3MA

3MA | Chapter 3

3
THE BILLIONAIRE IN THE BASEMENT

I jolt awake.

Instinct tells me to grab the first body part I can wrap my hands around. Unfortunately for Fisher, it happens to be his soot-covered neck.

"Easy...ti...ger," he chokes.

My eyes shuffle around the space, desperate to figure out where I am. A familiar rusty metal locker with my name on it hulks in the corner, giving me the answer. I'm in my dressing room. I lost the fight against the Constrictor. And now I'm choking the life out of the only fan I've ever had.

I release my grip. Fisher sucks in a gulp of air and rubs the red imprint of my hand around his neck.

I'm too ashamed to look Fisher in the eye, so I just stare at the locker in the corner. "Gimme the runthrough."

Fisher clears his throat. "Well. He choked you unconscious, threw some flowers on your face while everyone laughed, signed some autographs while standing over your body, spit on you a few times, took a few pictures sitting on your chest for the newspaper. Then I dragged you here."

"Thanks for leaving nothing out. Where's Larry?"

Fisher rolls his eyes and shrugs. "Said he had some business to attend to."

I push myself to a sitting position on the rickety table that hulks in the middle of the room. I glance at a cracked mirror across the way to survey the damage: Two black eyes. Knuckles shredded and raw. Neck covered in a web of purple and crimson veins from strangulation.

I've looked worse.

Fisher puts a hand on my shoulder and thrusts a bottle of ice water into my lap. I unscrew the cap and pour the contents over my head.

I swing my feet over the table and place them on the cold concrete floor. I throw on my street clothes: a hooded sweatshirt with SAL'S BURGERS printed on the back and a pair of tattered blue jeans. "I looked like real idiot out there tonight, didn't I?"

"No, dufus" Fisher says with his trademark grin. "You looked like a real badass. Minus the losing part."

Throughout our childhood, that smile had always baffled me. I survey Fisher's body: in the florescent lighting of the dressing room, his filthy overalls and grime-encrusted work boots look dipped in tar. His face doesn't have an ounce of fat to spare. Neither did his mother's, when we buried her years ago. And through it all—that unwavering grin. How Fisher can stay optimistic, no matter how bad our situations are, no matter how much worse we both know it's going to get, will always be a complete mystery to me.

I grab the old moth-eaten boxing robe, the gloves and the mouth guard lying in a heap on the floor. "I need to return these to Fink. Come with."

Fisher shakes his head and heads for the door. "Nah. Guy gives me the creeps. Anyway, I gotta work tonight. Double shift. Mayor LeMorte is expanding the subway."

"If you see him," I say with a grunt, "tell him I haven't had a hot shower since I was a kid."

"Sure thing," Fisher replies with an eye roll. "Right after I ask him to deliver an assorted cheese basket to your apartment."

Fisher looks down at the floor. "I wish there was some way I could help you in the ring, bro."

"You do help, Fish. You remove my mangled body from it every night."

Fisher just smiles and tips his cap in my direction. "Any time, M."

I listen to Fisher's boots squeak down the hallway, until an empty silence falls over the dressing room, and the only sound I can hear is my heart thudding in my chest.