"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN!"

  The warehouse rafters shake with the crowd's roar, hundreds of bodies packed tight against the chain-link octagon. The air smells like cheap beer, sweat, and the metallic tang of blood from the previous fight.

  "IN THIS CORNER, WEIGHING IN AT THREE HUNDRED AND FIFTY POUNDS, THE MOUNTAIN OF CAMDEN, THE CONCRETE CRUSHER... SLEDGEHAMMER!"

  A hulking figure with skin like polished obsidian raises his arms. His fists are wrapped in tape stained red from previous bouts, and he has the dead-eyed stare of someone who enjoys hurting people. The crowd boos and cheers in equal measure.

  "AND IN THIS CORNER..."

  The announcer - Jimmy "Silver Tongue" Petersen - pauses for dramatic effect, his voice dropping an octave.

  "THE INVENTOR OF THE PHRASE 'I DON'T NEED TO USE MY POWERS TO BEAT YOUR ASS,' THE DINO-MAN OF TRENTON... REX RAAAAAMPAGE!"

  That's my cue. I step through the gate, bare-chested except for hand wraps and gym shorts. No entrance music, no pyrotechnics, just me looking like a regular guy about to get murdered by a human mountain. The crowd goes absolutely wild.

  This is the gimmick, and it works every time. Everyone here knows what I can do. They've seen the internet videos, the shaky camera footage of a Tyrannosaurus rex tearing through an abandoned lot in Trenton. They know I could transform and end this fight in seconds.

  But where's the fun in that?

  "REMEMBER FOLKS, STANDARD RULES APPLY! NO WEAPONS, NO KILLING, NO COPS, AND TONIGHT ONLY - NO POWERS! YOU WANT TO SEE AN EXHIBITION? COME BACK NEXT THURSDAY!"

  Jimmy is playing it up, but the crowd is already on the edge of their seats. They don't come to see a dinosaur squash a man. They come to see if a man can beat the guy who turns into a dinosaur.

  Sledgehammer circles me, bouncing on the balls of his feet with surprising agility for someone his size. The smart money's on him tonight. I'm giving away nearly a hundred pounds, and word is he was state wrestling champion before developing his density manipulation powers.

  "You sure about this, little man?" he growls, loud enough for the front rows to hear. "Not too late to grow some teeth."

  I roll my shoulders, cracking my neck. "Wouldn't be sporting."

  The bell rings, and he charges immediately, looking to end it fast. Most big guys do. They think their size is enough, that technique is for smaller fighters. I sidestep, letting him crash into the fence before spinning back with a leg kick that connects with his thigh. Not much damage, but it establishes distance.

  The crowd's shouting advice, insults, betting odds. I tune it out, focusing on Sledgehammer's movement patterns. He favors his right, telegraphs his punches by dropping his shoulder. Typical power puncher.

  He comes in again, this time more measured. Jab-cross combination that I slip, but his follow-up hook catches me on the shoulder. Even partially blocked, it's like being hit with a baseball bat. I stagger back, and he presses forward, looking for the finish.

  I let him back me against the fence, appearing desperate. It's what he expects, what they all expect. The moment he commits to a big right hand, I duck under and circle out, leaving him punching chain link.

  "RAMPAGE SHOWING SOME FANCY FOOTWORK TONIGHT, FOLKS!" Jimmy shouts into the mic. I've never met a man not named Billy Mays who could speak in caps lock like that. It's really something.

  Sledgehammer turns, frustration creasing his brow. "Stand and fight, bitch!"

  I do.

  The next exchange is brutal. He lands a jab that splits my eyebrow, blood immediately trickling into my eye. I counter with a right straight to his sternum, feeling the impact shoot up my arm. He doesn't even flinch.

  For two minutes we trade, him landing the heavier shots, me picking my moments. By the end of the first round, my ribs are screaming, and I've got a cut above my eye that's going to need stitches. But I'm still standing, and that's all that matters.

  "You're losing," my cornerman, Diego, says flatly while dabbing at my cut. "He's too strong."

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  "I've got him figured out," I reply, spitting blood into a bucket.

  "He's gonna break your face if you don't transform."

  "Then I better not let him hit me again."

  The bell rings for round two. Sledgehammer looks fresh, confident. He should be – he's winning. I'm breathing hard, blood still seeping from my eyebrow. The crowd's energy has shifted, no longer expecting an upset. They're settling in to watch a beating.

  That's when I change the tempo.

  Instead of circling away, I step into the pocket, directly into his range. He looks surprised for a split second before launching a haymaker that would separate most men's heads from their shoulders.

  But I've been watching. Learning. That right hand drops just a fraction before he throws it.

  I slip inside, deliver three sharp hooks to his ribs, and pivot away before he can counter. For a big man, he's got surprisingly vulnerable ribs.

  "OOOOH! RAMPAGE FINDING A HOME FOR THOSE BODY SHOTS!"

  Sledgehammer's breathing changes, just slightly. I've hurt him. Not much, but enough. He comes forward more cautiously now, respect in his eyes.

  For the next three minutes, we play a dangerous game. He's still landing, still doing damage, but I'm connecting too - always to the body, always to those same ribs. By the end of round two, there's a purple bruise spreading across his right side.

  "You're still losing," Diego says, "but at least you're making it interesting."

  "Watch his left leg in round three," I say, gulping water. "He's not planting as firmly."

  "That's because you're about to break his fucking ribs, buddy."

  "That's the idea."

  "You gonna dino up?"

  "Pffeh," I spit. There's a little blood in it. Cool.

  Round three starts with a different energy. The crowd senses something shifting. Sledgehammer is still the bigger man, still the favorite, but there's an uncertainty now. I've lasted longer than his last three opponents combined. This is the kind of guy trying to get knockouts in round one. I don't think he's used to a survivor.

  He rushes me immediately, looking to end it, aware that something's slipping away. I weather the storm, covering up, taking shots on my forearms and shoulders, waiting for my moment.

  It comes a minute in. He throws a wild right hook, overcommitting. I duck under and drive my shoulder into those damaged ribs. He grunts in pain, momentarily stunned. I follow with a flurry to the body, each punch landing on the same purple bruise.

  Sledgehammer backs up for the first time in the fight. The crowd erupts.

  "RAMPAGE HAS HIM HURT, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN! THE MOUNTAIN IS CRUMBLING!"

  It's a critical moment. In his eyes, I see the temptation - the urge to use his powers, to make his skin impenetrable, to pussy out rather than lose. I've seen it before with other fighters. The desperation when they realize they might lose to a "normal" me. Everyone expects to lose to a Tyrannosaur. Nobody expects to lose to some guy.

  I raise my fists, bloody and swollen. "Come on, big man. Just you and me. No tricks."

  Something passes between us - a moment of understanding, fighter to fighter. He nods, almost imperceptibly, and raises his hands.

  We meet in the center of the warehouse for the final minute, trading shots like heavyweights in the 15th round. He catches me with an uppercut that nearly puts my lights out. I respond with a hook to the liver that makes him double over.

  With thirty seconds left, I know it's now or never. I feint a jab, drawing out his counter, then duck under and throw everything I have into a right hook aimed at the floating rib I've been targeting all night.

  The crack is audible even over the crowd's roar.

  Sledgehammer drops to one knee, face contorted in pain. I could finish him - one more good shot would do it. But instead, I step back. "You can step down. No shame in it, buddy. Just flop over and I won't need to trample you," I taunt, thumping my knuckles together like a gorilla. I haven't smiled much in the past couple of months, but I crack a grin, stretching my lips awkwardly from ear to ear. I'm sure my teeth are a nice, awkward shade of pink.

  The crowd goes absolutely ballistic.

  "WHAT A DISPLAY OF SPORTSMANSHIP, FOLKS! REX RAMPAGE HAS SLEDGEHAMMER HURT AND CHOOSES NOT TO FINISH HIM!"

  Sledgehammer struggles to his feet before the ten count. "Fuck you," he spits. Our eyes meet, and there's something there - respect, maybe. We touch gloves as the final bell rings.

  I lose the decision. The judges give it to Sledgehammer 29-28 across all cards. The crowd boos, but I don't mind. I wasn't here to win a scorecard. I'm here for the show. Some bouts, you gotta pull your punches so some angry rich guy doesn't send goons after you because you ruined his bet. That's pragmatism. That keeps you alive.

  I didn't need big teeth to hurt you. I just needed these hands.

  After, in the dingy locker room that smells like mildew and liniment, Sledgehammer finds me while I'm getting my eyebrow stitched.

  "Why didn't you finish me?" he asks, ribs wrapped in tape.

  I wince as the needle punctures skin again. "Wasn't about that."

  "But you could have won."

  "Wouldn't have proved anything."

  He watches the needle work through my flesh for a moment. "You're a crazy motherfucker, you know that?"

  I grin through the pain. "That's what the posters say."

  He laughs, then grimaces, holding his side. "Listen, I got this buddy runs security for some guys up in New York. They're looking for people with... talents. Pay's good."

  I raise an eyebrow, immediately regretting it as the needle tugs. "I look like I need a job?"

  "You look like you're sleeping in your car between fights," he says bluntly. "And you're better than this shithole."

  He tosses a business card on the bench beside me. "Think about it. His name's 'Mr. Bomb'. I think they want a little more action than I've got the guts for, but maybe its your thing. Iunno, you seem like the type," He turns to leave, then pauses. "And next time, I ain't fighting you without my powers. This shit hurts."

  "Blake?"

  Mrs. Quiet's voice pulls me back to the present. The restaurant has mostly emptied, just a few of us lingering over drinks.

  "Sorry," I mutter. "Million miles away."

  "Don't get lost in there," she says, tapping my temple lightly. "We need you present for this one."

  I nod, finishing my whiskey in one swallow.

  "I'm here," I say. "All present and accounted for."