Boz was holding back the money man with the point of his knife.

And Joker was bent over Monk, who’d long since lost his feet, holding him by the collar and pummeling his fist into the bloody, swelling flesh of his face.

Before Monk passed out, Joker stopped, yanked him to within an inch of his face and demanded, “Tell me again that Chaos is pussy.”

“J-Jo—”

Joker punched him again.

Monk made a moist noise that sounded like it came from his nose and throat.

He jerked him back and ordered, “Tell me again, motherfucker. Say it. Chaos is pussy.”

Monk shook his head.

“Good,” Joker spat. “Now, you’re fucked up because I was havin’ a good night, settlin’ in, gonna down a few beers with my boys, and your bullshit put me on my bike so I couldn’t do that. What you said, though, that’s somethin’ else. That’s about Chaos, not me. And that means long-lasting retribution.”

Another moist noise from Monk, this full of fear as he tried to pull away.

Joker shook him viciously then held him still and stated, “Valenzuela does not rule this fight, and he doesn’t ’cause you had me fightin’. He’s not ready for his round with Chaos, so he’s steered clear. Now, he’s gonna get word there is no Chaos at this fight. What’s that gonna mean for you?”

Another noise of fear before, “Do-don’t, Joke, he—”

Joker cut him off, “You ran your mouth. I gave you a chance to take that shit back. You didn’t. Now you pay.”

“I-I’ll give a c-cut to Chaos,” Monk offered quickly. “Buy peace.”

“I’ll share that with Tack. He gets finished eatin’ his woman’s pussy, brings that to the Club, we’ll get back to you,” Joker bit out, reared back, and landed a powerhouse punch that had worked for him numerous times in the past.

A man like Monk, it destroyed him.

And his now-fractured cheekbone.

He was out.

Joker dropped him and straightened, turning to Rush, who was speaking to Monk’s only man left standing.

“We didn’t make our statement and you consider payback, think again. You don’t come up with the right answer and we see you when we don’t wanna see you, shit’s gonna get ugly.”

The guy looked around at the four men on the floor, only one of whom was groaning and trying to push up, two had stab wounds from Hound’s knife and were groaning, but not trying to push up, and it didn’t take a mind reader to know he considered shit already ugly.

Their message conveyed, Roscoe stated, “Let’s ride.”

They all moved out, and even though the crowd had pressed close, they didn’t waste time getting the fuck out of the way.