John Locke - Wish List

At first, seeing him in my bedroom in the dark with my wife, I thought it had to be Pete Rossman, and figured he was getting me back for sleeping with his wife.

But it wasn’t Pete Rossman.

It was my best friend Mike.

Mike, the guy who started the whole Wish List disaster, the guy who filled out his choices first, and told me his dream date was Katrina Bowden, the receptionist from 30 Rock .

“Mike’s first wish was to fuck my wife,” I say to Rudy.

“Yeah, I asked him about that.”

I stop crying long enough to look at Rudy’s face. “What did he say?”

Rudy shrugs. “Said you’re a sap who doesn’t appreciate what you’ve got.”

I nod. “Anything else?”

“You sure you want to hear it?”

I feel my jaw tighten. I release it, but it tightens again. “Yeah, I want to hear it.”

“He said he’s wanted to fuck her for years.”

I nod.

“He also said she’s a helluva fuck.”

I know Rudy’s pushing my buttons. I want to say something to him, curse him, kill him. But I deserve all this and more. And anyway, there’s nothing he can say to make me feel any worse than I already do.

Except for this:

“Oh, Mike also wanted me to thank you for making it so easy. Said he loves the way you dressed her up, drugged her, and left her all alone, helpless, on your marital bed. And…”

I nod.

…“he said he can’t wait to fuck her again.”

I squeezed my eyes shut.

Rudy says, “I don’t want to rush you, Champ, but that sound you hear outside means they’re ready for you.”

I look at him and realize there’s something he hasn’t told me yet, something he’s saving.

“What haven’t you told me about Mike?” I say.

“I’ll tell you when you get in the cage, just before the bell sounds.”

Chapter 33

I’m in an iron cage, glaring at Mike. He’s meeting my stare, and has a strangely determined look on his face. We’re surrounded by forty men in various stages of inebriation. The cage is small, maybe twelve feet by twelve, and is completely enclosed. There are no announcements, no introductions. The referee tells the crowd what to expect:

“Each round is three minutes, with a one-minute break. There will be as many rounds as needed until one man is pronounced dead. Can I have the corner men, please?”

The two bouncers enter the cage and stand at opposite ends. They are barefoot and bare-chested, wearing only shorts, and looking very mixed martial artsy. The referee continues:

“If at any time the action stops for fifteen seconds, the corner men will get involved. And you know what that means!”

I have no idea what it means, but the “crowd” obviously knows, because they’re cheering wildly.

As the referee directs us to our corners, I see Rudy standing just outside the cage behind my stool. The crowd noise is growing.

“Here’s the thing,” Rudy says.

“Yeah?”

“Mike’s fourth wish.”

“What about it?”

“We haven’t granted it yet. He has to kill you to get it.”

The crowd noise is almost deafening. They smell blood and want the carnage to start.

“Tell me!”

Rudy looks at me in a way I could never forget, and yells, “We didn’t let him do what he wanted.”

“What are you saying?”

As the bell sounds to begin the first round I hear Rudy shouting above the crowd noise.

“He wants to chain her to his basement wall for the rest of her life!”

I turn to look at Rudy and feel a fist crash into the back of my skull.

The blow sends me reeling, and I’m knocked stiff-legged into the side of the cage. Mike jumps on my back and starts raining blows on the top of my head. Between his weight, my being off balance, and his furious attack, I go down. Had Mike ridden me to the floor it might have been over before I landed the first punch. But Mike’s left leg gets hooked under my hip, and when I hit the canvas, his leg takes the brunt of my weight. When I roll over, he grabs his knee in agony. I quickly jump on him and start flailing away until I can barely breathe. Mike’s arms were pinned under my knees throughout the assault, which means I landed at least forty clean shots to his face and head. But when I stop swinging to inspect the damage, I’m shocked to see I haven’t even drawn blood.

I can’t believe I’m this exhausted. Meanwhile, Mike is re-energized. He flips me off him and gets to his feet. He’s favoring his left leg, but it’s not keeping him from coming after me. Just as I’m about to stand, he tackles me and bites the back of my upper thigh. I let out a yelp and try to get away, but he’s got his legs wrapped around mine and I can’t get out from under him. He continues to bite my leg and I’m almost delirious with pain, but before he can do any more damage, the bell rings to end round number one.

One of the bouncers pulls Mike off me and pushes him to his stool. The other one drags me to mine, and Gus starts working on my thigh wound.

“Don’t worry,” he says, “I’m a great cut man.”

“Good thing.”

“Never had to work on an ass cut before, though.”

From behind me I hear Rudy say, “You guys fight like old people fuck.”

I have no idea what that means, but his next comment makes a lot of sense: “It takes time to beat a man to death. Save your energy. Make every shot count.”

I wonder if he has any specific advice. He does: “Kick his bum knee.”

For the next three rounds I let Mike use up his energy trying to rush in and paste me with his fists. Most of the time his punches miss me, and when they connect, they don’t have much power. I don’t land a single punch in rounds two, three and four, but I do manage to kick his knee several times in each round.

Now we’re in the fifth round and he sees it coming, and when I fake the kick, he moves away, but straight back, and I’m able to land a blow to his cheek, just hard enough to make him stumble on his bad leg, exposing his right knee, which I kick with all my might. When he goes down I don’t bother trying to hurt him with my fists like I did in the first round. I’ve come to realize that neither of us has any real punching power. But my kicks are working, so I start kicking him while he’s down. He tries to catch my foot with his hands, but I’m keeping my kicks low and fast, and they’re not doing much damage, but they’re doing some, and just as the bell rings, I manage to kick his wrist and when he screams, I get the feeling things are going my way.

In round six we’re both so weary the action lags and the referee calls time out and announces we’re involving the corner men. He explains what that means:

“For the balance of the round, each fighter gets a free punch. After both fighters land ten punches, the round ends. Red corner goes first.”

Our bouncers bring us to the center of the ring. Mine pins my arms behind me and holds me as Mike lands a solid punch. I catch the full force of the blow on my upper cheek, just below my left eye, and this one causes serious damage. I go all wobbly and nearly fall down. My eyes are glazed, and when I look down at the canvas, I see spots of blood dripping on it. I focus on Mike’s face. He’s sneering at me. He knows he’s stronger than I am, and knows I can’t win this type of fight.

He’s right. My punches have virtually no power. I can’t even make him bleed.

But I have an idea.

As his corner man pins his arms, I wind up with my right hand. But instead of launching it, I kick his right knee with every ounce of strength I’ve got. He howls with pain and shifts his weight to his left leg, which proves to be too much, and, but for his corner man holding him up, Mike would have crashed to the canvas.