Fight Town: Inspiration Read online

  All in all, he felt like a total clown standing there, waiting in wet and stinking clothes with a big old diaper cup around his waist and pillows on his fists, half choking with the chinstrap fastening what felt like a puffy footstool to his head.

  All right, he thought, hurry up, Jobbo. Let's get this over with.

  The longer he stood there, the more he regretted agreeing to spar. A stupid and impulsive move, climbing into the ring.

  Maybe boxing wasn’t the right sport for him, after all. He’d always thought it was kind of cool, and when he’d realized the nature of Fight Town, he’d been excited to try; but what he’d seen of boxing so far, between Rico's weird advance, Marvella's contempt, and the ridiculousness of the sparring gear, made him think he’d made a mistake coming in here.

  After this, maybe he’d forget all about boxing and figure out a different path in this new world. Paul and Annabelle wanted him to kick ass and get laid, not box. So maybe he’d head to a bar, knock back a few beers, and try to meet a nice girl.

  If the Vicarus people wanted the thrill of victory thrown in there, it would be easy enough to get into an occasional bar fight. You get a bunch of guys together, start pouring booze, sooner or later somebody always wants to fight. Johnny could oblige them. At least in a bar fight, he wouldn’t have to wear all this stupid protective gear.

  “All right," Jobbo’s trainer said and beckoned them to the center of the ring. "Okay, you guys are going to work now, yeah? Just put in a few rounds, no big deal, just a little light work, yeah? No dirty stuff, kid. No head butts, no low blows. This isn’t the street, all right? You understand what I’m saying?"

  Johnny nodded, just wanting to get down to business.

  "All right,” the trainer said, glancing toward the big wall timer. The green light was on. “You guys got maybe a minute left in this round, okay? Get to your corners. Kid, you’re in the red corner, you understand me? Okay, that’s it.”

  Johnny leaned in the red corner with his arms up on the top ropes.

  Jobbo’s trainer looked back and forth between them. “When the thirty-second buzzer sounds, you guys come out, touch gloves like it’s the real thing, all right? Then go ahead and mix it up a little. You only got thirty seconds. Nothing big, just a little light work, get a feel for it. Next round, kid, you feel okay, maybe you can step it up a little, you understand what I’m saying?”

  Johnny nodded, already backing toward the red corner. He just wanted to get down to it, and if this guy didn’t quit flapping his lips, they'd run out of time this round. At the moment, Johnny would rather go toe to toe with Deontay Wilder for thirty seconds than stand there like a clown in all this gear for another minute and a half.

  The guy finally shut up. Jobbo was hopping up and down a little, so Johnny started doing the same thing.

  Jobbo’s trainer retreated to the ropes.

  The thirty-second buzzer sounded, and the light switched from green to yellow. Jobbo’s trainer raised an arm and dropped it. “Ding ding.”

  Johnny shuffled out, imitating boxers he'd seen before, hands up, moving his head a little bit. He rolled his shoulders, ready to do this.

  Jobbo held out a glove. Johnny tapped it. Touching gloves was another thing he'd seen on TV. It always struck him kind of funny, a makeshift handshake between two men about to pummel each other.

  Only they weren’t about to pummel each other, he reminded himself. Hold back on this guy. Don't smash his face or anything. You agreed to some light work.

  And then, just like that, the whole world exploded. Johnny's head snapped back, full of white sparks as if he’d grabbed a live wire with his teeth. He'd stumbled halfway across the ring before he understood Jobbo had nailed him with a right hand.

  A hard right hand.

  Reflexively, Johnny ducked his head as Jobbo came rushing forward, swinging again. Johnny barely got under the punch. Then Jobbo’s body slammed into him, and the next thing Johnny knew, he was down on his ass, not from the punch but bowled over by the body check.

  Beyond the ropes, people laughed and called out to Jobbo, cracking jokes.

  Jobbo backed off a few steps, jumping up and down and thumping his gloves together.

  “What the hell?" Johnny tried to say through the mouthpiece. "I thought we were going easy. What the hell?"

  Jobbo’s trainer came over and helped him to his feet. "No knockdown," he called as if informing judges at ringside. "That was a slip. Just a slip. You good, kid?"

  By that time, Johnny’s shock had worn off.

  Now, he was pissed.

  Jobbo wanted to go at it hard? Fine. Time to give the bearman a taste of his own medicine.

  The trainer wiped off Johnny’s gloves then stepped between the fighters, one arm raised. He stepped back and dropped his arm. “Box!”

  Johnny rushed forward and swung his right with everything he had, trying to take Jobbo’s head off.

  But Jobbo’s head wasn't there anymore. It dipped under the punch, and a cannonball slammed into Johnny's gut.

  The air went out of his lungs. He doubled up from the pain and concussion of the uppercut, but he would be damned if he’d go down.

  The next thing he knew he was against the ropes, hunched into himself, trying to cover up with the big pillow gloves and biting down hard on the mouthpiece as Jobbo hammered him with thunderous shots.

  Johnny wanted to punch back, but the incoming punches never let up. They pounded him in the arms and ribs and the sides of his head, thumping against the clunky headgear. The body shots were brutal, and the clubbing headshots felt like electrical shocks.

  This wasn’t like boxing. It was like getting mugged.

  Johnny knew if he moved either glove to counterpunch, Jobbo would nail him clean, so he just covered up, waiting for the son of a bitch to quit swinging.

  Then, before Johnny had a chance to fire back, the bell rang.

  Chapter 8

  All at once, the punches stopped coming.

  Jobbo crossed the ring and stood there, hopping up and down, grinning and smashing his gloves together.

  Johnny spit out his mouthpiece. “The fuck, man?” He panted, badly out of breath. They’d only gone at it for half a minute, but it felt like an hour. “What the fuck was that? I thought you said we were going light?”

  “You’re all right,” the trainer said, picking up the mouthpiece. He walked over and patted Johnny’s back. “Good job in there, kid. You’re all right, you know that? Hey, we’ll just cool it down, all right, guys?”

  He turned to Jobbo, who nodded.

  Then the trainer turned back to Johnny and raised his voice loud enough so everyone at ringside could hear. “Unless you’ve had enough, huh? Jobbo didn’t scare you, right?”

  The trainer let out a fake laugh.

  Johnny felt like smashing him in his grinning face.

  The trainer patted Johnny’s shoulder. “I didn’t mean it like that, kid, you understand what I’m saying? It’s just some guys come in here, they think they’re tough, and thirty seconds is all it takes, you know? Thirty seconds in the ring against a real man, and they all of the sudden know they’re not really so tough after all, that maybe they aren’t cut out for fighting, maybe they should just watch instead.”

  Johnny heard a smattering of laughter from outside the ring. The kid who’d fetched the gear stood on the ring apron just the other side of the ropes, grinning and studying him, looking, with his ragged ears and gleaming eyes, like some little goblin. A couple dozen people stood on the floor, watching. A few looked disgusted. Most were laughing and pointing at Johnny.

  Beyond them, Marvella watched with no expression on her face. Beside her, Freddie leaned against the bag, watching Johnny with worried eyes.

  “I’m good,” Johnny told Jobbo’s trainer. “Let’s do this.”

  “My man,” the trainer said, clapping him on the back and shoving the mouthpiece in place again. “I knew you was tough just looking at you.”

  The bell rang
.

  Johnny went back out, driven by anger and weighed down by sudden exhaustion. His arms and legs felt heavy. The gloves and cup and headgear felt clumsier than ever. The strap half-choked him, and the mouthpiece filled his mouth like it was trying to finish the job.

  Despite his anger, he didn’t just go rushing at Jobbo. He’d learned that lesson the hard way.

  He had to keep moving. He was taller than Jobbo, and his arms were longer. He had to keep moving and use his reach and stay off the ropes.

  That was the big thing. Stay off the ropes. No matter what.

  Because he never wanted to feel so trapped, so helpless again. Out in the open, at least he could mix it up and keep moving.

  Jobbo came at him bobbing and weaving like a drunken orangutan, his gloves tight to his grinning face in a peekaboo style.

  Johnny snapped out a left jab the way slick fighters did on TV and started to dance away.

  But somehow, Jobbo cut him off.

  Johnny jabbed again and backed away, and Jobbo came barreling at him, winging shots with both hands.

  One caught Johnny in the arm. Another slammed against the side of his head. More sparks.

  He felt his back touch the ropes and shot away like a hand touching a hot stove.

  Fuck the ropes. That’s where tired fighters went to die.

  Jobbo chased after him.

  Johnny stuck to the plan, moving his feet and jabbing, but Jobbo was way faster than he would’ve guessed, and the bearman slipped or batted away all of Johnny’s punches with disconcerting ease.

  Suddenly, Johnny realized he was in a corner. He grunted, pinned in place by another barrage of hard punches that hammered his head and body.

  Jobbo leaned into his chest, resting for a second, and Johnny fired an uppercut.

  Jobbo twisted, caught the uppercut on his forearm, and fired back one of his own.

  Johnny’s face exploded. That’s what it felt like. The glove hit him clean, there was an explosion of pain and light. Instantly, he knew Jobbo had broken his face.

  He grabbed hold of Jobbo and clinched until the trainer pulled them apart.

  Johnny began circling. His nose throbbed, and he could feel hot blood running down his face. He tasted its iron tang on his lips and in the back of his throat where he was now choking on mucus. His nose itself felt like it was plugged shut. To get a breath, he had to open his mouth.

  Jobbo came at him again.

  Johnny threw a one-two.

  The jab missed but the right landed pretty good against Jobbo’s headgear. Jobbo didn’t seem to notice, winging shots and spinning Johnny’s head around with a blistering hook that nearly knocked him off his feet.

  Realizing he was close to the ropes again, Johnny hurried toward the center, gasping for air through the massive mouthpiece, his arms weighed down by the gigantic gloves.

  The round stretched on forever.

  People around the ring hooted and hollered, catcalling and talking smack, laughing at Johnny and egging on Jobbo, who needed no egging on at all.

  The guy just kept coming.

  Johnny fought through his fatigue, wanting to nail the son of a bitch, but none of his punches landed clean. They just grazed the big head, which never quit moving.

  Meanwhile, Jobbo’s punches continued to slam home. A shot to the gut, a hook to the ribs, a wicked right to the side of the head.

  A few times the punches rocked Johnny, but he refused to go down. Fuck that.

  Jobbo was way better than he’d expected. Dude could crack and his hands were way quicker than Johnny ever would’ve guessed. And skilled. The way he dipped those punches and attacked from different angles, he was skilled, all right.

  Johnny had made a stupid mistake, looking at the guy’s gut and the winter coat and writing him off as a tubby lunatic.

  Then he’d made another mistake, believing the bearman’s bullshit about going light. This was a setup, pure and simple. Johnny was new meat, and Jobbo was chewing him up for his own sick pleasure and the entertainment of all the hooting assholes at ringside.

  Well, Johnny couldn’t do much about that now, but he sure as fuck wouldn’t give the guy the satisfaction of going down. And he’d rather die than quit.

  So the round progressed through eternity, Jobbo chasing and occasionally walloping him, Johnny moving and gasping for air and choking on bloody snot, trying and largely failing to counter punch.

  Then, a thousand years later, when the thirty-second buzzer finally rang, Johnny decided to finish strong. He desperately wanted to nail this guy at least once.

  But he was exhausted. His lungs burned, and his arms felt like he was wearing lead sleeves.

  So he waited ten or fifteen seconds before making his move. Then, as Jobbo came surging in again, Johnny threw caution to the wind, squared his feet, and started winging hooks as hard as he could.

  The two of them stood toe to toe, banging away, each pounding the other. Johnny’s head jerked back and forth, exploding again and again, but he kept punching, biting down hard on the mouthpiece and giving it everything he had.

  One of his punches smashed into Jobbo’s temple. It was a great shot. He felt his fist slam clean against the asshole’s skull, felt it smash home like a sledgehammer, and felt something else, too, like a wobble shooting out of his hand through Jobbo.

  Suddenly the moment broke, the two of them uncoupling as Jobbo stumbled sideways, arms flailing. He looked up at Johnny, an odd look on his face.

  Fear. Sheer fucking panic.

  Jobbo was hurt bad and scared shitless that Johnny, this new-meat nobody he’d been pounding, was going to finish him.

  “Oh shit!” people at ringside chorused.

  Johnny stood there like an idiot, staring at his dazed opponent.

  Go get him, dumbass, he berated himself, but his legs were made of granite and his arms were tired, so tired, and he couldn’t breathe…

  He doubled down and hurried forward, determined to knock Jobbo on his ass.

  The bell rang.

  Too late, he thought bitterly. Too fucking late!

  He watched with disappointment as Jobbo shook off the damage, laughing as he strutted back to his corner, chased by his trainer, who was suddenly talking in whispers.

  Around the ring, people clapped.

  “Boy rang your bell, Jobbo!” somebody shouted.

  Johnny backpedaled into the red corner. He wished he could take out the mouthpiece. He wished he had a bucket. He had to spit. He was choking on blood and mucus. And that fucking strap felt tighter than ever.

  But most of all, he was shot. He’d nailed Jobbo, but now he was shot. He felt like he couldn’t even lift his arms.

  Jobbo’s trainer came over. “Good punch, kid. Real good punch. How about one more round?”

  Johnny just looked at him. He’d rather gargle razor blades than go another round. But he didn’t want Jobbo thinking he was scared.

  “Yeah,” the trainer said, clapping his shoulder. “Just one more round. You got a real good punch, kid. Real good. Hey, who’s your trainer? You need one, huh?”

  “Hey kid,” a voice called from behind them.

  Johnny looked over his shoulder and saw Marvella standing on the ring apron, leaning over the ropes, staring at him with seeming concern. “Come here.”

  He staggered over.

  Marvella looked at his face, touching him gently. “Your nose is broken, kid.”

  She held up a finger. “Follow my finger with your eyes. No, don’t move your head. Just your eyes, all right?”

  She moved it back and forth several times.

  Johnny tracked it with his eyes.

  “You’re all right,” she said, rubbing a hand on his jaw.

  Suddenly, he realized his jaw hurt. Hurt like hell, in fact. Why hadn’t he noticed that before? And come to think of it, his whole body hurt now. It felt like a mule had kicked him in the ribs.

  “Open your mouth, kid,” Marvella said softly. She pulled out his mouthpie
ce and called over her shoulder for Freddie to fetch a bucket.

  Johnny hauled in some much-needed air then spit in the bucket when Marvella told him to.

  She held up a bottle of water and gave him a squirt. And that was good, because he’d never been so thirsty in all his life.

  “Real heart in there, kid,” someone said from behind her.

  “Yeah, good punch,” someone else added.

  “Almost had him.”

  Marvella frowned and shook her head. Then she told him to open and close his mouth.

  It hurt and felt misaligned.

  “Your jaw’s sprained. It’ll tighten up on you tonight, and it’ll hurt to chew, but it ain’t broke. Jimmy keeps zip back there. You got five bucks?”

  He shook his head.

  The bell rang.

  “He’s done,” Marvella called across the ring.

  Freddie took the bucket and handed her a towel, and Marvella wiped Johnny’s face gently, almost lovingly.

  She led him through the ropes and down the steps away from the crowd, chastising him like a mother. “What were you thinking, getting in the ring with Jobbo? He’s a pro.”

  Johnny rubbed his jaw. “He said we’d go light…”

  “And you believed him? You dumb, kid, or just a sucker?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe both.”

  Marvella frowned at him. “Well, you got a chin, I’ll give you that. And you got a little heart, too. Can’t teach heart. You either got it or you don’t, and you got it. But then again, like they say, if you’re going to be dumb, you gotta be tough.”

  Johnny nodded, not really sure why he was nodding.

  Marvella gave him another shot of water and wiped off his face again, then stood there looking at him and shaking her head. “Go home. Ice that jaw. And don’t come back here. You’re no fighter.”

  He just looked at her, sudden stubbornness rising in him.

  Marvella turned away. “If you’re as dumb as I think, and you do come back, you stay away from Jobbo and Rico and come see me. I got a soft spot for stupid kids. You’ll never be a contender, but at least maybe I can keep you from getting killed until you wise up enough to quit.”