<div class="floatleft">(http://www.dnamagazine.com.au/media/0/9573/2/jasonchambers4.jpg)</div><strong>Name:</strong>Ryan 'Private' Murray (https://elliquiy.com/forums/index.php?topic=250173.msg12379624#msg12379624)<br/><strong>City | Date | Time:</strong>South Boston / April 2010 / 01:45 AM<br/><strong>Tagging | Mentioning:</strong>N/A<br/><strong>Content:</strong>Violence<br/><hr/>There was a particular smell to the basement of a gym that his uncle called a fighting arena. Booze, sweat, blood and that weird ink that cheap bookies used on cheap paper for their clients to keep up with their bets. It was crowded tonight, Ryan thought, chomping down on his mouthguard. The thing had been bought for him new for his first fight about three years ago, and he hadn't changed it since. He rebuffed his coach when the guy told him that he was being cheap. The thing had sentimental value, dammit, and he would be chewing on that thing until her could feel his own teeth coming out the other side.<br/><br/>His wrapped hands were up in a traditional boxer's stance, his feet moving from side to side as he watched his opponent enter the ring. Ring was a bit of an overstatement for a cage with no top and no padded ground, he supposed, but this was what got the people's blood pumping. The realism. The brutality of it. How utterly illegal the whole thing was. And his opponent was big too. Taller than Ryan by maybe half a foot and a weight class above him, at least. The guy was bald and had a hefty mustache, his dusky skin and tattoos showing his affiliation to the MS-13 branch in Boston. Probably muscle that wanted to get some money in on the side, although Ryan had been told that his gang had been putting some heavy money on him winning.<br/><br/>Which was why his uncle had cornered him in the locker to put a special emphasis on kicking this guy's ass, pronto. But jeez, why did he have to be that big?<br/><br/>The fights, in theory had three fifteen minute rounds, but they never lasted past the first round anyways. And it didn't look like it would this time either. His uncle would be making a killing if he bet on Ryan. Of course, Ryan had to win.<br/><br/>Details. He shadow-punched the air a few times, jabbing and hooking, dancing around in the way that boxers tended to. It got opponents distracted, thinking that he was an old fashion boxer, not taking into account all the dirty little tricks that he had picked up over the years, the kind that wouldn't be allowed in any kind of boxing ring. He gave the big man a wolfish grin through his guard and moved his closed fist back and forth from his mouth, with his tongue completing the gesture by matching the thrusting motion.<br/><br/>"You sure your knees can take what going to do tonight, big boy?"<br/><br/>"No teeth this time, puto."<br/><br/>As if on cue, the bell rang and the fight began. The two fighters closed quickly and Ryan ducked under a massive haymaker, powering a shot to the midsection himself before he came out from under the big man's arm. Five minutes of warming up before the fight, not to mention the muggy air in the basement made for a sheen of sweat to already touch his toned body as he swayed to avoid a back elbow from the big man, jumping back to avoid the inevitable backfist that followed it. Sticking his tongue out and dancing from foot to foot, he evaded a jab by ducking. He knew what was coming, and he couldn't avoid it. The big man used his jab as a cover for a power play, pushing Ryan back against the cage as he struggled to power punches int the short range. Ryan pushed upward, letting his right hand lock on the man's collarbone and hammered his elbow across his jaw, pushing him back a bit, allowing Ryan to slip out from the man's grasp, a big right hook to the nose left as a parting gift.<br/><br/>And the big man charged again. He was fast for a man his size, and Ryan found himself once again pinned under the man's weight against the cage. Hard fists started coming into his midsection, and he felt a rib crack under the bombardment, his whole body feeling the thunder of the huge man's fists. He tried to push back, using headbutts, stomping the guy's feet or fighting fire with fire, as it were, pushing the body shots but the big man, like a shark, smelled blood in the air. He had heard the rib crack and could hear Ryan's soft panting, avoiding the injured side and was trying to move in for the kill.<br/><br/>Finally, he managed to get free. A dirty move, a headbutt to the nose, but it worked, allowing him to jump free, padding towards the middle of the ring, eyeing the bigger man warily. True, he had the advantage of speed and agility, but it didn't help much once the room for maneuvering ran out. He doubted he could knock the guy out with a punch or two. He could barely daze the guy, and he just kept on coming, old tank-human hybrid that he was.<br/><br/>Being chased around the ring was no way to fight, though, he thought as he started to hear a few boos from the MS-13 bit of the crowd, and the rest were joining in. Most of his fights, he ended up being the aggressor. Then again, most fights didn't pair him off against the Hulk's smaller, angrier cousin.<br/><br/>"Where you goin',<em>ese</em>?" Big man shouted, ducking in and trying an uppercut. Ryan jumped back and felt his back touch the cage.<br/><br/>All of a sudden, he was all but blind. White lights were dancing around his vision as he stumbled away from where he guessed the big guy was. Something warm and sticky was pouring over his right eye as he kept on backing away. He felt another blinding pain hit him in the left cheek and he fell backwards. Instinct had him rolling backwards to regain his feet, and part of his eyesight, but he was still staggering. Gasping for breath,he tried to blink the blood away from his left eye, but he still couldn't see through it.<br/><br/>He pulled his right arm back to try and jab for distance, but, as luck would have it, that was injured too. Or so what felt like one of the worst cramps he had ever felt hitting his shoulder like a bullet indicated. He backed away again, ducking under what looked like a finishing hook. He felt the air from the punch touch his sweaty skin as he looked up, feeling himself touch the cage with his back once again. If he was cornered again, he was a punching bag. That was the everything of that. And there was not much that he could do to stop it now, with his left eye covered in blood and his right beginning to swell. The guy closed, and Ryan threw a last-ditch uppercut to try and push him back.<br/><br/>The cramp disappeared suddenly, and his right fist rocketed up like it was on speed all on its own. It impacted, that much he knew as the force of the punch threw him back against the cage again. His fuzzy sight showed no big Central American in near sight, and a loud thud indicated that he was alone on his feet in the ring. He dragged the absorptive material of his wraps across his left eye, clearing his vision for a few seconds. The big man was on the ground, out cold. Lights out.<br/><br/>What?<br/><br/>A few seconds passed before the big man came to again, turning onto his stomach, coughing blood and teeth to the ground. A couple guys rushed in to apply some basic first aid to the man, who looked about as dazed as a minute old calf. Not that he knew how dazed a minute old calf looked like. Why was the world spinning again?<br/><br/>He caught himself from face planting by taking a knee and leaning back against the cage, shaking his head to clear all the white spots in his vision. His hand was aching some bad, and he only realized it when the so-called ref of the fight stepped into the ring and pulled it up, yanking a gasp of pain from him. His hand was broken. That much was certain. How bad it was would wait on the 'Doc'.<br/><br/>Ryan resisted the urge to be sick right at the moment.<br/><br/><hr/><br/>The Doc, well, he used to be a doctor. He lost his license once he started selling prescriptions to clients to be able to pay off a debt that he had to the boys. Once he lost his license, Robert, Ryan's uncle, took up the guy's debt in exchange for the man's services as a doctor for his fights. Keeping the fighters alive was a good way of keeping the betters coming back. However, the man's skills could only get one so far without the proper equipment and medicine. And he lacked in both, improvising as best he could with what he had. He was in his late forties or early fifties, with grey hair that was going bald. He generally was seen with an unkempt beard at a half length, and tonight was no exception. He was dressed in a stained lab coat and what looked like a slack and shirt pairing from the 70s.<br/><br/>Which was why Ryan was sucking heartily at a bottle of shitty whiskey. There would be painkillers, he knew, but setting a bone without going to a hospital wasn't a fun experience. He had seen it done before. He had had it done to himself before. Once. Fuck. He sucked another long gulp from the bottle and put his broken hand down.<br/><br/>"Well, I did tell ye to knock the fucker on his arse," Robert said, entering the room, trying to hide the smile in a vain attempt at solemnity at his nephew's agony," Didn't expect you to do it so... thoroughly. You broke his jaw in three places."<br/><br/>"So he eats out of a straw for a couple months. He'll survive," Ryan was really not feeling empathetic towards the man that had all but gone over his face with a meat grinder.<br/><br/>"Enough 'bout that fucker. What's up with me lad here?" The question was direction towards the good Doctor, who looked like he had been sharing in the same whiskey that Ryan was indulging in.<br/><br/>"Two metacarpal bones broken in the right hand. Broken rib and a cut over the left eye and right cheekbone," The man wasn't the wordiest of sorts. He knew his business, though, working at a trauma unit for a couple of years.<br/><br/>"Get on it then. And stop this damned bleeding. Private'll be goin' blind."<br/><br/>The Doc shot Robert a murderous glare before pushing himself out of his chair and grabbing what few tools that he had. Ryan blanched visibly and took another long sip from the bottle. It was going to be a long night.<br/><br/><hr/><br/>He rubbed his hand ruefully. It had been eight years since that gruesome night, and he still wondered at the super knockout punch that had leveled the Panamanian giant. It had been an uppercut, the weakest of punches, useful in only the fact that it was meant for surprise. The man's jaw had been clenched and he was going in for the kill and then knocked flat on his back. With one punch. One punch that had broken his jaw bone in two places and dislocated just for good measure. He had been eating out of straws for six months, which had been about how long it took for Ryan's hand to recover. And that cramp tended return just whenever he needed a good punch, headbutt or kick. Hell, he had felt it returning when he needed some proper jumping done too. He was getting the hang of it, letting that feeling of pain return to his body and then releasing it just at the right moment.<br/><br/>Practicing it was killer though. More than two or three tries at a time left the muscles involved aching like he had just tried to lift fifty pounds more than he was able. He had hurt himself a few more times, but never to the extent that that first time. Using it was starting to become natural, almost easy. No, not quite easy. It required a good deal of effort to pull off. But, like a complex maneuver, once you got the hang of it, it just came back to you, no matter how hard. And it had taken a while, but he had the hang of it. It felt like cheating, to be able to summon up a cruncher like that whenever he needed it. It was low. It was dirty. It was nasty.<br/><br/>It was just his style, he thought with a grin, pulling his riding gloves off, seeing a black SUV coming up to the underground parking lot where he had parked his Harley. It had come cheap, bought used and he took it to his brother's shop to work on remodeling. It had taken maybe two years to get it to the perfection that he loved it at, but it was worth it. Matte black and comfortable for long drives, a good torque and picked up from the ground a bit with a customized suspension to keep the pipes off the ground. It was minimalist, and the engine was tuned up to stave away the power problems that plagued the original model. She was his, and he loved her.<br/><br/>He called her Jade.<br/><br/>His novelty half helmet matched the bike's color, hanging from one of the handlebars, and his glasses were tucked in the black leather coat that his dad used to wear. Specially made from his time in the IRA, it fit neatly with the in-sewn gun holster and knife sheath. He kept both filled whenever he wore the thing, and today was no exception. He was wearing a black shirt underneath, a pair of jeans and boots. He modified his gloves himself, with steel knuckle guards. They helped with his grip. The fact that they also helped in a fist fight was only a happy coincidence, or so he always told the cops that felt like frisking him.<br/><br/>Robert had gone up int he world over the last 8 years. He still ran the fights, but they were across the country now, wherever he had friends, and he raked in the betting profits. The profits had been so big that he had started to invest in other illegal businesses, especially when it came to helping his old IRA contacts. He only wore suits now, and only drove around with an escort. America had agreed with him, and he was starting to put on some weight, which didn't quite complement his graying yet still full head of hair. He kept his beard nicely trimmed now too.<br/><br/>Ryan smiled as the man stepped out of the SUV, preceded by a couple of heavies that Ryan was pretty sure that he had fought against in the cage. He stood up from the bike and walked over.<br/><br/>"Hey there, Uncle Robert," Few men called him Bobby these days, and didn't live to regret it.<br/><br/>"Heya, Ryan my lad. Come here give your old uncle a hug."<br/><br/>The two men hugged with a great deal of back slapping before they stepped to an arm's length," How've you been these past weeks?" Asked the older man.<br/><br/>"Walkin' and talkin'," Ryan said with a smile, leaning pack and slipping his hands in his jacket pockets.<br/><br/>"Dropped by your father's gym yesterday. Looks like the recruiting's been picking up. Lots of new faces there."<br/><br/>"Not too many, I hope?"<br/><br/>"The more the merrier."<br/><br/>A short moment of silence passed before Robert reached into his coat pocket and pulled out an envelope," Here's a little something to thank you for taking care of that... witness problem that we had the other week."<br/><br/>Ryan took the envelope, his eyes narrowing. Robert's contacts had run into a little legal trouble involving a state witness under federal protection. Ryan had managed to convince the witness to leave town before any kind of trial dates could be set. "You were supposed to pay this to the club."<br/><br/>"Aye. I paid them their due. This is a little extra."<br/><br/>Ryan looked into the envelope quickly and raised an eyebrow," There's... maybe fifteen grand in here."<br/><br/>"Consider it... well, seed money."<br/><br/>"What's going on, Robert?"<br/><br/>"Some men in expensive SUVs and cheap suits came around asking for you. They didn't flash any badges, but I can smell me a federal a mile away."<br/><br/>Ryan scowled, tucking the envelope in his pocket," Sounds like someone has a very flappy jaw."<br/><br/>"Aye, and it's a maintenance issue that I plan to have corrected presently. Still, until the heat dies down around here, you might want to leave the state for a few months. They'll be looking for the witness and whatever, or whoever happened to her pretty desperately, if my contacts can be believed."<br/><br/>Ryan nodded. It made sense. With great risk and all that, but there was a time and a place to stand up to 'the man', and when it involved Feds, getting clear of Dodge was generally the right thing to do.<br/><br/>"Where do you want me to go?"<br/><br/>"I have a business partner in NYC. He needs some guns delivered to the charter in San Francisco. Not a lot, more like a peace offering sort of deal, to smooth over some bad blood. Since you've made the west coast run before, I thought you were just the man for the job. You'll be paid for the delivery in NYC. He'll have them ready and wrapped in a sleeping bag for you once you get there." The west coast run was the term used for a trip to the west coast using the less traveled roads that had little police traffic that couldn't be paid off. Hence the 'seed money'.<br/><br/>"When do I leave?"<br/><br/>"As soon as possible."<br/><br/>"Okay. I need to pack a bag. I'll leave in an hour."<br/><br/>"Excellent. I'll let your parents know where you've gone and why you've gone. Are ye carrying?"<br/><br/>"Of course."<br/><br/>"Is it clean?"<br/><br/>"Not since last week."<br/><br/>"Give it here then," Ryan pulled his glock from the custom holster and handed over to Robert, who in turn handed it to one of his heavies. Who in turn handed an identical weapon back to Robert," This one's clean. Don't use it if ya don't have to."<br/><br/>Ryan tucked the firearm into the holster and smiled at his uncle," You'd better have all this cleared up before Thanksgiving, or Ma's gonna have your liver for an entree."<br/><br/>For the first time in the meeting, Robert actually looked uncomfortable. He would face any gang on the east coast, the IRA, the blood Queen of England if he had to, but the thought of facing his sister had him paling. And Ryan didn't blame him. Ma could be downright scary when she had a mind to be, and she had almost as many contacts as Robert did himself.<br/><br/>"I'll handle yer ma," Robert grumbled," Ye take care of yerself, ye hear?"<br/><br/>Ryan put his helmet on and pulled his glasses from his pocket," You bet."<br/><br/>Old jokes were the best jokes.