01-Dominick Kardos

They stitched my eyebrow up crooked. Again. It’s not the doc’s fault—poor bastard’s hands were shaking like he just watched someone drown—but Jesus Christ, how hard is it to follow a line? Carter’s flapping around like a seagull on Red Bull, pacing behind me with that white boy rich kid swagger he never quite grew out of. Prada shoes, hair too perfect, holding my belt like he won the damn thing. “You were a fucking animal in there,” he’s saying, voice bouncing off the tiled locker room walls. “They’re already writing headlines. ‘Kardos—The Knockout King Returns.’ I swear to God, Dom, we’re printing shirts with that shit.” I grunt and toss the towel over my shoulder. Fuck am I high on adrenaline. And ego. I light a cigarette I’m not supposed to have and lean back in the steel chair like