Gara drove the refurbished Cadillac like he was fleeing a bank robbery, weaving through traffic with a manic grin plastered on his face. "You hear that engine purr, Boss?" Gara shouted over the radio, which was blasting heavy metal. "That’s the sound of German engineering! Or... well, duct tape and prayers. Same thing, basically!"
"My spine!" Daniel whined from the passenger seat, clutching the dashboard with his massive, manicured hands. "You hit a pothole! Do you know how much my chiropractor charges? This vibration is terrible for my pores!"
"Relax, Princess," Gara laughed, swerving to avoid a hotdog cart. "It’s called 'Tactical Suspension'. It keeps you alert! Builds character!"
"I’m going to throw up," Daniel groaned, turning a shade of pale green. "Boss, tell him to stop! If I vomit on this Balenciaga hoodie, I’m suing the organization for emotional damages!"
I sat in the back seat, massaging my temples. I had a spreadsheet open on my laptop, but the screen was shaking so hard it looked like a kaleidoscope. I closed the laptop with a snap.
"Silence," I said. My voice wasn't loud, but it carried the icy chill of a layoff notice.
Gara kept humming. Daniel kept whimpering.
"If I hear one more sound that isn't the engine or a scream of pain," I stated calmly, "I am deducting a 'Noise Pollution Tax' of $50 from both of your weekly stipends. Cumulative. Per decibel."
The car went silent instantly. Gara turned the radio off. Daniel clamped a hand over his mouth. Peace at last.
"Good," I adjusted my glasses. "We are arriving. Focus. The asset we are acquiring today is dangerous. He isn't a show pony like Daniel, and he isn't a hustler like Gara. He is a weapon. Do not provoke him."
"The Slaughterhouse" was exactly what it sounded like. An illegal underground fighting pit located in the basement of an abandoned abattoir. The air was thick with the smell of stale beer, testosterone, and dried blood.
We stood on the mezzanine, looking down at the cage through the chain-link fence. Inside, two men were circling each other.
One was a hulking brute covered in tattoos, screaming and flexing for the crowd. The other was Tiger Benny.
He didn't look like a fighter. He looked like a bored office worker waiting for a bus in the rain. He stood at 6'2" (1m87), but his terrible posture made him look shorter. His shoulders were slumped forward, his back rounded like a tortoise shell. His arms dangled loosely by his sides, his eyes half-closed.
"That’s the guy?" Daniel whispered, looking down with disdain. "He looks... sleepy. Like a zombie. I could snap him in half."
"Watch," I said.
The bell rang. The tattooed brute roared and charged, swinging a wild haymaker punch that could have decapitated a horse.
Benny didn't step back. He didn't even raise his guard. At the last micro-second, Benny simply... shifted. A minimal movement. The punch sailed past his ear by a millimeter.
Then, Benny moved. It wasn't fast like a cheetah; it was sudden like a car crash. His slumped posture vanished. His body snapped into a rigid, geometric structure of perfect kinetic alignment.
CRACK.
Benny stepped inside the brute’s guard and delivered a short, open-palm strike to the man's sternum. It wasn't a push. It was a vibration. A shockwave transferred from the floor, through his hips, into the enemy's chest. The brute stopped dead in his tracks. His eyes bulged. He gasped for air that wouldn't come.
Benny didn't stop. With fluid, almost lazy precision, he grabbed the brute’s extended arm. He didn't pull. He didn't twist. He applied leverage against the joint. Benny’s hands were like hydraulic clamps.
SNAP.
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The sound of the elbow dislocation echoed through the basement. It was loud enough to make Gara wince. The brute screamed and fell to his knees. Benny stood over him, returning to his sleepy slouch instantly. He looked at the referee, blinking slowly.
"Done?" Benny mumbled, checking a cheap plastic watch on his wrist. "Cartoon... at 8."
Daniel’s mouth hung open. He looked at his own massive biceps, then down at the slouching Benny. "Boss..." Daniel swallowed hard. "Did you see that? He didn't even use muscle. That was... pure physics. If he grabbed me..."
"He would dismantle you like a Lego set," I finished the sentence. "He utilizes bone density and leverage. He is a genius disguised as a slacker."
Ten minutes later, in the locker room. Benny was packing his gym bag. He wore a faded tracksuit that had seen better days. A greasy man with gold chains—The Bookie—walked in, counting a thin stack of cash.
"Here," The Bookie tossed the money at Benny’s feet. "Five hundred."
Benny stared at the cash on the dirty floor. He frowned. It took him five full seconds to process the math. "Thousand..." Benny’s voice was a low rumble, like rocks grinding together. "Deal... was thousand."
"Yeah, well," The Bookie sneered. "You broke the other guy's arm. That means the ambulance fee comes out of your cut. Plus the 'venue tax'. Take it or leave it, freak."
Benny’s hand twitched. I saw the muscles in his forearm coil like steel cables. He knew he was being robbed. But he just stood there, shoulders slumped. He sighed, bending his stiff back to pick up the bills.
A polished leather shoe stepped on the money.
Benny looked up slowly. He saw me. Then he saw the giant (Daniel) and the mechanic (Gara) standing behind me. "Don't touch it," I said.
"Who are you?" The Bookie snarled. "Get lost, four-eyes. This is private business."
I pulled out my calculator. "According to the unspoken Labor Laws of Underground entertainment," I spoke loudly, my voice echoing off the lockers, "Venue liability insurance is the responsibility of the organizer, not the talent. You are illegally garnishing wages."
I looked at The Bookie. "You owe Mr. Benny $500 for tonight. Plus, my audit of his fight history suggests you have skimmed approximately $12,500 from his earnings over the last six months."
The Bookie laughed. He pulled a switchblade. "You wanna do math? Count how many holes I’m gonna put in your—"
Daniel stepped forward. He didn't need to fight. He just loomed. At 1m95, blocking the light, he looked like a grim reaper in Balenciaga. Gara stepped to the side, spinning a heavy wrench in his hand with a malicious grin.
The Bookie froze. He looked at Daniel’s size. He looked at Gara’s weapon. He looked at Benny... who was just watching, confused.
"Pay him," I ordered. "Full amount. Plus interest. Now."
With shaking hands, The Bookie emptied his wallet. $2,000. He threw it at me and ran.
I picked up the cash. I organized it into a neat stack. Then, I held it out to Benny.
Benny looked at the money. Then he looked at me. He tilted his head, his eyes narrowed in suspicion. "What's catch?" Benny asked, his words slow and heavy. "Throw fight? ... Kill cop?"
"Neither," I said. "I want to offer you a job. Full benefits. Health insurance—dental included. And performance-based bonuses."
Benny stared blankly. "Suits... lie."
"Most suits lie," I corrected, stepping closer. I looked him dead in the eye. "But I’m not a suit. I’m an auditor. And The Bookie treated you like a disposable tool. A hammer to hit nails until it breaks."
I placed the money in his rough, calloused hand.
"I don't want a hammer. I want a partner. You are a high-yield asset being treated like a penny stock. Come with me, and I’ll make sure you get paid what you’re actually worth."
Benny stared at me. For the first time, the sleepy haze lifted from his eyes. He looked at the money—more than he’d made in a month. He cracked his neck. A sound like a gunshot. A long, awkward silence followed.
"Dental?" he finally asked.
"And chiropractic," I added, glancing at his hunchback.
Benny nodded once. Rigid. "Okay."
Analysis:
- Name: Tiger Benny
- Physical Stats: S-Tier. "Iron Body" conditioning. Expert in joint manipulation (Karate/MMA). Can punch through concrete. High durability, low speed (movement), but explosive reaction time.
- Mental Stats: C-Tier. Slow processor. Naive. Vocabulary is limited. Distrustful of authority but loyal to fairness. Needs clear, simple instructions.
- Risk Assessment: Low. He is a simple creature. Feed him, pay him, and don't lie to him, and he will tear down buildings for you.
- Role: The Vanguard / The Breaker. The blunt instrument for when negotiations fail.
Recruitment Status: Successful. Total Party Size: 4 (The Brain, The Tank, The Face, The Breaker).
"Alright team," I smiled, checking my watch. "The acquisition phase is complete. Gara, get the car. Benny, get in the back. Daniel... try not to cry."
End of Chapter 3
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