Page 1 of Stone’s Cage
Chapter One
Carson Stone
Remi's Gym smells like blood.
It's what the crowd wants, and I have to get into that head space. I can hear them chanting my name on the floor: STONE! STONE! STONE! While the pitch grows, disembodied voices start breaking up into rogue screams and yells when Jimmy "The Python" Dedham steps into the cage. He came from boxing. I cut my fucking teeth on wrestling. That’s why Remi's thrown up the octagon cage—it's cage fighting tonight and no one is going to win with an advantage. The fight may be unsanctioned but there are rules.
Sort of.
This crowd, that kind of crowd used to get me jacked. Ready to fight. There's autographs afterwards and girls with my face on T-shirts, and they think I'm the best underground fighter there is.
Outside the stinking locker room, my name begins to reform again into a chant and the opposition is squashed.
Coach says nothing through all this—just keeps taping my hands. Then come the gloves. A shot of adrenaline runs like lightening through my gut.
I slam the gloves together and Coach opens the door.
The crowd roars, parting like the sea, carnivorous disciples so I can get to the cage. There's no corny outfits and I won’t fucking wave the crowd into a frenzy—they're already there. Instead, I grab the top of the steel entrance, do a quick chin up and drop into the cage.
Five years ago, Coach had an entourage that followed me into the cage, girls in short skirts or shorts and tight, cropped T's, selling shirts and smiling, holding signs with STONE and my face plastered everywhere. I hated it.
I may not have been born to fight but I've trained to fight and that's what I do. I don’t parade around and rap or ask girls to drop into bed with me. At least not anymore. I don't have to.
Ask anyone around New York who does the gym scene and they know who I am.
At least they think they know who I am.
The Python has his two guys with him, a trainer and a cutter. I've just got Coach—he does both. That's all I've ever needed. He trains and he patches me up—I'm so fucking tired of entourages. Even one more person seems like one too many. I travel light these days—no attachments. No more people.
The ref is a friend of mine, Tiny. Well, not a friend, but I guy I know and respect.
Like I said, I fight unsanctioned but not illegal. We organize outside the UFC or the CFFC or the Underground Cage Fighting leagues. Ours is like the Underground Combat League, filling the vacuum after it dissolved. These gym fights are really dirty and really underground. At least they're reffed, and Tiny with his massive chest, pin head face, and eggplant forearms is a good guy. Fair. Sees it all.
Tiny comes over and offers the same rules I've heard for the last decade.
No choking.
No groin hits.
No spiking.
No fish hooking.
No eye gouging, biting, hair pulling.
The list is long, and few follow it. Remember, crowds want blood.
The mindset is to win. Win at all costs.
I look Python in the eye. Last time we fought I beat the shit out of him. A stray piece of jewelry got snagged in his upper lip. He's bigger than he was last spring, probably got himself loaded up on creatine, and I see this time there's no necklace around that massive neck, just a nasty scar that creeps up towards his nose. Three judges stand off to the side. Usually they're sitting and turn over blocks to start the fight, but these guys are just standing.
Somewhere a bell goes off. The crowd goes berserk, both our names dissolving into a massive roar.
Python makes his move.
He body slams me against the chain link fencing. The trick is to stay away from his legs, that's where "Python" comes in. He crushed a guy's pelvis two months ago. Moving up on the fencing, I push with my legs, pivot, slam a knee into his, and pound him to the ground, landing punches as hard and as fast as I can.
Round 1 is mine.
