So, I’m a private investigator, and I think that looking into my most recent case has screwed me over.
I was contacted by a woman whose boyfriend had gone missing. She was afraid that he’d gotten himself involved in less than reputable activities in order to make a living. She pointed me to an address in a seedy part of town that he apparently frequented most nights.
I would later find out that it was a nightclub. Really sketchy place. I didn’t like being there for one second. However, I needed to figure out what was going on. At first, I was thinking that the boyfriend must have gotten caught up in a drug deal gone sour. I tried asking around, while being as subtle as I could. I kept at this for a while, before gaining the trust of some of the locals there. Eventually, I’d figured out that the nightclub was just a front for the real show in the basement.
A bare-knuckle fight club. Illegal, obviously. People would pay go to down there and watch people pummel each other. Sometimes to death.
That must be it, I thought. From pictures, the boyfriend looked to be a fit young guy. It all made sense, really. The people that died from their injuries must have just been disposed of, off the record. However, I wanted to make sure. The girl needed closure, at the very least. I spent another week there, getting acquainted with the place, before finally finding out that the boyfriend had indeed succumbed to a grisly fate there.
“Yeah, it was brutal.” One of the regulars – Joe, told me. “It ain’t surprising though. The kid was getting cocky. He had to end up facing the devil sooner or later.”
I raised my eye at him. “The devil?”
“Yeah. It’s a nickname.” Joe said in between puffs of a cigarette. “Absolute fucking monster. The guy hasn’t lost yet. In fact, he ends up killing his match 20% of the time, the ones that don’t give up after the first punch.”
“Why call him the devil?” I asked.
Joe chuckled, throwing his cig down on the already dirty floor. “It’s a real silly name, I’ll give you that.” He responded. “However, I can’t say that I don’t somewhat agree with it.”
Apparently, “The Devil” was so good at what he did, to the point of not seeming human to most of the people who watched him. He was way faster, stronger, and more durable than any other fighter that ever stepped into the ring here. He never reacted to getting punched, and would always usually knock out or even kill his opponent within the first 30 seconds. He was 45-0, in fact. Reportedly, one time an audience member who had lost a bet because of him tried to straight up shoot him. The bullet hit his chest point blank, but didn’t even draw blood. Instead, it only left him with a bruise. That’s when the nickname really came into fruition.
This shocked me, obviously. I mean, there was no way this could be true right? But why would this guy be lying?
“And you don’t question it or anything? I mean, that’s fucking crazy.” I probed him for some kind an explanation.
Joe just shrugged. “Dunno what to tell you. It is what it is, I prefer not to think about it. Keeps you sane, you know?”
“Where is he though? I haven’t seen him this week.” I inquired.
“Again, I couldn’t tell you. His last fight was about two weeks ago. I’ll give you a heads up if he comes back, though. I can tell you’re curious.” He responded, shooting me a toothy grin.
I decided to lay off the club for a while. I’d already figured out what happened to the girl’s boyfriend. In fact, I probably had enough evidence to shut the place down for good.
However… I couldn’t just yet. I needed to see this guy fight live. The morbid curiosity was killing me. I decided to wait for Joe to give me a call.
I received one about four days later. The devil was fighting again, after a short hiatus. I made my way down there in order to view the anomaly.
The crowd was larger than usual that night. In fact, that’s a gross understatement. It was packed to the brim. I was standing, squished between people who were all trying to get a good view of this guy. The announcer also hyped it the hell up, way more than any other match I’ve seen. It was a spectacle, for sure. We were introduced to his opponent first – some massive guy who looked like he injected steroids on an hourly basis. They called him “The Bear”.
About a minute later, the Devil finally made his way into the ring. I didn’t know what I was expecting him to look like, but I suppose that I was still somewhat surprised.
The guy was unremarkable. He was packing moderate lean muscle and couldn’t have been taller than 5’10. He had no tattoos, no scars, and no body hair even. In other words, he wasn’t somebody that you could easily pick out of a crowd.
He said nothing as the referee signaled for them to fight. The next few moments went by pretty quick. I remember the Bear trying to land a few jabs, but having all of them dodged. It only took two quick hooks from the Devil to send the Bear landing limp. That was the first that I’d watched him, and it caused me to be obsessed with the guy. I mean, how could I not be? This was insane.
I started going to every fight that he was involved in. I watched as he continuously dropped men way larger than him with absolute ease. He himself got punched every once in a while, but there was never any indication that he’d felt pain from any strike. I watched him kill 7 people and probably give brain damage to 20 others. I suppose that I could’ve stopped it. I could’ve notified the police, and they would’ve stepped in and shut this whole thing down. I couldn’t tell you why I never did. In fact, I find it hard to rationalize myself. I guess the pursuit of knowledge will do that to a person.
I really wanted to know what the hell was going on here There was never an opportunity to do so after his fights, because he would leave immediately, and anybody who tried to stop him would get shoved into the ground. I decided to do something relatively risky.
I was going to follow him.
I’d been mapping out his movements for a while now. Once he’d finished his fight, he’d always go into the dressing room for about 10 minutes before coming back out. At that point, he’d get into his car, and start driving somewhere. I’d been attempting to follow him incrementally. Not enough at once for him to become too suspicious, but more and more each week. Eventually, I’d tracked him all the way back to a smaller apartment complex on the other side of town.
I was a bit surprised, since I’d assumed that he’d be making decent enough money, given the fact that he was winning so much. So why live here? I pushed these thoughts to the back of my head as I made my way into the complex.
I talked to the guy at the front desk, and eventually convinced him that I was a cop and that I needed to know where the fighter was staying. The fake badge that I carried around with me seemed to do the trick. (Yeah, it’s illegal, but whatever).
I took the stairs to the 3rd floor and found his room number. I knocked first, but there was no response. Even after that, I pretended to walk away, but I ducked down and stayed put instead. I listened intently, but could hear nothing. I didn’t know what I was expecting when I turned the doorknob, but certainly not for it to be unlocked. However, it opened up with one turn. Any sane person probably could’ve realized how questionable this situation really was, but I suppose that my curiosity was blinding my rationality.
Slowly and quietly, I entered. But I was floored immediately. The place was empty. Empty to the extent where it seemed as if nobody had ever even stepped foot in there. I walked around, trying to scope the place. But there was nothing to see. I must have looked through every room, but was only faced with emptiness.
That was, except for one thing. I found an envelope lying on the floor of the bathroom. I didn’t open it immediately, but stuck it into my pocket for later. I was starting to feel a bit weird in there. Like somebody else was in there with me.
I nearly had a heart attack when I tried to head back out the door.
The guy was standing right there. The fighter. The devil.
Instinctively, I jolted backwards. I had no idea where he came from. I hadn’t even heard him at all. I braced myself for anything.
But the guy just smiled. It was the first indication of any kind of emotion from him. But it was… wrong. Almost as if smiling was an alien concept to him.
He started walking towards me, that bizarre grin still plastered on his face. And then he spoke:
“Are you curious?”
His voice catches me even more off guard. It’s deeper than any voice I’d ever heard before. His syllables also come out fragmented, almost like a robot.
“About what?” I managed to stammer out.
“About lifting our limits. We don’t have to live like this, you know?”
He looks up and past me, before lifting up his index finger and pointing at something.
”There is a better way.”
I tried to bolt out of there, but he grabbed me before I could leave.
“You can run now. Not later, though. Not when the day of reckoning comes.”
At this point, his eyes have… changed. There’s something crawling around, underneath his pupils. But I don’t know what it is. And I really didn't want to know, either.
Eventually, he alleviates his iron grip from my shoulders. I don’t waste any more time. I run the hell out of there.
As soon as I got home, I opened the envelope and started looking through it. Among the contents were papers with obscure looking equations and diagrams scrawled all over, in addition to what appeared to be an extremely old Driver’s license. Mark Callahan. Date of Birth, June 15th, 1906.
It was the same guy that was in the apartment. It was the exact same guy.
I stayed in a motel that night.
But the strangeness doesn’t end there. I was watching a news report, when I came across a story pertaining to an arson case. Somebody had burnt down the bar that hosted the fight club. No suspects.
I’m still currently trying to decipher what the hell the numbers and diagrams on the papers mean, but I’ve had no tangible success in this regard. Although, it does appear to be related to microbiology.
I’ve also been hearing knocks on my door. Every time I look through the peephole, I just see these people wearing black jackets and holding briefcases. There’s some kind of phrase etched onto their breast pockets.
“Better way industries” is what I think they read.
At some point, they started coming more and more often. I called the front desk to report this, but I just got a dial tone each time.
I resorted to calling the police and they've said that they sent somebody over. That was an hour ago. It sounds like they're picking my locks now.
Shit.
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Credits
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