The bookies had Beergut at four-to-one odds to win (the odds probably would’ve been twenty-to-one a few months ago). Still, if Beergut managed to take Trivera down, Krylt could win a lot of money. And as a younger man, Krylt had seen Beergut fight and knew the punishment he could endure to help a relative in need. As a result, he put two million bucks on the fight and gave Beergut a very simple choice: win the bout or wait for the police to find his kid’s remains.
Tony probably knew this and didn’t tell me, knowing that I wouldn’t touch Beergut with a ten-foot pole. I lived on Krylt’s turf and the last thing I needed was to be on his shit list. But fuck it. I was here and I’d do what I could do. It took us another hour to wake him up. This time, Beergut made it to the bathroom, pissed in the toilet (more or less), and hopped in the shower. He was coherent as he dried off and got dressed.
Introductions were made and Tony’s guys scurried around, getting things in order. We talked strategy. Beergut agreed that he needed to avoid a straight-up slugfest for the first two rounds. While I didn’t think he could do it, I told him that on the third round, he should unload on Trivera with everything he had left. He seemed to agree with the game plan and sincerely thanked me for helping out.
With twenty minutes left before we went out, Beergut’s son showed up with a brown paper bag. Inside were two fresh half-gallon bottles of Jack Daniels! I did my best impersonation of Tony in a rage, yelling that he was about to take on a champion-level contender. Beergut ignored me, opened one bottle, and drank it down like he was a living drain.
Mitch explained that Beergut knew what he was doing. Joey and I watched him drop the whole bottle in under ten seconds, pull the other one out and guzzle it dry just as fast. He should be dead from alcohol poisoning by now. No human being could down three big bottles of Jack, in one hour, and not die. The bastard must have eight livers in him or something!
But after a really long third piss, Beergut seemed to perk up. Not only did he look completely awake, he looked kinda’ scary – like a Viking berserker about to go out and kill somebody. He got in my face, glared me in the eye, and told me to lace his gloves. I decided to stop preaching and get him ready. It was too late for me to do much of anything at this point. Even if this guy really was a mean drunk, he wasn’t good enough to take out Trivera. Fuck it, I thought to myself, as I laced up his gloves. Beergut’s not my fighter. And it’s not my kid’s life at stake. All I had to do was to give him advice and try to make sure that Beergut made it to the hospital alive when he lost.
The clock ticked. Beergut got meaner and meaner with each passing second. He was pacing the room like a caged beast. Even Joey – who feared no one – stayed out of his way. When a guy came in and announced five minutes to match time, Beergut gave him a wide, evil grin. Beergut chewed up a whole pack of breath mints and then led the way, humming an old Irish-sounding tune all the way to the ring. Trivera and his folks waited in the opposite corner. The huge, ugly Mexican wore a cocky smile.
I reminded him of our strategy. He nodded. The announcer and the ref stood at the center. Both fighters stepped up to him, heard the rules and slapped gloves. The bell rang. Then Beergut ran the fuck across the ring and smashed Trivera across the jaw with a hard right cross!
So much for strategy!
The entire arena went dead silent as Trivera hit the mat, half-dazed. The ref shoved Beergut back as the assembled crowd suddenly cheered. Trivera got up by the time the ref counted to six. Blood came out of Trivera’s mouth and his eyes filled with humiliated rage. Joey and I swapped “oh-shit!” glances. We had both seen that look in prior fights, right before Trivera exploded on some poor bastard.
Beergut was a dead man.
The ref resumed the fight.
Both men charged toward each other and started swinging as if they were being paid by the punch. Finesse and discipline went out the window. Anyone watching the match knew that this fight would be over in another round or two, tops. Trivera focused his punches on Beergut’s face, clearly intending to knock his IQ down a few dozen points. While Beergut took some nasty shots, he didn’t seem to feel it.
Still, even if he was too drunk to feel Trivera’s hits, he should’ve been stumbling around the ring. But three bottles of Jack didn’t slow him. In fact, he moved like a man half his age as he shrugged off Trivera’s best punches and returned the favor with some powerful body shots. They equally pounded away at each other – at first. But then one of Beergut’s uppercuts caught Trivera along the left side of his ribs. The blow lifted Trivera a few inches off the mat and popped the wind out of him.
Son of a bitch!
Without a hint of mercy, Beergut changed up and worked both sides of Trivera’s skull with some very basic fist work. Trivera’s defiant counterpunches either didn’t land at all or lacked any visible effect when they did. Then, Beergut smashed Trivera with another uppercut, right along the right side of his chin. This time, Trivera went down and didn’t move for the ten-count. Beergut roared with triumph as the ref held his arm up and declared him the winner. Paramedics and Trivera’s people rushed in to check on the poor, mangled ex-champion.
…and I kicked myself for betting two grand against Beergut when he was all passed out.
A TIMELY ASSIST
Specialist Richard V. Bently staggered across the Iraqi sand with a bullet in his upper right leg. Early in the chase, he had hastily bandaged the wound as best he could. His intent was mainly to staunch the flow of blood and stay conscious. But another part of his rationale involved not leaving an obvious blood trail for the insurgents to follow (not that they couldn’t find him anyway). Bently knew that his footprints would lead them right to him.
But even though the shootout ended about twenty minutes ago, they hadn’t caught up to him yet. Part of him had hoped that they had decided to leave him to the desert’s tender mercies and bug out before some Allied reinforcements showed up. But Bently knew better.
They’d want his head after what he did to their leader.
Even through the pain, Bently wanted to smile. It wasn’t every day a peon like himself got to bag someone on Uncle Sam’s Most Wanted list. He wasn’t a Special Forces operative or some CIA super-spy tasked with deleting high-level insurgent scumbags. He was a weekend warrior from Indiana who had only killed deer and fish before today.
Bently didn’t remember the asshole’s name, just the butt-ugly, acne-scarred face of a fat insurgent on a wanted poster. The prick was an up-and-comer for Al-Qaeda in Iraq, known for his ability to plan and execute ambushes. The same rat bastard led the ambush on Bently’s supply convoy, which killed everyone else in his unit.
As the shootout wound down, the National Guardsman had gotten lucky with his M-4 and tagged the insurgent leader in the chest – right where he wore his grenades. As concurrent grenade blasts took out a bunch of the attacking insurgents, Bently ducked for cover behind what was left of his Hummer. Then, he threw the rest of his own frag grenades, grabbed his pack, and fled during the pandemonium.
That was when one of the Al-Qaeda fighters sank that bullet into him.
Now Bently limped deeper into the desert, without a clue on where he was headed. The sun was almost down. During the ambush, someone in his unit had probably called for help and backup would eventually show up. If he could manage to double back to the road, he might be able to hook up with them – or maybe some other friendly patrol or convoy. But first, he’d have to avoid getting caught or killed. He reached into his backpack and pulled out a canteen. The soldier allowed himself a quick swig of warm water as he looked over his shoulder. A glint of sunlight reflected and caught his attention.
“Shit!”