Even sitting, Anne Gunnarsdottir towered over more average people, and her broad, muscular torso only accentuated it.  Her her headfur was neat, but if one looked closely they could see slight matting from sweat and unwash at her collar.  She smelled like cheap perfume and alcohol luckily, at least in her mind that stench was preferable to the stench of panic-rich sweat that she had put off when the telephone woke her up that morning.  Sitting in the office of her bank as her desperation was beginning to hit its peak, she was near breaking down again.  Before that goddamned cruise she couldn’t remember the last time she broke through and cried, but in the months since it seemed as though it had become a regular occurrence.  

“Just give me another month-”  The mountain of a bear pleaded down to a rather skinny, gaunt, almost-elderly-but-not-quite-yet tom turkey.  Even sitting, Anne Gunnarsdottir towered over more average people, and her broad, muscular torso only accentuated it.  


“I’ve been giving you another month for the last year, Ms. Gunnarsdottir.”  He gobbled out sympathetically as he poured over his papers.  “I pleaded with them as hard as you’ll plead with me now, and they were as tired of it after this long as I am beginning to be.”


“Now, you listen here, Mr. Candy, I’ve poured my life into that gym and I’m not going to lose it now!”  She stood up, leaning over his desk with both hands smacked down on the top of it.  

Walt Candy looked up, expecting to see the same snarl that he’d seen a dozen times before, each time promising himself next time would be the time he’d man up and call security.  This time, though, he was surprised.  Her head was down and her eyes clenched, her nose scrunched up and heavy, thick tears rolling down her muzzle.  He sighed an exasperated sigh and fell back in his chair, his long, narrow neck laying over the back of the chair, almost doubling over as turkey necks are wont to do.  “Sit down, Ms. Gunnarsdottir…”  He said with a tired sigh before straightening himself out.  


Anne was already seated, her hands resting loosely on the armrests as she slumped helplessly in the cramped, short, pretty-but-not-functional chair of the type that seems to come standard with every bank.  “Just… please… tell me whatever I can do…”  She sniffed hard, sucking in a sob and bringing up an arm to wipe her face off.  


Mr. Candy took a deep breath and wrapped his fingers together, resting his intertwined hands on his desk.  “The next auction is in four months.  Your gym will be one of the assets for sale in an attempt to recoup the bank’s money.  You’re welcome to come bid on it when that time comes.”  

Anne nodded, her eyes cast towards the floor, staring helplessly at a specific piece of decorative trim on his desk.  “Is the equipment-”

“Everything still inside the building at 7am tomorrow morning will be considered part of the liquidation.  Implicitly, the machinery and equipment would be considered property of the bank… But.”  Mr. Candy stopped fully, waiting on her eyes to come up to him. When Anne did turn up to face him, he continued, “I am going to give you two options, here, Miss Gunnarsdottir.  You can take the equipment, every bench, weight, bag, treadmill, bike, locker, showerhead, desk, chair, lightbulb, and etc inside that building and sell it, and pray that you can afford to buy back the empty building.”

Anne shuddered visibly.  Most of that equipment was bought out of pocket, and not with the bank’s money.  A large portion of it was bought by her father before times had ever got tough in the first place, and was as familiar and dear to her as childhood toys and momma’s kitchen.  

“Your second option,”  Mr. Candy continued, “Is to leave everything as it is.  If you think you can raise money some way else, without the public use of your gym, then…”  

“[i]Like what?[/i]” She thought silently.  “I don’t…”   She took a deep, hard breath and sat back to look across the table at him.  “Thank you very much for the opportunity, Mr. Candy.”  

“Don’t thank me.”  Mr. Candy stood up and held out his hand to shake Anne’s, ready to cut this visit off.  “You have a couple of boy’s in training, right?  I’d suggest putting them to work as soon as possible.  I don’t know if you can wring the cost of that building out of them between now and the auction, but I’m sure they can help.”  

Anne stood up and shook his hand.  “Yeah… I’ll be in touch, Mr. Candy.”  She released his hand and turned, walking out quickly.  She shouldered through the doors and quickly rounded the corner, just out of view of the windows before punching the wall hard, the red brick ripping the bare, calloused flesh on her knuckles.  “[i]Psh, they’ll be lucky to pull 100$ apiece for their first fights...[/i]”  She thought to herself as she ground her fist into the wall, staring at the ground with a defiant snarl.  

Anne pushed herself off of the wall with her fist and stomped to the parking lot, fishing her phone out of her pocket.  As she climbed up into her ragged jeep, she finally spoke.  “Ali Massri?  This is Anne Gunnarsdottir.  Yes, [i]that[/i] Anne Gunnarsdottir.  I want to talk to you about coming out of retirement.”  


[c]--------------------------------------------------------------------[/c] 




Freddie Colón, a brightly colored Puerto Rican Amazon parrot, stretched and yawned, his hands grasping down the back of his spine.  His stiff back and joints cracked loudly as he stretched.  His sleeveless hooded sweater allowed his wings to spread, his bright blue primaries and secondaries glimmering in the bright sun in contrast to the rest of his bright green colors.  It was mid-afternoon, but Freddie was still tired.  He worked late always, but overtime last night had kept him up until 5am, and he’d barely made time to shower out of fear for being late.  


As usual, Doug was already there.  The mutt of a dog was still in his jeans and t-shirt, his duffle bag discarded at the locked front door of the gym as he struck the heavy metal light post like a wing chun dummy.  It rung out low, dull, and hollow with every strike, and his affinity for striking it with bare knuckles made anyone near him cringe.  He would hit the extruded steel fixture with an abandon that made one wonder how he didn’t break his hands with every successive strike.  His breathing was almost imperceptible, something that set him apart somewhat from other traditional martial arts practitioners, who tended to constantly yell and forcefully chuff out every breath.  

Freddie didn’t dare interrupt him, afraid that any distraction or loss of focus could cause Doug to lose whatever form he had and damage his body.   The bird sat down on the curb quietly and began to stretch out his legs, not wanting to get caught at rest by their coach whenever she deigned to show up.  


“HEY, GUYS!”  A familiar voice hollered out, a high, nasally pitch like Ruby Rhod or Carter from Rush Hour.  Dennis, the Pallid Bat, waved as he jogged around the corner.  His wings were tucked into a sleeved, zip-front hoody.   A shorter, less reverberant ring came from the pole as Doug laid into it, having stopped his fist but not his momentum, his body muffling the sound.  


Freddie shook his head as he laid forward, touching his toes and nearly touching his beak to the sidewalk.  “Hey, Denny.  What took you?”  


“Hey, I ain’t gotta outrun you, just outrun the bear!” He said with a laugh, mistakenly thinking he was being clever.  “Didn’t see her car in the back lot, so gonna guess I made it.”  

Doug stepped back and started idly kicking the base of the lamp post.  “Ya’, ya’ made it.”  He shook his head and stepped back.  “I gotta bad feelin’ ‘bout this.” He kicked the sidewalk, his thumbs hooking in his pockets as he turned to the other two.  


Dennis sat against the wall, shoving his hands in the pockets of his jacket.  “Why’s that?  You know something we don’t?”  


Freddie sat up and rolled onto his feet, turning to face Doug, making a little circle of the three men.  “Has she started drinking again?”

“T’ain’t ‘bout that, Fred,” Doug said, digging his hand into his back pocket.  “This was on the front door when I got here.”  He produced a wad of paper from his pocket and tossed it at the parrot, who caught it handily. “Read it.”  

Freddie held the wad in his hand for a moment, before tilting his head at the dog. “You mean you’re getting all bent out of shape and you can’t even read it?” 


Doug growled in frustration and gave a light scoff. “I c’n read it, ya’ass’ole, I jus’ wanted you ta’ getta look fer yerself.”


“Okay, okay,” Freddie chuckled as he unfolded it. Once it was open, the chuckling stopped, and his heart sunk.  “Notice of eviction…”

“Wait, what?!” Dennis piped in, nearly jumping off the wall to snatch the paper from Freddie’s hands.  He muttered to himself as he read through the legaleze, “30 days… Well, fuck me sideways…”  


“Always figured you were into that kind of stuff.”  The bear’s voice rang out as she walked between them all, wearing heavy sweats which were nearly soaked through.  


“Anne!  Hey, what’s been going on?”  Freddie asked, cutting off Dennis before he had a chance to rebut with some kind of smartass comment.  


“Yeah, w’ain’t ‘eard from ya in a week, seems-l’k.”  Doug piped in as he turned to face Anne, who was unlocking the door.  “Y’know ‘bout the’viction?”  


“Of course I know.  What do [i]you[/i] think I’ve been doing?”  She glared pointedly at Freddie as she opened the doors, walking inside.  “I’ve been taking care of fucking business.  And we’ve got some shit to talk about so get the fuck in here.”  She threw the door open and walked inside leaving the men on the sidewalk as the door closed slowly behind her.  




TO BE CONTINUED


________________




________________

CREDITS:

RUSH Gyms belongs to whoever the fuck
YMCA belongs to

NOTES:
http://bleacherreport.com/articles/1644149-mma-the-role-of-promoters-managers-trainers-in-the-sport
http://www.wingsdailynews.com/2012/12/the-top-12-things-an-mma-promoter-should-be-aware-of/
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/World_Arena,_Colorado_Springs
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bojangles%27_Coliseum
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Air_Canada_Centre
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Oman_Arena
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Madison_Square_Garden