Chapter Twelve
While Travis slept, Pro took control of his
body, using it to teleport to his favorite hangout, a seedy bar on the east
side of Detroit called Booker's. It was located in
what used to be a warehouse, and you could only get in with a password.
"Roughriders," he said at the door, and the
bulky bouncer nodded, then patted him down before letting him in. He'd heard
about the place from an online message board about underground fights, and his
first trip to Booker's almost cost him his ass.
The bouncer at the door had taken one look at
him and told him to scram. Pro persisted, flashing him a wad of twenties, which
the bouncer snatched. When he went to grab it back, the bouncer pulled a 9mm.
Pro left but came back the next week and
cold-cocked the bouncer. Patrons came out to see what the commotion was, and
when Pro told them what happened, they balked.
"Let me fight, and I'll prove it."
"Let the kid fight," Booker, the owner, had
said, his belly quivering from his laughter. When he won his match and the next
one, Booker let him continue fighting if he cut him in on forty percent of his
winnings. "An allowance," he said.
After that, Pro became a fixture at the bar,
shooting dice, playing spades, and sneaking drinks when Booker wasn't looking,
Tonight, Booker was behind the bar and smiled
when he saw Pro; he stopped pouring a drink and waved Pro over. "Where ya been, kid?"
"Around. Any action tonight?"
Booker lowered his voice. "Fights start at
midnight. Entry fee's $200."
Pro whistled. "You're breaking my balls." He
pulled out a wad of twenties and laid ten of them in Booker's grubby
hand.
Booker nodded and finished making the drink
he'd started. "You want anything?"
"Hennessy, straight up."
"Not on your life, kid," Booker said, handing
him a can of Mountain Dew instead.
Pro grimaced, but took the can, guzzled
it, then ordered some hot wings and a bacon triple cheeseburger. He wolfed down
both in record time, then patted his belly. He burped, earning him sideways
looks.
The bar was packed with the usual scrubs just
off work or getting ready to go there; they smoked cigars and blunts, if they had
them, while they drank and shot dice or played spades until Ivy got their
attention and began her routine. She worked the pole like nobody's business,
and Pro was right in front, making it rain. Smiling, she planted a big kiss on
his cheek and giggled when he stared stupefied.
"How's about a little VIP treatment?" He
wiggled his eyebrows.
She laughed. "Boy, like I be telling ya, you're too young for me."
"Age ain't nothing but a number. Besides, I'm
old enough to give ya a good time."
She punched him in the shoulder, laughing.
"Pro, you a trip-and-a-half. Come see me in ten years, and I'll rock your
world."
Big dopey grin on his face, Pro promised he'd
hold her to that.
Drumming his fingers on the grimy counter and
sighing, he willed time to move faster. After a while, he rose and took part in
a dice game, using his powers to make the dice land as he pleased, careful to
lose a few hands, so they didn't catch on.
At ten to midnight, Booker announced the
festivities would begin shortly and introduced the fighters. The first person
could pass for a Sumo wrestler he was so big. The next was a thin but jacked
man who wore a red bandanna around his right leg. The next two sported crew
cuts and globe and anchor tattoos. Last was a woman who Pro suspected could bench
press him.
Pro stepped up, and Booker said they would
draw lots to determine the fight order. As the reigning champion, he would face
whoever won the third round of fights. The marines faced off first, and he took
note of them, analyzing how they moved before attacking and filed that away.
The first fight ended in a draw, so it was
left to the audience to decide who won by show of applause. The shorter of the
two won, leaving his friend to bitch at the bar.
In the second fight, Summon Guy fought the Bandana
Guy and lost. Next, Buff Chick faced the winner of the first round. She beat
him and soundly. Finally, it was Pro's turn to fight.
Pro downed the shot of vodka he'd snuck and
strutted to the fighting area, which was little more than a duct tape ring on
the dusty floor.
"I'm not fighting a kid," the woman said.
"Afraid I'll whoop that ass?"
She grimaced. "Have it your way."
He shook hands with her, and she made it a
point to crush his hand in her grip.
"Just so ya know, I
don't like hitting women. Especially not ones as fine as you."
She laughed in his face, showing off her
chipped front teeth. "Don't worry. I'll be doing all the hitting."
The bell rang, and he was off, sidestepping
her until he'd gotten a feel for her style.
"Fight me, coward!"
"Okay."
He feinted to the left, and she threw a right
cross. He blocked, throwing her over his shoulder. Leaning over her, he
whispered into her ear, "Give up, sweetie."
She butted her head into him, busting his lip,
and stood.
Wiping his mouth, he cocked his head to the
side and cracked his knuckles. "I see we doing this
the hard way."
Juking around her, he took her to the ground
and put her in a sleeper hold.
She elbowed him in the ribs, and he wheezed,
struggling to catch his breath.
"Bitch," he said, releasing her.
She stood, fire in her eyes. "What did you
call me?"
"You heard me, bitch."
Glaring daggers at him, she charged. He
sidestepped at the last second, and her momentum carried her right out of the
ring. The audience booed, but a win was a win.
He saddled up to the bar and ordered a Jack
and Coke. Booker slid the glass toward him, though it was just Coke, with a
napkin under it. He lifted up the glass and saw a note
on the napkin: "Take a dive, and we'll split the pot fifty-fifty."
He thought it over. I'm sitting on
$500, and between what I stand to make betting on myself and winning, I'm
looking at four, maybe five grand. I don't trust Booker not to screw me.
"No deal," he said to Booker.
He put on a good show with Bandana Guy, then
knocked the guy out cold.
The audience cheered, and when it looked like
things would pop off, Booker pulled his Uzi and foghorn from under the bar,
triggering the latter.
"Now that I got yo'
attention, you ignorant niggas best listen up. The
next motherfucker I catch acting a fool will get lit
up. Settle up and bounce."
Booker counted out the money and handed it to
Pro.
"Where's the rest of it?"
"My fee for letting your mulatto ass in here
week after week."
Pro looked at him sideways, ready to bust him
in the head until the white meat showed. "You foul as hell for this."
"You want the money or not?"
He snatched the money and counted it out:
$3500. Combined with what he won, gambling and betting on himself, he took home
$5500. When he got back to Travis's house, that total, minus $200, went into
his emergency fund, which he hid in an old shoebox at the back of Travis's
closet.
He counted the stacks of bills in the box, and
they totaled $12,000. That should be enough to get him an apartment. Now he
just needed to find a landlord shady enough to rent to a kid. He put the money
away, tended to his injuries, and crawled into bed, drifting off just as the
sun peaked through the window.
One of the few good things about sharing a
body was he could party it up and not have to deal with the consequences.
He did have a major problem, though. The
blocks he'd placed in Travis's mind were weakening, and eventually, Pro
wouldn't be able to contain those memories and the powers that went with them.
But if he could keep Travis focused on
Giovanni, maybe that would buy him more time?
God, keeping dingus from going all antichrist
is a full-time job. I swear, I should be getting hazard pay for this crap.
Author's Note: Pro's wreaking all kinds of havoc
on Travis's body, and this can't be good for his health. And what this about
him playing matchmaker for Travis and JJ?
Next chapter, Travis takes the reins and Nurse
Jenny catches him self-harming. Send your questions, comments/theories, and
constructive criticism to phenix39@yahoo.com.
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