Dead Drunk: Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse... One Beer at a Time (15 page)

Chapter
30

Mama Said Knock
You Out

The locker room shook from blaring speakers and the stomping
of ten thousand fans. After paying a seventy-dollar admission, drinking
eight-dollar draft Pabst Blue Ribbons and having exhausted their stories about
how much ass they kicked in high school, the sold out Vegas crowd grew anxious
for the main event. It was like updating the Roman Coliseum with crystal meth
and hard-on prescriptions. This was the big time, and Big Rob prepared for the
fight as he always did.

Blaaaaugh
. Two chili dogs, a peanut-butter milkshake,
twelve crab rangoons and a meat-lovers pizza sprayed the sink in a frothy
eruption. The stench was enough to make one question the very existence of God.

“Jesus that’s foul,” Charlie said while covering his nose.
“Looks like you haven’t stuck to your diet. Is that a whole head of garlic?” It
was.

Tremors rocked the giant’s body as he lost control again and
Charlie jumped to avoid a direct whiff of the nastiness. The inexperienced
trainer stared at the hodgepodge no sane man would eat just three hours before
a nationally televised fight.

“It’s only nerves, I’ll be fine,” Rob said unconvincingly.

“Good thing you’re too cheap to pay me because I’d be mad as
hell right now. I mean, you’re walking into a meat grinder stuffed like a
suckling pig.” Charlie paused as another pungent smell assaulted his senses —
Rob’s body odor. “When’s the last time you showered? You smell like ass dipped
in cabbage.”

Rob wiped the slime from his beard and then splashed water
on his ghostly white face. He peered into the mirror. “How do I look?”

“Like you’ve been eaten by a wolf and shit off a cliff… so pretty
much like normal.” He slapped his friend on the back and smiled a toothy grin.
“Now stop being a pussy and get your head on straight. You’ve got a belt to
win. Think about it, this could set you up for life.”

Rob’s steely blue eyes sparkled as he imagined what might be
if he could only pull off the unthinkable. “It would be nice to have extra
cash. I’ll be able to pay rent on time, maybe pick up some sponsors. I might
even get to upgrade from nailing fat chicks to ugly chicks.”

“Aiming high indeed. So… not to put any more pressure on
you, but…” Charlie dropped his humorous tone and stared deeply at his friend.
“Look, I maxed out my credit cards and put ten grand down. Boom goes the
dynamite.”

“Why did you do that?”

“Because I know you can do it. We’ve got thirty to one odds
right now. This is our big break. Beat this guy’s ass and there’s no looking
back for both of us. 2003 is the year we come out on top.”

Rob’s eyes glistened. “Thanks for believing in me.”

Charlie was the only person that did. Rob’s mother had died
years earlier from treatable cancer and his abusive father skipped town after a
teenaged Rob gave him a massive beat down. The last time he saw his dad was on
the show
To Catch a Predator
.

Charlie’s family took the lovable loser in, treated him as
one of their own and eventually got him into college on a wrestling
scholarship. After five years of grade inflation and plenty of charity, he
graduated with a worthless P.E. degree and no job prospects. Two years later,
Rob was penniless and living in a tent, but still struggling for a shot at
greatness.

And Charlie had one foot in the gutter right along with him.
Fired from his teaching job months earlier for missing work and getting wasted
at the office Christmas party, this could be either Charlie’s major rebound or
his last spiral around the toilet.

“You can blow me later. Now get your gloves on and kick that
Euro-trash’s dick in the dirt.” It wasn’t a bad pep talk considering he’d
downed four Jager-Bombs and snorted two lines of coke. Charlie was a little
nervous too, after all.

“Fuck yeah!” Rob punched a locker with enthusiasm and
crumpled it like a pop can.

Unfortunately, his opponent was the much-favored reigning
MMA World Champion, Vladimir Draganov. Bulgaria’s favorite bad boy was a judo
expert and an amateur rapist. Known for his roundhouse knockouts and
million-dollar sexual assault payoffs, Vladimir would be near impossible to
beat. The promoters had even handpicked Rob to be the sacrificial tomato can
and banked on a highlight-reel whipping.

But Rob and Charlie held the wildcards of stupidity and
desperation firmly in their grasp, and they were ready to toss them on the
table. To be sure, Vladimir outclassed Rob when it came to technical skills,
training, and of course, nutrition. Rob had a puncher’s chance though, and
that’s what Charlie was counting on. He’d personally seen Rob own three guys at
a keg party without putting down his hot dog, literally taking a bite between
knockouts. The behemoth had powerful arms, hammer-like fists, and a tree trunk
of a neck.

Now suited up and ready for combat, the duo walked down a
winding hallway and stopped at the entrance to the arena, waiting for the
announcer’s call. The sound of the crowd was deafening.

“And now, the challenger, fighting out of Stormburg,
Illinois… with a mixed martial arts record of ten wins and zero losses,
standing at a full six-foot eight inches and weighing in at a massive
two-hundred and ninety pounds… The Titan of the Midwest… Viking Rob Magnusson!”
Fireworks erupted as Rob stepped into the aisle bathed in multi-colored
spotlights. He raised his meaty arms and waited for a song by 80’s metal band
Slayer. But the heavy tune “Seasons of the Abyss” never kicked on. What did
play over the massive sound system was a song popular at countless wedding
receptions and bar mitzvahs the world over — a little ditty called “The Chicken
Dance.”

Panic gripped Rob as he turned to Charlie. “What the fuck? I
didn’t pick this shit.”

Charlie shoved him back towards the ring and shouted above
the blaring noise, “I have no idea, dude, just go with it.” The crowd raucously
clapped to the beat as the two bumbling friends appeared on the jumbo screen
and on millions of televisions across the country. A thousand miles away,
Left-Nut rolled on the floor in an uncontrollable fit of laughter. This was the
happiest moment of his life.

Rob slunk towards the dressing room as beer cans whizzed
past his head, and Charlie tried to stop him. After much coaxing, a deflated
Rob turned and stiffly made his way to the ring.

The soundboard operator responsible for the “mix up” smiled
broadly in the control room, knowing the five grand in cash he’d gotten from
Vladimir would keep him knee deep in Oxycontin and Filipino hookers for quite
some time. In Vegas, a person never knew when a jackpot was right around the
corner.

Thankfully, the song ended as the two men reached the metal
cage amid flashbulbs and jeers. Charlie searched his mind for any last minute
advice. “Get inside and use your weight. You need to wear him out fast, so lean
on him every chance you get. When he tires, hug him and go for a deep clinch,
then take him down and pound his face into jelly.” Rob’s attention continued to
wander, so Charlie grabbed him roughly by the jaw and gave him a smack. “Focus,
man, focus.”

Rob snapped out of the panic spiral. “I got this.”

“Welcome back. If you give him any room to breathe, he’ll
knock your ass out. So what you gotta do is—”

The announcer started up again. “And now… fighting out of
Tryavna, Bulgaria, with the astounding mixed martial arts record of twenty
wins, sixteen by knockout… with two losses by disqualification… standing six
foot four and weighing in at two hundred and forty pounds… holder of three
world heavyweight belts… known the world over as the Bulgarian Badass… the
champion… Vladimir, The Dragon, Draganov!”

Fireworks exploded in an orgy of smoke and clatter as the
champ slowly descended to LL Cool J’s “Mama Said Knock You Out.” Dancing the
entire time, it took him five minutes to reach the ring. Big Rob looked
shell-shocked once again and it was clear the shenanigans had paid off.

The music stopped and Charlie popped Rob’s mouthpiece into
place. “Knuckles up, brother, I’ll see you soon.” As the words left his mouth,
Charlie wondered if he was lying. He didn’t like his own answer.

Big Rob shuffled to the center of the ring and came face to
face with the cauliflower-eared champ. Vladimir spoke as the ref had them tap
gloves. “Try not lay egg, big chicken.”

The Bulgarian’s words were jumbled, but Rob realized Vladimir
had embarrassed him in front of the world with his little song stunt. The taunt
was the final insult, and Rob fixed his opponent with a red-hot glare and
prepared to let his fists do the talking.

Charlie didn’t hear Vladimir, but he did see Rob’s reaction.
He’d been the butt of jokes his entire life and usually turned the other cheek.
Now all that suppressed rage bubbled up to the surface like a force of nature.
Rob stood taller. His eyes, once shifting and distracted, now focused like a
laser on Vladimir.

“Shit’s about to go thunder-dome!” Charlie yelled and banged
on the cage.

The bell rang and Rob charged forward like an enraged bull.
But the matador answered with a quick combination of crisp jabs and tried to follow
with a fight-ending uppercut. Rob simply absorbed the blows and pressed
forward, deflecting the haymaker and taking the champ down.

Ten thousand fans gasped in unison as the Bulgarian Badass
landed hard on his back. Quick as a spider, Rob moved into a full guard
position while Charlie shouted, “Ground and pound, ground and pound!” He’d
never seen Rob move with such glorious purpose.

Meanwhile, Vladimir wondered how he’d ended up on his back
fifteen seconds into the fight, and was surprised at the ferocity of the
charge. Still, the veteran had been in tighter spots than this and choked out
opponents from that very position. He simply needed to cover up until his eager
opponent made a mistake, and they always did. However, that confidence vanished
after three powerful hammer strikes slipped past his defenses and shattered his
nose. The punches continued one after another like pistons in an engine, and
Vladimir ate most of them.

Rob’s blows quickly lost their mustard as the adrenaline
faded and he began to gas out. He leaned forward to let his stench take over.

A battered and bloody Vladimir struggled to breathe as the
garlicky essence seeped out of Rob’s sweaty pores. He couldn’t breathe, and a
man known for putting women in painful positions now found himself in one. The
coward slowly made a move to tap out.

Meanwhile, the shady owner of the fight league was not
enjoying the show. “I can’t have that lard-ass be the face of my empire,” he
said through puffs of a Cuban cigar. “This ain’t happening.” He made a call to
the referee’s pager.

Getting his signal, the ref jumped in. “Okay, no resting on
top. I’m standing you up for inactivity.” Of course, it was crap, and the fans
went ballistic. Though drunken and ignorant, they still wanted to see a fair
fight and this professional wrestling bullshit would not do.

Vladimir’s panic ebbed as he got back to his feet, and his
superior skills kicked in. He circled to the right while peppering the plucky
upstart with jab after jab. A nasty cut opened over Rob’s left eye and obscured
his vision. Twenty long seconds remained in the first round. Ten… five… Another
jab followed by a crushing right hook to Rob’s jaw. Three… two… one…
Ding
.

Both fighters staggered to their corners looking like they’d
walked through a gauntlet. Vladimir had the best men money could buy and Rob
had… Charlie. The champ’s crew smeared Vaseline over cuts and applied cold
metal to a nasty forehead welt. Charlie, however, leered at the ring girl bent
over in front of him. The knockout picked up her sign and cast him a
come-hither look.

“Water,” Rob managed to gasp out, and the rookie trainer
turned from the floozy and instinctively squirted a stream down the fighter’s
chasm of a mouth. Distracted by the perfect body before him, Charlie forgot to
remove Rob’s mouth guard. The ice-cold water bounced off the plastic and
traveled directly into Rob’s over-taxed lungs. It was a huge blunder, and Rob
was still hacking up water when the bell rang.

Vladimir, however, had regained his wind as well as his
confidence. A cold smile crossed his battered face upon seeing Rob’s condition.

“Get your hands up!” Charlie said and banged on the cage as
the fight, and his livelihood, started slipping away.

Rob feebly raised his fists into a half-assed defensive
posture as Vladimir closed in rapidly. A flurry of head-strikes followed by a
powerful sidekick to his gut sent shockwaves through Rob’s entire body. He
wobbled for a moment and his hands dropped just a few inches.

It was the opening the champ needed, and he spun into his
signature roundhouse kick. Rob tried to back away, but the blow landed squarely
on his thick jaw. The giant tipped backwards like a felled sequoia and landed
with a thunderous boom as the crowd went absolutely ape-shit. This was what
they had paid for.

The referee dashed to Rob’s side and motioned for the
ringside doctors, leaving a shell-shocked Charlie alone and decimated. Worrying
about his friend’s health, Charlie also wondered how they would even get back
to Illinois.

Meanwhile, Vladimir bounced around doing the chicken dance
and acting like his regular jagoff self. That’s when the Bulgarian Badass
stopped his theatrics and pointed to Rob’s motionless form as the doctors
applied a neck brace. The television camera zoomed in on a rapidly enlarging golden
puddle that was forming in the center of the ring. Hello
YouTube
,
goodbye fighting career.

* * *

Lathered in sweat, Big Rob Magnusson woke from his recurring
flashback-nightmare. “Dang.” The couch beneath him was soaked. He crept to the
window and tossed his soiled underwear into the road, where it landed next to
the charred mound that was Blake’s funeral pyre.