The Dogs of Bakersfield

The late afternoon sun beat down on Bakersfield like a slow executioner, scorching the cracked pavement, rusted fences, and the men who called this place home. 

Behind a run-down auto shop, a crowd had gathered, their voices raw with anticipation. They circled a makeshift fighting ring—just a roped-off patch of dirt, but to the men and women watching, it might as well have been a coliseum. They weren’t here for technique.

They weren’t here for sportsmanship.  

They were here for Mad Dog Braddock.  

Jax stood shirtless in the center, fists taped and stained with someone else’s blood. His breath came slow, steady. Like a man at peace with violence.

"Rip his goddamn head off, Mad Dog!" someone shouted.  

Jax grinned, all teeth, all threat. "Tell you what—I'll send you the jawbone as a souvenir."  

The man across from him, rumored to be an ex-con charged—heavy fists, all rage, no precision. Jax didn’t flinch. He saw the punch coming like a train with no brakes, slow and inevitable. He ducked, stepped inside, and buried an uppercut deep into the man’s ribs. A sharp crack. A strangled grunt. Jax felt the breath leave his opponent before the man did.

The right hook landed like a gunshot. The man crumpled, unconscious before he hit the ground.  

For a moment, silence. No cheers. No movement. Just the sound of the opponent’s shallow breathing against the dirt. Then, like a switch had been flipped—chaos. Cheers. Laughter. Money changing hands.  

Jax pocketed the cash, but his eyes weren’t on the money.  

"Mad Dog."  

The voice cut through the noise like a blade.  

Jax turned. Leaning against a beat-up pickup truck was an older man, a cigarette burning low between his fingers. A survivor.

"You keep this up, kid, you’re gonna run outta people dumb enough to fight you."  

Jax wiped the sweat from his brow, grinning. "Then I guess I’ll just have to start knockin’ out the smart ones."  

The old man exhaled smoke. "You ever think about takin’ this act somewhere bigger?"  

Jax didn’t answer.  

He just walked off.  

The whispers rose behind him.  

"Mad Dog’s a menace."  

"Yeah, but he’s one hell of a fighter."  

That was all Jax cared about. Not respect. Not titles. Not even money.  

Just the chaos. The destruction. The way it felt when the world stood still—just for a second—before he tore it apart again.