Empty Hand Revolution

Fight Culture and Opportunity

Cosmo caught his opponent’s leg. The attack had been sloppy at best. All the same, Cosmo had to respect the man’s sheer size and strength. If he let himself get too close, the result could be cracked ribs or worse.

Cosmo spun the man to the side. Using his opponent’s girth to block the referee’s field of view, Cosmo delivered a punch to the man’s groin. He followed it with one to the throat.

Before anyone could object, Cosmo swept the man’s remaining leg. Driving him to the mat, he placed a knee in the man’s chest and a choke on his already damaged larynx.

The fall knocked out his opponent’s breath. After a few seconds of choking him, it became evident the man wasn’t about to get up. The referee interceded and Cosmo relented. A dozen fights, a dozen wins.

The gathering of Indian businessmen, this time in a factory normally used to fabricate nylon feed sacks, cheered and hissed. Despite Cosmo’s winning record, many continued to bet against the Naga warrior. Their racism clouded their judgment.

 Some fights were uglier than others. Today he’d suffered only minor bruises, making it a good win. The referee rose from the mat after finishing the ten count. He whisked to Cosmo’s side and raised his hand in victory. Unable to rise on his own, Cosmo’s opponent accepted a helping hand.

Cosmo used the immediate business that followed every fight as his chance to slip from the ring and disappear into the makeshift dressing rooms converted out of conference rooms. Before he reached the hall leading from the factory floor, a hand reached for his shoulder.

He caught the hand and bent the wrist to the point of breaking.

A large Indian dressed in a suit dipped his shoulder and danced in the direction Cosmo steered him. The man gasped, “My boss just wants a moment of your time.”

At once Cosmo understood the situation. This man was hired muscle, the kind of hired muscle paid well enough to dress in a suit nicer than anything Cosmo had ever thought of owning. He dropped the man’s hand and stepped back. “Apologies. I thought perhaps someone was unhappy with my performance.”

The hired muscle stopped short of rubbing his sore wrist. “My fault.” His angry look didn’t match his verbal concession. “As I was saying, my boss would like a word.”

Cosmo raised a brow. “Oh?”

“For a proposition.”

Cosmo hummed with heightened anticipation and alarm simultaneously. So far he’d steered clear of the affairs of those who attended the prizefights. He knew they included some of India’s most nefarious sorts—dangerous people, connected people, rich people.

He hesitated. Delhi was supposed to be a new chapter in his life, a second chance. He was fighting for Jesus now, not for personal gain or selfish vindication.

On the other hand, he could use the additional money to do good. He could use the money to help the deserving poor create sustainable jobs. Plus, an outright rejection of the offer would carry risks of its own. Powerful people weren’t fond of being snubbed, and Cosmo didn’t even know who he’d be snubbing.

In the end, Cosmo simply nodded.

“Good. Clean yourself up. At your leisure meet me in the rug store on the corner. You’ll be back in time to collect your winnings.” The muscle suit strode away.

Cosmo continued toward the conference room where he’d left his street clothes in a plastic sack. His mind was abuzz with the mystery proposition—welcome and unwanted at the same time. The fact the muscle had mentioned Cosmo come ‘at his leisure’ indicated the sophistication of the matter. He knew the phrase meant he better not keep the boss waiting, but without having to state the obvious.

Above all else, Cosmo’s response would need to be graceful. Like always, he’d step lightly around enemies of great position and power while testing where the opportunity could lead. As with all private jobs, this one would most likely be a matter of striving to gain loyalty without surrendering it.

In the end, he would allow the job to flow around him much the same way a rock anchored itself in the current of a polluted river. Whatever the job required of him in passing, he would remain rooted firmly in place long afterward.