Forty seconds.
Trent's adrenaline began to curdle into lactic acid. His arms felt like lead. The flashy MMA fighter was completely neutralized by a man doing nothing more than standing still and holding tight. The crowd was screaming, but to Eli, the noise faded into the familiar, quiet ringing in his ears.
Ten seconds.
Trent gave one last, desperate thrash, trying to buck his way out of the clinch. Eli merely shifted his hips, absorbing the momentum, and rode out the final seconds like a rock breaking a wave.
"TIME!" Rusty’s voice barked over the industrial fans. "That's three minutes!"
Big Eli instantly unclasped his hands and stepped back.
Freed from the crushing weight, Trent collapsed to his knees, chest heaving, gasping for air. His skin was flushed, his tribal tattoo slick with sweat. He looked up at Eli, his eyes wide with a mixture of fury and utter bewilderment. He hadn't been knocked out, but he had been broken.
Big Eli didn't gloat. He didn't even look at Trent. He walked slowly back to the edge of the mat, his left leg limping slightly from the thigh kick. He sat heavily on a metal folding chair and picked up his thick wool socks.
Rusty walked over, holding a wad of cash. He looked down at the old farmer, a silent respect passing between them, and handed over ten crumpled fifty-dollar bills.
"You're a crazy old bastard, Eli," Rusty said softly.
"Alternators ain't cheap, Rusty," Eli rasped, tucking the money into the front pocket of his oil-stained overalls. He laced up his boots, stood up, and grabbed his half-finished club soda. He took one final sip, set the glass on the bar, and walked out the heavy wooden doors into the humid July night.
The sun wasn't quite over the horizon when the mechanical cough of the combine harvester broke the stillness of the farm.
Big Eli stood over the engine block, a wrench in his bruised, swollen hand. His left eye was ringed in purple, and his ribs ached with every breath, but the new alternator sat gleaming in the center of the dusty machinery.