Jens Lapidus - Never Fuck Up

6. There is substantial swelling on the left ear. A section of the ear lobe is missing, around 0.4x0.4 inches. Fringe-lined lacerations surround the area. The skin on top of the ear is scraped off within a 0.2x0.1-inch area. Furthermore, the skin is scraped off within a 0.4x0.1-inch area below the right ear.

7. There is substantial swelling, reddish-blue discolorations, and deep skin lacerations in a 6x2-inch area across the lower forehead, near the top of the eyebrows. Above the eyebrows, the skin is completely scraped off within a 1.5x0.6-inch area, which is sharply demarcated.

8. Within a 1.6x1.6-inch area 0.4 inches above the right eyebrow, there is a large cut, which also has a blurred, bluish discoloration around it.

9. There is substantial swelling on the eyelids, which also show bluish-red discoloration. There are lacerations with frayed edges on both eyelids.

10. There is a substantial number of cuts, deep skin lacerations, swelling, and discolorations on the cheeks, which continue over the edge of the jaw and down on the throat.

11. There is massive, confluent reddish-black bleeding in the eyes’ conjunctivae. The conjunctivae have been severed.

12. The nasal bone is broken in three places and the root of the nose is crushed. The skin in a 1.6x0.8-inch area on the upper section of the nose is scraped off. Furthermore, the left nostril is completely missing, replaced by a 0.4-inch-deep cut.

13. There is substantial swelling on the upper and lower lips. There is some confluent reddish-black bleeding in the mucous membrane. Furthermore, there are two 0.4x0.2-inch cuts that are a few mm deep with fringed edges on the upper lip. There are several large cuts with frayed edges and surrounding bleeding in the tissue and membranes of the lower lip.

14. All the teeth, except for three molars on the upper left side and two molars on the lower left side, are missing. Note: dentures were probably used. There is bloody saliva and vomit in the mouth.

15. All the fingertips on both hands are injured. The bottom side of each fingertip has a 0.3-inch-deep cut that tapers off, measuring 0.08 inches at the lower point.

Abbou —Mahmud was impressed. According to his own view of things, Mahmud wasn’t the guy to get caught off guard by fly whips, boosted bling, or fat stacks. He was the guy who’d rolled in an ill Audi before things went wack. The blatte who’d slung juice for a hundred G’s a month. Muscle man. Pussy pariah. Million Program myth.

But he felt like a newbie in this situation. They were sitting in the most expensive ringside seats. You had to be someone in fighter Sweden to even be allowed to buy seats like this. And the king who’d made this happen was definitely someone—King of Kings, Radovan.

Things had to be nice when the Yugo boss himself graced the scene. A couple of big fights were being decided tonight. The odds were high: in other words, thick rolls involved. Course the boss wanted to see up close when the boys in the ring had their foreheads smashed in and the dough rose like crazy.

Master’s Cup, K-1. K-1 stood for the four K’s—karate, kung fu, kickboxing, and knockdown karate—that all went head to head with the same rules. But in reality, most styles were allowed. Ruthless animals who were used to owning the ring at their home gyms had to limp off the mat, beaten to bits. Bare-chested fighters pummeled each other so hard you could feel it all the way up in the nosebleed seats. Eastern European giants tore through Swedish immigrant boys one by one: kneed chins, dislocated arms, elbowed noses. The audience howled. The fighters roared. The judges tried to break up punch sequences that would floor a rhino.

The fighters came from Sweden, Romania, the former Yugoslavia, France, Russia, and Holland. Fought for the titles—and for who would advance to the big K-1 competitions in Tokyo.

Mahmud caught a glimpse of Radovan, eight seats away in the same row. Fired up like everyone else. At the same time, Il Padre maintained his calm, his dignity—a boss never breaks a visible sweat. The Yugo brand equaled dignity, which equaled respect. Period.

Mahmud’d arrived at the arena with time to spare—five-forty. People were lining up outside to buy returned tickets. Security was worse than at the airport. The only advantage: here, they didn’t care that he was a Muslim. He had to pass through metal detectors, put his belt, keys, and cell phone through. They ran a manual metal detector over him. Groped his balls like fags.

At six o’clock he sidled up to the seat with the right number. No one was seated around him yet. It was way too early. The Serbs let him wait. Mahmud’s thoughts zipped off to an unwanted place. Almost a week since the nightmare in the woods. The wound on his cheek would probably heal fine. But his wounded honor—he wasn’t so sure about that. Really, though, he knew—there was only one way. A man who lets someone walk all over him is not a man. But how the fuck would a vendetta go down? Gürhan was VP in Born to Be Hated. If Mahmud so much as breathed cockiness, he’d be as screwed as Luca Brasi.

What’s more: Daniel, the Syriac who’d made him eat the gun, had called two days ago. Asked why Mahmud hadn’t started paying off his debt yet. The answer was a given: not a chance Mahmud could get anywhere near enough gold in three days. The Daniel dude told him to fuck himself—that wasn’t Gürhan’s problem. Couldn’t Mahmud borrow? Couldn’t Mahmud sell his mother? His sisters? They gave him a week. Then he had to make the first payment: one hundred thousand cash. No escaping it. Right now, the knife was at his throat. The Yugos might be his chance.

At the same time: reluctance. He thought about his talk with Dad a few days ago. Beshar’d taken early retirement. Before that, he’d slaved away as a subway engineer and janitor for ten years. Busted his knees and back. Struggled for the Svens, for nothing. Proud. So proud. “I’ve paid every cent of my taxes and that feels good,” he liked to say.

Mahmud’s classic answer: “Dad, you’re a loser. Don’t you get it? The Svens haven’t given you shit.”

“Don’t you call me that. You must understand. It’s not about Swedes this or Swedes that. You should get a job. Do right for yourself. You embarrass me. Can’t they arrange something through the parole office?”

“Nine-to-fives are no good. Check me, I’m gonna be someone without a job and shit like that.”

Beshar just shook his head. He didn’t get it.

Mahmud’d known it already when he and Babak’d shoplifted their first candy bars. He could feel it in his whole body when they juxed cell phones from seventh graders in the hallway and when he blazed his first spliff in the schoolyard. He wasn’t made for any other life. He’d never get on his knees. Not for the parole people. Not for Gürhan. Not for anyone in Sven Sweden.

Twenty-five minutes later, a ways into the first fight, showtime: Stefanovic slid into the seat next to him. They didn’t shake hands, the dude didn’t even turn around. Instead he said, “Glad you could make it.”

Mahmud kept watching the fight. Didn’t know if he should turn to Stefanovic or if they were supposed to take care of the talk on the DL.

“Course. When you guys ask, you come. Right?”

“Usually, yes.”

They sat silently in the din.

Now and then Stefanovic turned to a guy sitting on his other side. Mahmud knew who it was: Ratko. He rolled with another huge Yugo, Mrado, who Mahmud used to hang with before he got locked up. It was damn shifty, those guys always said hi to Mahmud when they ran into each other at the gym, but here they didn’t move a muscle. Normally, Mahmud didn’t tolerate shit like that. But today he needed the Yugos.