Where's Joel? Here's Joel!

Vomit spewed out of his mouth. The gastric acid singed his tastebuds. The repugnant smell made him upchuck again and again and again, until nothing came up.

I can’t believe I had that much shit bubbling around in my gut, the man thought to himself.

He looked around in a daze. He didn’t recognize the brick walls that now surrounded him on three sides. It wasn’t the usual alley, with the usual trash bins, he was so accustomed to waking up in.

“Uhhhhhhh,” moaned the man when he looked at the bright light streaming in from the street. He quickly raised his hand to his forehead, casting a shadow over his rapidly contracting pupils.

He slowly crawled his way over to the brick wall, and started pulling himself up.

He looked down at himself. It was going to be a good day. He didn’t get any puke on his clothes.

He trudged his way to the street. It was about time to find out where he was and piece together the night and how he ended up where ever the fuck he was.

“That man smells like poo,” some kid said to his mom. The mother made some comment to the kid, but the guy didn’t hear. He was sure if wasn’t good.

He took a big whif. The kid was right. He smelt like a rotting, dead dog ass.

His body recoiled. It tried to rid itself of any fluid still left. There was nothing. He just dry-heaved again.

He didn’t see anything on the street that triggered his neurons. He had no recollection of getting to where he was.

He fished through his pants pockets. His jaw dropped when he found a wad of cash in his pocket. There must have been five grand.

A grin formed across the lips of the man. He started to remember.

All the blood. The chipped teeth. The sound of fists and boots pounding flesh.

Two rows of nicotine stained teeth turned the grin into a smile. A small chuckle erupted from his bowels.

Last night, he attended a party. He wasn’t a guest. He was the entertainment.

The social function was a birthday party for the next Escobar Martinez.

Martinez was busted two months ago by some undercover fed.

A new drug lord was about to reign over the land. His name was Julio Sanchez, and he was about to turn 36.
He was a little young to take over such a large operation, but he had the cunning, tenacity and insanity of his three predecessors.

The man, who 21 hours later would wake up in an alley, was third of four bouts on the fight card.

If he won, he’d receive 10 large. If he lost, he’d likely be dead.

He got himself into a bare-knuckle street fight. He needed the money, and didn’t care if he lived or died. It was the perfect occupation.

He also brought in a bigger crowd than most. He was an ex-underwear model.

His head was shaved and he no longer had glasses. His people told him to get laser eye surgery once he could afford it. People don’t look at your face when you’re modelling ginch, but glasses ruin careers. Even more so than the dreaded pixie stick.

The streetfighter was about to battle a Canadian hotshot. He had a pretty face that just needed a beating. That’s what he heard anyway. The guy’s name was Court Aubuchon.

The once undestructable model had become an invincible fighter. He could hear the sound of the announcer mumble. The crowd roared.

It was his turn. The door, to the room he sat in, opened. He made his way to a ring, which was a empty concrete pool.

More than 200 people lined the edge of the pool. They wanted blood and he was going to give it to them.

The former model wore a pair of Calvin Klien jeans and a pair of vans. His chiseled muscles rippled with ever little movement.

He eyed his opponent standing on the other side of the pool.

Ding! The bell rang.

The two combatants charged one another. Neither competitor hesitated in taking the first blow.

Hotshot took punch one to the face. An immediate bruise developed just under his eye.

Pukey took a fist to the side. A rib snapped. He landed another knuckle sandwich to Court’s head. This time, blood burst from the nasal cavity. The nose bone bent at an irregular angle.

Court landed one more blow, but it glanced off of the prettyboy’s abs.

Court fell to the floor of the pool and got stomped on by a pair of skater shoes.

The man wearing the shoes didn’t stop until the last breath escaped the Canadian’s lips.

He raised his hands in the air victorious.

“Joe L, Joe L, Joe L,” the crowd chanted.

Joel got out of the pool, and grabbed a towel. He wiped as much of the blood off of him as he could.

A wad of American 20s were placed in his hand. He was escorted to a limo that took him to a strip club downtown.

The night became a bit of a blur after the first bottle of tequila. It became pitch black after the second.

He did remember the stripper that sucked his dick for a 100 bucks. It was worth it.

Joel leaned against the side wall of that strip club right now.

He decided against a morning drink and headed over to McDonald’s just a block down the road.

He wanted two cheeseburgers, supersized fries and a thick chocolate milkshake.

He still had five grand. It was enough to go home, back to his life in the foothills of the Rocky Mountains.