Early Morning, around 7 am. Anatoli Gym.

Chapter One: “Hail to the King”

I’m in a huge boxing ring, about twice the size of a regulation size and the ropes are thick like pythons and made of steel coils instead of rubber. What the heck?

Sweat’s pouring down my face.

I can’t see the guy across from me but judging from the shadows he’s casting across the ropes, he’s massive. And he’s kicking my ass. He throws a huge roundhouse kick as I’m just barely able to block it from connecting with my chest as I go flying across the mat. Before I’m even up again, there’s a flying elbow in my direction that I barely re-direct as he slams it into the mat, tearing a hole through the rubber top. I scramble up to my knees only to block a sweeping kick to my face, catching it with my palms. The force of the kick puts me back up on my feet. Now, he’s bounding around the ring like he’s putting on a show. Wait, IS this a show?

What round is it?

Why is this happening, I’m the ranking champion!

I can’t see the crowd for the stadium lights but I hear the chanting and screaming against the flashes. I’m trying to figure out what fight this is, I can’t remember when this happened. Did it happen? Who is this guy?

Now he’s charging me with a flying punch, leaving himself wide open. I duck and lunge into a right uppercut, connecting with his side. Feels like I punched a concrete wall as my fingers crack at the sheer force. He laughs and jumps back, taking my punch to his stomach as if it was nothing. I wince and hold my hand, feeling the broken bones.

I don’t have time to think since he’s back on me, a knee to the face that I’m just able to deflect enough to take on the side instead of on my nose.

I spit up a little bit of blood and feel the swelling in my jaw. That’s going to hurt in the morning. The black spots in my vision tell me my nervous system is getting rocked like a junkie high on flak or meth on any Saturday night. There’s no way I’m making it out of this fight.

He’s on me again!

Jab after jab, he’s knocking me back onto the ropes harder and harder, I can tell he’s just messing with me since he’s laughing the whole time. I still can’t make out who this is, his face in shadows. I manage to get free and roll out to the middle of the ring. The sweat and swelling make it hard to focus but I can see he’s standing there winding up for another roundhouse. Pretty sure I won’t be able to take another hit.

Must be more than ten feet tall, I can just make out little beads for eyes in the black silhouette accented by flashing lights and cameras catching this moment. He’s amused, from the looks of that smile lit up by the bulbs in eerie shades of blue and yellow as if he was some odd chesire cat toying with me.

Is he growling? I swear the guy is growling. I can’t make out the features but a thumping begins.

He’s pounding his fists together. Large meat hammers the size of my face, taunting me as if to seal my death with the next punch.

Suddenly, he comes bounding across the ring at me, one arm tucked into his side, as he’s spring-loading a long arm straight punch. He’s going to end me with the next hit, so he wants to make it personal and close instead of a roundhouse kick. There’s nowhere to run and even if I block, it won’t do much to protect me from this train barreling down on me. He feels gigantic, the weight and terror falling down on me like a wave crushing my entire body as if a tiny pebble splashing around the sea.

The fist is all I see in my vision, like a rocket closing in on my position…

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I wake up, heart’s beating out of my chest.

The stupid dream again, whenever it’s fight day. That same dark figure, huge and overwhelming and impossible to beat. I’m so freaking tired. There’s a bang again.

I shake my head; the thumping isn’t just the ‘fighter’s cocktail’ drugs wearing off or the caffeine headache starting itself in my right temple. Someone’s at the door. It’s two hours before opening and my gym manager Geri has the keys, so it wouldn’t be her. My phone rings, not a number I recognize, and I tap the red button. I’m not surprised someone’s trying to reach me since it’s fight day and I’m the reigning middleweight champ, going on about five years now, I’m sure everyone wants a statement or a sound bite. It’s gotten boring but I’ve secured a pretty good deal with the GAFC and the attached sponsorship deals. They keep increasing the number of fights I’m obligated to do per year but I haven’t minded so far.

Phone rings again. Red button.

Feels pretty good to say that I was able to cut out a decent life for a poor kid who grew up in the dusty nothing of the Texas flatlands.

My phone goes off again. This time, it’s Deon, my coach/agent/manager. He’s the kind of Brit you want on your side of the ring stateside, because he knows how to get out of the really bad spots. At my worst, Deon was always there for me.

I promised him I’d do the same if it ever came to that. Hasn’t yet.

“Yo.”

“Yo? Whaddya mean ‘yo’?! It’s fight day, ‘Toli! We’ve only got about seven hours for the press, reps, and a warm-up expo! Official Weigh-in’s at 9! Don’t tell me you’re still at the gym. Can’t be missing again, mate!”

“You’re just sayin’ that cuz it happened before.”

“That’s a nice way of saying EVERY interview, you happen to go missing.”

“Few times, D, only a few times. You know how I am about those asshats from the entertainment sector, they just like mix it up with some BS drama every time.”

“The Greater American Fight Club is entertainment, you tosspot!! C’mon ‘Toli, be here in 40 minutes ready to step on that scale or I’ll come drag your ass from that dusty room you call a home above your gym.”

“Hey man, don’t knock my little piece of heaven.”

“Yeah. Heaven, heh, press me when you actually have students! I’ll take a gym member. Just one, ‘Toli just one! C’mon man, how you gonna be reigning heavyweight and not keep a good gym?? It looks bad.”

“The grand opening was good.”

“Been three years, ‘Toli. What’s good?”

“But still… lots of people were here.”

“Emphasis on ‘were’, mate. Small fish looking for a free bite, but you gotta KEEP em coming mate, that’s the problem here!”

“Ouch. It’s like that, huh?”

“It’s like that. Now get your ass over here, you’ve got 35 minutes.”

The line went dead. Deon’s never one for nuances. The banging on the door grew louder, more impatient. I ran downstairs, just in time, swear they were about to break in.

“YOU THE OWNER OF THIS GYM?!”

Two guys were at the gym door, looking obviously put out of place in grey suits and black shirts. The taller one had a flat expression and an envelope tucked under one arm, while the shorter, fat, red-faced one appeared to have been the one banging the door as the beads of sweat glistened across his temples. The poor bastard’s enlarged heart was just one flight of stairs from giving up.

“Who are you?”

The tall one spoke, probably giving his partner time to breath, “We’re from the IRS. Are you Mr. Anatoli Romanov?”

“Not for you, I’m not. I got a tax guy, go talk to him guys, c’mon huh it’s 8am.”

“Sir. Can you please confirm your name and place of residence?”

“Why you wanna know?”

“Sir. Please, I am legally obligated to make sure that…”

“This about the taxes?”

The tall one shuffled his shoulders at my interruption, frustrated at the lack of security protocol. “Sir. Can you…”

“I pay someone a lot of money to do this and you couldn’t bother him?”

“Sir, we’re legally obligated to…”

“Dude, ok. It’s butt-ass early and I’m here behind the locked door at a place with my last name. Yah man, yeah I’m Anatoli Romanov and yeah I live here above my gym, ok? Damn.”

“Thank you Sir” the tall one said flatly, handing me the envelope. The short one interrupted and spoke in a hurried tone “Yes, this is indeed about the taxes. Sir you haven’t filed your business earnings for the last three years. In fact, you haven’t filed any business taxes at all! It appears that you filed this gym as a non-profit, and well, sir frankly I can see that’s not true. We are required to audit your business pursuant to IRS tax code 36C subsection 5.4 regarding business claims under a certain declared value.”

“Yeah I did start this gym as a non-profit, I wanted to make working out and fight training available to all and figured the millions I was making would cover it. What’s the problem?”

“Well you see, sir, the problem is that you can’t just put your earnings into the business without declaring the value and reporting how that income was being earned!”

“Like I said, I HAVE a tax guy, go bother him!”

“The IRS has tried, Sir, multiple times.” He handed me a few pieces of mail, with the red letters “return to sender” stamped on them.

“Alright fine, look I gotta be somewhere but I’ll get to this.”

“You only have sixty days to reply to the summons or set an appointment for an official review.”

“Uh huh, thanks. Is that it?”

They both nodded.

“Ok you can go now, I have a match to get to.”

Always something on Fight Day.

He slammed the door and ran back upstairs to grab his energy drinks, gloves, bag, and several changes of clothes.

“30 minutes, come ON man where are those keys?!” he grunted at the empty air, suddenly remembering he forgot to gas up the WRX after last night’s partying, “Damn! This is why people have assistants” he muttered, grabbing his phone and cramming everything into his bag.

He dialed his phone juggling his bag and drink as he walked out the door ten minutes later, “Yo Deon! Yeah.. yeah I’m gonna be late.”

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The GAFC’s ‘Grand Hall’ connects like a circle around the stadium.

About 9 am, within the GAFC stadium.

Around the entrance to the Fighter’s Hall.

Several early morning tours were already roaming around the stadium by the time Anatoli got there. Fighters like him usually had a whole entourage to take care of their immediate needs, like a driver and a handler.

Not Anatoli.

He drove himself and trusted very few people in his life. The media said his privacy was proof that he had a dark Russian past, insinuating that he ‘may’ have ties to the mob ‘back home.’ Those news stories and his unstable past made him a very cautious (some would say ‘paranoid’) person.

Thankfully, his status gave him perks like a private garage and on-call valet service at the stadium whenever he wanted.

ALMOST THERE. He pressed send, and downed another Monster energy drink.

FIVE MINUTES. Deon replied.

“OH SHIT!!!” Anatoli slammed on his brakes, just narrowly missing the valet booth as he popped the curb in the garage.

“Take care of that for me will you, Kevin, I got you later bro!?!” He tossed the keys to his personal valet and ran for the stadium.

***

A tour was approaching a long hallway that was bustling with other attendants, tours, and general Fight Night business. These GAFC daily tours were a staple of the hospitality budget, and they raked in millions every year simply by giving out these small private tours that snaked in and around the entire stadium for a day-long tour that promised the most extensive and immersive experience for any fan of the GAFC.

“Now, ladies and gentlemen, let’s stop here please. Yes, let’s stop here. Ok? Great. Now as you can see to my left and to my right, these large banners above me showcase the first year the GAFC was inaugurated, alllll the way over to the current champions in each weight class to date. As a reminder to what’s in your tour binders, the Great American Fight Club has a unique two-tier system that recognizes FOUR weight classes in each tier. Can someone tell me what those might be?”

A young girl with red hair and freckles smiled and raised her hand, and answered “Uh…I think the first tier is called ‘The Brass’ and the second tier is called ‘The Gold’?”

“Yes, very good! Our founders had a sense of humor and legend has it that one of them was perhaps a fan of late 90’s soap operas.”

The group blinked back at her, stares into phones and a few glances up as the tour guide continued:

“Well, unlike the ‘Brave and The Bold’ - our tiers are designed to showcase each type of fighter in a carefully regimented weight class to ensure equal and fair fights in every tournament! We take fair fighting rules very seriously here at the Club and having two tiers allows the heavier fighters to challenge each other in a safe and balanced format.”

The young girl raised her hand, somewhat impatiently this time.

“Uh m’am, there’s already 8 official weight classes that do that same thing, don’t they?”

“Yes and no, and also, GREAT question, young lady! Thank you! Yes, there are 8 official weight classes from flyweight all the way up to heavyweight, and you’re right, each of those weight classes are designed to prevent a weight mismatch among opponents however the Club has found that allowing fighters to fight within a tier group presents an interesting and inspiring challenge for our viewers!”

“Tier group?” Someone muttered from the back.

“Yes sir! This is what makes the Club so unique. The official GAFC rules state that any fighter in ‘The Brass’ Tier can choose to request a match with any other fighter in that Tier. So a Flyweight at 125 pounds could fight a Lightweight at 155 pounds.”

“Wait, doesn’t that mean that there could be a fighter weight difference of THIRTY pounds between opponents?”

“Yes, that’s the point! It’s an excellent opportunity for our fighters to expose each other’s weaknesses, learn new skills, and push their abilities!”

“It sounds like the smaller guys will just get beat up all the time.”

“You’d think so but surprisingly no! Believe it or not, in the history of the GAFC, we’ve only had one instance where a fighter challenged a higher weight class and lost! Something about the challenge makes the lighter fighters, oh I don’t know I’d call it ‘hungry’ or perhaps more ‘invested’ in their own success.”

“Now, let’s resume the tour, this way please!”

The tour snaked around a few hallways until they reached the large Fighter’s Hall that was a featured stop for every guide.

“Ok, let’s stop here, ladies and gentlemen. Yes, just settle there is fine. Now as you can see behind me on the walls, we feature banners for each of the champions in each weight class and tournament. The dates on each banner show how long those champions kept their winning streaks, as you can see, right now we’re celebrating one of the longest winning streaks in our fighting history! Can anyone tell me who is the longest winning champion? Anyone?”

Most of the visitors were either on their phones taking video or photos or looking up facts. She cleared her throat and asked again, “I SAID Can anyone tell me who is the longest winning champion with 25 wins and only two losses?”

"Anatoli Romanov, of course!” The young girl was very proud of herself, beaming to her mother.

“Yes, very good! Very good! Anatoli Romanov is our current and longest-serving champion in the Heavyweight class, as evidenced by the numerous banners of the same red and gold throughout this hall. Now let’s discuss the history behind The Fighter’s Hall as we continue walking. Let’s continue, shall we?! Yes, let’s continue. This special hall is unlike the other multi-purpose halls and conference rooms across our gigantic Club stadium in that it is reserved for our fighters to use for their press releases and as a hangout spot for Fight Night.”

“Can we meet the champions?”

“Ah! A question unprompted. Yes, sir! In fact, this tour has a reserved spot to meet Mr. Romanov later today during the press weigh-in at 4pm, with signed posters for each of you!”

“Uh, excuse me, m’am but it says here that the weigh-in is in the morning?”

“Great observation young man! That is the official weigh-in where only the fighters, their handlers, and a licensed Club doctor are allowed in. The press weigh-in is mostly a publicity opportunity and a chance for our fans like you to visit with the champion just mere hours before the fight!”

“Where is the official weigh-in taking place?”

“As a matter of fact, in a private conference room right here in the Fighter’s Hall!”