Blue Colla Make Ya Holla (12 page)

“J
ab…jab…left
hook.”

Wendol’s instructions come from my corner as I warm up.

We are at an abandoned warehouse outside of El Paso. This world is so far removed from my regular job. Tonight isn’t about the money. Tonight is about aggression.

Rule number one: when dealing with these fucks, you do not give a fuck about these fucks.

Rule number two: never fight in the same location twice.

Rule number three: hear no evil, see no evil, and speak not one damn word about what goes on in this world.

The stakes are high. The players are fierce. The game is hard. Winner takes all.

Unlike a typical match, where opponents are matched evenly, here everything is a lottery. Fighter’s names are drawn just before each match. Bets are set up like picking numbers for a lottery. Buy in is five hundred per fighter, one chooses to back. Each fighter pays two hundred to fight.

Ten percent off the top goes to The Lottery fund. Fifteen percent is used to pay the winning bets their prize. The only way to win is to pick the overall fighter who tops them all. With the fighters it is simple, pay in the winner of each fight who moves onto the next round.

The goal as a fighter is to pay a two hundred buy in and win all your rounds, all the way to the top. Make it to the top, the lottery is yours. Side bets are placed between patrons and fighters alike. Money talks and the pussies hope they are able to walk at the end of the night.

The odds are always against you. There are too many variables, too many unknowns. We all go in blind. We are blind to the location until three hours beforehand, unless the drive is further away. We don’t know how many fighters will show up or to what caliber they train and fight. We don’t know shit until we show up, basically.

Tonight is full. The Lottery is a club of sorts. There is a buy in to even receive the location information. There is a buy in to be a participant at any level. Money. This is all about money for everyone involved, except maybe the fighters and trainers. Of course some of the fighters do this for money, but most are looking for experience or release.

Me, I am looking for validation.

Validation that I am not the piece of shit my father always said I was. Validation that I am not the scrawny kid who got pushed around until he was too big to be pushed around. Validation that I am not like these fucks in their suits betting on these fights, all looking to make another dirty dollar. Validation that even though I lost something good I can still do something good.

I hop around on the balls of my feet trying to loosen up. Once a professionally trained boxer, now a scrap fighter, looking for validation. What a story this could be.

Fight One – Hitman versus Lights Out

Boxer versus boxer. How many hits below the belt will this fucker try just simply because he can?

Boom. Boom. Bam. Two rounds and he is out. Hands up, protect yourself. He didn’t. I did. He will remember for next time when he comes to from my knock out.

Fight Two – Professor versus Spaz

Mixed martial artist trained in Brazilian Jiu Jitsu versus a mixed martial artist trained in Muay Thai.

Both lack stamina. In a sport run by criminals, in a league such as this, one must prepare that it won’t be a regular cage match. No, The Lottery is fights consisting of seven, three minute rounds inside a square cage, not the octagon of the MMA leagues.

Why the change? Simply because the people who created it can.

By round six the fatigue shows, by round seven Spaz is no longer looking like the definition of hyperactivity but rather a worn out, overly worked man. The three judges tally their scores and Professor wins by two points.

The night continues on and I finish winning two more fights.

Final Fight – Hitman versus Professor.

“He’s sharp, he’s powerful. Don’t let him get to you to the mat. He has tapped out more fighters than anyone in the league. Watch his legs, he has kicks that will break your ribs. Don’t let him get in there. One hit, man – get in, get out, and go the fuck home. Do this, Heath!” Wendol pumps me up from my corner.

I watch from his corner as he arrogantly stares me down.

“Teach him a lesson. The fucker has a side bet with us for five large. Only three peeps backed you tonight, me and two Joe Shmoe’s so this could lock us in for twenty tonight. That will finish the center. One hit – all it takes. Break him.”

On his final words the bell rings and we are drawn to the center. The referee gives the usual mutterings keep it clean and all that bullshit that is far from anything to stand up in, in a place like this.

The crowd is loud. The beat of my heart as the adrenaline courses through me thunders in my chest. The sweat runs down my face as I eye up my opponent.

I am a lion. He is my prey.

I am on my throne. He will not defeat me.

Welcome to my kingdom. He who enters will forever know my name.

Time to protect my pride.

We dance around each other. His fatigue shows behind the glint in his eyes. He has underestimated me. The kick comes. I take the hit to my thigh.

The burn is welcome. The pain is intense. The power shows. I will bring him to his knees.

Impatience builds inside him, the jab is predictable. I move, he misses. I swing with a right hook to his jaw. The impact shows. His mouth bleeds as his head comes back around. He shakes it off as he tries to focus on me and my next move. The uppercut to his abdomen takes his breath away.

He is off his guard.

We dance around. He moves to take me down. I counter. The minutes tick by feeling like hours. My body is on a high I will soon crash from.

Round after round we are matched evenly. The Professor has studied me and has come back from everything I have thrown at him.

We move. He backs himself into the corner.

Final mistake. I pin him there with a left, right, left, right, left. He becomes my bag and I land hit after hit after hit.

He is limp in front of me as I continue to land punch after punch before being pulled away. My arm is raised up.

Victory.

Pete ‘Professor’ Charleston is laid out in a pool of his own blood and saliva in the corner of the ring. Medics rush over and after a moment he comes to. Wendol and I make our way out after he collects our envelope from the coordinators. Pete’s brother, Joel, informs us that our payment will be made at my house the following morning as Pete apparently needs medical care.

“If he doesn’t pay up, we’ll come for him and it’s more than money we’ll seek,” Wendol warns.

The high of the night quickly wearing me down, I don’t care to discuss the details any further. I need to get home, get showered, and ice up.

He will pay up. This is not the kind of league where you short change anyone.

LoraLeigh

Brutal. Watching the
last fight of the night…watching Pete lose is brutal. Joel practically carries him to the car. We arrive home and I immediately get the antiseptic and begin to clean up Pete’s cuts. He winces but remains silent.

We all go to bed. Something feels off. Normally, after a fight, win or lose, Joel comes for me. Pete never has sex with me the day before or the day after a fight. Joel, though, after a fight is a guarantee. I have always assumed it was because he didn’t actually fight but needed to work off some pent up testosterone.

Neither man has ever been overly rough with me. They aren’t what I would call gentle, but it has been a far better experience than any other place I have been to.

Maybe it is me. Maybe I have finally come to terms with my life. Either way, sex is sex, and although I don’t find that it feels good, it doesn’t rip me apart painfully like it once did.

Morning comes. The light filters in from my bedroom window.

Dear Diary,

Today is day two thousand one hundred and ninety-one since my mom overdosed. It is day two thousand one hundred and eighty-nine since her dealer sold me to the highest bidder.

Today is six years and a day ago I said goodbye to one prison to fall into another.

At fifteen, I was a mess. At eighteen, I was beyond help. Today is day one thousand ninety six since I tried to run. Today is day two hundred sixty five since my last thought of committing suicide. Today is day three hundred twenty-one since my last attempt at suicide.

Today is day four hundred thirteen with my current owner. Pete lost his match last night. Something isn’t right. My gut is screaming at me something isn’t right. I have certainly been wrong in the past. Let me be wrong today.

Daily reminder-

I will survive another day. I will find hope. One day I will be free. One day I will be me.

Signed,

LoraLeigh Riffel

“Pack up, Annie, everything,” Joel’s voice comes from the other side of my bedroom door. I drop to my knees.

“Dear God in Heaven, if you could lend me your ears, grant me your strength, and give me hope. I want to find it in my heart and in my soul to believe. Dear God, give me something to believe in right now,” I whisper, my sobs to the silent room around me.

I sit there in the middle of the room on my knees, quietly sobbing as the fear of the unknown grips me.

“Grab your shit, Annie. Let’s go,” Joel pounds at my door.

Funny, the one time I don’t care if he walks in and beats the ever loving daylights out of me and he knocks. Life is one cruel joke after another to me. Scrambling, I change into yoga pants and an old t-shirt of one of the guys. Over the years, I have managed to acquire a few articles of clothing, but I have never had much. Pete and Joel have been the only ones to actually go out and purchase clothes for me outside of what I am expected to wear to fights.

Wiping my tears away, I roll my shoulders back and ready myself to face whatever comes next. My pillowcase in hand, filled with my belongings, reminds me of the orphan I am and have been practically my entire life.

When will it end? When will I be free to find me?

LoraLeigh

‡

A
fter a long
ride in the car overnight and alone with Joel, I am put out in a strange front yard. I don’t know where I am other than somewhere in Texas. We crossed the state line from New Mexico and I remember the sign.

“Get inside. He has to accept you as payment from Professor. If he doesn’t accept you, Pete’s dead.”

My mind tries to comprehend what he is telling me.

“You get me, Annie?” Joel yells.

Joel never yells. This is serious. I don’t move. I don’t blink. I don’t know what to even think.

“If Pete’s dead, you’re dead Annie. Now get on the porch and get Hitman to take you in.”

Without another word, Joel gets in the car. I make my way to the porch. When I knock there is no answer. I wait on the porch as I look over to see Joel has parked just down the street. Great, no escaping.

What will Hitman be like? I remember him from the final fight. He is tall, muscular, and he has longish blonde hair. He has tattoos over both shoulders, his back, and his chest. I was so caught up in my fears I didn’t take in any details. Will Hitman take the payment? What will he do to me?

If he doesn’t accept, what will Joel do? Is he waiting to pick me back up and take me home? I almost laugh at the thought – home. I have no home. Pete and Joel, their house was far from being my home. God, I really am a mess. Who gets sucked into this kind of life and actually somehow twists it in their mind to call one of their captive’s places home. There isn’t enough therapy in the world to help me sort my life.

Why go on living? I have no family. I have no home. I have no job. Hell, I don’t know anything about myself but my damn name. I don’t have a birth certificate. I am another Jane Doe. Would it matter if I died? No one would even be around to bury me.

I look around me to see if there is something sharp. Joel pulls the car closer. He is watching. He will step in and save me. I can’t do this from here.

Okay, he said get inside. Once I get inside, there has to be something I can use to end my misery before I completely give in to this world that has become my life.

Get him to accept me as his payment.

Get inside.

End it all.

Heath

It is a
long damn day. The work day passes on as I push through. The combination of the Texas heat and my stiff muscles are still sore from the exertion two nights before, only add to my agitation at being ripped off. All put me in a foul mood for the day at hand. Fight money isn’t bill money.

Drill money is bill money.

I fight to give back. Every dime Wendol and I make on my fights goes into the
House of Hope
, a battered women’s foundation. More than a shelter,
House of Hope
rebuilds each woman from the ground up. They provide food, shelter, clothing, education, counseling, and so much more for women of abuse, rape, assault, and young women who have been abandoned.

Wendol grew up with a mom and a dad who were soul mates. His parents have the kind of marriage they should write instructions manuals based on. His sister met a guy when she was sixteen. He was twenty three. It started out okay, despite the age difference. Unfortunately, it did not end okay. His sister, Shayla, ended up in a casket and her boyfriend got a reduced charge to manslaughter and is currently serving time in a correctional facility.