The unthinkable sent me back to cold and miserable Warren, Michigan. It wasn't without controversy, but Cal McCluskey beat Robert Guilliman in a result that upset gamblers the world over. It was supposed to be one of the surest bets one could ever make. Yet there I was, back on the couch next to my cameraman in that messy living room, listening to Cal loudly have morning sex with an old gap-toothed dive bar rat he brought home overnight. “Aaaaah! Aaaaah!” Cal blew the roof off in an outpouring of sexual enjoyment, but with unconstrained anger bleeding into his voice – the audible portrait of an emotionally confused man. “Fuck! Oh fuck! Oh my god! Fuck! Holy shit! Aaaaah!” His father and housemate, Jim McCluskey, hobbled from the kitchen with a breakfast beer. He shot me a grin. “My boy's gettin' that Guilliman pussy.” Jim pointed at pictures from that infamous night in Moscow – the only memories of Cal's MMA career framed on the wall. “We gonna get more pictures on that wall after Glasgow. [Donnie] Calabrese pussy ain't Guilliman pussy but my boy's swimmin' in it all the way to that Openweight title, I tell ya what.” Cal lived to fight another day. Another round, another Real Killa. This time it's Donnie The Mob – one of MMA's greatest success stories. “Do you see some similarities between you and Donnie?” I asked Cal while he taped his fists in the garage, fog forming off our breath. “He went from seeing stars after his first few fights to becoming one himself. A punchline turned Union Grand Prix Heavyweight Champion. Do you think that's something you could take from? Like an inspiration after your own losses?” Cal scoffed. “Fuck Donnie Calabrese. More like Donna, ain't it? Cuz he's a fuckin' fat titty bitch. He has, like, a whole fuckin' gym behind him. Real Killas with all that fuckin' money 'n' shit. Phoenix's fuckin' money. Best fuckin' workout shit, like the fuckin' weights 'n' the equipment 'n' shit. The best fuckin' coaches 'n' shit. All them great fighters rubbin' his fuckin' pussy when he loses. 'Oh it's okay Donna. We still love you 'n' shit.' He loses 'n' he goes back to warm ass California with them hot ass fuckin' women all over 'n' shit. Goes to the gym 'n' there's some hot ass. Goes to the beach 'n' there's some hot ass. I said the same fuckin' shit before the Guilliman fight 'n' the same shit goes for Donna.” Cal shadow boxed for a quick second. “Look at me. A win against Guilliman shoulda changed shit. Shoulda changed my fuckin' life but here I am goin' into this fight with Donna havin' to say the same fuckin' shit. I fuckin' lose 'n' I come back to this cold ass fuckin' shithole 'n' I'm fuckin' ugly fat ass bitches like the one you saw. My trainer is my dad 'n' he's passed out inside all drunk 'n' shit. I ain't got no fancy shit all 'round me in this garage. All fuckin' given to me by somebody else 'n' all their fuckin' support. I don't got that fuckin' shit. Everything I do – my fuckin' wins, my fuckin' losses 'n' shit – it's all on me. Ya know what I'm sayin', bitch?” Cal threw an unexpected punch at the bag hanging from the garage ceiling. “Fuck!” Cal paced around aimlessly. “Pisses me off how, like, Guilliman gets all fuckin' scared 'n' shit so he's gotta kick me in the fuckin' balls 'n' shit 'n' everybody gives him a pass. We gotta protect the legend! But he's a fuckin' bitch! He's got that whole gym tellin' him it's okay 'n' he shoulda won. That's the fuckin' shit Donna goes back to after I kick his fuckin' ass.” Cal ignored his father's incoherent yells from inside. “That's why I gotta kick his fuckin' ass. Cuz if I fuckin' lose? I don't got that fuckin' support. I'll be here in this garage all by myself. Ain't nobody puttin' an arm 'round me. Dad's in here callin' me a pussy 'n' that's if I'm lucky. If he ain't half passed out like he is now. Go look in the media 'n' shit. Ain't nobody makin' excuses for ol' Cal. Ever. They all fuckin' pile on me. If I lose they all gonna be like, 'Cal is shit. See! He lost to Donna so he shoulda lost to Guilliman' or some shit. Then ain't nobody gonna be talkin' 'bout me beatin' Guilliman. How he got so scared of the most dangerous man in MMA that he kicked me in the nuts. All that shit's gettin' forgot about if I don't beat Donna's mother fuckin' bitch ass.”
“But I'm gonna beat his mother fuckin' ass!” Cal rushed to the punching bag. “I'm gonna beat his fuckin' ass!” Cal rocked the bag with furious lefts and rights. His ballistic screams and bulging eyes surged with fathomless rage. The pathetic, slow right-footed kick brought only a brief moment of unintentional humor, eclipsed by a startling headbutt and one last punch before Cal wandered away from the bag. Gasping for air, he fell back into the wall, knocking over a snow shovel. “Cal...” I had to gather myself, but felt safe in knowing Cal wore himself out. “Unlike Guilliman, Donnie is a bigger fighter than you. He has great knockout power, as do most fighters in the Union Grand Prix Heavyweight Division. This is someone who knocked a man out while on his own back in a G2 fight. Dodging has always been a problem for you. How will you approach this fight?” Cal laughed between breaths, spitting before answering. “That's a pussy bitch ass nerd question. Them fuckin' questions always make me laugh. Don't matter what you train. Where you train. How ya fuckin' train. It's all fightin'. Ya go in there 'n' fuckin' fight. If I gotta take him down then that's what I gotta do. If I gotta punch him the fuck out then that's what I gotta do. Some pussy might look at Donna 'n' them punches 'n' be all like, 'Oh no! I gotta fuckin' take it to the ground!' Or some shit. But like you said, he knocked a guy out on his back. This ain't like, a fuckin' video game or some shit. Or like, a fuckin'... like a computer. Put some fuckin' numbers in or some shit, ya know? 'N' that's what ya get or like, I don't fuckin' know. But fightin' ain't like that. I don't think, like, 'I gotta stand up' or 'I gotta go to ground.' I just think about killin' that fuckin' pussy.” Cal pushed himself off the wall, doubling over for more breaths before standing up straight and looking to the camera. “That's what I'm gonna do in Glasgow on February 27th. I'm gonna beat Donna Calabrese. I'm gonna drag his fuckin' body 'round 'n' get the fuckin' British queen. I'm gonna have both those bitches suckin' my big fat American dick. I'm gonna squeeze Donna's big fat titties. Motorboat 'em 'n' shit. Get a titty fuck. Then I'm gonna fuckin' murder 'em both. I'll kill anybody else in that fuckin' country who wants a piece of me cuz I'm the baddest man on the fuckin' planet.” Cal got right up to the camera, his face almost pressed against the lens. “But I'm gonna kill the fuck outta Donna Calabrese most of all them. Cuz fuck you, Donna Calabrese. And fuck the grave the Killas bury you in. Cuz when they, them fans, and your family all stand 'round your grave in Shitcago watchin' me piss on your fuckin' casket, that's when everybody's gonna know that Cal McCluskey is for real. Ain't gonna be no excuses no more. They ain't kickin' my wins under the rug, bitch. They gonna put some fuckin' respect on my name – the respect I fuckin' deserve 'n' everything that comes with it 'n' shit. Then I'll come back to Shitcago to fuck your mom when I get that Union Grand Prix Openweight Championship 'round my fuckin' waist. February 27th in Glasgow on the Battleground Network, Donna Calabrese – my new life starts when your life ends.” Will Cal McCluskey's unthinkable journey continue in the UGP Openweight Championship Tournament?
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