THE FIRST RULE OF FIGHT CLUB
date: 30 december 2016 time: 13:30 location: basement of the bar grifone open
There was something intoxicating about chaos. The sounds of screams, the frantic running and blind grasping, and most of all the scent of fear in the air, that unique, heady concoction that seemed to walk hand-in-hand with panic and disorder. Some people relied on narcotics for euphoria, but for Orpheus Ahulani there was no drug quite as pure as discord.
He could still recall the events of the masquerade if he closed his eyes, the image almost imprinted on the backs of his eyelids, preserved in perfect technicolour and in all their glory. He’d come to the witches’ party with pumping blood and bared teeth and had expected anarchy, but the powers that be had truly outdone themselves that night, had granted him a spectacle of monumental grandeur.
By now, the dust had settled, at least superficially, and every creature in attendance on the night of the twenty-sixth had slunk back into their holes, many retreating from the world to lick their wounds or tend to their loved ones. For now, all parties appeared content to nurse their bruised egos and mull over the (truly delicious) mayhem that had erupted four nights ago, and so business in the city resumed as usual, in a distinctly feeble attempt to paper over the cracks that were beginning to show in its otherwise pristine surface.
Luckily, this pervasive lassitude ensured that, for at least the near future, Orpheus was in no danger of being summoned for Capulet business. For now, he was back where he belonged, and so out of the insipid glare of daylight he climbed down, down, down, descending into the underground realm he so cherished, free to preside over the dark and foul deeds of his loyal subjects without fear of interruption, to relish in the cloak of shadow and smoke that those parts of the city untouched by the elite had woven for him.
The Bar Grifone was a particular favourite haunt, a dimly-lit, low ceilinged little place, tucked away innocuously between a jeweller’s and a bookshop, that looked for all the world to be just another ordinary tavern frequented by locals and the odd intrepid tourist. But one only had to descend into the basement, below street level and away from prying eyes, before the cloying scent of blood and sweat and the repeated drumbeat of fists connecting with flesh gave way to one of the worst-kept secrets the city had to offer, one of its most notorious locales.
There were several such gatherings across Verona, all of them underground, all of them presided over by the king beneath the city, but this one was his personal favourite, the one he graced with his presence most often. There was something about this particular... collective (to call it a ‘fight club’ seemed tired and clichéd, but in essence such a designation was accurate) that was particularly entertaining, something especially unhinged behind the eyes of the people who came here to purge their rage through their fists that truly captivated his attention. This was where the best fighters came, and so naturally this was where Orpheus had gravitated in search of soldiers for the army he was building.
(Now, every bruiser he knew within five miles was loyal to him.)
He didn’t often take part in bouts himself - when he did, one or two punches was usually sufficient to ensure his opponent didn’t get back up . Today was no exception, and so instead he sat in judgement as he watched over proceedings, looking every inch the king atop his throne, a hand-rolled cigarette clasped between grinning lips and a half-empty beer bottle dangling from his fingertips.
Footsteps on the stairs drew his attention, and Orpheus lazily turned his head to regard the individual entering the ring. To see a mob member was something of a surprise - generally the underground and surface worlds stayed fairly separate - and the smirk on his face widened in response, twisting across his lips like a vine, eyes glimmering darkly in the low lighting.
“Well, well. What brings you down here?”
