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I watch the man in the white, 10-gallon hat, pace back and forth along the dusty, sun-baked Texas roadside.
Cellphone pressed to one ear, his face lost under the shadow of the enormous hat. He's been on that phone most of the morning, guiding the players to our destination. "Just to the east of the Guadalupe Mountains," Ten Gallons says and nods. "Yes sir, that's right. 2185 off 54. Smiley to Weatherby to Nivelle. You'll know you're here when you meet my men."
10 Gallon catches me watching him. He smiles that huge, white-toothed grin of his and gives me a wink. I'm not a fan of that wink. I'm not a fan of the man. And I'm sure as shit not a fan of that fucking 10 Gallon hat of his. He looks like a Texas stereotype, and not a good one. 10 Gallon hangs up and slides his phone inside his white suit jacket. Because, of course, his entire suit matches that fucking hat.
"Problem?" I ask. He shakes his head. The hat doesn't even slip a millimeter. "Nah," 10 Gallon replies. "The drivers are trying to find us using GPS, and I told them that GPS will not work this far out." "No shit." I think, but don't say. He tips his hat at me. "Now it's my turn, Mr. Williams," he says. "Is there a problem?" "My guys are getting antsy," I say. "They've been waiting in the trailer for two days."
I shield my eyes from the morning sun, despite already wearing dark sunglasses and a baseball cap. It's not even ten yet, and the sun is a killer. It has to be over ninety already. I look out at the barren landscape. To my back are the Guadalupe Mountains, a thin strip of rising land that rips a seam through the miles upon miles of scrub-brush filled ravines and mesquite-dabbled hillsides.
10 Gallon had declared it was the most beautiful place in the world when I arrived. I think he and I have different definitions of beautiful. No, we have different definitions of place considering the hellscape surrounding us. I might as well be on Mars or the moon. "You guys will get their chances," 10 Gallon says and turns his attention to the west. We're standing next to cracked and broken asphalt. It's part of a road that cuts across I don't even know how many miles of northwest Texas.
A mile to the west is a roadblock. A mile to the east is another roadblock. No one is going to disturb us. Which is the point. You said noon today, I say. That's part of our deal. If the matches don't start at noon, then I'm calling it a breach and I'll expect full payment so we can be on our way. Matches, 10 Gallon says quietly and chuckles to himself. Something funny? I snap. The sun is getting to me. The waiting is getting to me.
10 Gallon and his goddamn hat are getting to me. "Calm yourself, son," 10 Gallon says. "No need to get agitated. All invited have been informed of the deadline." He approaches me and drapes an arm across my shoulders. I try to shrug him off, but the man has a good six inches in height on me and more than a few pounds to match. As they say in Texas, he's a big son of a gun.
"I know structure is what you are used to," he says. "Spectacle and announcers and that octagon of a ring. Everything planned for, everything thought of. Lights, camera, action. I manage fighters, not movie stars," I say. "Of course you do, son," he says and laughs that big old Texas laugh of his. "Of course you do." He pulls me in tighter.
the crook of his arm hooking my neck, bringing my face closer to his. "But what you have to understand is the men that arrived today aren't meant for the Octagon," he continues, his breath rank with the scent of last night's steak.
"The men that arrive today are 100% grade A certified, tested and true maniacs." He gives my neck a squeeze then pushes me back just enough to make me lose my balance, but not stumble. "Yeah, you've said that," I reply, holding back an urge to rub my neck. "A few times,
"Well then, I'm hoping maybe it'll sink in soon," Ten Gallant says. "Because you need to relax, son. You're about to be richer than a king." "Not after I split the take with my guys," I say. I squint against the sun's glare at the travel trailer parked about 50 yards off the road. I have what I believe could end up being four of the best MMA fighters in the world in that trailer, all bored.
All waiting for a shot at some serious cash that they haven't had access to in the medium circuits I've been promoting them in. They want the big time. They want the UFC. But so do a thousand others just like them. Everyone has to wait for their shot. But all four have gotten tired of waiting. And I knew they were close to dumping me as their manager. Then 10 Gallon called with an offer that was hard to pass up. One fight each, that's all.
Once the fights are done, I get 50 million dollars to do with as I see fit. And paying my guys is what I see fit. "Son, money is not going to be a problem," Ten Gallon says, and gives me that god-awful wink again. "What does that mean?" I snap. He shrugs without shrugging. More than a vibe than a movement.
I walk back to the trailer before I get really pissed. Inside, my guys are lounging about. They had been getting hyped earlier. Now they look bored and pissed. "When is this shit gonna start, Williams?" Norton asks. He's a Boston Bruiser. All street smarts and no finesse. I keep telling him he has to learn subtlety if he wants to get to the next level. He keeps telling me to shove subtlety up my ass. "Soon," I say.
"How soon?" Granada asks. He's a short, Latino dude. But holy fuck does he have an uppercut. It takes his opponents off guard every time because of his height. They never see it coming. "Soon," I insist. "But how soon?" Brennan asks. Irish, born and raised. The fucker was probably fighting in the womb. He likes to say he slapped the doctor when he was born. Not the other way around. I'm inclined to believe him.
"Jesus, guys, chill," I say and drop into a seat at the kitchenette. "Chew isn't out of job," Shevchenko says. This one is different. Shevchenko has seen some shit. He's done some shit. Rumor is that he was an enforcer for one of the Slavic mobs. I don't know which one. These days, it's impossible to tell them apart. His nickname is The Shiv.
"Ten Gallons says they'll be here on time," I say. "Noon is when the matches start." "You don't know his real name," Shevchenko states. "I don't," I say. "I also don't know the names of your opponents or their sponsors." "Sponsors? They have sponsors?" Granada asks. "Like Pepsi or Bud Light? Why don't we have fucking sponsors?" Norton snarls. "Huh? These no-names have sponsors and we don't?"
Fucking bullshit. Yeah. Patrons. They have patrons. Am I correct, Williams? Yup. Rich old bastards that pay for it all. I got to get me one of those. Well, ain't you just a little whore? Grenada is in his face in half a second. No! Save it for the matches.
Mr. Williams, they have arrived. Be right there! Get your shit tight and be ready. Bone ready, mate. Let's do this! Outside are four limos lined up in a row on the opposite side of the road.
Next to each limo is a transport van. Heavily fortified and secured transport vans. Like the kind you use to move prisoners. "What the fuck?" Norton asks as we move to our side of the road. Drivers jump out of the limos and open the rear doors. They are almost synchronized as if they had practiced the move. Old men that look like nothing but money step out of their respective limos. I don't recognize any of them which is troubling.
I know all the faces that belong to the money in the fight circuits. My eyes stray to the transport vans. A chill hits me, even in the Texas heat. The chill gets worse when I see the area is completely surrounded by heavily armed gunmen spaced out every 20 yards or so. They hadn't been there before. "Gentlemen!" Ten Gallon bellows. He's standing in the center of the cracked and broken asphalt with his arms outstretched like a revival tent preacher.
"Thank you for coming. It is an honor to have you all here for the 10th annual Texas Road Slaughter." My guys look at me, confused. I'm right there with them. Nothing was said about this being some regular thing, and they're sure as shit was nothing said about this being called a slaughter. "I have taken the liberty to draw up the matches," 10 Gallon says, and looks right at me. "I hope you don't mind."
He doesn't give me a chance to respond, let alone mind. Which I fucking do, by the way. "Before we get started, let's go over the rules," he continues. "There are none!" He laughs that big laugh. The tension in me ratchets up big time. He's up to something. I can feel it. "Who wants to earn ten million dollars? Anyone?" Ten Gallon asks. He turns to us. "Gentlemen, does that interest you?"
"Fuck yeah, that interests me," Norton says. "Who do I have to kill?" Brendan asks. Granada laughs. Shevchenko looks wary. "What the fuck are you talking about?" I ask. "What are you pulling? I'm five seconds from taking my guys and getting the hell out of here." "Let the man speak," Shevchenko says. "Yes, Mr. Williams, let the man speak," Tangallen says and smiles. "Then speak," I say.
"The original deal is still on the table, as promised," Ten Gallon says. "Fifty million to Mr. Williams, after all of you have fought. He can divide it as he sees fit." He dead-eyes me, then continues. "But I am proposing we add a ten million prize to the winner that takes it all." "Takes it all? Like brackets?" I ask, then shake my head. "That wasn't the deal."
"Yes, Mr. Williams, I know," Tengallen says, and I start to see his patience slip a little. "I have already said the original deal is in place. You can abide by that and simply go home. Or you can give your men a shot at some real money. I'm listening," Brennan says and turns to look at me. "Don't be a cunt, Williams." Granada and Norton laugh. Shevchenko says nothing. His eyes are on the transport vans.
"The fights proceed," Tengallen says. "The winner of each moves on to the next round, until the final fight is done and there is only one champion. That person will receive ten million dollars in cash, all theirs. No need to split it with Mr. Williams." "Hey!" I shout and start across the road toward Tengallen. The distinct sound of slides being drawn back and automatic rifles being charged freezes me in my tracks.
I look about and Ten Gallon's men are all aiming directly at me. I walk back a couple of steps. "Wise choice," Ten Gallon says. "Do I have any takers? Or will you all be the one and done losers that trust this man to be fair and give you what you are owed?" He locks his eyes on my guise. "So what will it be?"
"A fair shot at ten million dollars? Or a possibility of whatever Mr. Williams doesn't keep for himself?" "Don't fucking listen to him," I say. "I'll split it evenly. I already told you that. I'm in," Granada says. "Same," Norton says. "Oh, I'm fucking in," Brendan says. Shevchenko stays quiet. Tangallen focuses all of his attention on the man.
"And what about you, Mr. Shevchenko?" Ten Gallon asks. "Or should I call you The Shiv? Which fighter showed up today?" Even Granada, Norton, and Brennan flinch at the mention of Shevchenko's nickname. But the man himself doesn't twitch a muscle. "Twenty," he says. Ten Gallon stares at the man for a good five seconds. Then he cocks his head back and laughs.
Once he's done laughing, he wipes his eyes and looks back over at the rich old bastards. They all nod. "Holy fucking shit," Norton says. "Did those geezers just agree to twenty million?" "That they did, Mr. Brennan," Ted Gallen says. "Twenty million to the winner of it all," Shevchenko nods once. "Excellent," Ted Gallen bellows. "Then let's get started."
He snaps his fingers and four of his men race to the transport van on the far right. Then 10 Gallon looks over at us and points at Norton. "Mr. Norton will be first," he says. "Damn right," Norton says. "Are you ready to meet your opponent?" 10 Gallon asks. "Hell yeah," Norton says.
Tengallen gestures for him to come forward. Norton strips off his t-shirt, throws it back at me, and walks out into the road in only his fight trunks. "As I said before, there are no rules," Tengallen announces. "No referees, no gloves, no protection of any kind. You cannot tap out. That's a rule." Shevchenko interrupts. Tengallen pauses and smiles at Shevchenko.
"Being able to tap out is a rule, Mr. Shevchenko," Tengallen says. "The lack of a tap out is simply the lack of that rule." "What if we need to tap out?" Granada asks. "Why would you need to tap out?" Tengallen asks. "So we don't fucking die," Granada says and laughs. "There are no rules, Mr. Granada," Tengallen replies. "Hold on," I say. "My guys aren't fighting death matches."
"Then they shouldn't try to win at all costs," Tengallen says, and holds up his hands before any of us can protest further. "But I'm not a monster. If a fighter is knocked unconscious, then the fight ends." He points at Shevchenko and grins. "That's not a rule, sir. That's just good sportsmanship." No one says anything. Not even me.
Tengallen says. "Then let's get started." His men walk a shackled giant, dressed in prison orange, out onto the road. "That's Crawford Hicks?" Granada says and looks at me. "Wasn't he executed last year for killing all those families in that campground?" Norton turns his head and looks back at me, confused. "Is there a problem, Mr. Norton?" Tengallen asks. Norton shakes his head and looks at his opponent.
The man is seven feet tall and about as wide as the trailer behind me. "Fuck." "Good," Ten Gallons says. He retreats to the side of the road where the old rich bastard stand blank-faced. "Let the fight begin." Ten Gallons men remove Hicks' shackles and pretty much run for cover. Norton looks confused. I don't know why he's hesitating. Then I realize he's waiting for a bell or something.
Before I can shout at him to move his ass, it's all over. "Ay, Dios mio!" Granada screams. "Fucking hell!" Brennan shouts. I turn and throw up my coffee and everything bagel. "I see," is all Shevchenko says. I straighten, wipe my mouth, and stare at the horror in the middle of the road. Hicks stands there with Norton's head gripped by the hair.
Blood drips from the torn neck and down onto the decapitated body that lies on the cracked and broken asphalt. "Round one to Mr. Hicks," Ten Gallon says. His men rush ahead, stun batons in hand. Hicks looks Norton in his dead eyes, then flings the severed head as hard as he can. We all watch it arc into the air and fly, fly, fly until it lands a football field away out into the scrub brush and baked dirt.
Ix is herded back to his transport and the men retrieve the next fighter. "Moreland, hell!" Brennan says. "He was executed two years ago." "Doesn't look like it," I say. "Fuck!" "Oh, I've heard of hell." He took a family hostage and tried to ransom them to the wife's father for 60 million bucks. Didn't go well.
Everyone in the family, everyone in Hal's crew, and 13 police officers died that night in a siege that the entire country watched live online. "Granada," 10 Gallon says. Hal isn't a giant like Hicks. He's average in all ways, except for his eyes. It's like watching a shark walk out into the middle of the road. Granada bounces lightly on his toes and steps onto the cracked and broken asphalt.
Shevchenko nudges me with his elbow. I turn to him and then see where he's looking. Some of Tengallen's men are setting up a wooden table, while others carry over a long wooden crate. "Let the fight begin!" Tengallen calls out. I gotta say that Granada can fight.
Hal gets in a few good hits, but Granada takes his time, waits for his moment, and unleashes that uppercut on Hal at about the two-minute mark. Teeth and blood explode from Hal's mouth as his head rocks back. I can see his knees go weak. We can all see that he's done for with that hit. But Granada doesn't stop. He moves in with a right hook to Hal's temple before the man can fully collapse. The guy is dead before he hits the ground.
Granada spits on the corpse and walks back to our side. Brennan gives him a high five. Shevchenko just nods. "Good job," I say. "Only job there," Granada says. "I ain't dying today, Williams." "Good plan," Shevchenko says. "Mr. Brennan?" Ten Gallon calls out. Brennan looks at me. I nod toward the road. He hesitates. "This is fucked up, mate," he says. "Norton is dead."
I know. I reply and wave a hand at all of 10 Gallons men. But I don't think we have much of a choice. Easy for you to say. Brennan says and walks out into the road. Too fast. Shevchenko says to me as we wait for Brennan's opponent. Men like this don't pay for it to be over so soon. I know. I say.
"What they pay for is debt," Shevchenko says and looks over at the wooden table. "Hold up," I shout and move forward. "Do not step onto that road unless you intend to fight, Mr. Williams," Ten Gallon says. I stop and look down. The toe of my left shoe is just barely against the cracked and broken asphalt. I ease it back and point over at the table. "Weapons? We did not discuss weapons," I say.
"We did not discuss weapons," 10 Gallon replies, shit-eating grin in place. "Would you like to call this off, Mr. Williams?" I study the table from where I stand. There's a machete, a scythe, a huge metal hook, and a large crowbar. "What's still in the crate?" I ask. "All will be revealed," 10 Gallon says. The third man is led out into the road. "Todd Anthony," I whisper. The man has a face.
What is there is nothing but scar tissue and open holes. You can see into his sinuses. You can see inside his mouth. His teeth have been filed into points. Shevchenko laughs. "This isn't funny," I say. "No, it is not," Shevchenko says and laughs again. "What the fuck happened to you, mate?" Brennan asks when Anthony is placed before him. A tongue slides across the pointed teeth. There are no lips to hide the teeth or tongue.
Fucking hell. Brennan says. The shackles are removed. Ten gallons men retreat. Brennan goes in for a sweep of Anthony's legs. It's like watching a man kick a concrete column. Anthony doesn't budge while Brennan skips back, limping, as he favors the leg that just failed at sweeping Anthony off his feet. Brennan glances over his shoulder at me. His eyes are filled with fear. Fuck. What are you doing, you idiot? I shout. Too late.
In the time it took me to shout, Anthony leaped onto Brennan's back and sunk his pointed teeth into the man's neck. He rips and tears and shreds, shaking his head back and forth like a terrier with a rat in its mouth. Brennan falls to his knees. He tries to scream, but no sound comes out of his mouth. Only blood. So much blood. It takes five of ten gallons men to pull Anthony off Brennan's dead body.
When they do, Anthony has a mouth full of flesh and is giddily chewing and swallowing. It's Granada's turn to throw up. The road is cleared and Ten Gallon tips his hat at Shevchenko. To his credit, Shevchenko doesn't pause at all. He rolls his head on his neck, stretches his arms into the air, and walks casually onto the blood-soaked, cracked, and broken asphalt. The last maniac is revealed.
No way, Granada says and moves half a step closer to me. That's Carlos Molina. Do you know who he is? No, I say. He's the guy the cartels call when they have no other option, Granada says. He works for no one. He has no loyalty. He's a killing machine. They call him the Chupacabra. Of course they do, I say. Shevchenko stands in the road, his arms at his sides, relaxed as can be. Molina is walked up to him.
The man holds out his hands and lets Tengalin's men remove the cuffs from his wrists and then his ankles. The men retreat quickly, leaving Shevchenko and Molina to size each other up. We all wait. Nothing happens. Tengalin shifts in his white cowboy boots. "You gentlemen may fight," he says. They don't. The two stand there, eyeing each other. A minute goes by. Two minutes. "Mr. Williams!" Tengalin shouts over to me.
"You were to bring fighters today. I'm not seeing any fighting. Right back at ya, asshole!" I yell. "What do we do?" Granada asks out of the corner of his mouth. "We do nothing," I reply. "No rules, remember?" Granada nods, but I can tell he's ten seconds from freaking out. The man still has at least two more fights before he's done today. I can't let this get in his head. "Go rest in the trailer," I say to him.
"What? No fucking way!" he replies. "I want to see this go down!" "Then keep it together!" I say. "What are you talking about, man? I am together!" he says with a laugh. It's hollow and weak. I look down at him. He sneers. "I'm together!" he insists. "Okay, if you say so. Fuck you!" he mutters. Shevchenko and Molina are still staring at each other.
Two deadly statues baking under the Texas sun. Then it happens so fast that I'm not sure what I'm looking at when it's over. Shevchenko turns and walks back to us, leaving Melina standing alone in the middle of the road. "Mr. Shevchenko!" Tengallen bellows. "If you leave the road before the fight is over, then you forfeit." Guns are aimed. Shevchenko keeps walking. "What the fuck are you doing?" I bark at him. "What?" Shevchenko says. "I won."
"He didn't even fucking fight!" I shout. "You sure about that, Williams?" Shevchenko asks. "Mr. Shevchenko!" Tengallen roars. I wait for the bullets to start flying. I should run and find cover or go hide in the trailer, but the bullets don't fly. "No way!" Granada says. My eyes leave Shevchenko and move to Melina. Blood is seeping from two dozen holes in his chest and abdomen. Then it begins to trickle from a line across his neck.
The trickle becomes a flood. The man collapses to his knees. The impact causes the man's head to tumble off and roll across the road to our side. The cut is the cleanest I've ever seen. "You have a knife?" I ask Shevchenko. "I always have a knife." Shevchenko replies and takes his place next to me and Granada. Ten Gallon stares at the body, then bursts into laughter and starts clapping. The rich old bastards clap as well.
"The Shiv delivers," Tengallen calls out. Shevchenko doesn't react at all to the nickname. His non-reaction after what I just witnessed is the scariest part of the day so far. Tengallen walks out into the road as his men remove Molina's headless corpse. "Excellent first round," he says, and tips his hat at us. "Well done, gentlemen. You did not disappoint."
"What about Norton and Brennan?" Shevchenko asks. "Did they disappoint?" "Not in the slightest," Tengallen replies. "Every fight has a winner and a loser. It's the nature of the game." "This isn't a game," I snap. "Everything is a game, Mr. Williams," Tengallen says. "I'm surprised you haven't learned that yet." "He's right," Shevchenko says. I open my mouth to respond but close it just as quickly.
"Are we ready for the next round?" 10 Gallon asks. He doesn't wait for a response. "Oh wait, first thing first." He points at me. I get ready to run as one of his men approaches me. Then I see the duffel bag. The man tosses it at me and returns to his position. "I believe that fulfills our deal, Mr. Williams," 10 Gallon says. "Fifty million dollars." "In cash?" I exclaim and stare down at the bag lying in the dirt in front of me.
"You were supposed to transfer it into my account." "I never said that." 10 Gallon says. "You can refuse the money, Mr. Williams." "I'll happily take it back." "No," I say. "I'll keep it." "What a surprise!" 10 Gallon says. Then gestures to the wooden table. "Now, gentlemen, please choose your weapon."
"I'm good," Shevchenko says. Tengallen laughs. "I suspect you are, Mr. Shevchenko." "Mr. Granada?" Granada gulps and walks to the table. We watch him study the weapons before he chooses the machete. "Now what?" he asks when he turns around to face us. "Now we start," Tengallen says. Hicks is led back out onto the road. One of the men asks him something that I can't hear. Hicks grunts.
The man walks to the table and retrieves the hook. Two other men remove Hicks' shackles and hurry off the road. The man by the table throws the hook over to Hicks. The giant catches it easily. "Mr. Granada," Tengallen says. Granada gulps again and walks toward Hicks. Machete held out in front of him. "Shit," Shevchenko says. "He doesn't know how to use that thing." "Use it to keep him back!" I yell at Granada. Too late.
Ix only has to take one step and he's right in front of Granada. Granada makes a fatal mistake and stabs with his machete. Machetes aren't built for stabbing, they're built for slicing, for hacking, and for cutting. Ix easily steps to the side and avoids the awkward attack. He sinks the hook into Granada's right side, just under the ribs. Then he yanks up and lifts Granada off the ground.
The man screams and screams as the hook does whatever god-awful damage it does inside that rib cage. Then the sound of those ribs breaking and cracking fills the hot Texas air. Hicks throws Granada across the road. I don't see Granada land. All I see is a giant with a hook in his hand and a partial rib cage hanging from that hook. "I guess I'm fighting him," Shevchenko says.
"You have to win first," I say, finally looking at the trail of innards and organs that leads to Granada's corpse. "Don't get cocky," Shevchenko shrugs and walks out onto the road. "If you will wait, please, Mr. Shiv," Tengallen begins to say but stops short as Shevchenko moves in close to Hicks.
The giant seems slightly confused by Shevchenko's approach. Shevchenko ducks in fast, then ducks out even faster. Just like Mileena, Hicks' chest and abdomen blooms with blood, but no blood comes from his neck. Hicks looks down at the wounds, looks up at Shevchenko, looks down at the wounds, and roars. He lifts the hook over his head, ready to bring it down on Shevchenko's skull.
I finally see the knife. Shevchenko moves in close to Hicks and stabs up into the man's armpit, then yanks downward. The giant screams and slams his left forearm into the side of Shevchenko's head, knocking the man off his feet. Shevchenko slides for a couple of feet on his back and lays there, watching Hicks. Hicks drops the hook and clamps a hand to his side. Blood is gushing out from the long wound, drenching Hicks' entire right side.
The jumpsuit is no longer orange, but a deep crimson. The giant falls to his knees, still clutching his side. He grunts and cries out. He looks around. "No help is coming," Shevchenko says and gets to his feet. Hicks bellows. The words are unintelligible. He bellows again when he looks over at Ten Gallon. "The gentleman ain't wrong," Ten Gallon says. "No help is coming for you, Mr. Hicks."
Hicks collapses face-first onto the cracked and broken asphalt and starts convulsing. Shevchenko stands over him, then kneels down and sinks the knife into the base of Hicks' skull. The giant's body goes still. "No rules," Shevchenko says, standing and wiping his knife on his trunks. "Right?" Tengalin nods and smiles. "That is right," he replies. "Then let's get this over with," Shevchenko says. Tengalin doesn't respond.
After a couple of seconds, he nods and some of his men fetch Anthony while others remove Hicks. "Unconventional, yes," Tengallen says. "But I have to say, a nice surprise. Do you agree, gentlemen?" The rich old bastards all nod. "Good," Tengallen says. "Proceed." "Let's get this over with," Shevchenko says.
Anthony actually looks scared. It's hard to tell from his lack of facial features, but when he tries to retreat after 10 Gallon's men remove his shackles, it becomes pretty obvious. You will stay right where you are, Mr. Anthony! 10 Gallon shouts. The man freezes. I have no idea what game this is, but there are layers to it I am not seeing. Choose! 10 Gallon yells. Anthony's head whips over to the table and he aims what's left of his chin at the scythe.
or I assume that's what he's aiming for when one of the men walks the weapon over to him. "I'll make it quick," Shevchenko says. Anthony responds by rushing him. For once, Shevchenko is taken off guard. The two men collapse to the ground as Anthony hits Shevchenko at full speed. It's a panic move on Anthony's part. The long scythe is useless in close combat like that. Shevchenko quickly proves why. Anthony screeches and writhes on top of Shevchenko then goes still.
After two seconds, Shevchenko shoves the body off of him and stands up. He is a nightmare image. He's coated in blood from head to toe. He stands there dripping under the cracked and broken asphalt. He's facing me, grinning from ear to ear. Then he turns to Tengallen and points his knife at the man. "Now pay me so we can get the fuck out of here," Shevchenko says. Tengallen looks offended. "Pay you, Mr. Shevchenko? What for?" he asks.
"I won it all!" Shevchenko replies. "Not even close, son!" Tengalin says and walks over to the wooden table and the crate. One of the men opens the crate and Tengalin reaches inside. He comes out with a massive chainsaw. The thing must be four feet long. "What the fuck is this bullshit?" I shout.
"What did I say needs to happen to win the 20 million dollars?" Tengallen asks, looking from Shevchenko to me and back to Shevchenko. "Mr. Shevchenko, the winner of each moves on to the next round until the final fight is done and there is only one champion." Shevchenko responds, quoting Tengallen's earlier words verbatim. He spits on the ground and shakes his head. "And you must be the final fight." "I must be," Tengallen says.
"You want to take that suit off?" Shevchenko asks. "It's going to get bloody. It always does." Ten Gallant says. "Whoa! Hold on!" I yell and almost step out onto the road. But Ten Gallant's warning echoes in my head and I keep my feet in the dirt. "This is not what we agreed on. Your role ended when you got paid, Mr. Williams." Ten Gallant says. "Now the real show begins." He cocks his head toward the rich old bastards.
"Do you think they paid to watch your little fighters? They could set that up themselves." "No, Mr. Williams. They paid to watch me. Just like they have year after year." He holds out a hand and one of his men places something in his palm. A mask. Another of his men takes Ten Gallon's hat off and, as if he's done it a million times before, Ten Gallon slips that mask over his head one-handed.
The mask is a stitched together mess of human skin, a face, hair, everything. 10 Gallon becomes someone else. "I took a family tradition and turned it into a business," 10 Gallon says, his words muffled by the skin mask. I can't hear what he says after that as the chainsaw roars to life. I don't really need to. It's all over so fast.
Shevchenko tries. He does. He's an expert with that knife. But Tengallen is an expert with that chainsaw. And a chainsaw beats a knife any day. Shevchenko's head rolls and comes to rest against the toes of my boots. I stare at it for I don't know how long before I realize Tengallen is speaking to me. "Same time next year, Mr. Williams?" Tengallen asks.
He stripped his blood-soaked suit off and is standing there in bare feet, boxer shorts and his hat, which is back on his head. The mask is already gone, probably back in the crate with the chainsaw. "What?" I mumble. "Same time next year?" he asks. "The gentlemen were quite pleased." I look from Tengallen to the rich old bastards. One by one they are leaving, their limos pulling off, kicking up clouds of dust high into the air.
"Because you are such a good sport, and delivered brilliantly, I'll make it 100 million next time," Tengalin says and walks off. "See you in a year!" I watch as his men load up into various vehicles. Tengalin hops into the back of an SUV. The SUV drives up to me and the back window rolls down. Tengalin throws another duffel bag at my feet, right next to Shevchenko's head.
"To show I'm a man of good faith, this is the 20 million promise to the winner," Ten Gallant says. "I'm just happy to keep my family tradition alive." The window rolls back up and the vehicles drive off into the Texas heat. When all that's left are dust clouds, I pick up both duffels, ignoring Shevchenko's head, then walk back to the truck attached to the trailer. I get in, toss the duffel bags into the passenger seat, and start up the truck.
I drive off, leaving the blood-soaked, cracked, and broken asphalt behind me. Then I look at the two duffel bags next to me and smile. I say to no one, See you next year. I wonder who I'll bring to the 11th annual Texas road slaughter. Hey guys, thanks for listening. I want to give you all a quick heads up regarding some upcoming political ads you may start hearing leading up to this year's presidential election.
These ads do not represent my own political viewpoint. So if you hear a political ad play on the podcast and it's not in my own voice, then it has absolutely nothing to do with me personally as a podcaster. Thank you again for being a dedicated listener of mine, and I can't wait to have another amazing year with you guys. I'll see you in the next episode.