Libertionne. Anna Tishchenko
an antique, while a modern, plastic one turns into garbage.
Tiberius, taking a precautionary look around, went into an indiscernible little courtyard which looked like its thousands of cousins, opened a rusty door and descended a dimly lit and dirty staircase. The further down he went, the louder the noise and shouting of the crowd became. At the end of a dark corridor, Beelzebub’s fiery mouth burned in the arched passageway; a plywood sign hung with the handwritten inscription:
Pankrationne
No-holds-barred fighting
As with any advertisement, even ones that had put down their roots here like weeds, the sign was a cunning one. There were rules in this club, for sure, how else would successful businessmen, lawyers, and bankers – in short, people who were born to fight and having the bad luck of being born in such a peaceful and trouble-free era. Rules, and of course, restrictions. Besides an ordinary taboo list, finger holds and manipulations. Overall, this was nothing surprising – for a modern person, this was the main part of the body, the most essential part for survival. If you couldn’t pound on a keyboard, you would be deprived of your daily bread, and friends and family. Punches to the face were also not welcome. This was specifically mentioned to Tiberius on the first day of his membership. That being the case, there was nothing written against hits to the groin. And what of it? In our day and age, the face was more important that the genitals.
Tiberius went into the changing room, by the way, not immediately. The door literally would not close; it was letting people in and out. Men and women were changing clothes together; after all they were not to generate interest among each other. There he quickly undressed, changing from a business suit into shorts and a stretch t-shirt. Today there were so many people that he barely was able to find a place on the narrow iron bench to put his briefcase.
“Hello, Raven,” said a tall, skinny brunette, firmly shaking his hand.
Here people knew each other by nicknames. The last thing the members of the club wanted was for any information to leak beyond the walls of Pankrationne. Absolutely everything that took place here in the evenings was strictly illegal. The owner of the venue was a Mr. Smith. Small and altogether invisible, this person had a truly rare sense of intuition in business. Thinking up and bringing to fruition the idea of a secret fight club, he easily and unfailingly found potential clients. Held in the grips of business ethics, forced to hold themselves back, and to all day be nice, pleasant and right-minded, people here had the priceless opportunity for a few minutes to be themselves. To forget about bank loans, to stop worrying whether you laughed hard enough when your boss told a joke. Mr. Smith himself had no more feelings for the members of his club than a frigid prostitute for her clients, but with the same degree of success he derived a profit, rationalizing: “If people are willing to pay five hundred a month for the hope of taking one in the neck, then heaven bless them. And their hopes and aspirations, too.”
A heavy-set girl with a mobile terminal walked into the changing room. “Who hasn’t paid their dues for this month?” she asked. Tiberius placed his palm on the scanning device. His payment was processed as a visit to a Thai massage salon. How Mr. Smith did it – after all, gone were the carefree days when a person could pay for anything he or she wanted unsupervised – only God knew, but no one could deny that he had a sense of humor. When he was finished with the payment, he assisted Nyx the name given to his female acquaintance, in removing the pads from her hands.
“You’re still wearing the six-ounce ones? You’re not a beginner.”
“I’ll switch to the ones you have. Today is just a nightmare. One guy broke his collarbone, knockouts right and left. As if everyone had a tough week.”
“That’s actually true. You know what happened at the stock exchange. All right, I have to go.”
He nodded farewell to Nyx and approached the entrance to the hall, where someone’s lifeless body was being carried out. There was a traffic jam at the entrance, and scarcely had Tiberius got through it into the packed hall, or rather elbowed his way in, when he heard his name called by the swarthy, stocky man in charge of drawing lots. As Tiberius made his way to the ring, he caught a glimpse of a new face in the crowd – a young man, almost a boy. Feminine, skinny, impeccably dressed, with long, blond carefully-styled hair, a typical little “baby doll.” Although the face, with its clear and expressive individual features, indicated that he was the same age as Tiberius, if not older. In his paws, like a chipmunk with an acorn, he firmly held a smartphone. Tiberius frowned. Clearly he was one of the “curious ones.” Mister Smith welcomed as members to the club not only those who wanted to insult someone close to them, but also those who wanted to watch. True, for this he charged triple. But here’s what was strange – usually these people had joy and desire written all over their faces, yet the “baby doll” was observing the proceedings with a look of horror and mistrust. His hands were clearly shaking, and his face was white as chalk. Tiberius had no time to commiserate, however, as his opponent had already climbed into the ring.
“Bull versus Crow! Raven” the referee shouted gleefully.
Bull – that was putting it mildly. Calculating the weight category was not done here, just like in a normal street fight. The only chance Tiberius had was to move the fight as quickly as possible to the floor, and he didn’t miss this chance. Bringing down the furiously snarling giant, Tiberius pinned his shoulders in a “crucifix”, gripping the throat with his free hand. Usually this pain-inducing technique forced even the most unyielding enthusiasts to slap the floor, but this one wasn’t giving up.
“All right now!” Tiberius wheezed, his voice cracking from the tension, “or I’ll squeeze harder.”
But his opponent only howled in pain and fury. Seconds hung in the air. And the referee wasn’t stopping the bout. Tiberius felt an overwhelming desire to push harder, to hear the crack of breaking bones. What was up with this guy? What`s up with me? Nyx had been right – there was something strange in the atmosphere today. When the judge congratulated Tiberius with his victory, his opponent, crimson with rage after suffering defeat, jumped into the crowd, shouting at him in parting “We’ll meet again.” Fine, no problem. Tonight had brought no satisfaction; the victory had been too easy.
When Tiberius left the club, the temperature outside had dropped. With pleasure he turned his red-hot face into the blustery May wind and whispered, “Now to go home.., turn off the smartphone.., brew some coffee…”
“Help!” came a blood-curdling scream from the next courtyard.
Tiberius inhaled. His dream of a pleasant evening ended abruptly. In the alleyway he saw the “baby doll,” wailing, looking not nearly as presentable as earlier. His trendy raincoat was torn, and blood flowed from a broken nose. He didn’t immediately notice the arrival of the rescue squad, and shouted with all his might, clearly in the hope that he would be heard in a place more peaceful and serene than Eden. And he had a real chance of succeeding; Tiberius had never heard such a piercing soprano, even from the whistle of a boiling teakettle.
“You’ve chosen a rather lightweight opponent, guys,” he shouted in jest at the four men surrounding the boy, who was shaking with fear.
“He was spying,” said the largest of them through his teeth, holding the “baby doll” by his hair-sprayed front bangs.
At this moment, the moon peeked out coquettishly from behind a cloud, illuminating the stage of the pending tragedy with its romantic light. “Bull! And you’re here,” Tiberius said, as the recent opponents recognized each other in the magical glow of the moon.
“Guys! This is our champion. Come over here, let’s have a chat.”
Full of passion and desire, Tiberius responded willingly to the challenge. Nothing fans the flames of our soul like removing all inhibition. At first he held back, trying only to take them down, not maiming them. They were not as reserved when Tiberius broke one of their forearms; he let out such a stream