Volk's Arc

Chapter 3 of 5

By week four, Volk had a routine. Hard rounds at the gym, then a late meal at the taco shop down the road. The grill smoked all night there. He ate over two pounds of carne a day to fuel his camp. The staff learned his order by heart. He thought it was a small, quiet corner of his life. Then he walked in one night and saw his face on the menu board. A new item sat at the top in bold letters: "The Volk." Below it, a photo of a tray stacked high with carne. The cook grinned and pointed at the sign. "Two pounds. Named it after you, champ." A few customers clapped. One asked for a picture. Volk forced a smile and took the plate. His phone buzzed before he finished eating. The photo was already online. Someone had posted it. Then O'Malley sent it to him with three laughing emojis. The next morning O'Malley met him at the cage, phone up, filming. His dreadlocks swung as he laughed. The tattooed former champion who owned these mats loved a good shot at Volk. "The retirement taco," he said. "Two pounds of beef for the old man. They should add a nap on the side." The gym laughed. Volk felt heat climb his neck. The joke was harmless. That was the problem. People already saw him as the aging champ who ate big and faded slow. A taco with his name made him a mascot, not a threat. Volk could have let it slide. Instead he grabbed his gloves. "You think I eat like I'm done," he said. "Get in. Let's find out." O'Malley lowered the phone. "You sure, old man? Just ate two pounds of beef." "Three," Volk said. "Had breakfast too." They went five hard rounds. No cameras now. O'Malley drove forward, fast and sharp. Volk met him. He slipped punches and dug to the body. Round four, O'Malley slowed. Round five, Volk had him against the fence, breathing hard. When the bell rang, O'Malley bent over his knees. Volk spat out his mouthpiece. "Still want to name a nap after me?" O'Malley laughed between breaths. He wiped his face. "Alright. Alright." He stood straight and looked at Volk different now. Not a joke. A problem. "You're faster than the tape says." That was the issue. Volk had wanted to shut the joke down. He had. But he had also shown O'Malley his real speed, up close, with no holding back. The man who wanted to fight him now knew exactly how sharp he still was. That night the cook waved him over. "Your taco's our best seller," he said. "Whole state's talking about it." Volk nodded and took his plate. The joke was his name now, like it or not. And across town, the one man planning to beat him had just watched him prove why that name mattered.