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People had begun to gather around, neglecting the other fights that were still going on. The Shamus and McClanahan rivalry had been well known. The people were hoping for blood. They were so petty, Jake thought. So blood thirsty. He hated them.
                  “Deal!” Shamus shouted, shaking McClanahan's hand robustly.
                  “You just sealed your fate, bouyo,” McClanahan said, his grin revealing plaque-encrusted teeth. He put his hand to his mouth and shouted. “Malic! Come here, you daft boy. Got you sum fresh meat!” Then he leaned in. “The boy ain't none too bright, but man can he take a lickin'. Give one out, too.
                  The crowd of people parted as the other fighter made his way to the center. Finally, Jake got a glimpse of him. He was the biggest man Jake had ever seen. He towered over everyone around him, at least a foot taller than Jake. His arms were thick tree trunks. They had Jake beat in both reach and thickness. The boy's hairy, meaty chest rose and fell rapidly as the crowd began to chant his name.
                  “Ma-lic! Ma-lic! Ma-lic!” they chanted, until the barn filled with a dull roar.
                  McClanahan was soaking up every second of it, really rubbing it in. Shamus seemed surprisingly calm and uncharacteristically silent.
                  The giant Malic was grinning from ear to ear; he liked the attention, the praise. He was vain, self-centered. He did not fight for sport, but for himself. For fame, for notoriety. Jake shook his head. Was there none pure left? Perhaps the monster Ras' Guul was right. People were piteous, corrupt creatures. Maybe they did deserve what came to them. Maybe Jake did, too. He had thought long and hard about what Ras' Guul had told him. About the demon living inside of him. He felt it sometimes, gnawing at his insides, raging against its shackles. Jake longed to release it, to let go of it all. To let himself be torn apart by whatever forces battled inside of him. He was tired. Tired of running, of hiding, of fighting. A perpetual fight. One that couldn't be won. It would wage for his entire life. He had been doing it for years now, ever since that night in the police station. Only death would bring him real release. Sometimes he prayed privately that one of his opponents would get a lucky strike, a fatal blow that would end the madness. As of yet, however, none had even been able to best him. Even when he tried to let them win. It always ended the same way.
                  Malic was huge, though, with a solid jaw and a thick brow. He looked like a real fighter, scuffed and scarred, with scarred skin and missing teeth. He had earned his fighting abilities through hardship, through perseverance. His heart may not have been pure, but it was certainly strong. Perhaps there was hope after all. Maybe Jake would finally lose a fight. He prayed for it, for death. The gods didn't answer, though. They never did.
                  Jake gazed vacantly at his own blemish-free skin an Shamus wrapped his hands in gauze and tape. “I don't want to fight anymore,” Jake said.
                  Shamus stopped abruptly, giving Jake a wild-eyed look. “What? Stop talking crazy, boy.” He went back to wrapping Jake's hand.
                  “I don't want to hurt people anymore. Plus, I'm tired,” Jake said.
                  Shamus scowled. “Lad. Ain't no shame in hurtin' people that need it! This is about pride, boy, about strength and honor. You have to fight, boy; it's what you were born to do. It's your gift. I've seen you out there. Not a man alive can take a beating like you can. It's inhuman.”
                  Jake felt the heat of tears welling up in his eyes. “I want to go home,” he said.
                  Shamus grimaced. “This is your home, Jake. We are your family. The boys and me.