Savannah Past Midnight Read Online Free

stretcher!”
    “Shut the fuck up, dickhead! Go for his legs, Smith!
Get ’em to the ground and pummel that pretty boy face of his!”
    He’s motionless except for his eyes—alert and a vivid
green the color of fresh bamboo. Those penetrating eyes track even
the slightest movement of his deranged-looking opponent.
    The skinny kid in the hoodie who is acting as equal
parts ref and bookie tries to push back the encroaching crowd,
yelling out, “You wanna see ’em fight or not? You’d best step the
fuck back! Give ’em room or it’s a no go tonight!”
    As soon as the ravenous crowd obeys, he continues,
this time addressing both fighters, “You know the drill. Either
knock your opponent the fuck out or pin him down for ten seconds.
Winner takes sixty percent of the pot. Let’s get this gritty party
started!”
    I move in a few steps closer, not wanting to miss a
single second of the action. A scattering of halogen contractor
floor lights are the only source of illumination. Both men are
shirtless, their thick muscles covered in tattoos. But that’s where
the similarities end. I came to see the one the men are calling
Brennan and the few women present are cheering on as Colton. His
imposing size seems to be natural in comparison to his opponent’s.
The other fighter’s daunting physique looks fake—clearly a product
of the gym combined with chemicals.
    They slowly and methodically begin to circle each
other, obviously looking for vulnerabilities, a weakness to home in
on. Suddenly, Colton’s opponent drops a shoulder and rushes him. I
watch closely as he braces for the guy with the Mohawk to slam into
him. The shouts from the crowd rise to a fever pitch as they
collide in a vicious tangle of grunting, muscled flesh. Colton
binds his powerful arms around the man, attempting to wrestle him
to the ground, seemingly ignoring the blows that are landing
repeatedly on his chiseled torso.
    “Let ’em have it, Colton!”
    “Come on, Brennan, unleash the fuckin’ beast on that
pussy!”
    The spectators have closed in on the fighters,
lusting after the blood that is beginning to spill. I edge even
closer to watch them struggle ferociously for the dominant
position, over and over again, all the while clocking each other
any place they can connect. The once white boxing tape wound around
their wide fists is now ruby red as they pound away like raging
animals vying for the last piece of meat on earth. Over the many
decades I’ve learned how to quell my zest for blood, to contain the
urges that come when I catch the first hint of that warm,
distinctive scent. I shift it to the back of my mind and simply
observe.
    “Show him what you’re about, Smith! C’mon, man, put
him out of his fuckin’ misery! Don’t let this punk ruin your track
record! Take him down!”
    With his mouth dripping blood, Colton takes one more
direct hit to the chest and a savage uppercut before seizing the
opportunity to pull back far enough to land a powerful right hook
that connects perfectly with the side of the man’s temple.
    That’s it. Lights out.
    As if in slow motion, the man twists and goes down
into a free fall of splayed arms and legs, landing with a grotesque
thud, face down on the dust-strewn concrete floor. Complete KO.
Perfect execution.
    Well done, cowboy.
    There are shouts of drunken excitement along with
curses of annoyance from the losing side as the group of over a
hundred spectators begins to disband. Some line up to collect their
winnings from Mr. Hoodie.
    I turn around and stride out the lone door. I’m
halfway to my motorcycle when a breathy, rumbling voice says from
behind, “You like what you see, then?”
    I suppress a grin as I spin around. Up close and
dripping blood and sweat, he is a magnificent specimen. I act
casual, staring up into his eyes, and offer with a shoulder shrug,
“I guess so, but you really should’ve landed that blow inside of
the first thirty seconds. The delay cost you a black eye, split
lip,