Fallen Fighter

         Oh, shit. 

         That's the only thought that my mind had time to register before I felt the fist connect with my jaw, the impact resonating throughout my entire body as my head snapped back like a marionette controlled by a crack addict.  As I stumbled from the blow I saw that same sledgehammer of a fist coming around for a repeat performance out of the corner of my eye and just barely managed to twist my body from the impending collision as I quickly backed away.  At this point I was breathing heavily, already feeling the burning of the six rounds of pain that had come before this.  I wanted to just give up, but I couldn't.  Giving up meant failure.  Giving up meant that I wasn't good enough.  Giving up meant that I wouldn't be paid.

         My attacker stormed towards me once more, but this time I was ready for him.  With a speed that seemed to surprise my assailant I took two quick strides forward and viciously jabbed my right hand into his abdomen.  While he was caught off guard I followed through with a left-cross to the side of his head that left him dazed and me with the all-too gratifying feeling of seeing him grimace in pain.  However, I didn't give myself much time to revel in that feeling as I quickly fell upon him – my fists moving in a dizzy torrent of pain and anger.  My hands burned through my gloves as they landed violently upon the the man's hard flesh and thick skull.  I could feel him starting to crumble – his breathing was coming out in ragged gasps as he desperately tried to find a way out of the corner that I had pushed him into.  With one last forceful left-hand to his eye, my opponent hit the floor and remained still.

         As I tried to control my heavy breathing and allow my mind to come back into focus, a voice cut through my thoughts like a knife from behind me,

         “And the winner by total knockout, the indestructible, the unrelenting, Donnie “The Wall” Brennan!!”  The weathered referee raised my arm while saying this, showing me off to the small, inebriated crowd.

         The reaction of those watching were mixed:  those that lost money off of me screamed drunkenly at both me and my lifeless opponent, while those on the winning side of the bet cheered not for me but for their impending increase in fortune.  I tuned it all out ... after all it was nothing new to my ears.

         As I bent down to climb out of the ring, I felt a sharp pain on the left side of my body – apparently my ribs had taken one too many gloved fists and were screaming in protest.  I ignored the pain, pushing it to the back of my mind where I knew that I could keep it contained until after I had dealt with the business that I had left to finish. 

         I stepped out of the ring and looked for Jon, the man who ran the fights.  He saw me and turned as if to leave, but I managed to catch his arm before he could make his escape.  Jon wasn't an athletic man, but he carried himself with an atmosphere of superiority that can only be brought about by years of exploiting the poor and desperate.  He wore an expensive looking suit over his sagging body, with a matching fedora -  to complete the look of a wannabe gangster -  covering his thinning, slicked-back black hair.  He even had the ridiculously polished black wingtip dress shoes, that he took meticulous care of protecting from being scuffed in the dirty and rickety warehouse that the fights were held in.  At five-eight he stood slightly shorter than myself as he turned to me with a smile that most usually reserved for the mental challenged or the incredibly stupid.

         “Great fight Donnie,” he said to me in an overly-patronizing voice.

         “Yeah, whatever Jon.  Where's my winnings?” was my only response to the portly bookie as I slowly removed my old and worn boxing gloves.

           Silently, Jon handed me the purse promised to me for agreeing to fight.  It wasn't a lot of money - in fact, most people wouldn't have bothered to risk climbing into the ring for such a pitiful amount ... but most people had more options than I did.

         I counted the money quickly and then stuffed the pathetic wad of crumpled bills into one of my gloves, since the faded black boxing shorts that I wore during the fight didn't have pockets sewn into them. 

         My business now completed, I turned from the well-dressed, if vertically unimposing, scumbag and made my way to the bathroom, where my regular clothes were stored. 

         But before I had made it to the sanctuary that is the dirty, unkempt bathroom at the back of the warehouse I heard Jon call out to me, “Same time next week Donnie?”

         I didn't respond to him, but instead continued walking away from him.  He knew that I'd be back – the people that fought in these matches always came back.  I finally reached the door of the bathroom, pushed it open, and quickly turned the small lock on the handle.  Finally alone and secure, I allowed myself to relax and quietly sighed as I felt the pain from the fresh bruises that were just beginning to appear.  I let out a frustrated groan as I bent down under the sink to the small cupboard that was underneath it.  Wincing as the act of turning the padlock, that I had placed there earlier that day, to the correct combination put extra strain on my injured ribs I grabbed my clothing from the now-open tiny space and began checking to make sure that none of my possessions were missing.

         The first thing that I checked was to confirm that my wallet was still where I had left it before the fight – stuffed into the toe of left boot.  Pulling it out, I quickly shuffled through it, satisfied to see that all of my money and my license were still as I had left them.  I grabbed the cash out of my glove and placed in the wallet, alongside the little money that I had brought with me to the fight.  I then placed my wallet on the chipped ceramic counter stained sink and reached for my other boot.  Picking up my right boot, I then tipped it upside down, catching my cell phone before it hit the floor.  Setting my phone next to the wallet I then proceeded to strip off the old shorts and pulled on a pair of dark red boxers.  Next I threw on a pair of dark, though faded and thinning, jeans that fit comfortably around my waist, thankfully not placing any damage onto my protesting ribs.  After removing my boxing shoes and pulling on my boots, I then pulled on an old, those decent looking black t-shirt.  Now, fully dressed, I took the opportunity to remove the sweat stained tape from around my knuckles and wrists, rubbing them absentmindedly with my hands as I allowed the sting of the tape pulling at the hair on my skin to subside.

         Stepping closer to the sink, I turned on the rusty faucet, letting the cool water soothe my sore hands and wrists, sighing as I feel the water begin to calm the familiar burning sensation that arises from flesh striking flesh and began to systematically categorize the injuries that I sustained during my fight against an opponent whose name I had already forgotten.

         I turned off the water, drying my hands with the now discarded shorts before stuffing them unceremoniously into my old, fraying, black messenger bag, along with the gloves and ring shoes, before grabbing my dark leather jacket.  I struggled to shrug into the worn in leather, hissing in pain as I felt the tension build within my abused shoulder muscles.  After successfully fighting my way into the jacket I slung my bag over my right shoulder, its faded strap fitting snuggly and familiarly across my chest.  Turning, I grabbed the last of my possessions – stuffing my wallet into the back-left pocket of my jeans with my left hand as I used my right hand to place the phone into the pocket that lined the inside of the jacket.  With a final glance around the room to insure that nothing had been left, I threw the padlock into the bag, on top of my boxing equipment and silently left the small, dirty bathroom.

         Walking towards the door, I paused to readjust the strap of my bag into a position that pulled less upon my ribs.  Several of the other fighters were standing around talking to each other or to members of the crowd.  Several of the fighters looked towards me as I passed, but none of them tried to talk to me.  That was how I wanted it.  I didn't have friends there and I didn't want any.  For me, fighting was nothing but a job and a paycheck, and I didn't see the other fighters as friends, only as opponents.  I reached the door of the warehouse and walked out without looking back, already dreading the fact that I had to return there in a week.

         Stepping into the cold night air I shivered, pulling the worn leather tighter around me.  Quickly scanning the area in front of the warehouse for possible dangers, I sigh quietly in relief in seeing nothing, though I don't allow my guard to lower.  It may seem overly cautious, but suspicion and paranoia had been all that I had known for as long as I cared to remember and keeping those to two tenets had kept me alive so far in a world where the weak and the careless were left dying in dirty alleys.  With one last look into the shadows ahead of me, I stepped away from the flood light illuminating the entrance to the warehouse, blending into the shadows of the alley to the left of the warehouse like a ghost.  The ghost of a once-promising fighter that was unable to grasp the heavens ... and instead was left to slowly spiral into the depths of Hell.