Fight Night — Adelaide's Underbelly
Three days came fast—too fast.
It felt like just yesterday Wang had been standing in the gym, wiping blood from his mouth and promising himself he'd be ready. Now he was in the passenger seat of Rocky's rusted-out four-wheel drive, bouncing through streets that looked like they'd been left to rot after a war no one remembered winning.
This part of Adelaide made the rest of the ruined city look like a tourist trap. Buildings slouched against each other, covered in graffiti and smoke stains. Trash fires burned in oil drums on street corners. Hookers leaned into windows of stopped cars while others lit up in alleyways. A man with no shirt and a tattoo of a dick on his face walked a pit bull wearing a spike collar made from actual nails.
Rocky didn't say much. Just drove with the window cracked, puffing a fat cigar, as if the chaos outside was background noise. To him, it probably was.
They stopped in front of a squat brick building that used to be a pub—at least that's what the torn sign hanging over the door claimed. Half the windows were boarded up, and the ones that weren't were either cracked or covered in metal bars. A flickering neon light buzzed overhead: "DINGO DEN- LIVE FIGHTS – BET INSIDE".
Wang stepped out, adjusted his hoodie, and tried not to show the nerves climbing up his throat.
"Stick close," Rocky grunted, knocking ash off the end of his cigar. "Shit gets wild in here."
Inside, it was worse.
The pub was dim, thick with smoke, and alive. The stench hit Wang like a punch: sweat, booze, weed, piss. The place was packed shoulder to shoulder with a crowd of convicts, ex-military psychos, drunk locals, and mercs off-duty. Every table was covered in empty bottles, scattered poker chips, and lines of coke being racked by guys who looked like they'd shoot you for sneezing.
A makeshift ring sat in the center of the room—ropes tied together with duct tape, padding barely holding onto the frame. A cage light hung above it, swinging from a crooked beam. The crowd surrounded the ring, screaming over each other as a pair of fighters slugged it out bare-knuckle-style, blood splattering the mat with every hit.
"Fifty on the tall bastard!"
"He's gonna snap his fuckin' jaw, I swear!"
"Who's got pills?! I'll bet pills!"
Wang tried to keep his breathing calm. His heartbeat wasn't having it.
Rocky elbowed through the chaos like a bulldozer, leading Wang through a haze of shouting and slurred bets. They reached a thick steel door near the back of the bar, guarded by a bald brute in a leather vest with "Ratskulls" tattooed across his neck.
Rocky gave the guy a nod and produced a small box from under his jacket.
The guard eyed it, then stepped aside.
Wang followed them inside.
The back room looked like a fucked-up mafia lounge.
Dim red lights cast everything in a sickly glow. The floor was stained carpet, the kind that had seen too many spilled drinks and not enough cleaning. Cigars burned in ashtrays made from skull-shaped ceramic. Empty bottles of vodka and gin littered the shelves beside loaded pistols and stacks of rolled-up currency.
In the center of the room, lounging on a red leather couch that looked stolen from a brothel, was a mountain of a man in a pinstripe suit—buttoned open at the belly. He was fat. Not just chubby—fat. Like, fold-on-fold, sweating-through-his-shirt fat. Greasy hair slicked back with way too much oil, gold rings glinting on every finger.
On each side of him, draped like accessories, were two girls in skimpy black dresses. One was blonde, fake tits practically spilling out, with smoky eyeliner and a hollow expression that screamed I checked out years ago. The other was dark-haired, Asian, with glittering lips and long legs crossed like a magazine model, eyes dull from either boredom or sedatives.
They both clung to the man like vultures on a carcass.
The fat man looked up, chewing a toothpick between his lips.
"Well, well, well," he said, voice thick like gravy. "Rocky motherfuckin' Rook. What brings your wrinkled ass to my little coliseum?"
Rocky stepped forward without hesitation. "Evenin', Big Chungus."
Wang almost choked. Big… fucking… Chungus?
The fat man spread his arms wide. "Come to bless me with another one of your sweet meatheads?"
Rocky reached into his coat and pulled out the small box. "Got a name for you. New blood. Good chin. Fast hands. Name's Jackie Chang."
Chungus raised an eyebrow, glanced lazily at Wang, then looked back. "Cute. What's the catch?"
Rocky flipped open the box and revealed a bottle of limited-edition Hennessy XO, nestled in black velvet like a sacred relic.
Chungus let out a low whistle. "That's the good shit."
"Yours," Rocky said. "No strings. Whether he wins or gets turned into hamburger meat."
Chungus snorted, pulled the toothpick out of his mouth, and reached for the bottle with his meaty paw.
"Generous," he said. "You softenin' up in your old age?"
Rocky grinned. "I just like a fair shot."
Chungus turned the bottle over in his hand, examining the label like it was a diamond.
Then he extended his other hand and clasped Rocky's in a slow, heavy shake. "You got a deal."
The girls clapped weakly, almost on autopilot.
"Match starts in an hour," Chungus said, sinking back into his seat. "Tell your boy to say his prayers. Or drink something strong."
Rocky turned, gestured for Wang to follow.
As they walked out, Wang leaned in and muttered, "Big Chungus?"
Rocky didn't even smile. "Don't laugh. He had five people shot last year for calling him that without the 'Big.'"
Wang swallowed hard and glanced back at the room. Chungus had already uncorked the Henny and was pouring it straight into a girl's cleavage before drinking it off her chest.
This wasn't just a fight.
It was a fuckin' circus.
And he was about to step into the ring.
Q: Have you ever done boxing or any sort of sports fighting before?