CQC [Open]

I heard someone once say 'Its not about how many times you go down, but how you get back up and keep fighting.' Rosey inspirational B.S might work in other places, but not Dagos. Once you fall, there's gonna be ten other opportunistic pieces of crap ready to kick you while you're having a romantic outing with concrete and broken glass, reciting guidance counselor buzz words that she herself probably pulled from her cellphone news feed. See, we're like crabs around here, ready to pull sons a bitches back into the pit who think they're too uppity for the rest of us, waiting to be lunch meat for suits and satin dress at the top of the pool. The truth is, you don't get to the top by just climbing. You knock everyone else around you so far down that that they redraw the map, get people to start seeing you as the new hill in the shadow of mountains. That's the rule no matter where you're raised, so I had to change the landscape where I went. From the slums to the penthouses on Third Avenue. And trust me:

I've made more assholes go down than virgins on prom night.

~
“I heard you were dead.”

“Sorry to break your heart.”

Enrico leaned across the counter, scribbling down a row of papers with a pen that should have had an ink refill a long time ago, leaving a hatched mess of where his signature was supposed to be. The clerk across from him, a middle aged woman, watched him with dejected interest, smacking on a piece of old gum she long wanted to replace but was stuck attending a bloke who wanted to take his sweet time with document formalities.

“You know, you don't have to read the fine print. No one ever does.”

“And I tried to cancel my membership over the phone but some jackass wanted to be difficult,” he replied, not picking his eyes off the jumbled legalese and contractual loopholes. “Believe me, I don't want to be here any more than you do.”

“So what happened. News had headlines that you killed innocent Magi. Said you got screwed up pretty bad too.”

Enrico continued down the next row of papers, letting the woman's voice down out by the insistent patter of grunts, equipment slamming, and gym bags under assault. The pen finally seemed to surrender to the abuse, leaving nothing but streaks of imprints upon his papers. He lazily rolled the defeated utensil across the desk. “You have another one back there?”

She passed him another pen, one that looked more under strife with chew marks and dents than the last one. “So its true then?”

“Well for starts, I'm not dead.” He spun around, catching the rhythmic workout of someone attacking a sandbag without remorse. For a moment, Enrico watched the performance, inwardly scrutinizing the fighter's movements as little else than flamboyant showmanship. He thought he heard him mumble something, words that got swept up in the anxious popping of gum and other gym goers. “And two, if you think I got messed up, you should see the other guys.”

The look she gave him was incredulous to say the least but resigned to argue. “You done?”

“Been done.” he chirped back, sliding the finished documents over in a loose leaf pile. “You'll miss me coming here, I'm sure.”

“I'll miss betting on you in the ring but that's it.” If the slight curl of her lip was something of a smile, it was certifiably reluctant.

Still, Enrico gave her a parting wink and pushed off the counter, pausing for just that moment as the fighter he noticed before jumping from his bench and unleashing a renewed vendetta against the bag once more. The clap and smack of blows rattled the suspended chains, each with a keen edge of practiced force that Enrico couldn't help but notice, if anything else, be curious about.

“Unless that bag stole your lunch money and slept with your girlfriend, it doesn't deserve that kind of abuse buddy.” He called out to him, already in motion to grab the rest of his things before heading to the door.

But he took his time about it.