Pit Fighters Excerpt: Vladymir Igor Saltovsky

Vladymir Saltovsky has arrived in America. Working odd jobs, Vlad drifts toward his destiny.

       Vladymir spent several months in San Francisco. It took several weeks to get his papers in order, but Vlad immediately went looking for work.
       Vlad worked as a dishwasher in a seafood restaurant chain. During that time, Vlad picked up the language and tried to communicate as best he could when necessary. But mostly he just listened and tried to decipher the language.
       “Wash these, big man.”
       “He’s kind of cute.”
       “Fucker didn’t even tip me. Bastards.”
       “Man, I got wasted last night.”
       “We need forks, Vladymir.”
       “You’re not doing a good job.”
       It didn’t take long for Vladymir to figure out his position was not as respected as he would have liked. He quit the job and thumbed his way east, landing odd jobs along the way.
       In Flagstaff, Arizona, Vladymir worked at a formal car wash establishment for a year and cleaned out cars.
       In Truth or Consequences, New Mexico, Vladymir worked as a “lumper” in a warehouse for five months. It was here that he began to pick up on the Spanish language.
       In El Paso (where he picked up even more Spanish), Vladymir worked in construction for two years, learning to build houses. He became specialized in plumbing. By this point, his understanding of English was excellent, but heavily accented. His time in T or C learning Spanish helped as well, and Vlad eventually became a foreman for several projects.
       The wind then blew Vladymir south again, in which he landed in San Antonio. He took a job as a plumber by day, but decided to be a bouncer by night to earn some extra cash. He still did not have a vehicle and making ends meet for rent and food was tough.
       The bar he worked at was a Tejano bar called, “El Conejo”. He only worked the Thursday, Friday, and Saturday night shifts, making good money.
       His work clothes usually consisted of a pair of cut off shorts rolled up above the knee, the purple security shirt, and his blue wrestling shoes. By this point, Vladymir had grown his hair long. His dark blond hair flowed down his neck to his upper back. He kept it tied at the neck.
       One night, a fight broke out on the dance floor. Vlad was called in. With little to no effort, Vlad picked up one of the small fighters off the floor by his starched Wranglers and tossed him with one hand toward the exit, where two other bouncers pushed the man outside for authorities to handle.
       Vlad turned to the other patron, who met Vladymir’s chin with a straight punch. Vlad winced, then brought his right arm over the man’s left shoulder and toward the man’s waist. Vlad brought his left arm in front of the man’s stomach and toward his waist. Vladymir locked his hands in a reverse waist lock, locking the man’s arms in his hold. Vladymir then heaved the man over his shoulders and carried him across the dance floor to the door. The man was struggling to no avail in the hold. The crowd stood in awe.
       Exiting the building, Vladymir tossed the man to the ground. Authorities took it from there.
       A few moments after the event, one of the servers, Alice, came to Vladymir.
       “Vladymir, that was awesome,” she said, her white “El Conejo” shirt tied up above her navel.
       Vladymir, figuring that ‘awesome’ meant something good, replied stoically, “Thank you.”
       “The owner want to talk with you,” she said, waving coquettishly at the Russian brute as she went back to attend her tables.
       All eyes were on the massive Siberian as he walked up a set of stairs by the dance floor to the office upstairs.
       The room was dimly lit, with the large desk table in the middle of the room. Papers were scattered under a desk lamp. A leather chair stood alone behind the desk under a picture of a tropical beach scene. A window stood open to the right of Vladymir over the dance floor. Herbert Hess, the owner, stood by the window. Vladymir had met him once before, but usually never saw him. He seemed to come around once a week to count his money.
        Herbert Hess was a businessman in his early forties. He was wearing black dress pants and a blue pullover. He was drinking straight whiskey on the rocks in a highball glass. His bottle blond hair was combed and slicked back. His Rolex watch and gold rings sparkled when a light from the dance floor flashed into the window. Though Herbert was older, he seemed to stay in good shape. He owned two other night clubs in
San Antonio. Twice divorced with no children, Herbert owned the rights exclusively to his clubs. Little to no profits from his business endeavors were ever shared with his exes.
       Herbert turned to Vladymir. “Vladymir, my friend, sit down.”
       A little anxious, Vladymir obliged.
       “Would you like a drink?” asked Herbert.
       “Vodka. Straight,” replied Vladymir in his Russian accent.
       Herbert opened a cabinet under the picture behind his desk and prepared Vlad’s drink.
       “That was some amazing strength you showed out there,” commented Herbert as he served the drink to Vlad. “You seemed to have some skill in grappling.”
       Vlad drank half of the drink and, without flinching, replied, “I was trainer in Russian Army. I taught Sambo to soldiers.” His accent was heavy. His word choice precise.
       Hess responded, “Yes, Sambo. Like Judo, but with grips on the gi’s, right?”
       “Kurtka, not gi,” said Vlad, “But yes. Like Judo. I am expert in all aspects of Sambo.” Hess was unaware of Vlad’s skill and experience, letting his manager hire employees.
       Hess sat down at the desk in front of Vladymir. “Vlad, have you ever thought of fighting for money?”
       Vlad thought for a moment. “Why?”
       “I’m trying to put together a stable of fighters from all disciplines in San Uvalde. You’d have a training facility, food, a roof over your head, and a chance to fight for money, a job.” Hess playfully challenged Vladymir, “You think you still have it in you?”
       Vladymir took in the comment. “Have what in me?” replied Vlad, not understanding the common English colloquialism.
        “Have the skill to fight and the desire to win?”
       Vlad thought for a moment. It would be a chance for him to get back in shape. He was close to thirty pounds heavier than he was before. He remembered that night in Stavnysibirsk. The night he looked at the broken reflection in the mirror. The night he wished for help. The wish was coming true.
       “I still have skill and desire,” replied Vladymir stoically. “I will become part of stable.”

Several days later, Vladymir was transferred to the Cadillac Ranch, Hess’ other dance club establishment in San Uvalde, and began his Sambo training at the nearby facility once again.

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