The smoke rises, thick, gray, and winding. Stifling and sickening to the average, but these concrete halls–stained with the blood of those most unfortunate, would speak of no average to have ever trespass. He smokes it slowly, no more than two or three puffs a minute–they’re certainly his favorite.

He always enjoys a nice cigar after a good fight. He’d smoke one before he’d shower or even make use of the john. And his smoke session could easily last fifteen to thirty minutes, depending on how good the fight was, or how many people had pissed him off that day.

And when Ethan sat behind his rickety desk, stationed some yards from the square, feet propped up, and the line of smoke rising from the glowing embers, you didn’t fuck with him–and he wouldn’t break your neck when he was done.

The cold, damp basement smells of cleaning solution. The ammonia, used to clean the floor, had yet to fall under the aroma of sweat. Ethan always had an inductee mop the floor every few weeks, or if some guy had got the shit knocked out of him. A few guys had pissed themselves in the past, but Ethan always made them clean it up. On occasion, the walls needed a little attention, and they got it, but most of the fights never stayed too vertical.

“Fuck,” he whispers to himself. That was a good cigar.

The dripping of blood from his nose has stopped, some dried down his mouth, all the way to his chin, as he’d not treated it before smoking. He took his feet from the desk, the bottom of his boot hit the ground with a determined thud as he stood and traveled across the room. Grabbing the small hose attached to a faucet protruding from the wall, he turns the knob slightly. Water shoots out in spurts. After a minute, it comes in a weak stream. He lets the water splash into his hand, a make-shift cloth he uses as he works his fingers on his face. The blood comes off easily enough and after a quick drink, he turns the water off, turning his attention to this infamous square.

“What the fuck are you doing, guy?” He shouted, his rough British accent now discerned.

He walks over to the group of guys, two standing, holding the third by feet as he attempts sit-ups. He struggles.

“That no fuckin’ way to do a sit up!...Put him down.”

They drop him, his back taking much of impact. He winces slightly, holding it back for fear of Ethan’s reaction. It builds quickly in his chest into a painful cough of blood he can’t keep back.

Ethan chuckles slightly. “We got us a fresh bitch ‘ere, yeah?” The others laugh a bit with Ethan, not a lot–Ethan doesn’t want people to think he jokes around too much.

“Get up. Watch.” Ethan instructs him, ripping off his wife-beater and tossing it to the guy to wipe his face. “Clean ya fuckin’ face up.”

Ethan lies on the floor. The two men lift him into the air. Hands folded behind his head, he begins a rapid series of sit-ups. Placing his hands on the ground, he flips to stand upright, as the men release his legs.

“You understand now, mate?...” The guy nods. “Good, I wanna see it like that when I come back.”

He leaves them, ascending the steps into the backroom of the store. The store is his. A little shop to pay bills and fund the Bare Knuckle, his fighting organization.

The backroom has a bunch of milk crates and couches, table, television and everything else to keep the girlfriends of Bare Knuckle fighters entertained. The wives, which existed sparsely, never came, only girlfriends.

“‘Ey ladies, did my sis come yet?”

They all shake their heads and say “no”.

“Shit,” he says to himself. He’s anxious.

He think to call her, but that thought quickly leaves his mind, as she’d chastise him and only be pissed when she did arrive. He leaves the girls, walking down the teetering steps, soon to fall apart, and returns to check on the newbie being trained.

At the moment, the guy is delivering punches to the wall. His skin across his knuckles tearing, his flesh hanging loosely and blood seeping through. He presses on, harder and on command, teeth-clenched and a tear in his eye.

“Harder! Faster!” Ethan instructs as he steps up.

The guy tries his best, but Ethan still remains displeased.

“Try a head-butt.”
“On the wall?” His eyebrows shoot up.
“Yeah, on the fuckin’ wall.” Ethan grabs the back of his neck, sinking his chipped, dirty, bloody nails into the flesh of the trainee.

He hesitates. Ethan is getting upset.

“What ya gonna do if a bloke has ya arms all tied? Kiss ‘im?” He takes collects a bunch of hair into his hand, prompting the scared trainee to bare his teeth. “‘It the fuckin’ wall. If I have ta do it, you won’t fancy ya mug too much afterwards.”

And then he hears it.

The harsh click of Jimmy Choo’s on that piece-of-shit staircase. They end abruptly as she reaches Ethan’s desk, leaning against the edge.

“She saved your ass, mate.” Ethan releases him, turning and walking away slowly. “Shave that hair,” He mumbles a little advice.

“Nice time ta show up, huh, Sis?”
“Hello to you, too, Ethan.” She plays with his cigar lighter.
“My name is not Ethan in front of the guys. Ether. Ether!...And don’t play with that.”
“What’s your attitude?”
“Ya kept me waitin’.”
“Well, aren’t I worth the damn wait?” She drops the file on the desk.

He opens it, scans it.

“Trent King. Ya got ‘im?”
“Of course. Told him I’m his manager. Meeting him for dinner tomorrow. Now...aren’t I worth that wait?”
“Yeah...”

And with that, she stands up straight, dusts herself and makes her way to the stairs.

Ethan stops her with a question, “When ya gonna start fightin’, Sis?”

She smiles, turning on the heel of her shoes, and giving Ethan her infamous scowl. Her eyes piercing his chest and stabbing at his heart.

“I’ve been fightin’ before you could piss a straight line.”

To this day, Ethan “Ether” Rivers can’t piss a straight line.