“It was rhetorical,” he murmurs.
“Don’t waste my time. Get the answers you need, then get out.”
“Hey, I’m just trying to form a relationship with you, okay?”
“I am uninterested in forming a relationship with you.”
“I don’t see why you have to cop an attitude.”
Some backbone! Good.
“Let me fucking tell you something,” I say, leaning forward. He sits back almost instantly. “In about thirty minutes I’m going to climb into a cage and fight a guy six-three, two-hundred and forty pounds of lean muscle mass. He’s fast as hell, and is known for taking his submission holds too far. We’re not just throwing punches, and you should know that. People have died in the cage, and permanent injury is common.”
He whispers, “I know all of that.”
“So what kind of state of mind do you fucking think you have to be in to get into that cage?”
“Um, I don’t know?”
“Exactly. You fucking don’t. But wasting my time beforehand is only going to make it harder for me to prepare that mindset. Stop fucking around. It’s not personal. I don’t care about you personally one way or the other. Take your ego out of the equation and do your fucking job so I can do mine.”
He wilts some more.
I look past him toward the door again, wondering when Dee is going to arrive. I think of her clawing at my back, her legs wrapped around my waist in a vice grip, her—
“So you, Duncan ‘Creature’ Malone, are undefeated for thirty-three fights now, right?”
“Correct.”
“Since you entered organized underground fighting, you haven’t been beaten. What is it, do you think, that makes you a much better fighter than your opponents?”
“That’s strategy.”
“Why do they call you ‘Creature’?”
“Read your own rag, I’m sure you’ve written about it before.”
“But I want to get it from your perspective.”
“I didn’t fucking come up with the nickname,” I tell him, looking into his small eyes. “I don’t refer to myself as ‘Creature’.”
“Fair enough,” he says, scribbling. “Would you say, though, that it describes your fighting style?”
“How the fuck would the word ‘creature’ describe my fighting style?”
“You know, you’re relentless in the cage. Fast, aggressive, powerful. When you fight, you give off the impression that you’re only barely under control.”
I grin. “Barely under control, huh? People who lose their minds in fights are never good at fighting. You want barely under control, go to a bar full of idiots on a Friday night. Barely under control does not describe what I, or any of my opponents do. You should know that.”
Peterson frowns. “Would you share with your fans any tips if they’re looking to get into fighting?”
“Control, discipline, and mental toughness. Technique. Leave the anger out of it.”
“Not physical toughness? Strength? Endurance?”
“You can have all the physical attributes in the world, but if you’re not good up here,” I say, tapping my temple. “You’ll never be successful.”
“I guess that’s the same with anything in life,” he says. “Why do you keep looking over my shoulder?”
“None of your business.”
He raises his eyebrows for a moment, then sighs and accepts my answer. I’m controlling this interview and he should know it. It’s high time he came around.
“You were raised in a group home, weren’t you? In the poor city of—”
“Raised isn’t what I’d call it, but I spent most of my childhood in the system, yes. In more than one group home.”
“Do you think that helped you with your fighting?”
“Of course.”
“Could you explain how?”
“There are plenty of articles on what life is like in the system,” I say. “Do some research. Even the girls learn to fight.”
“But what in particular?”
“Defending myself, obviously, especially against older boys.”
“You were bullied by older boys?”
I meet his eyes again, and he somehow shrinks a little more. “Not bullied,” I tell him. “Like I said, I defended myself.”
“Did it help the mental aspect?”
“Of course.”
“How so?”
“You’ve got to be tough or you won’t make it.”
“Won’t make it?”
“You’ll just move from one system into another.”
“Are you talking about prison?”