Big Eli walked through the heavy wooden doors. The air conditioning was broken, replaced by two massive industrial fans that just circulated the humid, swampy air. The noise hit him first: a chaotic wall of shouting, glass clinking, and the heavy bass of the jukebox fighting against the roar of the crowd.
He stood near the back, keeping his massive six-foot-four frame hunched forward, making himself look smaller. He wore faded Carhartt overalls stiff with dried mud and a plain gray T-shirt stretched across his broad chest, stained with engine oil. He ordered a club soda from the bar.
"You look like hell, Eli," Rusty grunted, sliding the sweating glass across the sticky plywood counter.
"Combine died," Big Eli said. His voice was a low, gravelly rasp. He took a sip. The carbonation burned the back of his throat. "Need cash."
Rusty let out a raspy laugh, wiping down the bar with a rag that looked dirtier than the counter. "You ain’t going to find no loans in here tonight, just bad decisions." He nodded toward the center of the room. "Though, if you’re feeling suicidal, there’s always the open challenge."
Big Eli followed Rusty’s gaze. In the center of the makeshift ring—a 20-by-20 square of interlocking foam mats held together by duct tape—stood Trent Larson.
Trent was 24, aggressively tanned, and smelled violently of aerosol body spray. He wore black board shorts and tightly wrapped hand tape, bouncing on his toes and throwing lightning-fast jabs at the empty air. A sharp snap-snap echoed as his punches broke the stagnant air. Trent ran a martial arts gym two towns over. He had three amateur MMA belts, a tribal tattoo wrapping around his bicep, and the kind of loud, unearned confidence that made Big Eli’s stomach physically churn. Not with fear. With a bone-deep exhaustion.
"Three minutes!" Trent shouted to the crowd, his voice cracking slightly with adrenaline. "Anyone last three minutes, you walk away with 500 dollars cash."