“Are you actually bragging about how often you’d be sexually assaulted in prison?” I ask, having seriously considered knocking the bar out of his hands while he was lifting it just to see what would happen.
“It’s not a gift, dude,” he says. “It’s a curse.”
“Anyone know who tipped off the cops?” I ask him, taking the cuffs off each side of the barbell and adding another fifty pounds, twenty five on each side.
“Who knows?” he asks. “Maybe no one did. Those things can get pretty loud, and the way you were screwing with that guy was starting to piss people off.”
“So it’s my fault?” I ask.
“Well, you certainly didn’t help,” he answers, wiping off the bench with his towel.
“What do you know about the tournament?” I ask, giving the bench an extra going over with my own towel.
“Same as you, I guess,” he says.
“Which is what?” I ask. “All I’ve heard is that there’s going to be one.”
“Yeah, man,” Logan says, getting behind the bar to spot me. “Guys from the biggest pits in the state got together a while ago in Madison and they set the thing up. It’s going to be big.”
“How big?” I ask, lifting the bar from its place.
“Ten thou per winner big,” he says. “More than that, though, the guys who are putting this together are going to tape the whole thing and put it up on the internet, so it’s good exposure, too. One guy from each weight class, straw through super, is to be chosen from within each pit to be in the tournament. Eight guys total in each class, so a champ’s gonna have to pull off four wins,” Logan says, his eyes drifting after a passing female in an obnoxiously bright pink leotard. “Nothing you can’t handle.”
“You’re not going to go for it?” I ask. “How do they decide who to put in the tournament?”
“There’s not enough time to put together tournaments within the pits. First fight’s in a few weeks and they come pretty quick after that. We could try to throw something together, but people have jobs. All the guys we got showing up lately, it’d take us a few months to get through ‘em all only to discover you’re the best featherweight and I’m the best light heavyweight. Everyone already knows that. Expect a phone call in the next couple days.”
“I appreciate that,” I grunt, wondering if this is my fifth or sixth rep.
“You get us in the same weight class, whether I go down some pounds or you go up some, I’m going to humiliate you every time, but as long as we’ve got a couple of classes between us, I don’t have to think of you as just another statistic,” he says.
I lift the bar one last time and set it down with a loud clang into its cradle. When I sit up, I’m laughing.
“What?” Logan asks.
“Someone pointed out to me recently that I talk myself up to some pretty ridiculous levels, but I didn’t actually hear what she was talking about until you said what you just said. It’s kind of embarrassing,” I tell him, patting him on the back.
“What are you talking about?” he asks, sensing that I’ve made fun of him somehow, but not quite able to figure out how.
“Just the whole, ‘if you and I get in the ring together, one of us is getting into a body bag,’ thing,” I tell him. “It’s got a real professional wrestling vibe to it, and I’m pretty sure real people don’t actually talk like that.”
“So you’re saying I’m not a real person now?” he asks.
“That’s exactly what I’m saying,” I tell him. “It’s like you’re trying to sell tickets to pay-per-view events and you kind of sound like an ass.”
“You wanna go?” he asks, getting into his stance. He doesn’t seem to appreciate the admittedly enthusiastic fit of laughter that is my response to his posturing.
“I wouldn’t want to do anything to crack that statuesque face of yours,” I tell him. “Who knows when the next fight will get busted? Your new jail friends would be devastated if you went off to the pokey looking like uncooked hamburger.”
“You’re kind of a prick, you know that, Ellis?” he asks.
“Dude, you can call me by my first name,” I tell him.
“What’s up with you today?” he asks. “You’re starting to act like you did after you beat the snot out of that ninjitsu guy last year.”
I do tend to get a little smug when I’m feeling good about my life.
“Well come on, man. I get the whole thing was about espionage and not really focused on traditional combat, but who’s not going to be pretty excited about beating up a ninja?” I ask. “That’s the kind of thing you put on a resumé,” I tell him. “Or a bumper sticker,” I add. “A t-shirt would work pretty well, too, I think.”