure what it was, startled me from dozing. It came from the door opening at Catch’s for a brief second as Zips and Sketch walked out with one girl. Unattractive, ratty haired type of girl. Type who’d do anything for a free beer or two. Appeared as if she had already done anything.

Despite the bad lighting, Zips and Sketch’s boney frames were easy to recognize. Their jumbled, backwoods-like speech also helped identify them.

As I got closer to them down the walkway, I noticed the pounding in my head had started to fade a bit. It still hurt, but was now on the verge of slightly tolerable.

Zips and Sketch knew I was coming for them, especially after knocking over a couple of trashcans. I hate these streetlights.

One look at me and they were gone, leaving the girl to stand on her own two feet which lasted all of about three seconds.

Do you know where they were going?

Who?

Her eyes struggled to focus on me. Talking to her would’ve been wasteful.

• • •

Where have you…

Her next few choice words let me know she noticed my face in this dark, antiquated, square box of an apartment. I forced a smile at her reaction.

It was a bit worse than I thought once I looked in the mirror. Good thing Mom can’t see well. I hate seeing her bothered for me. It’s bad enough watching Tell feel sorry for me. But feeling sorry for me would only last for tonight and by mid-afternoon all of her girlfriends, and then some, would know about my new look.

She’s quite a girl. Tall, thin, blonde with blue eyes and a hate for any clothing that doesn’t show her entire thighs. She does have amazing legs, I’ll admit. It is amazing how fake tans can look so real.

Small scar under her right eye, which I find quite endearing. She got it from an old boyfriend. He struggles to use his right hand now. I think I love her toughness more than her looks.

Want me to make you feel better?

I could tell in her voice she was hoping I would say no. Seeing my face had done enough to keep her from finishing her eggs. Breakfast at night. I don’t like mine scrambled, but hers weren’t too bad.

More than sex, I needed rest. I offered for her to stay at her mom’s house for the night. A hug was the extent. Guess I’ve got myself to blame for that one. No worries. The way I felt, I’d rather that bed to myself.

• • •

Alarm woke me up while I sat on the side of the bed. I think that’s how it went. One of those dreamless nights when everything feels like a nightmare after you wake up.

My texts never wake me. It felt too early to be receiving text messages, especially from Black Hair.

Got you covered, pal. Problem almost solved.

Black Hair had a way of figuring things out before anyone knew there was a situation.

Felt like Dickens’ Marley with this icepack tied to my head. His literal hell, however, wasn’t too far from my own.

I had a feeling Black Hair would be so impatient. His knock was less than short-lived as the door swung open.

It’s unlocked.

My sarcasm was not regarded.

The door took a little longer to close than normal. Unannounced guests are rarely welcome.

Oh, really, BH. You’ve got to bring Manic with you?

Fight, don’t be hot about it.

You know how he gets me.

I never really got Manic. He never spoke. You could drop an