By Peter B. and Art Intelli

Chapter Seven: The Trial of Strength

I spent the next few days under the ever-watchful eyes of the Baldies. My body ached from hard labor — hauling firewood, scrubbing tires, and fetching supplies. Still shackled at the wrists and ankles, I could do nothing but obey. Viktor in his cage was never fed.  Brought water once a day.  Maybe.

At night, my chains padlocked to a tree, I dreamt about possible escapes, but every plan seemed doomed. Viktor was caged. I was in irons.  The bikers were ruthless, their camp well-guarded. Fuzz, in particular, seemed to delight in watching me.  He enjoyed it to see me struggle as I worked against my chains, always smirking from the shadows.

Then, one evening, after another grueling day, Q-Ball gathered the gang around the fires and made an announcement.

“Time for some fun, boys.” His voice was slick, full of amusement. He turned to me, ignoring Viktor in his cage. “I’ve been wonderin’ what to do with you two. We’re can’t keep both of you, only one.”

The bikers chuckled darkly.

“But I just can’t decide which one of you we should keep.  The So-Called Strongman there in a cage, or this guy in chains.  So I figured — why not let you decide for yourselves? A fight. Just you two. One-on-one.”  Q-Ball’s grin widened and he raised his voice even louder.  “One fight. One winner. Loser gets locked up like the dog he is in that cage from this moment on and left here in it when we ride south for Mexico in a few weeks. The winner? He joins the Baldies.  Or he dies.”

The bikers roared their approval. My heart pounded. I turned to Viktor in his cage. “You expect us to just beat each other to a pulp for your entertainment?” Viktor said, his voice quiet but firm.

Q-Ball shrugged. “Ain’t got nothin’ to do with entertainment. This is about survival. A real strongman knows when it’s his time to fight.”

I felt like I had been hit in the head. Fight Viktor? My mentor? My friend? The man who had made strong? It was unthinkable.

“I won’t fight him,” I said through gritted teeth.

“Oh, you will,” Q-Ball chuckled darkly. “Or we’ll just kill you both now and save ourselves the trouble of deciding.”

I turned to Viktor, my heart pounding. Viktor gave me a small nod, barely perceptible, but I knew immediately what he was saying: Trust me.

The bikers wasted no time. They quickly pulled Viktor out of his cage, visibly weakened from his time in that fucking kennel.  He rose up slowly, rolled his shoulders, stretching.

Q-Ball clapped his hands. “No rules. No rounds. No mercy. Fight!”

“His irons,” Viktor protested. “If you want a fair fight, you gotta unchain him.”  Q-ball thought for just a moment, then nodded to Warden. Warden approached me with hammer and chisel in his big paw, and almost as quickly as they had been hammered on, I was tackled down to the anvil, and the manacles were struck from my wrists and ankles.  The Bikers roared with laughter and excitement as they formed a ring around us, and we were pushed into the center of the dirt circle.

Viktor stood across from me, his massive chest rising and falling in slow, controlled breaths. Even in the dim light, I could see the muscles in his arms, still thick as steel cables, flexing as he rolled his shoulders. He wasn’t just big — he was a wall of power, a man built for lifting, crushing, dominating. And yet, I knew him. Knew the kindness behind the strength. Knew the way he had looked after me, pushed me to be better. And now, we were supposed to fight.

Viktor’s eyes locked onto mine.  I was searching his, maybe hoping he had some kind of way out of this. But there was no way out. If we didn’t fight, they’d kill us.

My stomach dropped. I continued looking at Viktor, whose face gave away nothing. He knew what was being asked of us. The bikers wanted blood, a fight to entertain them before they abandoned whoever lost. For a long moment, neither of us moved. I swallowed hard. “Viktor, I—”

He nodded once. A silent signal. If they were going to make us fight, we’d fight.

The bikers whooped and hollered as Viktor cracked his neck.

The fight began.

At first, we hesitated, circling each other, trying to figure out how to make it look real without doing too much damage. I swallowed hard and lunged first. Maybe it was better if I started it? Maybe that would make it easier? My fists crashed into his ribs — solid, unmoving, like punching stone. He barely flinched before he swung back, a wide arm catching my side and sending me stumbling, a solid hit my ribs — not enough to break anything, but enough to sell the fight. I staggered but stayed upright. The bikers roared with approval.

I retaliated with a wild swing, but Viktor dodged easily. Another punch came, and I took it. I played my part, letting myself stumble. Then, when the timing was right, I threw a punch that connected squarely with Viktor’s jaw. It was real this time — just enough force to make it convincing.

Viktor grinned, wiping blood from his lip. “Not bad.”

Before I could react, Viktor’s fist crashed into my ribs, knocking the wind out of me.

I staggered back, clutching my side. Viktor’s expression was steely. “No hesitation, boy,” Viktor muttered. “Or you lose.”

I clenched my fists. With a roar, I charged forward, throwing a punch at Viktor’s jaw.

It then turned brutal. We exchanged countless hard blows under the firelight, dirt kicking up around us as we wrestled like two wild animals. Viktor’s strength was undeniable, but I was younger, faster, and desperate.  Viktor had been starved and confined.  The bikers cheered and jeered, making bets, egging us on.

I could taste the dirt in the air, thick with sweat and the stink of oil and leather. The bikers surrounded us in a tight circle, their faces twisted with excitement, their shouts like distant echoes in my ears. The headlights from their bikes cut through the darkness, casting long, dancing shadows across the dirt.

At one point he caught me off guard and grabbed me — his grip like iron, crushing around my arms as he lifted me clean off the ground and slammed me down hard. The air shot from my lungs, my vision blurring for a second.

I rolled away before he could pin me, scrambling to my feet. My ribs screamed, but I ignored it. I had to be faster. I feinted left, then shot right, landing a punch to his jaw. His head barely moved. But his eyes flickered — just for a second. Pride.

He swung again, but I ducked. My fists connected with his gut. Once. Twice. He grunted, but when he shoved me backward, it was like swatting away a fly. I hit the dirt hard, coughing.

The bikers cheered, laughing. To them, this was just another show.

Viktor surged forward, and loomed over me, breathing heavily. His fists clenched. I could see the pain in his eyes. He didn’t want to do this. Neither did I.

But now it was time to end it.  He lifted me to my feet with terrifying ease. I barely had time to react before he slammed me back down into the dirt. The air rushed from my lungs. I lay still, coughing, struggling to breathe.

The bikers went wild.

I pushed up to my feet, wiping blood from my mouth. I charged. He caught me again, again lifting me as if I weighed nothing. But this time, when he could’ve slammed me down — he hesitated. Just for a second.

And then, so quietly only I could hear, he murmured under his breath, “Do it.”

My heart clenched.

“Vik—”

“Do it!”

His grip loosened, just enough.

I twisted, throwing my whole weight forward, using every ounce of strength I had. I drove my knees into his ribs, twisted free out of his grasp, and hooked my arm around his neck, plummeting him to the ground.

The bikers roared louder.

I hesitated. Just for a moment.  Then I did what had to be done.

I pulled him back, locking him to the ground in a chokehold. He didn’t fight it. He let me.

Seconds passed. Minutes?

“Winner!” one of the bikers finally yelled.

A hand grabbed my shoulder and yanked me up.  It was Q-Ball who laughed and said “Well, well. Looks like the kid’s got more fight in him than we thought.”

I looked down at Viktor. He lay there, chest heaving. But in his eyes, I saw it — the slightest nod. The faintest trace of a smile on his bloodied lips.

“You won, kid,” Viktor said, voice raspy. “Go. With them.  Save yourself.”

I stared down at Viktor as the bikers hauled him back into that fucking cage. The lock clicked shut. The realization hit me harder than any punch to the gut I had just received. I had won, but only because Viktor had let me. And, at what cost?

Now, I had to make sure it wasn’t for nothing.

Q-Ball threw an arm around my shoulders. “Congrats, rookie. You’re one of us now.”

As the bikers celebrated, I turned my gaze toward the edge of The Circle. The cage. The campfire. The sound of my own heart beat thundering in my ears.

This wasn’t over. Not yet.