25
OLD ACQUAINTANCEDown in the fume-choked basement of the Iron Cauldron, I limp through the puke-green corridor toward Morris Fink's office looming at the far end. Even from twenty feet away it's impossible to miss the expensive upgrades he's made since I last visited. The bullet hole riddled door has been replaced with a new slab of stainless steel, which sports a glowing digital panel embedded in the middle. It's a door more fitting for a royal bank vault than the office of a thieving fight promoter.
As if the bulletproof entry isn't enough, two colossal security guards stand sentry on either side, their shaved heads outfitted with blinking earpieces and their eyes hidden behind smoked aviator sunglasses. Ten feet before arriving at the door, Colossal #1 holds up his bloated hand.
"That's far enough," he barks. "Name and purpose of visit."
I point up to the booming ceiling. "Me? I'm the one everyone's cheering for."
"Please be more specific," Colossal #1 says in an even baritone, as if he's programmed to say only those four words.
"More specific? Ok. I'm the one everyone's cheering for...in the arena because I won tonight?
Colossal #1 steps forward. "We need your name. Right now. Or my partner will be forced to escort you off the premises."
I roll my eyes. "Tell Fink its the Prince of, er, -- tell Fink Merlin's Heir is here to collect his winnings."
Colossal #1 holds a finger to his ear. "Sir. Merlin's Hair here to see you."
I huff. "It's Merlin's Heir, not Hair. The H is silent," I say pointing to Colossal #2, "like your colleague over here."
"Dumb name," Colossal #2 groans.
I whisper a command under my breath. "Better than your name I say, nodding to Colossal #2's blazer, where a small silver name-plaque that wasn't there a moment before is proudly pinned. It reads MAJOR DOUCHE-NOZZLE.
Colossal #2 rips it off and crushes it under a boot. "Freak," he says. Then he spins around and punches a series of digits into the door monitor.
I pull my silk hood over my head a moment before the entryway slides open with a hiss.
I walk into the office with my face lowered. The door slides shut behind me. Apparently all of the office's improvements are external in nature because not a single thing has changed inside. Same gray security camera wedged into the ceiling. Same coffee-stained, paper cluttered desk. Same troll squatting behind it.
Morris Fink rises from his seat and claps his hands in thunderous applause. "Forty-two years, three months, seven days. That's how long I've owned this dump. And in all that time -- never! I've never seen anything like that fight." He holds his hands up. "Now I know a good magician never reveals his secrets so I won't bother asking but--
"Good," I grumble, disguising my voice. "I value my privacy."
"Privacy!" Fink exclaims. "Privacy's for effeminate writers and mourning celebrity widows. You. You're gonna be a star, son. Prepare for the spotlight!"
"You can keep the fame," I say. "Just pay me."
"As fierce in the negotiating room as in the arena," Fink grins. "I like that."
"This isn't a negotiation," I say stepping toward Fink's desk and letting my shadow slip over his face. "And I don't care what you like or don't like. Three hundred thousand crowns. In large bills. And not a cent skimmed off the top for rentals like you do for the dumbass rookies."
YOU ARE READING
3MA
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