Fight Club Pussies

A couple of years ago Big Al told me about a bar in the Valley.

“Where people like to fight. You wanna go?” Big Al and I had met in Pattaya. It was the Last Babylon on Earth.

“Do I have to fight?”

“No, you can watch, you pussy.” Big Al was 300 plus and 5-11. His arms were bigger than my thighs and his thighs were larger than my chest.

“Good.” I had no problem with him calling me a pussy. Big Al robbed meth dealers. It was good to have him as a friend.

After a twenty minute ride from Sunland, Big Al directed me to an industrial zone. Pick-ups and Harleys were parked on the sub-bleached street. I got out of the rented car and almost walked into the first floor.

“Not here.” The extreme fighter led us upstairs. A crowd was drinking beer and watching the cctv from the first floor.

You only go there if you want a fight and you have 30 seconds to start one or else you get the shit kicked out of you. Watch.”

Ten seconds later two men fisted hard knuckles into their skulls. The fight lasted almost a minute. The loser bought the winner a drink.

“You wanna a try? Winner drinks for free.”

“Not a chance.” I knew my limits, but Big Al said, “I’ll be back in a minute.”

The 300-pounder lumbered down the stairs.

Five seconds later he entered the first-floor bar and took on everyone there. A minute later he came back upstairs not even out of breath.

“Pussies.” Big Al was tougher than a bag of bricks, but like THE FIGHT CLUB he mentioned this bar to anyone and I don’t know where it was.

Someplace in the Valley and that’s a big place and Big Al was no pussy.

Not now.

Not ever.

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