‘Me?’ Rube smiles. He’s tough and sure and doesn’t seem to have any fear. Or at least he won’t show it. He only says, ‘I won’t need to get up,’ and the thing is, he knows he won’t. Bumper knows he won’t. I know he won’t. You can smell it on him, like that guy in Apocalypse Now that everyone knows won’t die. He loves the war too much, and the power. He doesn’t even consider death, let alone fear it. And that’s exactly how Rube is. He’s walking out of here with fifty dollars and a grin. That’s it. Nothing more to say about it.

We meet some people.

‘So you’ve got some new blokes, ay?’ An ugly old guy smiles at Perry — a smile like a stain. He sums us up and points. ‘The little one’s got no hope, but the older fella looks all right. A bit pretty maybe, but not too bad at all. Can he fight?’

‘Yeah,’ Perry assures him, ‘and the little one’s got heart.’

‘Good.’ A scar crawls up and down the old guy’s chin. ‘If he keeps gettin’ up, we might just have us a slaughter. We haven’t had a slaughter here for weeks.’ He gets right in my eyes, for power. ‘We might just hang him up here with the pigs.’

‘How about you leave, old man?’ Rube steps closer. ‘Or maybe we’ll hang you up instead.’

The old man.

Rube.

Their eyes are fixed on each other, and the man is dying to have Rube against the wall, I swear it, but something stops him. He only makes a brief statement.

He states, ‘You all know the rules, lads. Five rounds or until one of y’s can’t get up. The crowd’s restless tonight. They want some blood, so be careful. I’ve got me some hard fellas myself, and they’re keen, just like you. See you out there.’

When he leaves, it’s Perry who has Rube up against the wall. He warns him. ‘If you ever do that again, that guy’ll kill you. Understand?’

‘Okay.’

‘Say yes.’

Rube smiles. ‘Okay.’ A shrug. ‘Yes.’

He releases him and straightens his suit. ‘Good.’

Perry then takes us through another hall and into a new room. Through a crack in the door, we see the crowd. There are at least three hundred of them. Probably more, all crammed into the cleared factory floor.

They drink beer.

They smoke.

They talk.

Smile.

Laugh.

Cough.

It’s a crowd of stupid men, old and young. Surfers, footballers, Westies, the lot.