Authors: Sandy Kline
Seth
Book
One
by Sandy
Kline
Copyright
©
2014 Sandy Kline
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Chapter Five – Caleb vs The Breaker
Chapter Six – The Good, The Bad, and The
Confused
Chapter Eleven – The Bad Samaritan
Chapter Thirteen – Brother vs Sister
Chapter Fourteen – Kim Gets a Family
Patched
I flash my press pass at the door and push my way through
a mass of steroid packed muscles and silicon enhanced breasts. Despite the size
of the auditorium there’s a surprisingly thick veil of smoke hanging above my
head. From the smell I’m pretty sure it’s a combination of cigars and blunts
and I don’t care for either of them. Looking around, there must be easily over
ten thousand people gathered here tonight for the upcoming fights. I had no
idea this sport was so popular.
There are two things I really don’t like in this world,
and they’re both represented here in force tonight; cage fighting and bikers!
Well, I’m not a big fan of fake breasts and tonight I’m wearing two hats. I am
both a writer for www.Inthecage.com and a martial artist; a real martial
artist. I hold a brown belt in Aikido.
I don’t expect much from tonight and I fully expect to be
unimpressed
.
I just don’t see how two sweaty guys prancing about in a
ring, limited by a set of rules that basically takes away most of the weapons
you’d actually use in a fight for your life, is realistic. In a cage match you
cannot tear out an eye, collapse a trachea, crush a temple, or intentionally
break your opponent’s neck. Where’s the fun in that?
Originally I took the position for the website because I
really needed the money and I couldn’t afford to be picky. I keep writing for
them because it helps me with my anti- MMA agenda. My short term goal in life;
expose these mixed martial arts fights for what they really are, complete and
utter bullshit! My long term goal in life? I don’t have one yet.
As I work my way through the crowd I immediately notice
I’m a minority on several fronts. Most of tonight’s rabid spectators are muscle
bound men with shaved heads who are very easy on the eyes. As I have previously
mentioned, the women here are silicon enhanced, white women dressed to land
their next ex-husband. They are tall, beautiful, very well proportioned, and
appear to be this season’s cage fighting groupies. Sadly, I don’t land anywhere
close to that. Well, not the groupie thing. I’ll never be an MMA groupie.
However I wouldn’t complain if I suddenly grew a few more inches and another
cup size. I am a short, Filipino-American woman with brown skin, long silky
black hair, and sadly don’t really need the bra I happen to be wearing. Maybe I
should look into this silicon thing. After all 300 gazillion women can’t be
wrong can they?
As I make my way over to the roped off section for the
press I begin to notice a change in the crowd. Not far from the press area
there is a knot of leather clad bad asses that appear to be primed for action.
From my vantage point I can’t tell if it’s an outlaw club I see or just a
random selection of enthusiastic, law abiding motorcycle enthusiasts. I am
really hoping for the latter rather than the former. I really do not want to
report on a gang fight tonight. There are several biker gangs that call Solano
County home; the biggest and the baddest of them all are the Soul Eaters MC.
There’s no way in hell they’d be here though; it’s just not their style.
They’re known for dealing scramble (a mixture of pure heroin and other
substances like morphine for example), and guns. Looking around me I can’t
imagine there’d be many heroin addicts here or gun enthusiasts so it’s probably
a collection of minor clubs here tonight.
Satisfied with my junior sleuthing skills I finish making
my way to the press area. I’m hoping to find my best friend Molly here from
Bullshido.com. Bullshido is a website catering to everything MMA and also have
a solid reputation for debunking bad karate schools (Mac Dojo’s) and dirt bag
teachers. Despite her being an MMA enthusiast, she is still my best friend. I
do my best to search through the gathered writing community here but at five
foot two, I can’t see eye to eye with anyone here. As I spin around in place
getting more frustrated by the minute my eyes stop on the bikers again and this
time I have reason to be worried. This is not just a random collection of
motorcycle riders, these guys are none other than members of the notorious
outlaw club, the Soul Eaters! How could they even get in the door? Like anyone
would try to stop them. To a man, they are wearing their traditional black
leather vest, or cut as they call it, and shit kicking motorcycle boots. If you
have never seen their logo, once seen it’s never forgotten. The top portion is
the red and white letters proclaiming them to be the Soul Eaters. The bottom
portion or rocker claims their territory - California. In the middle,
completing their necessary three part patch is a gruesome figure of a wraith on
a chopped Harley. One bony hand is on the throttle while the other one holds an
AK-47 with the odd attachment of a hypodermic needle where a bayonet would
normally have been attached. They are proud to flaunt their proclivities for
gun running and drug dealing and even local law enforcement fear them. Why the
hell are they here tonight? I can’t imagine any of them having the discipline
to learn a martial art. I do hope they’re not here to rob everybody. Now that’s
something I wouldn’t put past them. I think they live by the motto, go big or
go home.
Despite my initial repugnance at seeing the outlaw bikers
in the flesh, I can’t help but stare at several of them and one in particular.
So many of the guys seem to take pride in looking…well looking like homeless
bums. I swear if you ran a hose over them you’d wash off several pounds of dirt
and grime. The younger ones though don’t seem to espouse the smellier the
better ideology; especially one in particular. He stands about six feet….two or
three and looks to be pure muscle. The way he surveys his surroundings reminds
me of a lion in Africa and how they sit there and watch over the pride looking
for any unfortunate males from outside the pride that accidently wanders into
the wrong territory. In short, he looks ready to pounce. I don’t know how
anyone can live in a constant state of readiness like this guy. I mean, I’m a
martial artist but I don’t go around looking like I’m waiting for some hapless
person to devour. Unlike many of his cohorts he has medium long blond hair and
a well-trimmed goatee. I’ve never liked a man with a beard, but the way this
guy’s goatee frames his mouth… It screams kiss me and at this moment I’m
thinking I’d like too. I’ve never really been a visual person and I prefer to
get to know a man inside before the attraction begins to simmer. But this guy…
I can’t stop looking at him. He’s beautiful. Let’s hope if we meet I never let
that sentiment slip. You don’t call a badass biker beautiful no matter how true
it might be. He’s just got this look that makes my heart quicken, and I get a
round of goose bumps breaking out over my arms. This is definitely a first for
me. No man has that kind of power over my body! But the longer I stare the more
I can imagine me losing my principles and just jumping in the sack the first
chance I get. This is crazy! I’m not some over-sexed sixteen year old. I’m a
responsible, grown woman and I don’t get urges like this; not even over my
current…boyfriend Marc. He’s a Deputy Sheriff in Watsonville and he would not
approve of this event tonight and certainly would have some strong opinions
about the biker standing before me. Someone whispers something in the bikers
ear and his face breaks out into a quick smile, the it’s gone again as fast as
it come. That was amazing! He looked absolutely radiant…just before he replaced
that look with a tough guy scowl. Still he is sooooo hot. Then he turns around
with his back to me and I see the evil wraith on his back and the spell is
broken. I could never get with a biker like him no matter how hot he looked.
I return my attention the fight card. There will be six
fights tonight. I recognize everyone fighting tonight save for one. Fighting in
the heavy weight division is a man who goes by the name of The Iron Skull. A
little pretentious for someone who’s a no-name fighter. I know the guy’s
opponent, Marvin the Crusher and I’m pretty sure Marvin’s going to be the one
doing the crushing tonight. I’m afraid Mr. Skull is going to go from an iron
one to a glass one.
A sudden explosion of cheers erupts around me. I look up
and follow the spotlight on the second fighter as he makes his way through the
crowd and down to the Octagon.
The referee then locks the gate and steps
into the center of the ring. But before any MMA fight can begin there has to be
the obligatory ring whores. They’re the ones with the awesome responsibility of
keeping track of which number corresponds with which round is about to begin
and despite the obviously high intelligence these girls seem to possess, they
still get it wrong from time to time amazingly enough.
The first few fights are pretty much what I have come to
expect from the sport. They’re sub-par boxers who occasionally throw a kick
before it becomes a wrestling match. Color me unimpressed. I am seriously
considering leaving early when during the short rest between fights; I hear
huge cheers erupt from the Soul Eaters. What could possibly interest them
enough to elicit such a response towards the next fighter? They really come
alive. Before the announcement of the fifth fight of the evening they seemed to
be just as bored as I was. But with the announcement of the fight between the
Skull guy and the Crusher, they are as one possessed. They’re stomping their
boots and chanting Iron Skull in perfect rhythm. Sounds like someone’s got some
money on this next fight.
I follow the spotlight as the Crusher makes his way down
the aisle, through the throng, and into the Octagon. He’s a formidable looking
opponent. He’s well over six feet tall and looks like he spends 80 hours a week
bulking up. I can’t imagine anyone actually being able to hurt a guy like that.
He’s got this look on his face and such a level of confidence that he must
actually believe tonight’s fight is a foregone conclusion. For him the fight is
just a formality; some minor annoyance he has to endure until the referee lifts
his arm and pronounces his victory. I feel sorry for the poor sap that has to
fight him. I look at the card in my hands. Tonight’s unfortunate sap goes by
the name Iron Skull. I sure hope the name has been well-earned.
Finally the Crusher’s opponent makes his way through the
chanting crowd. From my vantage point I can’t quite see him so I have no idea
what to expect. When he finally takes the stage and enters the Octagon his back
is turned to me so I can’t see his face. He has a shaved head with some kind of
what looks like a tribal tattoo covering most of it. He’s pretty impressive
when it comes to his physique but he definitely doesn’t match up to the
Crusher. I’m beginning to see things from the Crushers point of view. This is
going to be one fast fight and it’s obvious who will be tapping out. As the two
fighters approach, the referee lifts his hands in effort to silence the crowd -
it half works. I can see him explaining the basic rules to both men, and then
suddenly he steps back and drops his hand in a chopping motion indicating the
contest is on.
The two combatants literally launch themselves at each
other with remarkable speed for their size and the crowd explodes again with
almost equal furry. The Soul Eaters are even more animated now and seem ready
to rush the Octagon. Their man has just been taken down and the Crusher is
doing what is called a ground and pound. I sure hope Mr. Iron Skull truly has
an Iron noggin or he’s gonna be finished in a matter of seconds. The Crusher is
straddling Skull and raining punches down on the man, right, left, right, left,
one after another in rapid succession!
Suddenly Skull arches his back, and then he actually
swings a leg up and hooks the Crusher around his neck. With a violent heave
Skull pulls the Crusher off and slams him onto the mat. Both men are up in an
instant. The two fighters circle around and for the first time I get a look at
Iron Skull’s battered face.
It’s…no fucking way! It’s my younger brother Caleb.
My
brother is Iron Skull! Caleb! How is that even possible. I haven’t seen in ten
years and here he is in the ring fighting in a MMA match. The last time I saw
him he was this skinny computer geek trying to program video games. What the
hell happened and why is the largest outlaw biker gang in the city rooting for
him? I can’t watch this. My head is reeling and my heart…I don’t know what my
heart’s trying to say. I just can’t believe this. Today cannot get any weirder.
I hear a sudden roar from the biker group and look up in
spite of myself. My little brother actually has backed the Crusher up against
the cage and he is punching furiously. It’s almost scary, the amount of rage my
brother is displaying. Whatever happened to Mr. Nice Guy who wouldn’t hurt a fly?