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. And don't for get to donate to nifty to keep this site running and free (https://donate.nifty.org).