A Boy's Tail 6 (Patreon)

“Get the fuck over here!”The words left his mouth in a tight hiss as he grabbed Malik by the shoulder, not hard but firm enough to get him moving, steered him toward a corner of the warehouse where the noise from the main floor turned into muffled background static. The kid was trying to make himself small, shoulders bunched up around his ears, staring at a crack in the concrete like it might spell out some magic answer to his problems.

Shawn didn't say shit. The big man just stood there, letting his shadow fall over the kid, letting the silence do what yelling never could. Sometimes you had to let people marinate in their own mess before they'd start talking.

It took maybe thirty seconds before Malik cracked.

Words started spilling out, tripping over each other, the whole story tumbling out; hospital bills that kept growing every month, isurance that covered jack shit, and numbers that just kept getting bigger.

"Thought I could handle it, you know?" Malik's voice was tight, clipped, words packed together the way he always talked when he was trying not to fall apart. "One fight, maybe two. In and out. Easy money."

Course it wasn't, you idiot, Shawn clenched his teeth tight, the big man doing his best to push a growl down. House always fucking wins. His frown deepened as he heard how they took Malik’s first “payment” to cover "training expenses," some bullshit fee nobody mentioned until after he got his face rearranged. 

Then they told him he owed them after he already lost the fight.

Lost too much, apparently.…you fucking idiot.

The kid finally looked up, eyes full of shame thick enough to choke on. Fear too, the kind that made his jaw clench mid-sentence. "They said if I walk, they go see my grandma. Not to hurt her. Just to... talk. About how much her care's costin' everybody."

Shawn's jaw turned to concrete. 

Anger was there, hot coal burning in his stomach, but on the outside he stayed still. Air left through his nose, as he counted to five, pushing down the part of him that wanted to headbutt the nearest wall.

A shadow fell over both of them before he could figure out what to say. Bishop, moving quiet for a big man, stood there with two bottles of water in each hand. The man held out one to Shawn with that same thin smile that probably got idiots to trust him.

"They say hydration's the key for real performance. Wouldn't want you cramping up."

Shawn took the bottle but didn't drink. Water was probably fine, but taking shit from people who threatened kids wasn't something he made a habit of.

Bishop kept talking, voice low and flat, even as Shawn barely paid him any attention. The words slid off his ears as the Steve Harvey looking white guy kept talking to him about the dea, the main event, the winner’s pot, every fucking thing that Shawn didn’t give a shit about as he kept his eyes on Malik.

Then he glanced at Malik, something that might've been pity flickering across his face but probably wasn't. "Boy's debt gets cleared. He can go home to his... family matters. You lose, however..."

The sentence hung there, a threat sitting in the air between them like smoke. "...the interest on his debt gets... steep. And we'll need him to work it off.” The fight owner shook his head, half-laughing before turning back to face Shawn. “... but you, you ready for your first real fight?”“...i’d be a real dickhead if I said no, huh?”

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

He would be.Which was why ten minutes later, Shawn stood pressed against the chain link fence in one corner of the makeshift ring, sweat and blood thick enough in his nose to taste. The warehouse felt smaller now, packed tight with bodies screaming for violence, their voices hitting him like a physical weight that made his ribs vibrate.

Bishop stood center ring with a microphone, same eager bouncer voice booming over speakers that crackled with static. Still wearing those stupid fuckin' sunglasses.

"In this corner... from the East Side, weighing in at one-ninety of pure Baltimore grit... a junkyard dog with a pedigree of violence. Give it up for... Big Duke!"

Crowd went apeshit as the other fighter bounced on his feet, shadowboxing air with tight, precise movements. Compact black dude with neat cornrows and some kind of spiked collar around his neck, grinning wide enough to flash gold tooth. Built solid. Moves right. This ain't his first rodeo.

"And in this corner..." Bishop pointed Shawn's way, voice carrying that same half-amused deadpan. "A new star. You've heard the stories. You saw the entry exam. Weighing in at three-hundred-seventy-five pounds of pure, monkey madness... King. Kong!"

Ignoring the name that he knew he’d never leave behind, Shawn rolled his shoulders, joints popping, ignoring the mix of jeers and cheers washing over him. His eyes locked on Duke, sizing him up automatic. Keeps his chin tucked, hands up proper, feet moving smooth. Knows what he's doing. Good. Now, I just gotta figure out what his power is.He knew this guy was a supe, sure, but that meant shit on a stick without knowing what kind of supe.

Before he could do more thinking, the bell rang loud and sharp as a gunshot.

Duke came out fast, not charging like some amateur but with a boxer's shuffle; circling around Shawn, testing his range. "C'mon then, monkey man,” he laughed, voice a low gravelly rasp that rumbled up from his chest as he showed off his gold tooth with a grin. “Heard you was a real nigga. Look more like a bitch nigga."

Talk all you want. Shawn stayed low, eyes narrowed as he kept to watching Duke's feet instead of his hands. Feet don't lie. 

And they didn’t hear either.

The taller man feinted with a jab, only to snap out a hard right cross aimed square at Shawn's temple. The monkey man rocked back, letting the punch whistle past his face close enough to feel wind, and answered with a heavy leg kick that crashed into Duke's thigh.

Sound was wet meat hitting concrete. Duke grunted, leg buckling some, but the bastard grinned wider.

"Aight, aight.” The other guy spit on the ground. “You got some kick to you. My turn."

Duke pressed forward throwing tight combos, the man launching hooks and uppercuts in rapid succession, each and every one aimed to drop Shawn where he stood. He’s strong. Shawn’s forearms went up, moving to block most of them, impacts slamming against bone like drumbeats. But not that strong. One hook slipped through, catching him on the jaw with the force of a brick to the face.

The Saiyan didn't even blink. My turn.

Shawn planted his feet, hips twisting as he threw everything into a single right hook, aiming to put Duke's lights out permanent. His fist blurred, and a split-second later, knuckles connected with jaw. 

The sound was a wet crack that launched the man sideways off his feet.

Duke went flying, body spinning from the impact, but instead of falling, Shawn’s eyes only widened as the body did something else. What the f-?

The sound of muscle tearing stood out against the crowd, the noise of joints popping like bubble wrap too ugly to ignore. Duke's frame stretched, expanded, growing taller and wider as he hit the ground on both feet. Black and brown fur exploded across skin, the man’s face pushing out into a broad muzzle full of fangs that looked sharp enough to bite through bone.

With a growl that made his massive chest ripple, Duke stood up to his full height, all six-five of vascular weredog, eyes gone yellow and hungry.

“Now we talkin'!” Duke's voice came out deeper now, distorted and half-a bark. "Let's fuckin' go!"

“Bring it on, bitch!” Shawn barked back. Howling, Big Duke charged in a blur of black fur and flashing claws, and Shawn moved to meet him dead center.

The collision shook the whole damn ring, chain link rattling, concrete half shuddering under their feet. Shawn held his ground, bare soles digging into gritty floor, muscles coiled tight as Duke swiped at him with claws that could probably open up a can of tuna.

Shawn let out a hiss as he ducked under one of them. Too close. Even still, he moved in closer and slammed his forehead right into the bastard’s muzzle.

A hard fist landed — One! Two! Three hard punches into Duke's ribs, each one harder than the last. He felt riibs give under his knuckles, soft spots between hard bone taking the kind of impact that made breathing hurt for weeks.

The weredog grunted, and staggered back a step, but the bastard didn't drop. No, Big Duke only shook his muzzle and lunged forward again, jaws snapping, going straight for Shawn's throat with teeth that looked sharp enough to tear through steel.

Fuck— Shawn yanked his head back, fangs grazing his shoulder close enough to draw blood, and his tail unwrapped from his waist without him telling it to. You! His fifth limb spun as he did, two dozen pounds smacking Duke across the side of his skull with enough force to rattle his brain around inside.

"That all you got, chump?" Duke shook his head, low growl rumbling up from his chest, words distorted but still raspy enough to sound dry. "My grandma hits harder than that!"

“Your grandma ain't here, dogdick.” Shawn circled, breathing steady, watching Duke's eyes for tells. The fight turned into brutal back-and-forth, Duke pressing forward with wild swings and snapping bites, stamina high enough to keep the pressure on. Keeps coming. Good. Means I can hit him more.

Shawn tumbled away from a claw swipe that would've opened his face, rolled to the side when Duke tried to pin him. His eyes stayed moving, looking, hunting for—

There.

Shawn stepped away, back hitting the chain link fence that lined the ring, metal digging into his shoulders, crowd screaming loud enough to bust eardrums. Take the bait, you stupid fuck.“Gotcha!” Duke reared back for what looked like a finishing blow, claws extended, muscles bunching.

He lunged forward, claws raking across Shawn's shoulder, sharp as knives, flesh parting under superhuman razors. Blood ran down his arm, hot and sticky, but he barely even noticed.

Got you.

He exploded off the fence, kicking off with all his strength as the concrete beneath his feet cracked. In the blink of an eye, he was inside Big Duke's reach, too close for him to swing, before the weredog could reset. One hand grabbed the bastard by the back of his furry skull, the other gripping his arm tight enough to feel bone underneath muscle and skin as he held him tight in a classic clinch.

A hard knee drove into Duke's gut. Once. Twice!

Big Duke gagged, air and blood rushing out of his mouth. Then Shawn roared, a sound that came from somewhere deeper than human, as he used the clinch to spin and hurl Duke's body over his hip.

Go to sleep!

Duke slammed into concrete with an impact that echoed through the whole warehouse, sound like a car wreck. Dust settled around his body as the monstrous form started shrinking, melting back into unconscious scarred flesh that looked too small for all that violence.

The crowd turned into one screaming entity. "KONG! KONG! KONG!"

Yeah, yeah, fucking cocksuckers.

Shawn stood over the unconscious body, chest heaving, fresh claw marks bleeding freely down his shoulder. He raised his head to glare across the ring at Bishop, the man clapping slow with that thin appreciative smile plastered on his face.

Bitch.

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

White Steve Harvey met him outside the ring with an envelope, wearing the same thin smile that probably fooled people into thinking he gave a shit about anything besides money.

"Impressive. Very impressive. You've made the prelims." His hand went into the jacket of his suit, ringed fingers vanishing into a pocket and pulled out a brown envelope, the thing thick enough to choke a horse. “Here,” he said, voice low, the only warning he gave as he tossed it over.Shawn caught it, eyes narrowing before he tore it open, and quickly started counting. Eight… Nine… Ten… Ten thousand dollars. Cash. More money than he'd seen in one place since... shit, since he'd been alive again. 

"As for the boy..." Bishop pulled out his phone, made a call without asking if Shawn wanted to hear this bullshit. "Yeah, it's me. The Tillman account. Put a hold on collections."

The man hung up and looked back at Shawn with those stupid sunglasses still on his face. "His debt is, let's say it’s…  paused. As long as you continue to perform, at least. And as a show of good faith..." He gestured to one of his men, who handed him a medical file. "...we've taken the liberty of transferring his grandmother to a private facility. She’ll get top-of-the-line care. All on our dime."

Oh, you piece of shit. Shawn's jaw clenched tight enough to crack teeth. The anger was there, hot coal burning in his stomach, but Bishop was talking like he'd done them a favor. Like moving an old lady without permission was some kind of gift.

The leash just got shorter. And tighter.

Should headbutt this asshole right now. But there were too many guns, too many people, and Malik was still breathing because Shawn hadn't lost his damn mind yet.

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

“Sensei, sensei, sens- please, listen…”

He was angry, yeah.He knew that.He was trying his best to push it back down, but he wasn’t always the best at it.Like, right now, pushing it down looked like him dragging Malik out of the warehouse by the scruff of his neck, the kid stumbling behind him trying to keep up. Words kept tumbling out of his mouth, apologies and excuses mixing together into noise.

"I'm so sorry, I didn't know, I just—"

Shawn stopped under a flickering streetlamp that made everything look sick and yellow, spun around, and slapped him. 

Not a punch. Sharp, open-handed crack that echoed off brick walls.

The Saiyan watched the red mark bloom on Malik's cheek, spreading across skin that was already bruised and swollen from his first fight. Fuck. Shouldn't have... 

All that other damage on his face made it worse, made Shawn feel like he'd kicked a dog that was already bleeding. "I'm sorry." The words came out rough, quiet, caught in his throat.

Malik shook his head, his student still not looking at him. A single tear traced a path through grime on his face, cutting a clean line through the dirt and bruising. "No... nah, Sensei. That's on me."

"Yeah, you shouldn't have. Fuck, man." Shawn pinched the bridge of his nose, doing his very best to ignore the headache blooming behind his eyes. "How much you owe?"

Malik's voice came out barely a whisper. "Even if we were gettin' her out the hospital today, it 's over three hundred racks, man."

"F—"

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

"—uck."

Three hours later, he was sitting on the mattress in his apartment, staring at walls that needed paint and listening to his old refrigerator hum. The place was still small, bare, even with more money coming in. 

He kept his hot plate on a milk crate, not too far from the CRT TV that probably came from the Clinton administration, just a few feet away from the stacks of books on martial theory he'd bought secondhand. Everything he owned could fit in the back of a pickup truck.

The burner phone Mary gave him to call her sat on the floor next to his knee. A cheap, disposable piece of plastic that felt heavier than it should. Lifeline I didn't want to need.

He couldn’t do this, couldn't just punch his way out of a three-hundred-thousand-dollar medical bill. Can’t punch a debt collector. 

Well, he could, but it wouldn’t exactly stop the debt.

Sure, he was strong and fast, but it was still the kind that was useless against numbers on paper. He wasn’t Superman, wasn’t Goku, and he definitely wasn’t Homelander.

Hate this shit. He hated being trapped, hated that he let Bishop play him using other people, hated that Malik was eighteen and making decisions that could get him killed. But it’s not like it was selfish.

Air left through his nose as he counted to ten, then twenty. Finally, the martial artist picked up the phone with fingers that wanted to crush it into powder.

Sighing, he flipped it open, and finally dialed the only number saved in it.

It rang three times before a voice picked up. Clean, precise, probably sitting somewhere with better furniture than his whole apartment. "Hello?"

"Mary... we need to talk."