South Boston, now
- Hey! Wait ... that shit Save yourself for the ring! Isaac Rothe-flyer pushed through the hood of the car, ready to print the damn thing again if I had to. What are you doing my picture here?
fight promoter seemed more interested in damage to your Mustang, so Isaac reached out and grabbed the guy by the lapels of his jacket.
"I said, what is making my face here?
"Relax, you want. Isaac
approached him until they were as close as a sandwich and noticed a whiff of marijuana smoke that the HDP. "I'll
I said. No picture of me. Never.
The developer raised his hands in surrender.
"Sorry ... I really ... Look, you're my best fighter, you attract the crowd. You're my star.
Isaac shook his fist to block his ego beaten.
"No photos. Or do not fight. Is that clear?
promoter gulped and squeaked, "Yes
. Sorry.
Isaac released his grip and ignored their complaints when the image of his wrinkled face into a ball. Glancing at the car park of the abandoned warehouse, is cursed. Stupid. Fucking stupid for trusting in the ass-kissing bastard.
The issue was that the names are not so important. Anyone could type a Tom, Dick or Harry in an identity card or a birth certificate or passport. All I needed was the correct font and a machine that could make holograms forger. However, your mug shot, your portrait, your face, you mug, your big mouth .... unless you had the funds and contacts for plastic surgery in the ass, a true identification was that they had.
and just got a session in the mimeographed Kinko's. Only God knew how many people had seen. Or who had drawn attention to his whereabouts.
"Look, I was doing a favor," smiled promoter, showing a gold cap. The bigger the crowd, the more money you make.
Isaac pushed his index finger type hat.
"Shut the fuck up. And remember what I said.
"Yes. Okay. Sure.
followed by a series of, okay, no problem, and what you want, but gave Isaac back to blah blah blah.
All around, grown men out of their cars jostling each other as teenagers, the group of players, the quarterback ready for the match. The closest they would get there was the ring that was outside the fence watching.
The fact that Isaac was almost done with this source Money clandestine MMA was irrelevant. The people who were looking for does not need any help, and that happy little limelight alongside the phone number with area code 617 was exactly the publicity he did not need.
last thing he needed was an agent o. .. God forbid, the second in command of Matthias ... appearing here.
addition, it was also fucking the promoter. Unregulated fights bare-knuckles associated with illegal gambling was not something that was announced, and anyway, given the size of the crowd that was presented, the public was sufficiently big mouth.
The official, however, was a greedy idiot.
And now the question was, Isaac would fight or not? The booklets had just barely make it, according to the man who had shown ... and while mentally counting the money he would win, I was absolutely sure it would use the extra thousand or two to win tonight.
looked around and knew he had to go to the octagon. Shit ... once again fill his wallet and then go away.
Just one last time.
Walking toward the back entrance of the store ignored the hosts, who pointed his finger and "it's him." The crowd had watched him shake the shit random rate over the past month, and obviously which made him a hero in their eyes.
What was an outdated value system as he was concerned. I was so far from being a hero as could be.
Gorillas in the back door stood aside to let him and nodded toward them. This was the first fight in this particular installation, but in reality, the places were all the same. In and around Boston, there were plenty of abandoned buildings and warehouses as there were fifty boys who wanted to be Chuck Liddell, I could see half a dozen who definitely were not made nervous around a makeshift cage fight. And those little encouraging results had joined the reasons the developer to reproduce the face of Isaac. Unlike other fist fighters knew what he was doing.
While taking into account the amount of money the U.S. government had spent on his training, he had to be a total tool for not breaking skulls and eggs at this time.
And there were those skills as well as many others, who were to help keep ASP.
God willing, that could be, he thought as he entered the building. Tonight
MGM Grand poor men was about five thousand five hundred square meters of cold air stuck between a concrete floor and four walls fitted with dirty windows. The Octagon was established in the far corner, the eight-sided ring screwed and surprisingly robust.
Moreover, there were many types of construction that were in this shit.
Isaac was passing the pair of thick necks who handled the bets until they gave him their respects, asking if I needed anything to eat or drink, or whatever. Shaking his head, went to the corner behind the ring and sat with his back to the corner. It was always the last to fight because he was the draw, but it was not known when he came up. Most of the "fighters" did not last long, but occasionally had a couple of those who stayed, to be kicked at each other like two old brown bears until even he was ready to scream: Enough, already!
There were referees and things stopped only when there was an idiot panting, red face and eyes crossed, lying on his back with the winning urban warrior beside him, swaying like a whack on sweaty feet. You could go for anything, liver, and including the crown jewels and dirty tricks were encouraged. The only restriction was that you had to fight what the good God gave you at birth could not carry brass knuckles, chains, knives, sand, or any of that shit in the outfit. When the first meeting
began, Isaac looked at the faces of the crowd rather than what they were doing in the ring. I was looking for out-of-place, eyes were upon him, to the faces he knew from the past five years instead of five weeks was gone.
Man, he should not have used his real name. When it was fake ID, should have chosen otherwise. Of course, social security was not his, but the name ...
However, it had seemed important. One way to piss in the territory in which it was, make a new start like yours.
And it might have been a bit of gloating. A see-and-find me-if-you-dare.
Now, however, was kicking himself. Principles and scruples, and all that crap ideology were not nearly as valuable as a viable heartbeat.
And he thought the promoter was an idiot?
Some forty-five minutes later, Kinko's number one client stopped at the fence and cupped his hands to shout to the crowd. The promoter was trying to be everything Dana White, but it was more like Vanna in the opinion of Isaac.
"And now our main attraction ...
While the crowd on the floor went crazy, Isaac took his sweatshirt and hung it on the outside of the octagon. Always struggling with a sweatshirt, pants Athletics loose and bare feet required, but otherwise this was all your wardrobe.
When he walked through the door of the octagon, he kept his back to the corner store and calmly awaited which would be the main dish tonight.
Ah, yes. Another man tough guy with delusions of testosterone type, the moment when the opponent is bent over, he began to bounce around as if it had a jumper in the ass, and ended the show before the fight ripping his shirt in half and hitting a himself in the face.
If the son of a bitch went on like this, Isaac was not going to have to do anything other than blow on it to put your ass on the floor.
At the sound of the trumpet, Isaac stepped forward, raising their fists to chest height, but keeping close to his torso. For a minute or so good, let his presumed opponent and throw punches into the air shake as all objectives of a blind boy with a garden hose.
Piece of cake.
Except for the crowd insisted, Isaac thought the number of copies that could make a Xerox machine in sixty seconds and decided to take it seriously. Direct struck a left, he nailed the guy in the sternum, temporarily stopping the beating heart behind that bone. The following was a right hook that caught the bouncing below the chin, knocking the man's teeth and banging his head back in his spine. Tap Dancing
Lord Ginger Rogers was tough and it was tiptoeing back into the mesh. While the roar of onlookers filled the open space and rang around, Isaac came up and manipulated so the poor devil that was more jumping, nothing but a stumbling drunk whose head was spinning too fast to organize his body. And just when it seemed there would be a near dead by loss of consciousness, Isaac backed down and let the man catch his breath.
To get some great extras, had to make sure that lasted more than three minutes.
walking around in his head was five. Then back to ...
The knife turned in a big circle and slid against the front of Isaac, hitting right at the hairline. Blood flowed and effectively clouded his vision, the kind of thing that would have called strategy if the man had had an idea of \u200b\u200bwhat he was doing. Considering the way they were such blows, however, was obviously a fluke. As the crowd booed
, Isaac switched to working mode. An idiot with a knife was almost as dangerous as someone who really knew what he was doing with one, and he was not going to do cosmetic surgery this PDS.
- How does that feel? Cried his opponent. Actually came out more like a "ze Zientara Cobo eto? given his swollen lip.
The last three words the boy said in the ring.
When Isaac roundhouse kicked in the air, her blood spattered the crowd and the impact threw the man's gun grip. So this was the situation one, two ... three blows to the head and all the arrogance fell as hard as a piece of beef in a packing plant.
Which was precisely when the splendid men and women of the Boston Police Department broke into the warehouse. Instant
. Chaos.
And, of course, Isaac was locked in the Octagon.
Jumping over his opponent for dead, climb the side of two meters above the ring and jumped over the top. When he landed on both feet, he froze.
Everyone was in a struggle with the exception of a man who was just off his familiar face and neck tattooed stained with the blood of Isaac.
The second in command of Matthias was still high and massive and deadly ... and the son of a bitch smiled as if he had found the golden egg on Easter morning.
Oh, shit, thought Isaac. Speaking of the devil. . . .
-Queda, the police arrested hi-as-these came behind him, and in less than a minute, he was handcuffed. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a .... Isaac
dispensed out the officer then looked at another soldier. But the number two Special Operations was gone, as if it had never been.
Son of a bitch. His former boss now know where he was.
Which meant that the unit of Boston Police Department was on his ass was the least of his problems.
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