Blood and Sawdust Read online

  BLOOD AND SAWDUST

  A Malcolm and Milkwood Novel

  by

  Jason S. Ridler

  Kindle Edition

  Copyright © 2012 Jason S. Ridler

  This novel is published under the Creative Commons License.

  Ridlerville Press

  A RIDLERVILLE PRESS BOOK

  BLOOD AND SAWDUST: A MALCOLM AND MILKWOOD NOVEL

  A Novel by Jason S. Ridler

  ©2012

  This novel is published under the Creative Commons License.

  CONTENTS

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty One

  Chapter Twenty Two

  Chapter Twenty Three

  Chapter Twenty Four

  Chapter Twenty Five

  Chapter Twenty Six

  Chapter Twenty Seven

  Chapter Twenty Eight

  Chapter Twenty Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty One

  CHAPTER ONE

  MALCOLM DASHED THROUGH the country twang and smoky air of the Iron Horse Saloon, rain making his oversized Black Death concert shirt sticky. Thank god they bought the “I’m looking for my beer-stained daddy” line at the door, he thought. Canada was foreign soil. No one knew him on the Fringe. And that was dangerous in the circuit.

  Cutting through the tall Canadian cowboys and trying his best not to glare at the white-trash princesses with thick ruby lips and breasts the size of basketballs, Malcolm stayed frosty. He ignored the pain from his more recent bruises, hoped to high hell no one gave him grief at the circuit door, and prayed that his luck would hold out and he’d bring a big payday back home.

  He found the stairs, dashed down. A thick-cut bruiser sat on a stool, guarding a red door with an iron bar across it. His chest was bigger than his head, and his arms were straight out of a steroid abuser starter-kit.

  “Little young to drink with the big boys,” said the bouncer, crossing his arms. Flame-tattoos burned up each forearm, and an idiotic “RIP” was written across his neck. He took a swig from a big flask, wiped his pierced lip, and spat a loogie onto Malcolm’s shoe. “Run along back to Oz, munchkin.”

  Malcolm scrapped the top of his foot on the concrete floor, leaving the yellow loogie behind, caught his breath, and took out his circuit-better card. “I’m circuit better 505.” The blank look on the shaved gorilla’s face made it clear Malcolm’s reputation had not preceded him. Goddamn Fringe circuits, Malcolm thought. Nobody knows shit about shit up here. He cooled his nerve. “I booked my spot a month ago.” He handed him the circuit-better card.

  The guy just snorted. “Kid, I don’t care if you’re Jackson Lord his-own-bad-self, and booked this ticket a hundred years ago. Ain’t no way an underage court-appearance like yourself is getting past me. Now, do me a favour? Could you just fuck off before I get bored enough to toss you like a dwarf?”

  Malcolm breathed deeper, steadier.

  He could not take the six-hour bus ride back to Troy. Not now. Not yet. Not without a payday. Even a bad one, so long as it covered his travel costs and enough for an eight ball, would get Malcolm a serious thrashing. But marching back with the same cash Rob had shoved into his hands? Jesus, Malcolm thought. I don’t think there will be enough left of me to shove in an urn.

  No, he thought, screw Rip and his smug face and thug brain. I am not going home to my own funeral. But what the hell am I going to do? By the cut of this guy, he probably knows enough jujitsu and grappling to tear my fourteen-year-old ass apart. Gloom filtered through Malcolm’s head, until he breathed hard and old bruises flexed against his efforts. The pain stabilized him. Yeah, he thought, I’m weak, but I ain’t stupid. Let’s make this ape dance. He scanned around to see some more heavies in the hall, and some women…one pretty, black hair and sharp nose, the other heavy and face like ground beef with zits.

  The Judge’s daughters.

  Too sweet. “Sure,” Malcolm said. “I’d be happy to leave, Rip. Why don’t I just get my underaged face out of harm’s way, Rip? I’m sure there’s lots of places for innocent old me to go. Do they have police departments in Canada, Rip? Do you guys have 911?”

  The bouncer grimaced but couldn’t think of a smartass answer or a better way out of this jam.

  Perfect, Malcolm thought, and kept going. “I mean, what have I got to lose since you’ve taken away my only reason for being here. I’m sure the Judge would love to have the secret lair of the circuit revealed to the local police department.”

  Eyes were starting to focus on them, and Rip’s chance to grab Malcolm without any fuss or bother was vanishing quicker than a flushed turd. The two women were still engorged with the dudes they were charming.

  Malcolm whispered. “I mean, I’ve heard Judge Sayers will be bursting with shit and giggles when he finds out that this could have been avoided if you had just let me in, Rip.” Bold talk always made Malcolm’s balls shrink.

  Rip looked back and saw the two girls. He stood, covering Malcolm with his body, anger flushing through his concrete muscles and turning his veins into sick, thick worms knotting across his neck. Every bruise from Robert’s last coked-out-nightmare-freak-out flared on Malcolm’s hide, just as sharp and thick as the last time Robert had gone ballistic with his hands because Malcolm had let the milk go sour.

  C’mon, you ape, Malcolm thought. Take the goddamn path of least resistance. A line formed behind Malcolm, and their impatience was an infection in the air. The Judge’s daughters were starting to tire of their boys when there was a commotion at the gate—

  C’mon!

  Rip’s hands flexed into fists and one darted toward Malcolm.

  Shit, here we go!

  He yanked the circuit-better’s card from Malcolm’s hand, and examined it as if he’d just learned to read. “Troy, New York, huh?”

  “The happiest place on earth.”

  “Given your big mouth, I would have bet you were a Big Apple smartass.”

  “Well, smartass is better than a dumbass, that’s what my Mom says.”

  The line up laughed, and Rip tossed back the card. “Bitch, get the fuck out of my sight before I get angry.” He unhitched the bar from the door.

  Malcolm tucked the card into his front pocket and strolled in, balls dropping from their hiding place in his throat. Old Rip had confirmed what Malcolm had known for years: dudes with tattoos were morons.

  Roars from a handful of circuit folk and the smell of old blood and perfume greeted him. He exhaled as the familiar taste of violence calmed him. “Time to earn some grocery money.” About fifty faithful were milling about a small bar, another twenty around a large circle of sawdust that stood for a ring. Malcolm knew some of the faces from the New England stitch and shoot circuit, all heading to the fringe venues across the border in the big nothing of Canada. He nodded to a Mick and Sparks, two rail-thin weirdoes who frantically talked stats on KOs, submissions, and kills. Muley, an ex-cutman from boxing’s glory days, was standing by himself, dressed in a tweed jacket that must have seemed a thousand degrees hotter than the heart of the sun in this crammed and rotten space. Carefully, Malcolm avoided the eyes of the big-haired women in glittering mini
skirts and dagger sharp heels that made him feel…off kilter.

  Gotta stay frosty, he told himself. Eye on the prize and all that junk. Can’t get distracted.

  “Last call for the exhibition bout!” said a Notebook Man with foul teeth that stank of rye, skin that green shade you see on guys who bathed in cheap aftershave. “Kudor or the Mystery Man. You know the odds.” Ah, mystery fighters, Malcolm thought. The Fringe is doing whatever it can to make itself interesting. What’s next? Masked men? Shit, the whole damn circuit will be nothing more than pro wrestling if the main drag in New England doesn’t resurface soon.

  Malcolm gave his betting number and put all of Rob’s money on Kudor, the local monster who was a favourite for the Fringe Tourney tomorrow night, hence why he was willing to risk losing his spot in an exhibition bout to some mystery bag of meat. But Malcolm had heard less than zero from his usual sources at the Sycaway Library on the mystery man. Not a name. Not a rumour. Not that he had a chance.

  “And put a fifty down for the question mark,” Malcolm said. It wasn’t Rob’s money. Just some of the secret stash Malcolm had clipped over the years, skimming just a little each time from each payday he’d get for Rob in this world of blood, knuckles, and crippled street thugs who legit MMA won’t touch. This was private money, Malcolm’s money, a small pot of hope that hadn’t vanished up Rob’s nose.

  “Hey, this little luck charm is banking on the long shot,” said the Notebook Man, smile slick with Vaseline. “Anyone else want to follow his lead?”

  Some other sweat-soaked fight junkies did the same, patting Malcolm on the back or rubbing his hair for good luck, and saying it was good to see him again. Over nine months he’d gotten a rep for picking good oddballs, long shots, and underdogs with a fighting chance. Morons, Malcolm thought. He wasn’t a four-leaf clover of gore matches. He just always bet his cash on the underdog, and he lost more often than he won.

  But not using Rob’s money.

  He wasn’t suicidal.

  * * *

  A jackass in a Top Hat and sunglasses, pistol in one hand, mic in the other, strolled under the dirty yellow light above the sawdust. “Ladies and Gents, thanks for making your way to the Fringe called Kingston. Not even New York’s finest can stop us from our first-ever tourney!”

  Some drunk locals, stretched along the bar in the back, coughed out a few ragged whoops. Sure, the circuit was always full of oddballs, but the freaks of the fringe always seemed to dress and act like cartoon characters on crack. He pushed past the fleshy limbs to find a space up front, drinks spilling and staining his already wet shirt.

  “The main tourney starts tomorrow,” said Top Hat, “same time, but upstairs where the spotlight will be tight. But tonight, here in our dungeon, we have something special for you early risers—A bare knuckle exhibition brawl!”

  Some hoots.

  “Introducing first, with a one month unbroken reign and not so much as a hickey on his flesh, the sure thing, Lord Iron Knuckles, the darling of Kingston Penitentiary…Kudor!” Out of the dark came the buzz-cut, six-foot-three-inch monster, clad only in jeans and boots, wrists taped black. Besides the upside-down cross tattoo down the centre of his chest, there wasn’t a mark on his flesh to tell you Kudor’d ruined more lives in this region through parking lot shoot fights than anyone else in recent memory, and was heading to the tourney as a favourite.

  Kudor looked bored; concrete arms dragged at his sides like empty swings against the wind. This was the man that killed Buckshot, the first time Malcolm ever saw anyone die in the circuit, on the night the NYC circuit got busted by the cops and Malcolm’s sole source of cash had tumbled into hell. Until the fringe started up a few months later. He swallowed but no spit came to his dry mouth. The taste of sawdust clenched his throat. Without the circuit money, he and Rob would be screwed. He kept an eye out for cops, but what the hell did they look like up here? Mounties on horseback?

  “On my right,” said Top Hat, “the challenger, fresh from a stint in the Western Rodeo territories, the human punching bag who doesn’t know the meaning of the word quit, or else he’d have said it a long time ago…Milkwood!”

  A grey form emerged from the shadow to the showman’s right. He was five feet five of pudgy whiteness in a black T-shirt that couldn’t cover the equator of his dead-white belly. Greasy brown hair was tied in a ponytail, just waiting to be pulled: a two-legged lamb heading to the slaughter. Milkwood stood at the edge of the sawdust-square that served as the ring, waiting for Kudor to pick his spot. The crowd moaned. Some of the betters who had clapped Malcolm’s shoulder glared. This was the underdog that Malcolm was betting on?

  He glared back. Morons.

  Still, he’d just flushed fifty bucks down the sewer. Thanks a lot, Milkwood, you fat pig. One guy tried to switch bets and was tossed head first out the service door where they’d likely take Milkwood’s carcass.

  But something about the guy was off. A memory itched in Malcolm’s head. It seemed unlikely, but Milkwood, who was heading for a dumpster grave, seemed…familiar. Impossible, since guys like him were just worm shits waiting to happen…but the memory swam around the hook in Malcolm’s mind, not getting caught, not getting lost.

  Kudor stepped onto the sawdust, kicking it around, getting a feel. Black and yellow turd-like remains of old blood in the dust were revealed like old wounds on a white hide. Kudor ignored Milkwood as he stood in front of him. His biceps were bigger than the tubby dude’s head.

  “This is a knuckle fight,” Top Hat said, hand still on his gun. “No kicks, no headbutts, no holds, no tackles, no tricks, and every shot above the belt and none at the back of the head or the crowd will tear you both a new shit hole. We want all the good stuff still intact for the tourney. Right, Kudor?”

  The fighter snickered, then looked in the distance, not meeting Milkwood’s gaze, a blazing sign of disrespect.

  Top Hat chuckled. “Ten counts are for queers. Whoever is down on both knees for three seconds gets the loser’s wage. Step outside the dust and yer out, no pay due you. Ready?” A buzzer screamed and the crowd cawed like scavengers above a fresh corpse.

  Kudor’s left fist snapped a jab before the buzzer died, rocking Milkwood’s face back, setting his gut jiggling. Then two ugly left hooks, then a nose breaking back-fist. All of it unfolded before Malcolm’s eyes with slow grace, as if everyone was swimming in invisible molasses. Every ounce of strength and speed rippled out of Kudor like a force of nature, and the damage ricocheted throughout Milkwood’s tubby face. Malcolm’s heartbeat slowed, drowning the fight as the world raced by, what he called quicksand time. His eyes widened, wearing a face that earned him the nickname “Slow Mo” face. Slow Modris. His weird Latvian name only Mom had used.

  His heart beat and the battle raged with a cadence of slow violence that made his guts wince. What was soon the bloody mess of Milkwood’s head sagged on a willow-tree neck when a storm of lefts and rights came close to knocking his jaw across the bar. The front row dodged the incoming teeth, while janitors searched with penlights for sick mementos.

  Who is this corpse in waiting? Malcolm thought, the itch growing. He’s not just local. He must have run the circuit in New England and New York. But where? I’d remember a dorky name like Milkwood, and who wouldn’t remember that face or body? You didn’t need to be a weight lifter or razor thin to fight in the circuit, and there were some tough, fat, grapple junkies who liked to fight quick, deadly matches, stand-up bangers who could throw hard bombs and killer straights that ended a match before a deep need for cardio…

  But this match just kept going. And Milkwood’s hands seemed stitched to his pockets!

  A body shot heaved Milkwood off the ground and a flash went off before someone grabbed the perp and dragged him and his cell phone into the dark for some correctional lessons of the circuit; but all eyes, even those outside Malcolm’s quicksand gaze, were back on Milkwood. He landed like a priest before the altar of Kudor, who took two slow steps back and looked at his
masterpiece. There was not much more than a blinking red mass where Milkwood’s face had been.

  “One!” the crowd chanted.

  Laughter gurgled out of what was once a mouth. “Yu, yew punch lik a grrl,” said the gapping maw of Milkwood, wet and throaty and spraying in all directions.

  “Shit,” Malcolm said.

  Before the crowd gasped, a salvo of fists came down on Milkwood’s neck. Milkwood’s gasping spurts made it clear he was now fighting for air as much as cash. The crowd screamed “One.” Milkwood’s sausage fingers gripped the sawdust and the other hand tried to dislodge the Adam’s apple that had been resettled. “Two!”

  Milkwood thrust up his knee to break the count.

  What the hell was he on? Malcolm wondered. Meth? Angel dust? Or was he off his Oxycodone and lost his mind? Not just to get in the sawdust against a stone-cold pro, and not just to take a beating like a palooka, but to goad Kudor to the point of rage? This was suicide. What the fuck was driving this Milkwood to ask for death, one punch at a time?

  “Oh, history lessons are so boring,” said a man dressed in a tuxedo T-shirt and skirt. “Stretch matches at least have some screaming. Canada is sooo dull.”

  “Shut up, Alice,” said Malcolm.

  Grabbing the ponytail, Kudor forced Milkwood to his feet. “Last chance, bitch,” he said.

  Bloody bubbles filled Milkwood’s toothless mouth as it pulled itself into a smile.

  “No,” Malcolm said. “Don’t do it.”

  Bubbles burst and words slowly formed.

  “Don’t say it,” Malcolm said, but they spilled out nonetheless.

  “You’re right, you’re right,” Milkwood gurgled. “You…don’t punch like a girl.” The crowd hushed. “You…punch like a FAG!” He hawked and spit a red loogie right in the monster’s mouth. The crowd silenced as Kudor’s face went loco.

  Malcolm’s whole body winced, every bruise flaring at the merciless beating that seemed to take forever. Suck it up, Slow Mo, he told himself, just suck it up and watch. You may not be tough enough to take even the lamest punch from these sickos, but you can man up and watch it, learn it, don’t let it break you.