Snow: Chapter 20

The bell rings. Right as Snow turns away, the boxer in the gold shorts throws a wild punch at his face, hitting Snow in the left temple. Snow stumbles, landing on one knee, obviously dazed. He didn’t have his gloves up. He wasn’t prepared for the hit at all.

I don’t know much about boxing, but I’m pretty sure that’s not allowed.

Without meaning to, I start booing along with the rest of the crowd.

Some people throw empty plastic beer cups toward the ring, others stamp the metal risers of the bleachers, chanting “FOUL! FOUL! FOUL!”

The ref is conversing with a couple other men at the side of the ring.

Snow has gotten to his feet again, bouncing on his toes, shaking out his arms, trying to recover from the hit in case he has to fight again.

Luckily, the ref makes a motion with his arms, and the MC yells into the microphone, “Big Stacks is disqualified for a late hit!”

Now the crowd cheers. I jump and whoop along with everyone else.

Snow is going to the final round of the tournament.

The only question is who he’ll be fighting?

Because neither Snow nor Big Stacks is injured badly enough to come see me, I’m free to watch the second match. However, I don’t like the look of it at all.

First, they call out one of Stepanov’s enforcers—the tattooed brute who came to dinner with us. The man they call the Beast.

As he lumbers out of the locker room, the crowd beats their fists against their legs, grunting like gorillas. It’s an ugly sound.

The Beast jogs out in a plain gray sweatshirt and shorts, his hair freshly buzzed. There’s no need for him to wear a gold cape like Big Stacks, because his body speaks for itself. He strips off the sweatshirt, revealing size and bulk that makes even Snow look human by comparison.

Every inch of him is covered in tattoos, from his shaved scalp all the way down his meaty back, disappearing into his shorts, and then running down the length of his legs.

These tattoos aren’t images like Snow’s—or at least, most aren’t. They’re patterns and lines in heavy black ink, creating a jarring, almost mesmerizing effect on the vast canvas of his skin.

If the Beast was just a monster of muscle, I wouldn’t be frightened. But his eyes are sharp as he looks around the ring, surveying the canvas, the ropes, and the crowd beyond. I think he might be clever, too. Which is much more dangerous.

Since I haven’t been following the bracket closely, I don’t know who he’ll be paired up against.

I’m shocked when I see one of the smallest fighters emerging from the locker room.

He’s the one they call The Rowdy Rabbi. Only the same height as myself, lean, ropey with muscle, but with none of the mass of the Beast. He has dark curly hair, and a serious, determined gaze.

He walks toward the ring with every appearance of confidence.

I, on the other hand, am shocked and horrified.

The Rabbi slips under the ropes, taking his position across from the Beast. The difference in their size is all the more apparent as they face each other.

It’s ridiculous. It can’t be allowed.

I keep waiting for someone to object, but the crowd is utterly silent. It’s the quietest I’ve ever heard them. You could hear a cough or a shuffle, if anyone were making even those small sounds.

Even the ref looks uncomfortable as he gives the boxers their instructions.

The Rabbi raises his gloves, his mouth a thin line of determination.

The Beast has no expression at all. His eyes have gone blank, like a shark about to attack.

The bell sounds and the Beast attacks.

The Rabbi tries to duck and evade. I can see that he’s fast, probably the quickest fighter I’ve seen yet. But there’s no way to avoid the reach of the Beast. His arms are too long, he takes up too much of the ring. There’s not enough space for the Rabbi to run.

The Beast hits him two, three, four times.

These are just jabs, not the full-power punches I’ve seen these boxers unleash. But the Rabbi is already bleeding from the nose and lip.

He manages to avoid the next rush. He even hits the Beast twice in the ribs. Unfortunately, the Rabbi’s shots seem to have no effect on the Beast. Or if they do, it’s only to annoy him.

The Beast hits the Rabbi again, hard enough that the Rabbi lands on his bottom and goes skidding backward on the canvas. He jumps up, but he’s slower now, blood running from his split lip down the front of his bare chest.

The Beast advances, and the Rabbi only barely manages to keep out of his grip. The Beast backs him up against the ropes, raining a hail of blows against the Rabbi’s arms, which form a weakening barricade in front of his head.

The Beast draws back his fist again. He’s stopped by the bell signaling the end of the round.

The Rabbi stumbles back to his corner, dazed. The Beast walks slowly and steadily, not injured in the slightest.

I can hear the murmuring of the crowd. While some are still cheering the Beast on, not everyone likes the mismatched nature of the fight.

I see the Rabbi’s coach arguing with him. I’m guessing he wants to end the fight. The Rabbi keeps shaking his head, stubbornly.

The moments of reprieve pass by too quickly. The Rabbi has to face off against the Beast again.

I don’t want to watch anymore. I should go back inside the infirmary and close the door. I’ll see the Rabbi soon enough, when they bring him to me to be stitched up.

Yet I’m frozen in place, watching this awful spectacle unfold.

The Beast is relentless, hitting the Rabbi again and again and again. I put my hands up over my eyes, peeking between the cracks in my fingers. I don’t want to watch, but I can’t look away.

Some people in the crowd are shouting to end the fight, but others are still cheering, yelling, “Finish him off!”

The Rabbi is up against the ropes. He’s dropping his hands, not even protecting himself anymore.

Once his gloves drop, the Beast pulls back his fist and unleashes a punch doubly as powerful as any that came before. It’s a blow intended to finish the match completely.

His fist plows into the Rabbi’s left eye. The Rabbi’s head snaps back and twists around. With his body trapped against the ropes, his shoulders can’t turn with his neck. His eyes roll back and his head lolls.

The Beast steps away, letting the Rabbi’s body fall flat on the canvas. The Rabbi’s head strikes the mat, with no responding jerk of his body.

There’s a stillness to his form that goes beyond unconsciousness.

I know what I’m seeing, but I don’t want to believe it.

Half the crowd is still cheering and chanting the Beast’s name.

I hate them for it.

The Beast holds his arms up above his head, turning slowly in a circle to accept their adulation.

I’m running toward the ring.

So are several other people.

The Rabbi’s trainer gets there first. He turns the Rabbi over, which makes the Rabbi’s head flop to the side once more.

A girl is climbing up into the ring as well. She’s small and slim like the Rabbi, but with a round little belly beneath her dress. It’s hard for her to climb up on the platform. Doggedly she hauls herself up, so she can run to Rabbi with no care for the blood staining the skirt of her dress. She’s crying and yelling, “Adam! Adam!”

I’m the last to arrive.

I kneel beside the Rabbi. I place my index and middle finger against the side of his neck, though I already know what I’ll find. His wide-open eyes make plain what I already guessed.

The Rabbi is dead.

The Beast broke his neck.