The Kingdom / Chapter 01.06 - "The Prizefighter"
From Unofficial Handbook of the Virtue Universe
Jab. Jab. Hook. Jab. Cross. Uppercut.
The Prizefighter sat alone on a bench in the storage room of a small gambling house on the outskirts of Philadelphia. The musty scent of dust-covered crates mixed with the acrid aroma of sweat and the bitter smell of smoke wafting in from the main floor, filling his nostrils with an odor strong enough to induce a gag reflex in some, vomiting in others. But not in him. No, in the back room there was solace, the kind of peace he rarely found elsewhere; here there was a balance between the stifling silence of being alone, when he wanted little more than to get back into the ring, and the roar of the crowd, the blistering, bruising action of the fight. In the waiting, the limbo in which he hung, there was a measure of peace he savored, enjoying before each fight like a death row inmate's last meal.
Keep moving. Keep on your feet. Keep them on their toes.
He balled up his fists, one at a time, flexing them then stretching them again. He watched as his fingers fanned out, thick and meaty, then curled again into fleshy hammers, the tools of his trade. Tonight's bout would be bare-fists, two men pummeling each other with no gloves, the way it was before there was a ring, before there were referees, before there was even boxing. The Prizefighter would face his opponent in the ring and they would come at each other, fists flying, and it would end with bloody knuckles, broken noses, missing teeth, and at least one fighter who could not leave the mat on his own power. It would not be him.
He tugged his black, leather mask over his face, tying it behind his head. Not many fighters wore one, but he had more than enough reason. Ostensibly, there was the mystery, the allure of the unknown. He was a shadow; he could be anyone from the neighborhood constable to King Abraham himself. His reasons ran down a deeper, more painful river, however. His past haunted him, and the mask acted as a shield from it. He was someone else behind the persona he portrayed in the ring, or he was at one time. He could feel that person, what he once was, being pulled away by the current, replaced by the artificial self, the man who had only been created as a barrier from the world.
The door creaked open and torchlight spilled in from the main floor. The silhouette of his manager filled the bright rectangle; glowing wisps of tobacco smoke surrounded him, giving him an unreal, almost ethereal appearance. “It's time,” was all the man said, all he had to say, and the Prizefighter was up from the bench, bouncing on the balls of his feet, raring for action. From the ring, he could already hear the announcer shouting out his name. Stepping into the main room, his ears were bombarded with the sound of cheers and whooping of men who would never gather up the courage to fight on their own, but lived vicariously though those who did, and the screams and sighs of women who saw his muscular form and wished they could possess him, own him, keep him as a pet or toy to fill needs their husbands could not.
He'd be sure to take one for a roll later. He might even take his mask off, mystique be damned.
The Prizefighter did not smile, did not wave. He was a lone stalwart, a champion focused on one thing: his opponent. He had faced Tobias Wren before; the tremendous knot of muscle and violence had been his only loss. Tonight was a rematch of a sorts, a chance to prove his skill against the one competitor who had left him unconscious on the canvas mat. It would not be an easy fight, especially bare-knuckled. Tobias' fists punctuated his thick, python arms like the huge, steel mallets, and the seven foot tall man's reach put him at a serious advantage. The Prizefighter knew this meant using a different technique; tonight, he would be fighting close with a flurry of quick hooks and uppercuts, throwing out fewer jabs. Fortunately this was one of his strengths.
The ropes. The rules. The bell. The fight. Wren led in with a series of light jabs, testing out his range and his opponent's chin. The Prizefighter danced to the left and right, avoiding what blows he could, taking the rest in stride. Another jab from Wren, then a right cross, and he saw his opening. Spinning in along the back of Tobias' arm, he finished his move with a barrage of fists pummeling the tall man's abdomen and ribs. Wren's guard dropped to block the strikes and the Prizefighter threw in a right cross of his own, catching the big man across the chin. Wren staggered back, stunned by the hit, and the Prizefighter swarmed in again, fists blurring as another burst of punches struck home, like bullets from a Gatling gun. It felt good, starting the fight on top, pressing his advantage, keeping his opponent on the defensive.
And then Tobias Wren was down, caught with a solid left-handed uppercut and sent reeling until he lost his balance at the ropes and fell to his knees. The Prizefighter watched his opponent for a few moments as he struggled to regain his bearings, then turned to the crowd, his hands shooting up in the air. Victory was his! He could feel it, and so could the crowd! Thirty seconds, that was all it would take, and the rematch would belong to him. He yelled – almost howled! – as the rabble cheered him on, pumping their fists into the air and clapping and shouting out his name, a chant which spread like fire until the whole hall was filled with the sound of his nom d'combat and the cadence of stomping feet.
And then she caught his eye. For a moment, the victory was his, the one dark blot on his fighting career would be all but erased; it was everything he could ever wish to have, and then, in the batting of a pair of almond-shaped green eyes, eyes who saw right through the mask, which recognized him for the man he once was, it all crumbled into nothingness. He stood, locked into her gaze, lost in the flood of a thousand memories, good and bad, that rushed him, assaulting him with no hope for reprieve. The chant of the spectators faded until it was a distant echo as he stood there, chained in place by the binds of the past.
Midori, what are you doing here?
Her eyes flew wide, and for a moment the Prizefighter thought she might have read his thoughts, then a sharp pain to the back of the head hauled him back into the here and now and he stumbled forward, grabbing at the ropes to steady himself. Head spinning, he was lifted from his feet and into the constricting bear-hug of a virulent Tobias Wren. The giant fighter laughed with malicious fervor as the Prizefighter struggled to break free of his grasp, powerful arms squeezing more tightly by the moment, crushing the breath and strength and will to win out of his smaller opponent. To the side, the Prizefighter could barely make out the referee tugging at Wren's arm, insisting he let go or face disqualification.
The big man finally released him and was dragged back into his corner by a furious referee. The Prizefighter dropped to the mat, coughing, a dot of red falling from his lip to the canvas below. He lifted his head, taking in the crowd, eying them one at a time. There were no more chants of his name – in fact it seemed the spectators believed he would fail. They watched him, some with frustrated uncertainty, others with a sense of smug relief, the knowledge that their wagers on the bigger man were well placed. Slowly, he pulled himself to his feet and scanned the crowd once more, looking for those familiar eyes, but Midori Yoshiyoto was nowhere to be seen, if she was ever there at all.
With a sigh, he turned to face Tobias Wren, beckoning him back into the ring. The large man needed little encouragement, blazing into the fight like a hungry predator on the verge of a kill. The Prizefighter met him at the center of the ring, dodging the first bevy of punches and retaliating with a quick roll of strikes. Dancing again, shifting his center of balance from foot to foot, front to back, left to right, he wove and spun and blocked, then landed hit after hit, hooked punches pounding Wren's body. The Prizefighter used Tobias' size to his own advantage; there was more for the man to guard, and it took him longer to shift stances, and very soon the tall fighter was beginning to show signs of being worn down.
And then the bell rang. Round one was over.
The Prizefighter leaned against the turnbuckle, crouched down low. His manager offered him a glass of water and a sweet biscuit, but he was interested in neither, his gaze focused on the man he knew he would have to defeat in the next round, and quickly. Words of encouragement, advice, and concern rolled off him as he focused, centering himself on what he would have to do, and when the bell indicating the start of the next round sang out, he leaped into action. Rushing in as if he would swarm Wren again, he caught the huge boxer off-guard, tucking down and to the right as Tobias led in with a left cross. Straightening up, the masked man put the full force of his body's motion into a single uppercut, lifting Wren from his feet and sending him sprawling, unconscious, to the canvas as a stunned hush blanketed the room.
The Prizefighter dropped to a knee, his breath heavy and uneven, his eyes on the fallen Goliath before him. Thirty seconds that seemed an eternity. The ten count. Then he was being pulled to his feet again his arm held high as the crowd exploded into shouts and cheers and chants and stomping and... and Midori was nowhere to be found.
