Oil Rig

It’s a windy day and my old ripped-up t-shirt that has more dried oil stains on it than a mechanic’s rag is whipping around my body as I run up the stairs.

Just as Jamal said, the two roughnecks are throwing down. He shrugs as I run by him. “I didn’t know what to do.”

“I’ll handle it,” I say as I squeeze my hands into fists.

Troy is huge. A former linebacker in college who’d be busting heads in the NFL right now if he hadn’t blown out his knee.

And Charlie is not much smaller. He’s pure muscle underneath that layer of fat. The boy’s got farm strength. The best kind. He probably came out of the womb hauling heavy haystacks around.

Troy’s got Charlie pushed up against the drill pipe with a big hand wrapped around his neck. Troy punches him in the stomach and Charlie grunts as he absorbs it.

These fucking idiots. The chain is loose at their feet. That’s a good way to lose some fingers or toes.

I grab the loose chain with one hand and the big tongs on the drill with the other. Charlie elbows Troy in the neck as I put my foot on the slip and wrap the chain up. The boys really start going at it now, throwing and absorbing one hard blow after another.

When the chain is secure, I push away the drill and charge over.

Charlie is bent over as Troy lands thunderous bombs into his ribs. I grab the big guy and throw him off. His body flies across the platform and slams into the metal cage.

There’s fury on his face until he sees who threw him.

“Mr. Phillips,” he says, dropping his swollen red eye. His body language turns submissive—head down, big shoulders caved in.

Charlie’s got more of a temper and stands up with a growl. I turn to him as he charges at Troy.

He gets halfway.

I slam my big arm into his neck and wrap it around his head, securing him in a tight chokehold. He screams in fury as he thrashes around, trying furiously to get out.

There are guys watching all around me now. Above my head on the upper platforms and gathering on the staircases to the sides. I gotta send a message to everyone about starting fights on my rig. I’ll finish the fights. Always.

With a grunt, I hoist the big boy into the air and slam him back down to the metal grate. He whimpers as the air is knocked out of his lungs. I let his momentum carry me down and I smash my knee into his thick neck.

“You want more?” I ask through gritted teeth, my hands squeezing into fists. I really hope he’s not done.

His face turns red as he looks up at me, his hands trying unsuccessfully to push my muscular leg off him.

“No…” he wheezes breathlessly.

“No what?”

“No… Mr. Phillips…”

“That’s better.”

The men are laughing as I release his neck and he takes deep gulps of air.

I stand up, my body jacked and ready for more action as I look around at all of the men. “You fight on my rig,” I shout in a deep commanding voice. “You’re going to go toe-to-toe with me!”

Troy gulps as I walk up to him. “I went easy on you guys this time,” I say. “Last warning. The next boys who fight on my rig will get dragged away. I’ll feed you to the fucking sharks, I swear. Don’t forget we’re in international waters out here and laws don’t apply.”

He nods his head and mutters an apology as he looks down at the swirling ocean water below, probably thinking about the sharks lying in wait below the waves.

I turn to Charlie who is just starting to get up to his feet. He looks pissed as he approaches me, getting right in my face. “You touch me again and I’ll fucking lay you out.”

He doesn’t even see my fists coming. I release a straight left and then a hard roundhouse. They both connect hard and when I follow up with an uppercut, he’s out before he falls to the ground.

“This is my rig!” I shout to the men. “Don’t fucking test me!”

Suddenly they all remember they have something urgent to take care of because they’re disappearing along the walkways and racing back down the stairs.

“And don’t leave the fucking chain loose again,” I bark at Troy before turning to get my lunch. “That’s a fireable offense.”

“Yes, sir,” he says with his eyes on my boots.

I step over Charlie and head to the stairs. Jamal follows me. “Any punishment, sir?”

“They just got their punishment.”

“Maybe a break might be in order,” he says as he follows me down the stairs. “It’s been three months since the men have been on land and it’s starting to show. This is the fourth fight this week and the morale seems to be at an all-time low.”