I take bets on suffering, a bouquet of cash in my fist. Bright faces of boys beam and roil in the sway as the two fighters start to trade bareknuckle blows. More money to my name than I have ever known. Only one way of leaving this park of gutted automobiles with it all.
The two men swing at each other until teeth and ropes of blood arc over the dirt. No-one knows the dramatic climax is scripted. A pipe spins, coiling sparks, the crowd kicking it blind under their soles. Summoned on the promise of a bloody spectacle, so they shall have it. The fuse soon to run out.