The Boxer

"In the clearing stands a boxer
And a fighter by his trade
And he carries the reminders
Of ev'ry glove that layed him down
Or cut him till he cried out
In his anger and his shame
"I am leaving, I am leaving"
But the fighter still remains"

- Paul Simon

A drop of sweat blurred the vision of his left eye just enough to obscure the crushing haymaker delivered to his jaw.  Immediately he raised his massive arm to defend against another.  The punch had left his face aching and his ear ringing.  He could taste the coppery stream of blood flowing freely from the corner of his mouth.

Bull shook his head vigorously to clear his mind and a stream of sweat and blood sprayed down on the canvas.  His opponent was smaller, but the ork was quick and loaded with cutting edge augmentation.  If he took a dive and threw the fight like he was supposed to, no one would question it.  This ork was undefeated and a far more experienced fighter in the ring.   The smell of sweat, blood, ork and canvas was overwhelming.  He planted his feet to steady himself.  Flashing neon all around him and the noise from the crowd all fought against him as he tried to regain his focus.

A jab from the ork slipped through his defenses and caught him in the chin.  If he didn’t do something soon there would be no need to throw the fight.  He was losing.

Bull snorted loudly and feinted to his left and followed with a straight jab to the midsection of the ork that caught him off guard.  He could feel the air being forced from his opponent’s lungs as his massive fist connected.  It was a lucky shot.  He had been trying to land that jab all night.  Sometimes it’s better to be lucky than good.  The ork bit his lip.  Bull could see he was in pain.  He saw his opportunity.

In a second he flashed back to his conversation with the mobster, Antonio Scalia.  Throw the fight he said, take the money.  One little loss on his record was worth the money, he said.  Scalia was a made man, which meant he was a petulant little bitch used to getting what he wanted.  Bull had agreed to go down in the 5th round.  Scalia said that everyone would make their nuyen and Bull could go on with his career.  He said he would leave him alone after that.

Bull knew that once Scalia had made some cash that he would never be out of his life.  Throwing this fight would only grant him a temporary reprieve.  Scalia could go fuck himself and his threats.

He focused on the ork, who was now on the defensive.  His left arm was tucked in a little close.  Must have broken a rib with that jab, he thought.

Bull shifted to his left and then punched with all of his might at the exact same spot.  Even though the ork was protecting his rib with his arm, the force of the punch had him gasping for breath.  Bull feinted as if he was going to throw another and then shifted his weight.  He brought up his right fist in an uppercut to the jaw that lifted the ork completely off of the canvas.  Bull could hear the crowd go wild as the ref came in to deliver the count.  Lights flashed all around him and out of the corner of his eye he could see Scalia and his men get up out of their front row seats and storm out of the arena.

*** ”Hey!  Hey, you awake?  You said we were going to spar?” ***

Bull unloaded the Simsense file of the fight and reality came back into focus.  He was sitting on a dusty couch on the third floor of the Devil’s Doorstep.  Back in the slums, he thought.  Sabrehawk was standing in front of him snapping her fingers in his face.

“What were ya doin’?” she asked as she stretched before their sparring match.

“Nothing…just thinkin’ about the past” he said as he rose to his feet.

“So, uh, about this sparring idea….  How am I supposed to do this without smashing you?” Bull asked as he stepped onto the practice mat.

Sabrehawk answered with a roundhouse kick to the side of the troll’s head that staggered him.

“Why am I not surprised….” Bull grunted as he rose to his feet with a toothy grin.