I grew up a bit rowdier than the average boy, even for someone born in the early 80s. Things were getting out of hand when my dad got the idea to take me to a boxing gym. There, under the tutelage of a man named Giuseppe, I learned the manly art of fisticuffs.
Boxing gave me somewhere to focus my energy. By the time I was in my teens, I'd stopped stealing sweet buns and no longer shook down younger boys for their pocket money. I was a lean, motivated contender.
I won my first three professional fights back-to-back. Soon I was considered an up-and comer with a record to back up my reputation. I was twenty-one when a man approached me and told me that if I didn't throw my next fight, I'd regret it. That it was time for me to make room for a gang-sponsored fighter. Some group of street punks fancied themselves as fight promoters. I laughed at him. I was young, arrogant, and I didn't lay down for anybody.
My next bout was a few weeks later. I won. KO, fourteen seconds into the first round.
I regretted it.
One day I came home from a weigh-in and my place was trashed. I tried calling my girlfriend. No answer. I was on my way back out to my car when four guys caught me. I put up a fight, but who can take on four guys?
I was tied to a chair when I came to. There were questions. Demands. Beatings. I held up pretty well until they started smacking my girl around. In the end, I agreed to retire and leave the country.
I'm not proud of how the next few years unfolded. It was 2002 when I ran to Mexico. My girlfriend left me. I spent most of my time smoking hash and trying to avoid honest work. Usually, that meant prize fights in a shitty bar near the border.
I got lucky in the end, in a weird sort of way. I lost a fight. I was piss drunk, but I remember that I put on a hell of a show. Furniture got broken. Drinks were spilled. Good times. So I was flat on my back, seeing stars and hearing bells when some guy leaned over me. He was shouting. Then he slapped me and everything snapped back into focus. I'm sober as a judge and perky as a kindergarten teacher. He gave an address and told me to be there in the morning if I ever wanted to be more than a fat, drunk gringo.
I'd had my moment of clarity. I threw away what drugs I had stashed, I showered, shaved, and I was there before sunup. At the home of a master luchador, Dominigo, who welcomed me into his life and trained me. Somehow, he'd seen a shred of potential in a drunk who took a beating on a barroom floor. I wasn't about to squander the opportunity. I trained like I'd never trained before. The closer we worked together, the closer we grew. I learned that he had once been an enforcer for the Mexican cartels. I told him about my exile and my previous experiences in the ring.
Mexican wrestling was different from what I was used to. Lots of acrobatics and martial arts moves. It was a new style that meshed pretty well with my boxing background. After several months of intense training, Dom told me that my first fight would be against an American. I'll never forget this part.
"I talk to my old boss, and he talk to the man who retired you. He puts his best fighter against mine. So I pick you. You lose, you return in shame. You win, you are free to stay in America."
I was stunned. I had a life in Mexico. One I was happy with. Still, the thought of payback was very alluring. I couldn't turn it down.
So in 2005, Dom drove me from Mexico City to Las Vegas in his old DeSoto. It would've been a fun trip under different circumstances. I was honored that he joined me.
The fight took place in a dank basement. It was rough. I broke two fingers in the first few minutes. I was hurting. Worse, I was losing.
I was pissed.
I channeled that anger into a surprising comeback and knocked out my opponent. The room went silent and still, which lasted for about two seconds. Then a bunch of angry-looking guys started heading for me.
I heard Dom again. "No. We had a deal." Old, wrinkled, and smiling, he was holding a pistol in each hand. "He won. You let us go."
They obliged. I don't think anybody wanted to get shot by an old Mexican guy in a dirty basement. I tried to tell Dom that we'd made a mistake, that we never should've come to Vegas. He just smiled. "What would you do, gringo? Run forever? That is no way to live. Whatever happens now, we acted as proud, honorable men. And if they come for us, we will kill them all."
Somewhere along the line I'd forgotten that this guy used to hurt people for a living.
We weren't looking for a fight. We just always won when fights found us. I distracted the first group by lounging around and pretending to be drunk. Dom snuck up behind them with a wrench and laid them both out. They came to our hotel room next. It was a close call, but we came out on top. Not only that, we had more firepower.
It was time for us to go on the offensive. We had some shotguns, one grenade, and a shitload of attitude. Our first move was to snag up a gangbanger and interrogate him. As it turned out, all this mess was being caused by one guy named Lucca and a handful of wannabe wiseguys.
Things got hectic. We tore through the thugs, but we didn't come out clean. I took a bullet in the leg. Still makes me limp sometimes. Dom got one of his arms busted while he was yanking me out of a car crusher.
In the end, he's the one who tracked Lucca to his office. I'd been saving that grenade. I wired it into Lucca's chair so it'd go off when he pulled it out to sit down. I ended up catching the maid instead. She didn't know shit about vendettas. She was just there to vacuum. I'd gotten caught up in my own need for revenge and I got an innocent woman killed.
I strangled Lucca to death in a parking lot a few days later, but I didn't get the sense of closure I'd been looking for. Still, the deed was done. In short, I didn't know what the hell to do with myself. I started drinking again. I thought Dom would go back to Mexico, but he stayed in Vegas and opened a gym, mostly so he could look after me.
I moved into a loft above the gym. I drank. I grew stagnant. It feels like I was up there for years, but it was only a few weeks before rumors were being exchanged about a fearless guy who had a wily old Mexican for a sidekick. It didn't help that all the violence had stirred up the Vegas PD. In truth, I was hiding as much as I was drinking.
They were calling me "the fat man." Dom's nickname for me had stuck. Not only that, people were starting to think of me as some righter of wrongs. A mercenary with a heart of gold.
I was approached through a mutual friend for my first job. I was about to throw both guys out when I started thinking… Why not? It's not like I was doing anything else, and the heat had finally died down. So I agreed to help this guy. His daughter had a stalker who was getting aggressive.
I'd learned from my mistakes. I investigated, a little clumsily at first, but I figured it out. After following the girl for a few days, I discovered that she was egging on her "stalker" and lying to her dad about it.
Another job followed soon after. And another. Then more. It's been about six years since I embraced the legend and became the Fat Man. Unlicensed private detective. Vigilante for hire. Some days it's dangerous. Some days are boring as fuck. I try to keep my jobs simple and safe whenever I can. Of course, that almost never works.
