Bleed For The Banished King

"Yab, Farang, yab!" Pi Ketchup yelled. He held up the pads, bracing his toned body for Finan's jabs when they came through. Two stiff jabs in succession. Pi Ketchup was a lanky guy taller than even Finan, and probably much stronger as well. 'Ketchup' was a nickname or play name and 'Pi' was an honorific often used in Thai gyms when referring to a trainer older than oneself. 

Yab, of course, meant jab. 

"Took," Ketchup said. Correct. "Sok, teep, sok." Elbow, pushkick, elbow. Finan breathed in before throwing all three in quick succession. Ketchup clicked his tongue. "Mai mai, Monkey." Slow down. Don't rush. Finan couldn't help but grinning at the sound of his own play name, 'Monkey.' When he began training at this gym a year prior, his fighting style was at odds with the traditional muay thai fighting style. Upon seeing him, Ketchup told Finan that 'You fight like a wild monkey!' Thus it became Finan's title. 

Finan threw the combination again. This time with a slower, more controlled pace. One slashing elbow, followed by an explosive push kick and an 'ax elbow' as Ketchup often dubbed it. The sound of skin on pads was music to Finan's ears. The only music he ever really needed. 

"Better, but not mai suay," Ketchup said. His English was a bit rougher than Nung's but Finan appreciated the effort. Mai suay simply meant, 'not beautiful' or fluid. Finan nodded at the criticism, ready to throw the combo again, but Pi Ketchup glanced to the gym's clock and clicked his tongue: "Pack!" Break. 

Finan tore off his gloves and sat on the ringside edge, sipping down some water. His tanktop was completely soaked with sweat. Nung took a seat next to him, having taken a break with his own trainer as well. 

"Monkey, why you sweat so much eh?" he asked. 

Finan raised an eyebrow. "You sweat just as much as me Nung." 

"Nah nah, Monkey boy you sweat more. You sweat like… what is it? Ah! You sweat like big big waterfall!" Nung extended his arms out wide to accentuate the size of this waterfall. Finan gave him a dead blank stare. 

"Good one Nung." 

"You'll find me funny one day, white boy." 

"I find you smelly every day, Nung." At this, Pi Ketchup, who was lacing up his own gloves, laughed heartily.

"He not wrong Nung. You very stinky man," Ketchup said, waving his hand in front of his nostrils. 

Nung's face flushed. "I don't smell that bad!" He was speaking in Thai now, getting the words out faster. Finan did his best to keep up. 

"You smell," Ketchup began, now also speaking in Thai. "Like duck arse." 

"Oh yeah? Well you…" 

Finan laughed as the two of them went back and forth, trading colorful Thai insults like 'na hia' and, a personal favorite of his, 'ai khohn baa gaam'. Recently, Finan had gotten a rather good grasp of this lilting language, thanks to his constant exposure. Though, because of the insult matches that these two engaged in, he found that at least 50% of his Thai vocabulary consisted of curse words. He could infer the rest. 

Regardless, it was a welcome distraction from the voicemails. Thinking back to that morning's run made him sick with— well he supposed, everything. Fear was the most prominent feeling. And he hated, absolutely hated being afraid. Yet there it was: a constant nagging sort of fear that reared its head any time he had a chance to think. 

"Oi! Monkey! You ready?" Pi Ketchup asked. Finan looked at his trainer, at the open air gym around him, at the other trainers and trainees doing pad and bagwork, at the two people in the ring conducting a light, playful spar behind him. 'Live in the moment, and you won't have to think kid.' Someone had told him that once. He clung to that advice now as he nodded and stood, lacing his gloves up again. 

After all, he had a fight tomorrow. And he wanted to win. 

…

Finan opened the hut door to the jingle of wind chimes. The day was waning into night and stars had begun to peer out over the island. The moon beamed especially bright tonight, half formed and blazing blue. Its light shone through the open windows of the straw hut, giving the interior a ghostly, ethereal visage. 

Finan closed the curtains and clicked on both lights hanging from the ceiling. He could hear the static hum of the TV. A soft snoring from the couch. Rolling his eyes, Finan tossed his gym bag onto the sleeping form. 

She yelped. "Finan! Bloody hell, what you do that for?" 

Rolling his eyes, Finan moved past her and turned the TV off. "You shouldn't be sleeping right now," he chided. 

"'You shouldn't be sleeping right now'" she mocked, imitating his stern voice. She was sitting up now, stretching in her red tank top. "You're my cousin arsehole, not my father." 

He shrugged. "I'm just telling you how it is. Besides, didn't you have a meeting at 8?" 

"No, the big suits canceled on us — apparently they went out drinking together or something."

"Ah, so you thought you could sleep away your depression and loneliness—" 

"I'm neither of those things." 

"Sure," he said, with a sarcastic smirk. "You make anything?" 

"What am I, your housewife?" 

"Nah you're my deadbeat parasite." 

"Sod off tosser," she cursed, standing up and yawning now. Then, with a sigh, she said "I can make eggs. I'm sure you've had a long day." 

He waved her off. "It's fine, I'll cook tonight. I can tell, you've had a rough day." She gave him a thankful nod before heading off to their singular bathroom. For a Cambridge student, Emma was awfully unmannered and foul-mouthed. But, he expected nothing less from his cousin. It was always like this between them. A few months ago, when he had gone completely ghost in Thailand, she was somehow able to track him down. She started rooming with him and paying half the wages for their little hut using her summer internship checks. She was also the one who taught him most of the Thai that he knew. 

After whipping up some packet udon, the two of them started slurping down on it at the table. Emma had her feet kicked upon the couch, leaning back against the table and watching the fight that Finan had put on. Usually, they watched Muay Thai fights, which were on pretty much every night, but tonight was a UFC event —AKA MMA, not Muay Thai. Finan liked pretty much all forms of fighting: wrestling, BJJ, boxing, etc. Mixed martial arts was no exception to this — in fact, it was one of his favorite sports to watch. 

As Bruce Buffer announced the main event (a number one contender fight between a Dagestani and a Spaniard to decide who got a shot at the bantamweight champion) Emma asked "how's your girlfriend by the way?"

"She's not my girlfriend," Finan said through a mouthful of noodles. 

"You mean, she's not your girlfriend yet." 

"Shut it." 

"Did I hit a nerve?"

"I haven't seen her in a bit. Not for a week at least. But, apparently, she's on call for the fight." 

"Ah so she'll be patching your arse up afterwards?" 

"Let's hope not." 

Emma paused to choke down some noodles. Then, she abruptly said "I got a house call today by the way." 

Finan stopped slurping and set his bowl down. "From who?" It was a tossup guess for him. 

"Some kid who was asking after you. Said his name was… Raj?" 

'Damn it how is everyone tracking me down all of the sudden?' he thought. Yet, he knew the answer to an extent. If anyone was really scouring the internet for him, they'd have probably seen his name pop up recently on an article. "Finan O'Brady Stuns Thai Crowds with Sensational TKO Against Veteran Muay Thai Fighter!" He sincerely wanted to find and strangle whoever wrote that article. Not only did they put his name in it, which he did not give consent to, but they also hyped up his name for no reason — the last guy he fought was a legend of the game. Finan knew that if he had fought that vet in his prime, Finan would've lost. The article sounded as if they were smearing the poor man's name. 

"I'll… give him a call later," Finan muttered. If Raj had gone to the lengths of finding his address, then the least Finan could do was call him. "He say anything?" 

"No, not really. He just wanted to talk to you. Sounded a bit peeved to be honest," she said, dabbing her mouth with a napkin. "Why? Do you know him?" 

"Knew his sister and knew him by proxy." 

"Ah, I see. So it's one of 'those' situations?" 

He didn't answer. She shrugged and carried on with her eating. The fight had begun now, and, as expected, the Dagestani had shot a takedown. Both of them were grappling now, but at the very least, it wasn't a boring grappling exchange — both men knew how to scramble well enough. Well, much better than Finan at least. 

"My father left a voicemail for me, by the way," Finan said at the end of the first round. Emma nodded, still looking at the screen. Then, her face scrunched up, as if she had just processed what he said. 

"I'm sorry, what? Uncle Declan?" 

"Yeah. He said he's coming over apparently." 

"When?" 

"Next week." 

"Well… damn." That was all she could say. A silence permeated between them as the UFC crowd roared in the background. "Are you… are you going to move?" 

Sighing, he slid his bowl away, suddenly having lost his appetite. "Nah. I think I'll stay. Face the music." 

"You don't have to." 

"I don't. But… something in me understands that I should. I guess — I don't know anymore, really Emma. I don't know anything anymore," he said, now looking at the TV. The crowd was standing now, absolutely ecstatic as the two fighters stood in the middle of the ring and just struck relentlessly at each other. The scene reminded him of Holloway's fights. "I know that!" Finan said, pointing at the TV. There was a darkness in his eyes now, a shadow. Fear, joy, adrenaline, despair. All welled up. "That's the only thing I know at this point." 

To this day, he didn't exactly remember why he said that. It was the most emotional he got in a while. Thankfully, Emma didn't take it as a slight against her. She just nodded and finished her udon noodles. 

The Dagestani won in the end of course.