Tommy steps out of his beat up blue Chevy Silverado, once a mighty vessel thattransported him across the States from city to city, but was now in constant need of maintenance and a new paint job. His boots hit the ground and he strides into “The Dirty Diana”, the only bar that produced what could be remotely described as a nightlife in this town.
As he walks through the double doors, their metal push bars now leaving a rusty residue on the hands of those who touched it, Tommy smiles and waves a hand in the air. The bartender, Ricky, gives him a half smile and raises a hand back. Tommy hops up on a barstool. The wooden floor, in desperate need of a mop, creaks when walked on. The bar is a mixture of western saloon and modern sleaze, but neither is done well and the end result is a worst of both worlds.
“Could I get a Busch Light Ricky?” Tommy asks, rapidly tapping the counter with his fingers.
“Sure Tommy,” Ricky says, and hands Tommy an ice cold bottle. He starts to turn away, but Tommy’s voice calls him back.
“Check this out! Neat little trick I learned awhile back.” Tommy pushes the bottle into his forearm, and then twists rapidly. With a pop the cap snaps off and Tommy flicks it in the air and catches it in his other hand. “That’s gotten me more than a few phone numbers, if you can believe it.”
Ricky nods his head a couple times, unimpressed, and goes to serve some customers that just came in.
It’s Friday night, but football season hasn’t started yet, which means that Tommy is going to be able to persuade Ricky to let him play a few of his old highlight compilations. Most of them have been taken off YouTube, or the video quality is so grainy that Tommy wouldn’t dare show them off anymore. The official UFC channel still had one from his best two fights.
Tommy gestures towards the tv, currently a live game of college basketball. Ricky reluctantly slides him the remote. After a minute or two, Tommy has the highlights pulled up. The likes haven’t gone up at all, but the views went from 10,000 to 10,107.
“Yo Ricky, check it out! Getting some new views. You think Dana and ‘em will call me up for a comeback fight? The prodigal son returns!”
“I’m sure he’s dialing your number right now.”
Tommy waves him off and stares at the screen, where a much younger him is warming up in the corner of the octagon.
The first fight in the video is between him and Jose Alvarado, a scrappy fighter who fought in a total of a dozen fights over his professional career. Once a promising young gun coming out of Mexico, Alvarado was famous for his quick footwork and endless jabs. His speed and fire went away after brutally losing to “The Appalachian Avalanche” otherwise known as Jimmy Barnett.
Since that fight was just a few matches ago, Tommy is confident in his ability to win, and comes out swinging, ever the go-getter. A swift right hook finds the chin of Alvarado, who stumbles back, dazed. Alvarado leans on the mesh cage wall for support, and Tommy rushes him with a lunging knee. At the last second Alvarado jumps and counters with a straight towards Tommy, who blocks it and returns a stiff left, catching Alvarado right in the nose, breaking it upon impact.
He’s done for. That one rocked his world.
After a second, Alvarado falls to the ground, knocked out. The ref raises Tommy’s gloved arm.
At the bar, Tommy is mirroring his victorious self, albeit instead of a glove on his hand, he’s holding a beer.
Three men charge into the bar, rowdy, roaring, and ready to roll.
“Degenerates,” Tommy mutters. “Ricky, I thought this place still ID’d .”
“We do Tommy, you’re just old, anybody looks underage compared to you,” Ricky throws a towel over his shoulder and slowly walks over to the still bickering couple.
Tommy waves Ricky off and turns his attention back to the tv, where the second fight is beginning. This was when he had bulked up to make it to a higher weight class to fight an up and coming light heavyweight fighter, Sean O’Brien. Of all the fighters Tommy had faced, O’Brien was both the largest, and the dumbest. O’Brien was an Irish farm boy, who had a total of two brain cells; one devoted to fighting, and the other to inhaling Guinness.
Luckily for Tommy, the irishman wasn’t used to fighting smaller brawlers. O’Brien begins with his signature haymakers, which had an incredible success rate, but Tommy, predicting this, is able to easily duck in and out, occasionally adding in quick shots to O’Brien’s core.
The first round ends, Tommy sure that he’s got the upper hand. He starts to get cocky however, and goes into the second round with the confidence of a fighter who’s already won the match.
O’Brien hasn’t given up yet, and surprises Tommy with an uppercut that rattles him to the ground. Dazed, Tommy slowly gets up and retaliates with force, throwing lefts and rights, which wear O’Brien down until he stumbles.
There’s my opening.
Tommy kicks low, trying to sweep O’Brien’s legs out from under him. O’Brien realizes this however, and catches his leg, and with surprising strength grabs Tommy and slams him into the wall. Before he can get up, O’Brien is on top, and puts Tommy in a chokehold. Ten seconds later, along with a few feeble attempts to break the hold, Tommy taps O’Brien’s forearm, giving him the win.
“I shoulda had him. Would’ve given me a shot at some real fighters, not just these journeyman bums.” Tommy rubs his chin, remembering the pain that had been caused from that uppercut. His jaw had felt like it needed re-alignment for weeks after that fight.
Finishing off the first beer, Tommy was about to request another, but was interrupted by one of the three men who charged in earlier banging on the bar, laughing at one of his friend’s jokes.
“Ruining my quiet evening,” Tommy mutters. “Hey! Didn’t your dad raise you right. Or did he just say he was going for milk?”
The man, who was oblivious to Tommy up until that point, stares at him intensely.
“What’s your problem man.”
Tommy laughs.
“How about this. You and the rest of The Beach Boys go buy some ice cream and let the grown-ups enjoy their night.”
Tommy turns back towards the TV, queuing up another highlight video, but then the man walks over to him and stops a foot from his stool.
“What’s your problem Rocky. One too many punches to the cranium? Not wear pads in football practice or something?”
Tommy raises the remote, but the man slaps it out of his hand.
“I was using that,” Tommy says, slowly getting out of his seat. The man puffs up his chest, but his two friends quickly come and grab him.
“He didn’t mean anything. His girl just left him, so he’s all fired up. Promise.” The two men drag their friend over to the end of the bar, and start whispering to each other.
Ricky walks over to Tommy.
“What’re you doing. These kids just want a couple beers and then they’ll be gone.”
Tommy reaches into his pocket, where he’s got a small container of Tiger’s Balm, a rub that fighters often apply before or after matches to warm up their joints and prevent soreness.
Ricky grits his teeth. “Tommy. Come on, chill out.”
Tommy just smiles and applies the balm to his right shoulder. “It’ll only take one punch this time, I swear.” Tommy leans off the stool, stretching his back. “Hey buddy! Your friends always rescue your ass like that? No wonder your lady left you, I would too. Figured you would’ve grown a pair by now!”
The man snaps at one of his friends and pushes his way towards Tommy.
“You sure do got a lot of opinions! Wanna back ‘em up?!”
Tommy cracks his neck. Ricky raises an eyebrow.
“One punch, I promise.”
The man steps forward, but Tommy speeds at him, throwing a right with the force of a grizzled veteran. The drinks and glasses on the bar rattle as the man falls into the wooden structure. Tommy lobs a combo of punches, feeling the contact of his fist causing the man’s head to rattle.
The man kicks Tommy, who falls backwards into the tables, crashing to the ground. Grunting, Tommy gets up, and feels his knee snap out of place. He cries out and clutches it viciously.
Before Tommy can recover, the man grabs a bottle and smashes it into Tommy’s raised forearm. Shards of glass embed themselves into the exposed skin.
Tommy grabs the man and thwumps him into the bar. Jab, hook, cross, jab, jab. Tommy backs off, catching his breath.
The man huffs as he leans on the bar. He reaches towards the back of his pants and pulls out a knife. “You’re a good fighter grandpa. But this ain’t no sparring match.”
“No weapons allowed in this bar!” Ricky yells. “Get your friend and leave!” He instructs to the other two men.
“Bobby, let’s just go!” The friends cry out.
“Nah, this guy poked the wrong bear,” Bobby replies. He lashes with the blade, almost catching Tommy’s midsection. With a maneuver he’d learned from a self-defense class, Tommy blocks the next swipe, and whips the knife out of Bobby’s hand.
Clasping his hands together, Tommy throws a final desperate blow, using the last of his strength. He catches Bobby’s jaw dead on, and the man crumples to the ground, followed shortly by a weary Tommy.
Bobby’s two friends look at Tommy, bruised and battered, slumped on the ground.
Tommy starts to push upwards. “You punks want next? I got two more in me!”
“No way man. You need help. Go see a therapist or get high or something.” The two men pick up Bobby and leave the bar.
Tommy makes his way to the stool, painfully, smiling at Ricky, who returns with a face of stone. “Could I get a whiskey?”
Ricky doesn’t move.
“Tommy. I told you last time. You can’t fight in this bar anymore or I’d kick you out.”
“Ricky. He was asking for it.”
“Tommy. I told you.”
“Ricky…”
“Leave. That was your last fight.”