“Fighting?  Yeah right, who the fuck are you?”<br/><br/>A laugh filled completely with mirth and disbelief left his lips.  The shoes on the table shifted, showing their worn nature from a life of walking the streets of New Orleans.  Flashy enough for any cheap strip club they were not the tailored set that one might expect from a manager.  At the hem of his pants could be seen the bare edges of trousers probably bought at the Wal-Mart or a thrift store.  That he wore slacks with a muscle shirt showed an odd collection of taste.<br/><br/>“This ain’t some little martial arts dance and show.  This is New Orleans, people fight for keeps here man.  Big stakes, big money, big rep up for grabs here.  Shit, I thought Cole gave you the jist here man.  People here don’t  wanna watch some Jackie Chan shit, they want to get their business done on the streets.  Nah dawg.  For you its outside the city until you get a rep, until you get your hands dirty and that pretty face smudged.”<br/><br/>Without even a pause or flinch, the man reached over with his smoking hand to steal a fry from Michael.  “We need to get you a sponsor for the real fights.  Which means somebody gotta wan’ put their name on the line for you.  Make sure you ain’t cops ya know?  Make sure you’re legit.”<br/>