TITLE FIGHT (The Galactic Football League Novellas) by Sigler Scott & Wallace Matt

Author:Sigler, Scott & Wallace, Matt [Sigler, Scott]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: Empty Set Entertainment
Published: 2012-11-25T16:00:00+00:00

• • •

The bartender remembered him.

Chai sat in what might’ve been the same bar stool he’d occupied the night Brocka the Razor-Barbed opened his skull and, by proxy, a larger universe to Chaiyal.

“I tell that story at least twice a night,” the gruff Human told Chai. “Most of the tourists don’t believe it, that The Heretic himself sat right there and took the worst beat-down I ever seen in my life. Say, Champ, do you think you could sign the bar top here, maybe with a li’l joke about it so I got some confirmation?”

Chai tuned him out. He wasn’t in the mood. He wanted to kill Gredok but was content to murder several bottles of hard liquor in the Quyth crime boss’s place. He was well on his way to committing that massacre, too.

“Prodigal son returns,” a deep voice spoke over Chai’s right shoulder.

Chaiyal might’ve ignored that one, too, except it sparked some vague recognition. More than that, it commanded his attention. He swerved around in his stool.

It was Malachi “Ides of March” McMasters, the greatest fighter in the history of the Purist Nation. Before Chai, of course. Chai had only met him once before, that same night he’d been in this bar, that same night he’d been thrashed by Brocka the Razor-Barbed. McMasters sat in the front row as a special guest during all the Crusaders title bouts.

“Whose son?” Chai asked darkly.

The older man settled into the bar stool next to him. He didn’t have the face of a retired fighter, despite the scars. It was more like the face of a Roman general from the time period in Earth’s history that gave him his nickname.

“When you’re the champ you belong to the universe. You’re everyone’s son.”

“That’s deep for bangers like us.”

“Do you prefer to drink alone?”

“I can drink alone with you sitting there.”

It was as close to an invitation as Chaiyal ever extended, and even that was rare.

McMasters ordered the same acid-strong swill Chai was drinking. For a while they didn’t talk.

Finally, after draining his second glass, McMasters said: “You know the Holy Men put a hit out on you when you bolted.”

Chaiyal only nodded.

“They came to me with the contract, as a matter of fact. They figured I could get close to you and I was maybe the one guy in the Purist Nation who could take you out.”

Chaiyal snorted into his drink. “What was the offer?”

“Oh, they’d make me an archbishop. Wealth beyond my wildest dreams. Power to match it. Pretty much what you’d expect.”

“And you said no.”

“I said no.”

They drank. Chaiyal soon realized that McMasters wouldn’t just offer the next part, he had to be asked.

“All right,” Chai relented. “Why did you say no?”

“Because after you busted your contract to bang with the ‘satanic’ species, I started thinking a lot more about words. Like ‘champion’ and ‘gladiator’ and ‘warrior.’ Champions can be manufactured. Gladiators can be all hype. Warriors are just products of someone else’s training. They’re all just words, kid. The only one that actually means something .

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