Mitch Heart Vs. Lab Rat King

Post by Mitch 'The Broken' Heart on Aug 14, 2020 23:40:25 GMT -5

where the light doesn't reach.

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The quiet was like a warm embrace.

The lack of cacophony wasn’t exactly something Mitch Heart was used to. Detroit was full of sound, both pleasant and not- for every lively street musician or laughter from a group of friends, there were volleys of gunshots and the wail of sirens. At his normal workplace, there was the thump of EDM and hip hop music, the low groans and cackling catcalls of aroused men, and, what seemed all too often, the call of his name to deal with those men who broke the rules. Forgot that what they were seeing was a play, a fantasy, and tried to get too involved.

He supposed his other job was a fantasy too, of sorts. Larger than life gladiators in a Colosseum, with canvas in lieu of sand and a three count in lieu of an execution at the end. That had its share of sounds too- cheers, grunts, growls of anger and determination, cries of pain. The people who saw them on tv, or on the internet, or even in person- they could detach themselves from the fact what they were seeing was real, think of the braggadocious personalities before them as human cartoons, or comic book heroes and villains come to life. Not think of them as real people with real lives, hopes, dreams, and problems.

Mitch didn’t have to think about that now, though. Now, there was the quiet. The late afternoon sun shone through the windows of the living room-slash-dining room, the electric fan whirred in the background. The sound, near imperceptible, of wax rubbing against paper as Pen sat on the floor drawing pictures, the tiny, tinny sound of wires of various thicknesses being pulled taut with the turn of tarnished metal tuning keys.

The guitar had been a lucky find- someone had thrown it out. It was leaning against a trash can on a curb along with all sorts of other objects- someone cleaning house, or maybe someone going through a breakup and expunging unpleasant reminders. Whatever the reason, there it was- old and hardly pristine, but from the looks of it, unbroken and functional. While he usually had too much pride to nab things off of curbs, even if it might be useful, something about it just seemed so… pathetic. Like an abandoned dog, once well loved but then tossed aside at the whim of a capricious master. So he’d taken it in, and over time and by ear, he’d been teaching himself to play it. He could do a few songs now, maybe not perfect, but well enough.

Pen looked up from her coloring. Her straight, sandy hair fell to her shoulders, and her eyes- not the sharp blue of her brother’s but a rather pretty shade of hazel- shined in the sunlight, a smile beaming across her face. The picture was of several emperor penguins, huddled together with eggs tucked on top of their feet, warmed by their chubby lower bodies. It was pretty good.

“Are you gonna play something?”

“Nope. Just tuning the strings.”

Mitch’s grin was crooked, his eyes carrying a twinkle that no one at either of his workplaces ever saw. Pen, for her part, pouted, arms folding.

“That’s not fair, you can’t just sit on the couch with your guitar an’ not play it. That’s a fuckin’ tease.”

“Hey! Language, little girl. You want to put a quarter in the swear jar?”

The child huffed, looking even more sulky.

“No. Sorry. ‘S still not fair though.”

“Mmm, well, life’s not fair sometimes. Something you gotta learn to live with.”

“Is that how come you were beating up the rat guy so bad?”

Mitch froze, his body tensing a bit, teeth worrying a bit at his lower lip. He could feel his heart thumping hard in his chest, and he honestly couldn’t tell if it was guilt at being caught engaging in such violence by someone who thought the world of him, or residual adrenaline just at the thought of turning up the voltage even higher come the cage match.

Column A, Column B.

“You… saw that, huh?”

“Yuh-huh. Mitch, I thought you were gonna get hurt. Then I thought you were gonna hurt the rat guy even worse. And then you both fell…”

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Existence was a hum. Everything was flowing together- motion, bustle, voices. He rose, only to be pushed gently but firmly down again by some entity that spoke, to Mitch’s ears, like Charlie Brown’s teacher. He was somewhat aware of a huge shape near him, thrashing, being practically swarmed. A flare went off in the back of his head and he moved toward it, some silly line of thought- if he won’t stay down i’ll make him stay down- rushed through his brain like a stream of lava only for everything to be overtaken by a wave of dizziness.

Slowly but surely, he was beginning to become aware of how much pain he was in. Every part of him felt broken, on fire, or worse. The shapes around him were likely medical staff checking if he needed bandages, stitches, and extra strength Tylenol or if he needed to go to the hospital. Hopefully the former. He didn’t want to be stuck here any longer than he had to and the idea of the bill made a dull but unpleasant sense of panic rub against the back of his brain.

He took a few deep breaths. Staring upwards, he could almost see himself. See himself fighting the rat far above. Ripping and tearing at each other, consumed, and even as they flung themselves off to land here, now, in pain and muddled awareness, one thing fixed itself in Mitch’s mind as certain.

He’d never felt so alive.

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“It was… it was kind of a heat of the moment thing. I don’t think either of us planned on falling like that. It happens sometimes when you’re in a fight, kiddo. You don’t think about where it might end up, and you have to rely on instinct as well as your wits to make your moves.”

“Okay. It was still scary, though.”

She gave Mitch such a look of innocent concern then that it almost broke his heart. It almost made him pick up his phone and call the CW brass, tell him that he wasn’t going to be able to make the pay-per-view. It almost made him stay home with her instead, even if he’d miss out on his first major match on a major show paycheck.

Almost.

Instead, he moved towards her, giving her an affectionate tap on the nose.

“I’m sorry I scared you. I know I’m kind of a rough and tumble dude, and sometimes I’ll wind up in situations where I’ll have to do things or go through things you probably won’t like. But I’ll never do anything to frighten you on purpose. Promise.”

Pen giggled, her worry forgotten as childhood worries sometimes are. For his part, Mitch leaned back into the old couch, closing his eyes for a moment before picking up the guitar again.. His fingers found the strings, and after a few test chords, he found what he was looking for and started playing in earnest- a surprisingly sweet, earnest little melody, joined soon by a voice that was a bit rough, perhaps, but just as tender.

“If you were my boat in the deep blue sea, I’d probably sink you down, I know I shoulda thanked you for carrying me, but for you, I would happily drown…”

Pen’s sulk was all but forgotten, the girl scooting herself to the other side of the coffee table, looking up at her brother with her expression alight, listening to him play, bobbing a little.He paused singing, still keeping the tune going.

“What, too sappy, you think?”

“Nuh-uh, keep going.”

Finding his place again, he continued, looking down at her.

“All along your way, the darkest night, the longest day, you know what to say to make me laugh, and nothing you could do could make me turn my back on you, if you’re lookin’ for a fight, I’m your man… and when you need a friend, you got my hand, you got my hand…”

He looked up, his strumming growing a little unsure, like he was lost. Grumbling a bit, he stopped.

“Crud, I forget the rest. I’ll try to remember it all next time I play it. Sorry, kiddo.”

“That’s okay. That was really pretty.”

Clambering up onto the couch, Pen sat on the opposite end, looking across at him.

“You’re going to Baltimore again soon, right? Can you bring me back a souvenir this time? Nothin’ big- maybe you could ask Adrienne to sign something for me pretty please?- but I like when you bring me back surprises cus I miss you a lot when you’re gone.”

“Sure.”

Setting the guitar aside, Mitch reached over and ruffled his sister’s hair, but as he pulled back, his expression darkened somewhat, his mouth downturning into a grim frown.

“Pen? I’d like it if you didn’t watch my match this time. You can watch the rest of the show, but please. Promise me that you’ll go do something else during my match and watch the rest after. I don’t think you ought to see what’ll happen.”

“What? But that’s no fair! I mean I really like Silvio and I really REALLY like Adrienne, but I love you and I wanna see you fight bad guys... the rat guy’s a bad guy, right?”

“I know. And… that part’s kind of complicated. But it’s different this time. Me and King, we don’t like each other much, and it could get really bad. REALLY bad. Trust me, you’re not gonna want to see this. Just, please, for me? Promise you won’t watch it?”

“Okay. I won’t watch your match.”

“Thanks. Maybe I’ll let you watch it later depending how it goes, but… thanks for humoring me, kiddo.”

Leaning forward, he kissed his sister on the forehead. His eyes were shut, so he didn’t see the girl’s fingers crossed impishly behind her back. Sighing, he sat back upright, looking up at the ceiling.

“Tell you what, though. Just in case I don’t answer when you call or text me, I’m gonna give you a number. Call this person if you get scared or worried. He can tell you what’s going on, he’s a friend.”

Grabbing a piece of Pen’s doodle paper that was free of artwork, Mitch glanced at his phone before scratching down a number, folding the paper in fourths, and handing it to Pen. As he did so, he couldn’t help but chuckle to himself, wondering what Silvio Leon would think if he knew he’d been essentially made an emergency contact.

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“So here we are. I finally get you alone.”

There were lights and bustle in the background. Beacon Park was holding its Night Market, and illuminated stalls were stocked with treats and crafts and all manner of unique things. The skyscrapers of downtown Detroit stood tall and alight, a monument to a city rising from the ashes like a phoenix, a once fallen and derelict place back on the road to recovery- well, if you had enough money to participate, anyway. Mitch Heart, however, was sitting on a large rock a ways away from the bustle, almost as if he didn’t fit- or refused to fit- in the lively cacophony of society. Looking away, face half hidden by the hood of his sleeveless sweatshirt, he smoked in silence for a time, faintly illuminated by the glowing end of the Lucky Strike before he extinguished it against the rock, flicking the butt into the grass. Only then did he flip his hood back, acknowledging the camera. His face was marked with several bruises.

“I don’t know what was going on with you and Leon. You seemed different around him. I hope we won’t have to worry about him interrupting, but I doubt that we will. I think you want this as much as I do. You want to get your hands on me. Tear me apart and put me through hell. Rip me to shreds for hurting you, and to be honest? That’s fair play. If I were you I’d want to get me too, especially after that little tumble into the… heh. Rat’s nest of wires and shit.”

Mitch gave a shrug, tugging at his fingers idly, the knuckles giving subtle cracks from time to time.

“And now you want me in a cage. Your grounds. Where a rat belongs, as you say. Well, that’s just fine. You have a point, after all- animals like you and me deserve to be relegated to a habitat of iron and steel, free to tear each other apart for the sake of our own bloodlust and for the entertainment of the masses. So sure. If that’s what Ratty wants, that’s what Ratty gets.”

Leaning forward, Mitch’s glass-shard-sharp blue eyes steeled, his mouth drawing into a thin line.

“See, I think you picked this stip for a reason. You want to intimidate me. Makes sense, you’re an intimidating kind of guy. Everybody here seems to run for the hills whenever you’re around. Your presence leaves people shaking in their boots, nervous at the prospect of facing you, making them suddenly remember they had other plans elsewhere. I think, my rodent friend, that you’ve had all your matches at least partially won before the bell even rang.”

Reaching up with two fingers, he tapped at his temple, his expression changing into a somewhat wry one.

“You already had the advantage of your opponent being in fear of you, your size, your strength, your unpredictability. You scream and raise hell and spout things that most people probably interperet as fucking nonsense because they aren’t using their goddamn brains, and voila, you step into the ropes with an instant advantage. It’s actually a pretty smart strategy, because I think underneath it all you’re a pretty smart dude. You know exactly what you’re doing, and it works beautifully because nobody thinks you do. Unfortunately, I’d like to introduce you to a hitch in the plan.”

He jerked a thumb back at himself, a little grin briefly tugging at the corner of his lips.

“Me. See, I’m not afraid of you. At all. And sure, any puffed up braggart can march around saying he’s not afraid of anything and then find himself wishing he’d worn his brown pants when confronted with something frightening, but I think I’ve proven that what I say isn’t lip service.”

The brawler snickered, his eyes lighting up a bit. He could practically visualize his blows going for vital areas, fingers digging into eyeballs. Standing toe to toe with a man that some thought was a literal monster and showing some monstrousness of his own.

“Yeah. Not to beat my own drum too much, but I brought it to you. Met all your shots with shots of my own. Found your weaknesses- don’t feel bad, big fella, everyone’s got ‘em- and exploited them. But, you might ask yourself, why? Why out of everyone here is this scrappy… what was it Knox called me? Oh yeah. Why isn’t this scrappy murder hobo afraid of you? Well, Rat man, I’ll show you.”

Picking up the phone he’d mounted a ways away as a camera, he panned over the city. The lights first, then off. The buildings in the dark.

“You see where all the neon and warm glow don’t touch? That’s the rubble left behind when a phoenix starts rising. See, for the longest time, Detroit was a joke. There was nothing here but blight and broken dreams, the only reason to come into town was if you felt like getting shot or staring at vacant buildings. Nowadays, though, things are different. New mayor’s got lots of big money pouring in. Everybody’s talking about how Detroit’s recovery is nothing short of a miracle, but there’s a catch. See, miracles? They don’t come cheap.”

He held the phone out, catching his profile staring out at the city. He bitterly thought of all the wealthy fucks in their high rise penthouses, the nuclear families with 2.5 children cozy in their revitalized neighborhoods. Great for them. They didn’t think about what they didn’t even bother to pay attention to, save for ‘tut-tuts’ at the evening news.

“To those of us barely making enough scratch to get by, nothing might’s well have changed. You still have to fight and claw for every inch, every dime. There’s people out there who’ll take everything you have if you let them, and you might have to take what’s someone else’s if you want to survive. You do things you ain’t proud of in the hopes that the next guy to come along might have the luxury of making more moral choices than you.”

Sighing, Mitch set the phone back into place and sat back down, his fingers twining and untwining from each other. His gaze drifted to the side,seemingly far away and thoughtful before he snapped back to the here and now, swivelling back to the camera straight on.

“That’s the monster I live with, the one that eats everyone in its path alive. That’s what I fight every day of my life, and it’s bigger, nastier, and hungrier than you could ever be in your wildest dreams.”

He crouched in close, gaze serious and intense. He looked fairly ravenous himself.

“Next to that, King? How could I be afraid of you? Your threats mean nothing to me- you’re saying you want to break what’s broken already. You want to put me in a horror show when I’m the motherfucker with the chainsaw. You can do what you want to me because whatever you do? I’ll give it back tenfold. I mean, look at this!”

Slipping his sleeveless hoodie off and dropping it aside, Mitch spread his arms out, his torso a mess of bandages and electrical burns, new additions to a canvas of souvenirs from a multitude of previous fights on canvas, ice, and concrete alike.

“This is what you did to me, King, and I’m betting you don’t look a hell of a lot better. And that? That was just for starters. You and me, we’re going to spill everything in this monstrosity that you asked for. The canvas will be so soaked with what we leave behind that every match after ours is going to be a bloodbath without anyone getting so much as a cut. But hey. Maybe, after this… just maybe, for once in your life, you’ll finally be satisfied.”

That serious look on Mitch’s face gave way to an incredibly sadistic smile, the lights from the market glinting wildly in his eyes.

“And maybe, just maybe, so will I.”

Black.

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