The rules were simple; bare knuckle fight. No guns. No knives. No bottles. None of that crazy kung-fu shit. First man to step out of the ring lost. Simple enough, right? All he’d have to do is go three rounds with this little fairy and he’d have enough money to get off this miserable fucking island.
The fight was, of all places, on a dairy farm in Cork County. The farmers who owned the place had made themselves scarce. In the middle of a field they’d made a boxing ring, flattening down the barley and marking the boundaries with stones. In the bleak light of morning, with the fog rolling in off the Channel, every detail seemed to stand out sharp and hyper-real.
He and his boys had got wind of the match in the pub last night. They’d staggered in at some ungodly hour, ordered a round of pints off the jaded barkeep, and settled in for a night of debauchery when someone tapped him on the shoulder. A shifty looking fucker in a green bowler hat leaned in next to him, “You look like a tough lad, eh?” he said, his potato-reeking breath making him gag.
He smiled gamely, “Care to test your luck, Irishman?”
The guy laughed mirthlessly, “Not me, no. But there’s a throwdown in Cork, if that’s your fancy. Big pot for the taking too.”
“How much?”
“Gold standard lad.”
And that had been that. The lads had fronted him the Euros he needed to break in. Potato-breath wasn’t too thrilled about “fookin paper money”, but what exactly did he expect? Gold?
Fin shrugged out of his leather jacket and tossed it to his boys in the crowd. They cheered him on; piss drunk as they were it was a miracle they were still standing. He was, at the ripe age of 23, a gangster; a lifetime of violent hooliganism had left him with a whipcord physique and a mean left hook. He’d never lost a fight in his life.
Still, he sized up his opponent warily. By contrast the guy was built like a working man. Short and stout with a solid beer gut, covered in thick red hair that retreated from his hairline to his chest and back. A funny green bowler hat sat perched on top of his head. He was chewing on a cigar like it was beef jerky. His beard was filthy.
“FIN! Fin! Have you lost your bloody mind!” He looked around. Patrick, his old buddy, had advised him not to go to the fight.
“Oh Hell what is it now Pat?”
“Don’t get in that ring man these fairies don’t fight fair mate! You step in that ring and they’ll kill you!”
He rolled his eyes, “Pat for the love of Christ there’s no such thing as a gay mafia, okay? Just a bunch of gay farmers who are about to get the piss beat out of them!”.
“Not fairies you daft fuck! FAERIES!.”
“What like leprechauns? You tellin me there’s a pot o’ gold at stake man?” he gestured towards his opponent, “Oy look here lads, it’s the attack of the Five Foot Nothin’! Better pour me a bowl of Lucky Charms, eh!”
Pat just shook his head and gave him the finger.
The man growled something unintelligible in Gaelic and spat a wad of his cigar on the ground, “You ready to die laddie?”
He looked back. Come to think of it this crowd did seem a wee bit…off. Maybe it was the buckled shoes or the fact everyone here wasn’t even tall enough to ride the teacups at Disneyland. He pushed the notion away; he couldn’t let Pat’s fuckery distract him, especially if there really was a pot of gold on the line.
As soon as he’d stepped into the ring he felt a buzz of energy; not the adrenaline spike you usually get but an electric current that crawled over his skin. There was no announcer, no master of ceremonies, no one to officiate or step in once things got bloody. Everyone knew why they were here; no reason to waste any breath.
The two boxers squared off, circling each other like attack dogs with too much slack in their leash.