Chapter 1
~ June 2012 ~
I
fight because I have no other choice. I fight because it’s in my blood.
Given Name: Kelly James Black
Nickname: “The Dude”
Born: Madison, Wisconsin
Age: 24
Height: 6’1”
Weight: 205 lbs
Weight Class: Light Heavyweight
Record: 12-0-0
This is what my bio
says in chalk on the blackboard in front of me. The chain-link fencing breaks
up some of the words, but I know what it says. I know who I am. I’m “The Dude,”
a fighter with a perfect record in an underground fight club run by the finest
fraternity at Wisconsin’s most heralded university. In fact, right now I’m in the
cement-block basement of a frat house only eight blocks away from the state
capitol building. Surrounding me is an open-top cage engineered by some of the
most brilliant student minds at UW-Madison, scholars who spend their Tuesday
nights waving Jacksons and Grants sucked out of the open-mouth of the ATM just
two streets over. Money comes straight out of their trust funds right into my tape-wrapped
hands.
By day, I’m a research
scientist at a biotech company who goes by the name Kelly Black. My parents
bestowed their fourth and final son with a name reserved for the daughter they
never had. Inevitably, people anticipate I’m a girl, until they see me of
course. Rock hard abs, chiseled jawline, cobalt eyes, bad-ass tattoos, and nine
percent body fat. Like I said, there’s no mistake when people see me.
And finally, I’m a
Sagittarius with one last thing missing from that bio you might be interested
in knowing. Relationship Status: Train wreck.
I’m not particularly
proud of the last fact. It was never my intention to have a track record with
women that would make the infamous robed Hugh Hefner proud, but in the last six
years I have amassed an embarrassing list of women I no longer have the
privilege of calling, mentioning, or remembering. It’s not that I sleep with
every single female that lays eyes on me; it’s just that I have a strong
propensity to serial date and an even tougher inability to commit. Combined
with my looks, you have a classic Casanova. Despite what you may think, I don’t
want to be an eighty-something-year-old creep trolling around with silicon-enhanced
platinum blondes a quarter of my age.
I never meant for my
life to turn out the way it is. I don’t plan to take girls home, and I never
plan to ditch them the next day. It just happens. My college days were a mixed
bag of science labs, beer, beakers, and girls. My post-college days haven’t
been much better, although I’ve replaced some of my bar time with time at a
boxing gym. It’s just the last part I struggle with: girls.
Nor am I particularly
proud of getting into a wire cage to smash in some guy’s face on a Tuesday
night for a couple hundred bucks. Becoming a fighter wasn’t a life-long dream of mine. But the fight courses through my veins like oxygen to lungs. It’s an
addiction. My therapist, Dr. Denise, tells me that physical exertion is
therapeutic as long as it’s in a safe, controlled environment. An underground
ring probably isn’t the safest choice, but it’s a better choice than the ones
I’ve made in the past, which include a hole-in-the-wall bar called The Silver
Dollar, a back alley off Doty Street, and the Governor’s Club Suite at the
Concourse Hotel. So here I am.
Dr.
Denise also tells me I need to get the whole Casanova thing under wraps.
She attributes my hamartia to a treatable disorder she’s diagnosed as
narcissism. Apparently, I’m plagued with low self-esteem with an
exaggerated sense of self-worth. Sounds like a paradox to me. I prefer to
self-diagnosis, like 47% of adults with the help of WebMD, and attribute my
actions to an extraordinarily high level of testosterone. Despite our
varying diagnoses, I see Dr. Denise anyway because her legs are sexy as
hell, and she occasionally has a good piece of advice. Like this one. It
keeps me out of prison. I’ve never
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