Every Four Years

Adrian

“You hear me, T.S.? I said you’re up.”

My voice is flat because there’s no room in this for anything else. I’ve said these lines a hundred times—tell her the opponent, walk away, come back to a finished product. It’s the routine that pays the bills and keeps the doors open.

She’s in the broom cupboard, taping her hands with that machine focus she wears like armor. The light here is cheap and buzzing, and the smell of linoleum and old sweat hangs in the air. She doesn’t respond with words; she never does when she’s getting ready. She nods once, small, precise. That’s all I need.

There are others who fight for me—men who take hits and bring cash—but none of them move like she does. None of them strip emotion down to a single efficient gear. She changes when she crosses that threshold. Those pale blue eyes go dark, the little girlface hardens into something animal. People who don’t know her call it horror. I call it profit.

I saw that same look the first time she hauled a dealer to the ground in the alley behind a dumpster and left him crying for the money he owed me. Focus. Coldness. A hunger that can be trained. So I gave her shelter, food, schooling, and in return she learned the ledger of violence—how to spend fury for maximum return. It’s business, nothing else.

Some people may think I've gone soft, may think I care for the kid, the truth is if she starts losing she'll be back on the street quicker than you can blink. And if I ever even suspect her of trying to cross me or going to the police she is dead. I know it and she knows it. I have never been a father to her, that's not our dynamic, she calls me boss because that’s the contract. She’s mine until she isn’t useful. That’s the only language she understands and the only one I speak.

Luckily for me she hates the police almost as much as I do. I don't know why, she seems to love justice.

I always kept her away from the illegal side of my businesses, other than the fights of course, but she's smart. I know she knows more than she lets on but I've never given her any reason to turn on me, I'm all she has.

She now runs the gym I first brought her to, it used to be just a front for my other more lucrative businesses, a way to launder my money and keep the tax man off my back. But since she took over it's a fully functional respectable gym. It almost makes me proud. Almost.

We walk the perimeter together. The arena tonight is cheap lights and cheaper beer, a ring set on scaffolding above a rough crowd. The announcer does his job—loud, theatrical, selling menace—and the crowd obliges with boos and a guttural cheer.

“Okay,” I tell her, “remember what I said, use your speed and your skill and you'll be fine.”

She nods at me, she never says a word when she's in the zone, the only thing she'll do, other than stare coldly at you, is smile. It's kind of creepy to see, a pretty young girl smiling at you with murder in her eyes. It freaks out her opponents every time.

The boys started calling her Tiger Shark at the age of thirteen. They would give me weekly updates about her progress. "She's fast and agile like a cat"— "her eyes go almost black when she stares you down with a huge grin on her face, reminds me of a shark"

They came up with the nickname Tiger Shark and I thought it was a load of crap until I saw her sparring with one of my best fighters, it was only then that I realised just how much money she could make me.

The kid is bouncing on her toes now, not with nerves, she never gets nervous, but with pure energy.

“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the main event,” the announcer roars, “In the blue corner, we have the lean mean fighting machine, the army couldn't handle him, his own mother couldn't stop him it's TITAN!

And, in the red corner, she's the new kid on the block and it's way past her bedtime but she doesn't care, contender, TIGER SHARK!”

Most of the audience will be wondering what the hell is going on, why I've brought some scrawny girl to fight against this giant. They should have more faith, they know my fighters never lose. Besides have they never heard of David and Goliath?

Titan is the size of a freight truck and twice as loud. He puffs, spitting threats like cheap fireworks. “I’m going to have my fun with you, little girl,” he snarls. “Break you.” He’s drunk on his own bravado. That’s a mistake he’s about to pay for.

She smiles. It’s the same smile—small, bright, and utterly wrong on a battlefield. It unnerves him. Men like Titan aren’t prepared for someone small who doesn’t fear them. Fear is usually the hinge of these fights; she has none.

There are two rules here. One, fight until someone goes down—no rounds, no mercy. Two if you finish a man, dispose of what’s left. The crowd thrives on the edge of that law. I do too.

The bell snaps like a pistol. Titan charges like an angry wagon, I hear his feet thud against the canvas. He swings for size, a wild, heavy arc meant to crush spirit and bone. She’s a shadow. She disappears past his guard, a quick footstep, a slick pivot; she plants a jab into his nose like a metronome and blood paints the air. He grabs her leg in panic, trying for control, but she rolls, uses the momentum, and they both hit the mat with a crack that sounds like two bodies negotiating fate.

When they split, she’s already moving—low, economical, gliding and weaving. Every strike is measured to ruin. Liver shots that take the breath, kidney taps that make the man flinch crooked, a rib strike that carries a sound I feel as much as hear. Titan swings, reduces himself to brute force, and she eats his anger like fuel. He’s a run away train with no tracks, and she’s a stick of dinamite ready to explode.

Her grin never leaves. It’s a trick of the mind—head tipped, corners of the mouth up—that unnerves men who need to see pain reflected in their opponent’s face. He stumbles; she presses the advantage with footwork that would be pretty if there weren’t blood involved. The crowd’s roar becomes a single animal sound, and I feel the money in it like heat against my palms.

I don’t like quick finishes. Quick finishes mean the crowd spends less time giving me their money. She knows this. She drags him, taunts him, makes him bleed where it hurts. He drinks enough to dull pain receptors but not judgement; he keeps chasing her ghost. I call the pace—small cues we’ve honed, a whistle, a hand gesture. Tonight’s the night. I throw the signal.

“Finish it,” I bark. Not a plea. An order.

She changes again. The predatory beast snapping into place, no more teasing, no more economy—only efficiency. She folds all the momentum into a series of strikes that look violent and inevitable. Elbows, a planted leg, a jaw hit that lands like a guillotine. Blood arcs from Titan’s mouth. His knees find canvas. He’s gone.

She doesn’t celebrate. She leans down, checking for a pulse, then looks at me for the first real time since the lights came up— no daughter, no child, just a fighter, an asset. She nods confirming he’s still alive.

Then she steps out, not waiting for the announcement, because we both know the score. victory means we walk, together, through the stunned silence and pick up the cash while punters still gawk.

We leave the ring the way we always do—side by side, businesslike and stripped of warmth. The boys slap her on the back, the corner men count the envelopes. Men clap and spit and call her names that bounce right off her.