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THREE

With a smile the American flagged the stocky bar tender before asking tentatively for a drink he had never heard of 'Two White Ducks?'. The stocky bar tender informed him that the cost would be four hundred Roubles, 'Jesus,' he said shocked, 'anything cheaper?' Grey Goose, the bald man informed him, costing fifty Roubles each. 'Can't you mix them in the same glass?' The man gave him a withering look. 'Fuck, fine. Two White Ducks!'

"Briusk the Bruiser!" the announcer shouted.

The crowd droned softly as the American waded through the press of bodies, holding two glasses of very expensive alcohol aloft. He spotted Ivan Velikofsfky standing near the assigned table but the man was clearly tense with rage.

The bouncer stopped him with a meaty hand, he held up the drinks to the man and silently nodded towards Ivan. The man stepped aside.

As he drew closer his eyes locked onto the monster in the pit. His eyes widened 'Jesus!'.

A large head with pitch black eyes were set in the face of a pit-bull. Its taught skin seemed ready to burst off the bulging shoulders from which its short neck sprouted. It paced to and fro on the arena sand, a meter tall on its apelike arms.

He nudged the agitated Russian with a knuckle saying 'To much negotiation...' ,the American trailed off as Ivan downed the first glass before wresting the other from his benefactor and throwing it down his own throat as well. Hmm, the American hummed as it dawned on him that perhaps he should have stayed home.

Dropping the empty glasses on the table Ivan grabbed the stunned American by the shoulder and gestured to the creature ambling on the sand below, 'I laugh at your clownishness but I will show you theatre here tonight. Look at this thing. In a moment they will bring out my cat and they will ask if I am satisfied. I will say no. They will ignore me.'

'A cat?' the American asked incredulously, 'Why would you fight a cat? That thing down there is going to tear it to...'

The speakers blared over him "Vanya the cat!"

A hushed silence fell at the word cat. The crowd pushed curiously into the rails with many in the stands on their feet.

Several snickers filled the silence and the bemused American absent-mindedly unscrewed the cap from his whiskey. Following Blue-overalls into the arena was a timid creature, taller on two legs than the ape-like Pitbull was on four, yet not a third of its size.

'She's very pretty Ivan. But I have to say that even if Muts could attack humans, she wouldn't exactly have inspired a sense of doom.' The bottle went to his lips.

Velikofsky's terse face was fixed on the scared cat when he answered, 'It makes for big odds if you want to win money.'

Down in the pit Verushka's long whiskers trembled as she scanned the unfamiliar faces silhouetted above the concrete walls around her.

'Well, that's one way to look at it. What are you going to do?'

'Bet everything and hope to become a rich man.' Verushka's large ears unglued from her skull when she spotted her human.

She turned to him with an outstretched arm but he waved it down. She obeyed. The younger man watched as Velikofsky made a show with his palm to his chest, of breathing in deeply; when he exhaled his palm slid to his stomach. The cat nodded after he had reversed the gesture.

Facing the pit-bull creature, her ears relaxed and her twitching tail dropped to the sand, her posture straightened and her chin sank to her convex chest upon which small breasts sat on either side.

'Ivan, she meditates? That's sure to be effective!' Taking a deep swallow of whiskey he tried hiding the grizzled Russian's angry face behind the bottle.

"Betting will begin momentarily! Are you in order Mr. Sarkov?" he scanned the club for the source of the reply 'I am!'.

A reedy looking man with slicked down hair, tied in a pony tail pushed his chair back and stood holding up his arms to the crowd as if presenting himself. He gestured towards the pit-bull which impatiently kneaded the sand beneath its knuckles; he bowed to the crowd, then to those around the tables and sat again.

"Are you in order Mr. Velikofsky?"

In a booming voice that carried to every ear in the establishment he replied evenly 'I am not! Briusk has won four fights and is ranked in the thirty bracket. My Mut does not have a ranking yet, not even a fifty. I call a mismatch!'

A few low grumbles escaped from the crowd as all eyes gazed expectantly at the office. "As you well know, in the event that we do not have an opponent for a ranked Mut then it will be set against an unranked Mut." an unintelligible drunk, not liking the explanation, heroically yelled his displeasure from somewhere in the back. The announcer explained "This is because an unranked Mut is uncertain and could thus be more dangerous. There is no other low ranked Mut here tonight for yours to fight against Mr. Velikofsky."

'I am sure that Mr. Sarkov would like to be fair.' Velikofsky pointed openly at the reedy man who swallowed a vodka and smiled thinly at him through veiled eyes 'The roster, will you bring it down so that we may all verify?'

"Do you wish to remove your Mut's name from it Mr. Velikofsky?", acid dripped from the speakers,

The American raised the bottle to his lips and threw his head back aware that all attention was on the man beside him. Smacking his lips in satisfaction his smile returned when Velikofsky said 'No.' then reached into his coat 'The weapon is cane!'. The knobbed cane was held aloft for all to see.

"Weapon Mr. Sarkov?"

'None!' came the call from the man Velikofsky had recognized as a lieutenant to the most powerful man in Little Moscow.

"Bets now open." The drone of the crowd resumed as bets were written out and placed with three darkly dressed men on the far side of the bar. At the tables the bouncer went from group to group writing in a book as he took their money.

Ivan slumped onto the creaking chair, his elbows between his knees.

'The name's Smith by the way.' said the American to break the tension while righting the glasses and pouring whiskey for them both. He held out his hand in greeting to the other man 'I am very pleased to meet the infamous Gregoire Ivonavich.'

The man across from him looked defeated as suddenly tired eyes lingered in the arena 'If someone hears you say that name I will kill you. And then I will be killed eventually.'

Smith's face grew serious, 'I can guess why, sorry. I will be more discreet.'

Ivan smiled wanely at the younger man who pushed the liquor from a previous age under his nose 'Smith? You are a stereotype. I bet your first name is John or Jason. I wouldn't be surprised to hear you are rich man's son.'

Smith laughed, gaily twirling his blonde goatee between his fingers, 'It's James! We own a plantation!'

Under his breath 'Fucking Americans.'

The bouncer appeared at their table. Ivan asked for starting odds.

'Ten to one,' said the man carefully, 'but it will be a much larger number judging by the crowd.'

'Will she win Ivan?' said Smith digging in his pockets 'I like you but I'm not exactly going to piss my reserves away on bad bets.'

'You obviously know much about me Smith. Dig in your mind and decide whether I am worth betting on.'

The American grabbed the bottle and threw it back, taking two massive gulps from it before slamming it down on the table. Turning to the bouncer he declared in a boyish, withering voice 'Six thousand Roubles on the cat please.'