Unstoppable Read online

Watching Dekkar walk was something that took me time to get used to. I remember when we met, after our first fight. I had challenged him about his way of walking.

  “That walk of yours is either going to get you into a hell of a lot of trouble or keep you out of it, I can’t decide which,” I had laughed.

  “I call it the Compton swagger,” Dekkar chuckled in reply.

  “Living in Compton, you need to know how to fight or you need to act like you know how. I know I can fight, but I needed to try to keep people from challenging me. So, I developed this walk. A walk with an attitude. It’s habit now,” he explained.

  “Well, it works,” I agreed.

  And we’ve been best friends since.

  “Son of a bitch Dekk. You know he hates me going to Rundberg, and you know he always worries about his old car. Jesus, you let the cat out of the bag, bro,” I complained jokingly.

  “And you know I hate you fighting these fights,” Dekk said as he walked around the car.

  “It’s all I know. I ain’t painting cars anymore for money, it kills my lungs,” I said over the top of the car as I opened the door.

  I had purchased my car from my father - a red 1969 Chevelle SS he had driven when he was in high school. After he graduated, he restored the car to near perfect condition. I bought it from him when I was twenty years old. Eleven years later, the car was in perfect condition, red, and race-ready. I had removed the 396 cubic inch motor, and installed a Chevy 502 cubic inch motor. The four speed transmission kept the entertainment value up, and made it damned intimidating in a street race.

  As I fired up the motor, Dekk started to speak. I raised my hands and shook my head.

  “You know I can’t hear you in this loud motherfucker while we’re in the garage,” I screamed as I pushed in the clutch and shifted the car into reverse.

  I looked over my right shoulder and through the back glass. As I released the clutch the car started to surge backward. The whumpity-whump of the cam in this motor made it impossible to drive at low rpm or speed. I pressed on the gas to keep the engine from dying and backed the car out of the garage and into the street.

  I pushed down on the brake pedal, stopped the car, and made eye contact with Dekk as I rotated my head to look straight ahead.

  I raised my eyebrows and smiled an evil grin.

  Typically, I came to my parent’s house once a week at minimum. Sunday dinner at home was a tradition. Although I used my truck during the week at times, I always drove the Chevelle to my parent’s house. Fifty percent of the time when I left, I left like I was in a drag race.

  The two dozen sets of black marks in front of the house were a constant reminder to my father of the differences in how he drove this car, and how I drove it. I did it to torture him and remind him of the fact this wasn’t his car anymore.

  As I pushed in the clutch and shifted it into first, he began to yell.

  “Dude, not again. Your father is going to kill you. He’s already pissed about you fighting bare knuckles in Rundberg,” he half yelled as he shook his head comically from side to side.

  I pressed the gas pedal half way to the floor. The sound from the exhaust was deafening. I pressed a little further, and Dekk’s hands came up to cover his ears. I pressed a little further. As the motor reached the sweet spot - the one I used to launch this car from a dead stop - my cock started to get stiff.

  I turned toward Dekk and smiled.

  “I love this fucking car, Dekk,” I screamed.

  “Don’t,” he yelled.

  “Can I get a fuck yes?” I tilted my head back and looked up at the headliner as I screamed.

  I rotated my head to the left and looked toward my parent’s house. As the exhaust bellowed from the back of the car, my father stared out the window of the living room into the street, his hands pressed into his hips.

  This ain’t your car anymore, old man.

  I slid my foot off of the clutch, mashed the gas pedal to the floor, and launched the car from a dead stop like it had been hit from behind by a semi-truck. I glanced right. Dekk, pinned to his seat, unsuccessfully attempted to reach for the dash to stabilize himself.

  Not in this car, you won’t.

  The car slid sideways as I grabbed second gear. Half way through second the tires started to grip, pressing Dekk further into his seat. A quick glance in the rearview mirror confirmed the entire block was filled with the smoke from my tires. Two one hundred foot long black marks in front of my parent’s house would remind my father for the next month that I’m a little wilder than he is.

  Just a little.

  I shifted into third gear and let off the gas pedal. Dekk lowered his hands into his lap and exhaled.

  As I came to a stop at the intersection, I rotated my wrist and glanced at my G-Shock. We had thirty minutes to make it to Rundberg. Ten minutes to spare if traffic was decent. I lifted my hands from the steering wheel and looked at the scars which littered my knuckles and smiled. One more wouldn’t even be noticed.

  The $2500 I’d win from knocking this punk out would last me over a month, and knocking motherfuckers out is what I do.

  “You alright bro?” Dekk asked as he rubbed his hands together and looked down at his lap.

  I thought of another bare knuckled match in Rundberg. The rush of the adrenaline, the smell of the sweat, my muscles becoming pumped, the blood, the screaming of the people betting on the match, and taking the $2500 when it was over.

  The smell of blood, sweat, and money.

  Am I alright?

  I gripped the steering wheel and nodded my head once.

  Fuck yes.

  RIPP. “So, who’s Kane got set up?’ Dekk hollered as I pulled the car into the stall right beside the entrance.

  I shut off the engine before I tried to respond.

  “Some fucker that moved here from Dallas. Not sure what his name is. The kid ran an ad on Craigslist. Said he was the baddest motherfucker in Texas. I beg to differ,” I laughed as I pulled the keys out of the ignition.

  The facility in Rundberg was a metal building on a concrete slab originally built for use as a storage facility. There were six parking stalls beside the front door reserved for fighters. Any question about parking in the premium spots was quickly squelched by the signs that were attached to the building in front of each stall. As I opened the door of the car to step out, I smiled and re-read the sign.

  FIGHTER PARKING ONLY

  TO PARK HERE

  BE WILLING TO FIGHT

  OR

  BACK UP

  AND

  PARK YOUR SHIT IN THE STREET

  As I shut the door of the car I shook my head and smiled over the top of the car at Dekk. I turned to face the building as I heard the door swing open.

  “I figured that was you. Felt the fuckin’ walls shakin’. How’s it hangin’ Ripp?” Kane asked as he walked over and held out his hand.

  “Like a fuckin’ hammer, Kane. You remember Dekk?” I asked as I shook his hand and motioned toward Dekk with my free hand.

  “The man behind the hoodie. Fuck, who don’t know this cool cat? Mr. Dekkar,” Kane said as he nodded toward Dekk.

  “I get a how’s it hangin’, Ripp. And Dekk gets a Mr. fucking Dekkar? Who makes you all your money, you fucking midget?” I growled as I locked the car.

  “Now, come on, Ripp. I told you about calling me a midget. You gotta stop that shit,” Kane complained.

  “Well, you barely clear my belt,” I laughed as I pulled my toothpick from my mouth.

  Kane was in his mid-thirties, and about five foot five. He was very muscular and pretty tough for his size, but he was still only five foot five. He claimed to be five foot seven, but he wasn’t even close. Five foot five on his best day was more accurate. When he pissed me off, I would react by calling him a midget. As with most short men, he had a complex. Fact of the matter, if he was a midget, I wouldn’t talk to him. I know it’s not politically correct - but clowns, midgets, and people in wheelchairs just creep me the
fuck out. I can’t be in the presence of any of them. Not even for a second.

  “Seriously, Ripp,” Kane whined.

  As he ran his hand through his short curly hair, I stepped toward the entrance.

  “I’m just fucking with ya, Kane. So who’s the kid?” I sighed as I pulled the door open and motioned for Kane and Dekk to walk in.

  Kane put his hand against the outside of the door and tried to push it closed as he looked down at my shoes and back up into my eyes. A worried look washed over his face. I raised one eyebrow in an exaggerated fashion and looked at him as I let go of the handle and pushed the door closed. I stepped beside the doorway as he began to speak.

  “This kid, Ripp,” Kane paused and inhaled, “he isn’t here yet. He’ll be here, I’m sure. Let me tell you, he talks pretty fuckin’ crazy. I met him at the BAT Bar the other day. He’s a wiry fucker - long lean muscle. He’s as tall as you, long arms, and I’d say probably thirty pounds lighter. But let me tell you, he’s intense. I won’t even tell you what all he said,” Kane looked back down at my feet as he finished speaking.

  I leaned against the building and shook my head. “You can’t say you’ll never believe what else he said and then not tell me, you little fucker,” I chuckled.

  Dekk pressed his hands into his pockets and leaned against the building, smiling. I looked at Dekk, turned back toward Kane, and raised both eyebrows – attempting to get all of his attention. At first I felt like Kane was trying to get me riled up. But looking into his eyes, he now looked worried about something.

  “Speak, smidge,” I growled as I stared into his eyes.

  “Well, you know he ran that ad on Craigslist, right?” Kane asked as he looked down at his feet.

  I nodded as I wiped my sweaty hands onto my cargo shorts. I couldn’t wait to see what he had to say about this twerp.

  “Well, he says nobody can whip him. Hell, everyone either says or thinks that; until they get whipped,” Kane paused, took a slow breath, and looked up.

  “He can be whipped,” I laughed as I shook my head. There had to be more to it than this.

  “Well, don’t get mad at me, okay?” Kane pleaded.

  “Kane you little fucker. Say whatever you gotta say,” I shook my head and looked at Dekk, who still leaned against the building smiling a shitty little smile.

  “He said he was going to whip your ass. And when he was done, he was going to…” Kane paused again and inhaled a choppy breath.

  It was apparent Kane was truly nervous to tell me whatever he had to say. I felt my temperature rise a few degrees. I reached up with my right hand and wiped the sweat from my smooth scalp. Kane was always theatrical, kind of a little actor of sorts. He always told really dramatic stories, and used his hands when he spoke. Part of his sales ability, I suppose. Waiting for him to blurt out the rest of this story was about to exhaust me. As my patience wore considerably thin, the sound of a loud exhaust from a car caused me turn to face the street.

  A black Ford Mustang turned the corner, downshifted, and revved the engine. Without braking or slowing down, it maneuvered into the drive, and shot through the lot - downshifting again. As it quickly approached the stall beside the Chevelle, I straightened my stance and rolled my shoulders nervously. Dekk leaned forward, pulled his hands from his pockets, and rubbed the sides of his head as he squinted – looking in the direction of the Mustang.

  “That’s him,” Kane half-whispered.

  I turned to face Kane. The stereo of the Mustang was loud enough I could feel it. Head-banging heavy metal played loud enough the windows of the car vibrated as he parked beside the Chevelle. I turned from facing the building, looked to my right over the top of the Chevelle, and then back toward Kane.

  “What else did he say?” I growled.

  Kane rolled his eyes and shrugged his shoulders. I rubbed my right clenched fist in my left palm. This was a tell-tale nervous habit I had when I got angry. I felt myself begin to sweat as Kane stared silently into my eyes.

  “Don’t make me embarrass you, you little midget. What did he say?” I grunted through my clenched teeth.

  Kane lowered his shoulders, slowly turned his head, and looked toward the Mustang as the driver shut off the engine. “He said after he whipped your ass he was going to butt fuck you to teach you a lesson,” he turned and nervously looked up into my eyes.

  “Are you fucking kidding?” I howled laughing.

  “Shhhh,” Kane whispered.

  “You hear that, Dekk?” I laughed as I turned to face Dekk.

  Dekk had moved away from the wall, and was now standing on the other side of my car, waiting for the driver of the Mustang to get out. The safety of my car was as important to Dekk as it was to me. As Dekk looked at the Mustang intently, I turned back to face Kane, shaking my head in disbelief.

  “Twenty-five hundred, right?” I asked.

  “Huh?” Kane responded nervously.

  “Twenty-five hundred. That’s my take after I knock this punk out?” I raised my eyebrows again, paused, and spit my tooth pick on the ground.

  “Uhhm. Well, it’s actually up to thirty-four,” Kane responded as he turned to face where Shane stood.

  “His name?” as I asked I heard the car doors open.

  “Goes by Monkey,” Kane responded.

  “No shit? Monkey?” I chuckled softly as I rubbed my right fist into my palm.

  “Oh fuck. You must be him,” I heard an unfamiliar voice say from the behind me.

  I turned my head to face the rear of my car. Shit for brains was standing behind it in swishy pants and a wife-beater. He was bent at the waist, reading the personalized license plate of my car.

  “Rippin’ it. The fucking Ripper,” he said as he looked at the license plate.

  Two women stood with him, one on each side. Both were wearing black dresses that looked like they were painted on. Dekk was a good ten feet behind him, his hood over his head and his hands now back into in his pockets.

  RIPPNIT was the personalized plate on the Chevelle. I felt it fit the car, me, and my personality. When I drove the car, I was always ripping around. And me just being me? I’m Mike fucking Ripton, and I’m always Rippin’ it.

  As Monkey’s hand reached for the trunk of the car, I rotated my body to face him. I spread my legs shoulder width apart, cracked my knuckles on my palms, and stared. I reached up to my mouth, and realized I’d already spit out my toothpick. Without really thinking, I unbuckled my G-Shock and held it to my side.

  “Hold this,” I grunted at Kane.

  “Ripp. We need to…” Kane said excitedly.

  “Take the fuckin’ watch,” I growled as I focused on Monkey-boy’s hand hovering over the trunk lid of the car.

  “You’re not gonna want to touch that car, Monkey,” I tilted my head from side to side and popped my neck as I focused on his hands.

  Both of his girls turned and looked at him as I spoke. His actions and response would tell me a lot about who this kid was as a person. As professional fighters, we’re all one person in the ring, and another person out of the ring. All the shit talking in the world can happen in the ring or in the building we’re fighting in while we’re in the fight. After the fight is over, the shit-talking stops. Fighters respect other fighters no different than cops respect other cops. This kid wasn’t a professional fighter, but he damn sure should know the code.

  As he leaned forward and placed both his hands on the trunk of my car, I felt my cock twitch.

  Everyone has their tell-tale signs. Some people sweat, some shake, and some have a hard time speaking. When we reach the point we know there’s an imminent threat - that something is going to happen, we all have a glitch. Mine is my cock twitching.

  And my cock is never wrong.

  I could hear voices behind me, but I couldn’t make sense of them. I saw Dekk slowly walk around behind Monkey and the girls, staying a good fifteen feet or so away from them. As my hearing went out of focus, I began to hear a buzzing sound.

&nb
sp; Another glitch.

  “Take your hands off the trunk of my car, and let’s go inside and get this over with,” I sighed, trying to maintain my mental posture.

  Letting this kid get me off my game was just what he wanted. I wasn’t about to let that happen.

  His hands still on the trunk, he turned his head to face me and smiled.

  The distance between where he stood and where I was standing was probably twenty five feet. There was no way he could rush me and get a punch in without me reacting. I reached down and grabbed the bottom of my shirt with both hands and quickly pulled it over my head.

  “Hold this,” I said as I held my left hand out to my side, my shirt wadded up in my fist.

  Monkey’s eyes couldn’t contain his surprise. I’ve always said the eyes never lie. He lifted his hands from the trunk and straightened his stance. He was probably just north of six feet tall, and roughly a hundred and ninety pounds. I was currently in as good of shape as I have ever been, and weighed two hundred and thirty pounds. Austin is a huge city, and in my daily travels throughout the city, I rarely ever encountered anyone as big as I was from a muscular size standpoint. I was that big. From the look on his girl’s faces, they liked what they were seeing just as much as he didn’t like it.

  “No need to get mad, big boy,” the sound of his voice was an irritating squeak.

  “I’m not mad,” I paused and rolled my shoulders, “yet.”

  I motioned toward the door.

  “Let’s get this over with,” I said sharply and slowly.

  Knowing Dekk would keep Monkey-boy off of my car and from jumping on my back, I turned toward the door. Taking this shit in the building was in everyone’s best interest. The people inside were the ones who bet on this match, and in a sense they paid to see what was going to happen. Kane’s place had few rules, but they were strict: only by invitation, no loitering, no fighting by outsiders, and no going in and out of the facility. After you were here, you stayed inside the facility until the fight or fights were over. It kept the attention down to a minimum. Although the cops had a good idea of what we did, there was no sense bringing unwanted attention to Kane or the facility.