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The Champion

By Cris Fireheart / Ken Anderson

Chapter 2 - Underground King

Author's note: This story contains scenes of extreme violence, profanity, drug and alcohol abuse, and some sexual situations. Reader discretion is DEFINITELY advised. It is recommended that you read the two shorts “The Wasted Youth" and “The Family" before continuing; HOWEVER, reading those is NOT a requirement for continuing on. Each and every story in the Harbor City saga was written to be read in any order.

As usual, any and all comments and votes are well apreciated; let me know what you all think!

Now, it's fight night, everyone!!

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With a sharp yell and a flurry of motion, the fight had immediately begun. Ricky quickly went on the defensive, ducking and weaving from side to side as his opponent let loose with a flurry of lightning-fast punches, ending his combo with a hard roundhouse kick towards the human's face. Ducking under the weasel's extended leg, Ricky's face twisted into his trademark smirk as he delivered a hard punch to the inside of Teddy's thigh, causing the weasel to grit his teeth in pain and stumble backwards a few steps.

“That was dirty, asshole!" Teddy yelled out, reaching a paw down to rub at his injured leg.

Ricky laughed and shrugged his shoulders in response. “This is a street fight, remember?!" he shouted back, returning to his place at the other end of the mats. “The only rules around here are no killing blows and no talking to the cops!"

A loud hiss exiting his muzzle, Teddy, the wild-eyed weasel who'd bragged openly as he'd challenged the current underground champion in front of his friends, suddenly lunged forward with a series of quick jabs and haymakers, intending to take the human off of his feet. Ricky, his grin not having left his face, eagerly stepped closer to him as he continued to use his speed to avoid the blows. His whole game had been to get this guy out of his own head. And judging by the look on the weasel's face, he'd succeeded.

With a loud yell, the weasel unleashed another vicious combo; throwing two feints before charging forwards and attempting to grapple the shorter man around the waist. Ricky, in his mind, couldn't help but chuckle to himself; it was the moment that he'd been patiently waiting for. In one swift movement, he twisted his left arm under the weasel's right, locking the joint in place, before kicking the back of his right knee and twisting his body forcibly to one side, bringing them both crashing down onto the mat.

The roar of the surrounding spectators seemed to grow even louder as Ricky quickly flipped Teddy over onto his back and mounted his opponent's chest, delivering a punishing series of blows to the weasel's muzzle as Teddy struggled to bring up his thick arms to defend himself.

“YOU WANTED TO FIGHT THE FUCKIN' KING, RIGHT?!" Ricky's loud bellow echoed throughout the packed parking garage. He let out a loud grunt of effort as he thrust both of his taped-up hands between Teddy's arms, wrenching them away to reveal his unprotected muzzle beneath.

“THEN YOU LOSE LIKE EVERYONE ELSE!"

With that final comment, Ricky let out a loud yell, before rearing back, and thrusting his forehead powerfully against the weasel's muzzle.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

A slight gurgle escaped Teddy's lips as a spray of blood exited his nostrils and covered Ricky's face with its coppery essence. Rising to his feet, still panting with the adrenaline coursing through his veins, Ricky let out a heavy sigh as he stared down at the weasel with a look of slight disappointment on his face.

“Call it now, or I'll end it. It's your choice, Ted…"

Teddy could tell that he meant it. Ricky had a certain reputation to uphold; he'd taken on the young weasel's challenge at his own insistence, and Teddy had failed miserably… Again.

He'd failed to beat his boss in a fight once again…

With a stifled groan, the injured weasel reached out with a tape-covered fist, and rapped his knuckles against the mat three times. That was always the signal to call off the fight. The match was now officially over; Ricky had won.

“THAT'S IT!" Came the voice of a large brown bear, who marched onto the mats to stand between the two heavily panting fighters.

“The winner of this challenge match, and STILL the king of this fuckin' ring, RICKY DAVIS!!"

The crowd exploded in a joint cacophony of cheers and boos. Confetti made of torn betting slips filled the air around them as those gamblers who'd bet on Teddy Edwards let loose with loud exclamations of profanity and anger. Back in the 'ring,' however, Ricky was still smiling while staring down at his friend and opponent. Leaning over, he offered his right hand, which the weasel took a few seconds to stare at before raising his gaze to meet the young man's eyes.

“Take it, man," Ricky remarked with a smirk. “That makes it ten wins to two, in my favor now, right? And don't worry; your dad can have his money back."

Chuckling painfully, Teddy reached up with a shaky paw to grab Ricky's hand, and drew in a sharp breath as he was quickly lifted onto his feet.

“Damn, man, I seriously thought I had you this time…" The weasel muttered under his breath, smiling slightly down at Ricky.

“Hah! You and everyone else, Ted. Now, here, go find your old man and tell him I said he's all good with me. But hold up a second first."

Ricky slipped a hand into his back pocket, coming out with his thick leather wallet. Handing over a crisp hundred-dollar bill to the defeated weasel, he gave him a friendly smack on the shoulder and told him to wait for a moment as the bag-man quickly approached the two of them from the sidelines. Teddy watched in awe as Ricky was handed two large, rubber-band secured stacks of bills, which he gave an appreciative nod towards before dismissing the man, sending him back into the crowd. Turning back to face the weasel, he peeled away half of one of the bundles, before offering it to him with a smile.

“Wait…What? I mean, I just lost, man! Wha-–"

“Dude… You WORK for me. I know you still haven't told your dad about it yet, but the principle still stands. Win or lose; you challenged ME to a fight. So you get your cut either way. Now…" Ricky jerked his thumb towards Connor, who was still standing at the edge of the mats, half-empty whiskey bottle still in one paw. “Go find your old man, and meet us here so we can head over to my truck. I got a bottle of that Mezcal I know you guys like."

Teddy flashed them both a bloody, toothy grin as he nodded his head once, before pocketing the money and heading into the crowd to locate his father.

As Ricky approached Connor near the edge of the ring, he noticed that the fox was shaking his head slowly, a drunken smile plastered across his white-tipped muzzle.

“I'll never understand why you insist on doin' that," he slurred slightly, before raising the bottle to his lips and taking a large gulp.

“Which part?" Ricky questioned.

“Lettin' your thug-ass friends challenge you to fights, man!" Connor exclaimed, “ I mean, everyone who hangs around the Southside and Harbor Heights knows you run shit around here these days. So why risk it? Why take the chance that you might just lose it all?"

Ricky let out a bellyful of laughter, before reaching out his taped hand to retrieve the bottle from Connor's grasp. Raising it to his lips, he took a mouthful of whiskey, swallowed it down with a grimace, and handed the bottle back before opening his mouth to respond.

“Yeah; I mean… I run the books; you know that, along with a… couple of other things, and you know I work to keep the Canine Council's Bikers out of our turf… But me? I'm not in this forever, you know? One day someone's gonna have to pick up where I leave off; this kinda life is short, yeah? But still, if I have any say in the matter, whoever DOES take over for me when I'm gone has gotta be able to at least beat me down in a real fight. I mean, look at Teddy. He's beaten me twice, but those weren't sanctioned matches, so it doesn't count. Still, though, the kid's got a hell of a record, and he's got potential…"

Connor could only stare, slack-jawed at his friend as his mind struggled to process Ricky's words. For as long as the pair had known each other, the young human had never once hinted that he might not remain in his chosen “career," until either a violent death or a long stint in prison might eventually claim him. In his mind, Connor had always thought of Ricky as a former Marine and a street hustler, through-and-through; he'd never considered the fact that his friend might actually view his current path as nothing more than a stepping-stone to something different.

The fox was quickly jarred out of his thoughts as Ricky nudged his shoulder with one arm, nodding his head towards the figures of two tall weasels approaching from out of the crowd.

“Hey, don't worry about it, fox-boy," he muttered under his breath, “ I ain't going nowhere anytime soon. Now look alive, we've got guests incoming!"

“Hey there, kid," came the smoke-stained voice of Jimmy Ray Edwards, the older weasel stepping into the dim light with a smile as he and his son approached them. “Hey, yourself, old man!" Ricky replied with a cheerful smile as he reached out to shake the old weasel's paw when it was offered.

“You weren't playin' around the other night," Jimmy continued, releasing Ricky's hand. “ It really was my money to lose. Now… My boy here said somethin' about havin' a few drinks?"

“Yeah! I got a couple bottles of that Mezcal that Ted said you guys liked. There's one in my truck; parked in the back over there. You guys wanna throw down a few with us?"

The wide, ear-to-ear grins which quickly crossed both weasels' muzzles told Connor and Ricky everything they needed to know. With a wave of his arm, Ricky began to lead the group deeper into the garage, towards a large, early-2000's GMC Sierra. The Midnight-blue truck had been parked safely away from the chaotic crowd of loud, angry bettors, who, even from a distance, could still be heard demanding refunds or re-buys for the next matches of the night.

Upon reaching the towering vehicle, Ricky used his key to unlock the driver's-side door, before leaning inside and feeling his arm around underneath the driver's seat. A second later, he came out holding a sealed bottle of authentic Mexican Mezcal, complete with a tequila worm sunken at the bottom of the bottle, which he eagerly flashed towards the two grinning weasels with a smile.

“Now, I KNOW they don't stock that stuff 'round here," Jimmy remarked with a toothy grin, as he reached out a paw to take the bottle from Ricky's hand. “Could never get ahold of it, not even when I had my bar. This stuff would've brought in a hell of a crowd, back in the day…"

“You'd be right about that, 'Mr. Fender,'" the man replied with a nod. “I actually picked up a few of those last month, when I took a little trip down south to pick up some stuff for a friend. I remembered Ted saying that you liked authentic Mezcal, so I figured why not grab a couple bottles?"

Ricky's words caused the younger weasel's ears to perk up in surprise. “You're STILL doing runs for the Binettis?" Teddy leaned in to whisper, while his father was distracted with admiring the bottle in his paws.

“The Binettis and the Claytons, both, actually," Ricky replied with a shrug of his shoulders. “I mean, I know Marco Binetti pretty well; we served in the Corps together. I saw Jake Clayton out there, too, but he and I'd already known each other from before then, back when I was still trying to get that business degree at Harbor City U. Jake and I actually used to get together and go street racing with his friend Nick, back in the day. That was before… well…"

“-- Charlie Clayton died…" Jimmy, the old weasel, finished his sentence, before hanging his head and shaking it slowly towards the ground.

“Yeah, I still remember that old dog," he continued, his voice tinged with sorrow. “He played some of the best rock music to ever come outta this shithole city. Kept my bar packed with patrons who came to see him and his boys play, and always showed respect. I never once charged him or his people for a drink . And he was a real fighter, too; everybody knew not to mess with HIS family… I remember watching the news about his crash, the night that it happened. I swear you could hear the whole damn city take a breath when it came on the news. Then, there was all that business with his son gettin' involved with drugs, them dirty cops, the city council, and Arturo Binetti…"

“My father may have been a lot of things; and was well-respected, but he never did learn that, in the end, in order to stand against the tide, one has to change with the times…"

The deep, bass-filled growl of a voice immediately set everyone's fur and hair on end, as they all turned their heads in order to locate its source. A grizzled-looking gray wolf, with a prominent scar over his left eye, dressed sharply in a designer suit which seemed to almost match the color of his fur, winked one eye as he approached them from out of the nearby shadows, a heavy-looking duffel bag gripped in one paw. Even through the tailored contours of his suit, the group could all make out the tell-tale bulge of a shoulder holster, which contained something dangerous and deadly within.

“Marco?!" Ricky exclaimed, stepping forward to greet the wolf. “I didn't know you were coming out to the fights tonight, sir! If I'd known, I'd have made sure you got a good spot!"

The wolf, Marco Binetti, let out a gruff chuckle as he shook his head and extended his free paw. “I saw the whole thing," he grumbled, taking Ricky's taped-up hand in his paw and giving it a single, firm shake. “You went out there and kicked ass, just like you always do. And how many times have I asked you not to call me 'sir' these days? We're not overseas anymore; Just because the damn Council decided that I had to take my father's place as the head of the Binetti Family after he died doesn't mean that you and Connor aren't still two of my best friends. For fuck's sake, Davis, just call me by my name."

With a smile, he released Ricky's hand, before holding out the duffel bag towards Connor, his toothy grin suddenly growing wider as he eyed the tall fox from head to toe, “And You! That was one hell of a knockout, Champion. Personally, I'd say you've earned that title every step of the way; keep it up! This dirty city needs a fresh breath of hope, if you get what I mean."

Connor, feeling slightly embarrassed, raised a paw to scratch the back of his neck as he reached out the other to retrieve the black duffel bag. “Heh… Coming from you, Mr. Binetti, that's high fuckin' praise," he half-stammered, tightening his grip on the bag as he hefted it in his paw. “I mean, you know… You being who you ARE, and all…"

Marco scoffed slightly, waving away the fox's comment with a swift flick of his wrist.

“Connor, over the last three years, you've gotten to know me just as well as Ricky, over here. He and I served together, remember? And you both know who I am and what I do for a living; even though I don't exactly condone of some of my Family's methods at times… That being said, you're both personal friends of mine, so you don't have to put on an act or be scared around me; I know who I am. I'm 'Marco Binetti,' a damn mob wolf, and the current 'Alpha' or 'Don' of the 'infamous' Binetti crime family. I get enough of that kinda bullshit every day from the second I wake up, yeah? It's nothing but 'Family Business' every time these days. But you guys know that when I'm out and about, I don't like being treated 'special' or anything. So seriously… PLEASE… Just be yourselves around me, alright?"

Ricky couldn't hold back his burst of laughter as he took the bottle of whiskey from Connor's paw and offered it to Marco, who swallowed a good portion of it before handing it over to Teddy. Connor felt a wave of relief wash over him as he breathed out a sigh and nodded his head. Smiling, he reached out his free paw towards Marco, who took it into his own with a slight grin.

“Yeah… Sorry about that, man; it's just, you know… the way I grew up…"

Marco's smile immediately turned into a scowl as his upper lip began to tremble, bearing his fangs. “Oh, I KNOW…" his voice exited his lips in a deep growl, “That's why your prick of a stepfather is currently enjoying the 'hospitality' my people are providing him with at Sundown Unit…"

Connor cringed inwardly at Marco's words. His stepfather had been responsible for what had once been the hellish torment of his childhood; the beatings, verbal, and eventual sexual abuse had been the reason why Connor had chosen to run away from his parents' house during his sophomore year of high school, to go and stay with Ricky, who'd left his own home and was already beginning to make a name for himself in the streets. It had also been this same type of abuse which had eventually driven Connor's mother Lara to her suicide; an action he could never forgive the older, gray fox for. It wasn't a memory that he liked to relive…

“Well, GOOD," Connor growled softly, the edges of his scratched-up muzzle twitching as his fangs came into view. “They sent me a letter saying that he's probably gonna be up for parole next year. The bastard doesn't deserve it at all, if you ask me…"

“Oh, don't worry," Marco lowered his voice as he leaned in and spoke, “Let's just say that your stepfather's parole is going to be 'indefinitely denied.'"

The dark thoughts of Marco's implied message of vengeance brought a smirk to Connor's muzzle. He nodded his head slightly in understanding, as he began to silently imagine the myriad of ways that the sadistic bastard who'd destroyed his family might lose his life. He was deep into his darkest thoughts, when Ricky's voice suddenly spoke up and brought him back to reality.

“So what do I owe you?" the human interjected, motioning with a nod towards the bag gripped in Connor's paw.

“Standard rate," Marco replied offhandedly, slipping his paws into the pockets of his expensive suit coat.

“You can keep five for yourself. I know you'd never come to me empty-handed, so you guys can just give me a call whenever you're ready. If you can't reach me, call Jake or his dad; the word will get back to me either way. I'll send you the details tomorrow."

With those words, Marco Binetti, the current Don of the most notorious of the city's four canine crime families, gave respectful nods towards each of them, before turning on his heels and making his way slowly towards a dark black Mercedes, which had been parked discreetly near the entrance to the garage. Once he'd gotten out of earshot, however, the two weasels turned to face Connor and Ricky with wide eyes and slacked jaws.

“Kid, you're runnin' for the damn WOLF MOB?!" came the scratchy voice of old Jimmy Fender, who looked about ready to collapse.

“Nah," Ricky responded with a shake of his head, “I just help out a few old friends every now and again. It keeps me on the chessboard, if you know what I mean. Now, why don't you go ahead and pop open that bottle, old fuzz? Let's celebrate a little!"

The older weasel obeyed, and the four of them spent some time seated on the tailgate of the truck, passing around the bottle as they shared numerous stories from their tumultuous pasts.

“I heard the rumor about why they called you 'Fender," Ricky remarked, as he took a swig from the bottle of Mezcal before handing it over to the older weasel.

“They said you used to have an ear to the ground for any hustle, and any news that came in off the street. They also said that on one night, a bull busted into your place and tried to trash it. Rumor has it you dragged his ass outside, and smashed one of his horns off on the front fender of his truck!"

Jimmy let out a burst of genuine laughter, shaking his head as he took his drink. “Yeah; that's how I got the nickname. People knew not to mess with me at my bar. Then, Charlie and James Clayton met there one night, tore my place to fuckin' hell, and still ended up being one of this city's biggest power couples, if ya could call em' that. I got to see the whole thing go down; I even attended their wedding, when they adopted Jake! But yeah… Once the pup got into the drug game, and got involved with that wolf… Let's just say that a lot of things happened; a lot of people died or were arrested. If it wasn't for James' quick thinkin', sending em' both overseas, the aftermath of what happened to Charlie coulda been a lot worse…"

Another hour or so passed by as the mezcal finally ran empty. The group switched over to whiskey, which Connor was more than happy to share, after he'd secured the duffel bag underneath the back seats behind the truck's heavy rear doors. As the group continued to drink and chat amongst themselves, Ricky casually strode up to Ted, making a move as if to shake his paw.

After a few more moments of friendly banter, they all decided to call it a night, and head their separate ways. As Teddy stood, watching Connor and Ricky hop into their truck, he gave the couple a wave of goodbye as they began to slowly pull forward towards the exit of the garage. When his father had turned his back, and began to head in the direction of their own vehicle, Ted, after checking to make sure he wasn't being watched, had finally taken the time to open the paw that Ricky had shaken.

As he'd assumed, there was a small slip of torn paper contained within. After making sure, once more, that his father was out of sight, he unfolded and opened the small note. Written down, in Ricky's hasty, fevered script, were eight simple words, and yet they carried a weight with them that made Teddy's heart beat faster than it had before he'd entered the fight.

“TOMORROW. MY PLACE. WE'RE ALL GOING ON MISSION."

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– End Chapter 2

That's chapter 2, everyone! It's a bit darker, and more drama and street-oriented than my old work, but I hope you'll all enjoy it! Chapter 3 should be up in a day or two; I kinda feel like I'm on a roll again.

--C