“Who the fuck are you?” Cal McCluskey stood in the doorway of a small, ramshackle house wearing only American flag and cheeseburger-themed boxer briefs. The 30-degree weather in Warren, Michigan didn't inspire him to put on more layers before answering the door. He noticed my cameraman. “Who's this pussy? Fuck's all this?”
“We're here to interview you and shoot footage,” I said. “It's to hype your Union Grand Prix fight. Remember?”
Cal looked confused. “That's today? Fuck...”
Cal made us wait in the messy living room while taking a shower. His dad Jim, who is also his trainer and housemate, offered breakfast beers. He called us pussies for declining. Jim sat across the room from us in a raggedy recliner, drinking a bottle of Budweiser.
“[Robert] Guilliman don't know what's comin',” Jim said. “None ya'll do. My son's been waitin' his whole life for a chance like this.”
Jim rambled before trying to sell his lawnmower through the rest of our conversation. It was hard to focus after Cal unleashed a beefy fart that echoed in the shower. Cal wouldn't stop laughing outrageously. This didn't seem unusual to his father. Cal shared the love minutes later when he farted towards me just a foot from my face, tagging on a middle finger and a “fuck you, bitch.” His father howled with great amusement.
Cal told us he started jogging for this UGP Openweight Championship Tournament. His conditioning has been criticized ever since finally breaking into professional MMA after two decades of legal problems and gym fallouts. Cal's training regiment was simple, albeit unorthodox: punching bag sessions, having people hit him in the head with shovels to “strengthen the skull,” and numerous squats throughout the day to “strengthen the anus.”
“You don't wanna shit your pants out there,” Cal said. “Get a lil' Taco Bell in ya before a fight and it gets all weird 'n' shit.”
Cal's jogging route was a gauntlet of verbal abuse from the neighborhood. We heard everything from “you fat fuck” to cries for child support payments. One young man shouted, “Guilliman's gonna kick your fucking ass!” Cal retaliated with his own hostile words, calling them “bitch” and “pussy” between exhausted breaths. His face reddened as the cold air tightened the lungs. Fatigue eventually caused him to leave the retorts unsaid. Cal endured the physical and vocal punishment. His running strides turned to trudging steps. Cal eventually asked to get in the van we shot our footage from and gave us directions to McDonald's.
“Cuz I don't give a fuck 'bout what he's done,” Cal said when we brought up what his father told us earlier. There was a pause for thought. Cal contemplated, momentarily looking out the window at a gray, bleak world outside where the snow was brown and dirty. He continued to snarf down one of the two Big Mac's he ordered. “He's like, this great champion 'n' shit. He trains at Real Killas. That's like, the best gym or was the best gym or still is or some fuckin' shit. I don't fuckin' care 'bout any of that shit cuz it don't matter when it's just you two in that fuckin' cage 'n' shit.”
“I mean, like, look at me. Trainin' in my garage. I don't jog 'round no warm 'n' fancy neighborhood in California. I'm runnin' 'round this cold ass fuckin' shitter. I got only one win. But nunna that matters 'cuz, like, our fuckin' roads 'n' shit are still bringin' us to that fuckin' cage in Russia 'n' shit. Always a new fuckin' day when you in that cage.”
Cal lost his train of thought when a young woman caught his eye while leaving. “Hey lady! Nice ass!”
She showed a middle finger. “Fuck you, asshole!”
“Hear that?” Cal said with a confident grin, lifting the paper cup full of Diet Coke and its straw to his lips. “She wants to fuck me.”
“We're different guys,” Cal said as he brought it back to the big fight. “You know Rob – Lil' Robert the lil' bitch – was all, like, fuckin' cryin' 'n' shit when he lost to that fuckin' leprechaun [referencing Donovan Delaney]. You know when I kick his fuckin' ass and make him suck my fuckin' dick he's gonna retire. Cuz that's what all these fuckin' bitch fighters do. All good when they win 'n' shit but lose one or two 'n' they gotta think 'bout their fuckin' career or some shit. Even fuckin' quit 'n' shit.”
“But look at me. I fuckin' lose all the fuckin' time. I don't give a fuck. What I do is fight. I talk shit. I lose 'n' still talk shit. I don't give a fuck. Say Lil' Robert the lil' bitch does kick my fuckin' head off like he done to so many. I'll be back here. Eatin' my Big Mac. Smokin' my weed. Drinkin' my beer. Gettin' my dick all up in Sidney's [Grey] hot ass fuckin' pussy. Like, havin' doggy style sex in the fuckin' bathroom at the bar 'n' shit. Door locked. Got her face all up against the mirror 'n' shit. We all fuckin' drunk 'n' shit. Then Dante [Reed] or Eric [O'Flaherty] gonna call me to fight 'n' I come 'n' fight. Win or lose, I'm gonna do this fuckin' shit until I'm all, like... dead, I guess.”
“That don't mean I don't, like, understand what kinda chance this is. Ya know? Like, what it means 'n' shit. I coulda gone pro a long time ago. Kept gettin' arrested. Landin' behind bars. Drunk drivin'. Bank robbery. Beatin' up pussies 'n' they call the cops cuz they're bitches 'n' can't fight. I done a lot 'n' got busted all them times. Pissed away them years when I was young 'n' had that, like, the fuckin' good young man body. Ya know? I like... What's that fuckin' word? I like... reelect 'n' shit. I reelect on them years 'n' think 'bout 'what if,' ya know? Maybe I coulda got a few more wins before gettin' old? Maybe I coulda won a belt or some shit? Lil' Robert knows how it feels to have a belt 'n' have everybody be all like, 'Oh my god he's like a great fighter 'n' shit.' I don't. Not havin' it don't stop me from fightin'. I still get big money. I still fuck some hot pussy. But I ain't gonna lie. It'd be nice to have all that shit. All them wins. A belt. People being like 'Cal's so good' 'n' it ain't just 'bout my dick game. This fight against Lil' Robert 'n' this whole fuckin' Openweight Championship tournament might be the last chance I get to have the shit all them good fighters have. I know that. That's why I'm joggin' to Mickey D's. Why I'm gettin' the fuckin' Diet Coke 'n' not the regular Coke. This is the biggest shit of my fuckin' life. I'm takin' it fuckin' serious.”
I got a much-needed moment alone when Cal went to the bathroom. Listening to him can be draining and I feel more stupid after this time together. Knowing that Guilliman will most likely win brought me comfort, but upsets do occur. MMA is a sport where all it takes is one second to shock the world. What if Cal McCluskey does the unthinkable? I will be back here covering Cal in this drab Michigan town. That seemed even less alluring after Cal humped the right side of my head upon his return.
Hoping to bring an end to this interaction, I asked one final question: “Do you have any final words for Robert Guilliman?”
“You better be scared, Lil' Robert,” Cal said. “Not just scared cuz you don't wanna lose. Or lose to a guy with one fuckin' win. No. You better be scared cuz I'm comin' to fuck your ass. I'm gonna fuck your fuckin' ass. I'm gonna kill you 'n' everybody in this fuckin' tournament. Then when your mom is all cryin' 'n' shit I'm gonna be like, 'Hey baby.' She's gonna join me 'n' Sidney in we're gonna have a fuckin' threesome. We're gonna fuck on your grave cuz fuck you, bitch. You can try a head kick or some shit. I don't give a fuck. I ain't scared of it. I ain't scared of you. I ain't scared of no Real Killas. Them belts 'n' wins. I ain't scareda any of it! But after I kill your fuckin' ass, pussy, everybody's gonna know what they should already know. They should be scared of me. Cuz I'm the most dangerous fighter in MMA. You're gonna learn it 'n' everyone will know when I got the fuckin' belt 'round my waist and ya'll are suckin' my dick 'n' shit. Fuck you, Robert Guilliman. January 17th. Moscow, Russia. Battleground Network. I'm gonna end your fuckin' life, pussy!”
May the MMA gods have mercy on us all.
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