The Heir

2

Dean

The underground fight club of Moscow is literally underground, in what was once an abandoned metro station. Now it functions as a spot for raves, drug deals, and bare-knuckle boxing tournaments run by the Bratva.

The shouts of the crowd echo down the tu

It’s chilly down here, at least ten degrees colder than at street level. I keep my hoodie on until the last moment, so my muscles stay warm.

“Who are you fighting?” Armen asks me.

He’s smoking a cigarette, even though he’s supposed to fight in a minute himself.

“Chelovek,” I say.

“He’s pretty big,” Armen says.

“Pretty fuckin’ slow, too.”

Armen takes a long drag, exhaling the blue smoke up to the vaulted ceilings, then crushes the butt under his heel.

“I’ll bet on you,” he says, as if he’s doing me a favor.

“I’m not betting on you,” I tell him.

Armen laughs. “That’s why you’re rich and I’m broke.”

“Dmitry!” Boris shouts. “You’re up.”

I’m the first fight of the night. When I’m fighting, I use my Russian name. I use it for most everything when I’m in Moscow.

I strip off my hoodie, baring my body to the cold. The chill feels like an electric current against my skin. I can smell the scent of Armen’s cheap cigarette and the damp mold of the subway tu

There’s no ring. We fight in a chalk circle. If we step outside the circle, the spectators will shove us back in again.

Boris is the event organizer. He’s not Bratva himself, though he works for them. He’s ski

I step into the circle, bouncing lightly on my toes. I’m wearing only a pair of trunks now, and flat sneakers. My hands are taped.

Chelovek strolls into the other side of the circle. I haven’t fought him before, but I know who he is. He’s got a thatch of ginger hair shaved into a Mohawk, and a tattoo of a snake-ridden skull sprawled across his chest. He goes by Ryzhiy Chelovek, which basically means Copper-Top.

We’re about the same height, a little over 6’2. While I’m lean and wiry, he’s beefy to the point of softness. In real boxing he’d be way outside my weight class. In the underground fights, they just call this a “Thick and Thin.”

We face off against each other. He raises his fists up under his chin, shoulders hunched. I stand exactly as I am, with my arms at my sides.

I haven’t fought Chelovek before. I’ve seen how he moves, though. In fact, I can tell what sort of fighter he’ll be just by the way he walked into the ring: brash, swaggering, and overconfident.

Sure enough, as soon as Boris blows his whistle Chelovek comes at me with both fists flying, thinking that if he can land a solid punch I’ll go down hard.

I duck the blows easily. Left, right, left, left, right, right.

Jesus, he’s so predictable. I can see each punch coming from a mile away.

He’s already breathing hard. Either he smokes like Armen or he’s been neglecting his cardio. Probably the latter. That’s why he’s so soft around the middle.

I duck down and give him a sharp punch to the gut, testing his muscle tone. He grunts and exhales hard. He’s neglected his crunches too, apparently.

I can hear the spectators shouting their bets. Those who bet on Chelovek initially are now trying to hedge. But the numbers aren’t as much in his favor anymore.

I can see my father’s friend Danyl standing at the edge of the ring. He’s got his hands tucked in his pockets, smiling toothily. I’m sure he knew better than to bet against me.

Of course my father isn’t here himself to watch me win. He never comes to my fights. It takes a lot more than that to get him to leave the house.

I block another haymaker from Chelovek, and he hits me in the side with a left hook. I feel an unpleasant bending of the ribs, and I hunch over enough that his next blow catches me in the ear, making my head ring.

That pisses me off, but I don’t let my anger get the better of me. I shove it down, like coal in a furnace. I want the rage to fuel me, without letting the fire run wild.

I watch for my opening.

Left, right, left, left—

This time I interrupt Chelovek’s sequence with an uppercut to the jaw. His teeth click together hard and his head snaps back. He stumbles back on his heels, dazed and pained.

I pursue the advantage, hitting him twice in the body and again in the head. Now I know his ears are ringing, worse than mine.

Chelovek spits a little blood onto the platform, raising his fists once more, steadying himself.

He comes at me slower now, more carefully. He learned his lesson. Or at least, he thinks he did.

I could wear him down like this. Let him tire himself out while I duck his blows. He doesn’t have the stamina to keep it up for long.

But I made my own bet on the fight. I’ve got to knock him out in the first round.

Only twenty-two seconds left, according to the count I’m keeping in my head.

If I want the KO, I’ll have to set a trap.

Chelovek is a

I send a couple quick jabs at his face, popping him lightly on the nose to piss him off even more. Then I hold my fists high, exposing that same right side to his left hook.

Sure enough, Chelovek swings hard for my ribs. He hits me in the same place as before, and this time I hear a pop and I feel the sickening hot burn of a rib cracking.

It doesn’t matter. I’ve already sent a right cross rocketing down toward his jaw. I hit him in the exact spot where the jawbone meets the skull. I can feel the bone separating. I watch the whole bottom half of his face pop out of alignment.

Chelovek doesn’t feel it. He’s already unconscious before he hits the ground. He goes down like a tree, straight and wooden, unable to even put his hands up.

The wi

I stand tall in the ring, refusing to acknowledge the pain in my side.

Boris grabs my fist and hoists it aloft.

“Once again, Dmitry Yenin takes the win! That’s six matches now, still undefeated!”

Boris stuffs a wad of bills in my hand, my wi

I don’t care about forty thousand rubles. I won ten times that amount betting on myself. I’ll collect it from Danyl later.

Still, I stuff the money in the pocket of my shorts.

I wince a little as I bend down to pick my hoodie up off the concrete.

Armen is smoking again, while bouncing lightly on his toes to warm up. He’s taken off his hoodie and sweatpants, revealing a truly stu

“Not bad,” he says to me. “Glad I put a whole two thousand on you.”

“Bet Chelovek wishes he did, too.”

“I think Chelovek wishes he never crawled out of his mother’s cunt,” Armen says, snorting with wheezy laughter.