Kung Fu Factory

by Crimefactory

  We was just finishin’ up and Marvin was startin’ to grumble about the slowness of anyone deliverin’ another bottle when Stanley reappeared before us. This time he had a fellar with him; a scrawny, weasily guy I was all too familiar with. The kid must’ve fetched him.

  “For crissakes, Stanley!” I shouted, lurching to my feet. “I just ate!”

  Stanley and the fellar cowered back a step or two, but didn’t retreat any further.

  “Yeah, Stanley!” Marvin said. “You was supposed to bring a bottle, not a scallywag.”

  “Now, just take it easy, Buster,” the fellar said, sweat poppin’ out all over his greasy map. “We can talk like gentlemen, can’t we?”

  “First off, Herkimer Yelm, I ain’t no gentleman.” I raised a fist bigger than his noggin’ and waved it in his general direction. “And I done told you once with my mouth that I never wanted to see you in my line a sight again.”

  “B-b-but, Buster,” Herkimer said. “If you’ll just listen for one minute, I think you’ll find I have a proposal that will be beneficial to all of us. But mostly you, of course.”

  I stared at him and Stanley harder than most guys can hit just to make ‘em nervouser. Then I sat down. “You got your minute, startin’ right now,” I said.

  “Thank you, Buster,” Herkimer said.

  “Yes, thanks for listening,” Stanley added.

  “Fifty seconds left!” Marvin yelled.

  ***

  We talked more than a minute. Finally I rubbed my chin and said, “Thing is, Herkimer, I thought I heard ‘ole Abbott Drooker got himself killed.”

  “I heard that too,” Marvin said. “Killed in the ring is what I remember.”

  Herkimer nodded. “We all heard that, but I seen him, and he’s fight ready.”

  “Apparently tales of his demise were exaggerated,” Stanley said, with a little self-important chuckle.

  I ignored him. “And this new trainer of his, this wag calls himself ‘The Doctor’, is offerin’ a thousand dollars for me to get in the ring with Drooker.”

  “Won’t put him up against anyone else, only you,” Herkimer said.

  “Which is why I was so keen to see you, Buster!” Stanley said. “He wants to set up a big fight; he’s been talking about it for weeks!”

  “We’ve all been waiting for you, Buster Lee, Champion of the Air Brigade,” Herkimer said, leanin’ forward, his eyes all bright with greed.

  In ten years my mama raised me with more sense than my old man could beat outta me, and I could smell a scam from a mile away. This one stunk more than Marvin’s feet after double shifts in the engine room. I was scowlin’ pretty hard, and I could feel all these guys’ anticipation just leanin’ on me like a landlady on pay day.

  “So I get a thousand dollars, win or lose,” I said. Herkimer and Stanley about threwtheir heads outta socket they was noddin’ ‘em so hard.

  “And whadda you guys get?” Marvin said.

  Both scallywags hemmed and hawed and cleared their throats without sayin’ much at all, and I silenced ‘em with a hard slap of my hand against the table that made everyone in the room jump. “I don’t much care what you sons-a-bitches are gonna get off my back,” I said. “I’ll do this fight – ”

  The guys started to get all excited.

  “On a couple conditions.” They froze. “First off, Herkimer, you’re the most crookedest promoter ever put together a card, which is why I never wanted to see you again. You’re gonna advance me fifty dollars right now, to tide me over to the fight, which is gonna be tomorrow night. And you,” I said, pointing a big finger at Stanley, “are gonna put me and Marvin up for the night, keep our glasses filled, and our bellies tight ‘tween now and then. It’s that way, or no way.”

  Stanley and Herkimer looked at each other with kinda pained expressions, then nodded.

  “Alright then. Go spread the word. Make sure everyone in Omaha knows that the champ’s in town, and will be deliverin’ a beat-down come Saturdee night.”

  ***

  Standin’ in the ring at the sports complex, I was mighty surprised by how many people had showed. There’d been a full card, and me and Drooker was the main event. The room was full to the rafters, with all manner of hootin’ and hollerin’. I was movin’ around, thumpin’ my leather gloves together, rolling my brainpan around on my neck and shakin’ my arms out; think I even waved at a couple dames sittin’ ringside.

  “Take a look at that,” Marvin said. He was workin’ my corner like he always does. “That boy don’t look right to me.”

  I looked to see what he was seein’. Abbott Drooker was headed to the ring, and Marvin’s observation was pert near spot on. I’d fought Drooker before and barely busted a sweat. He’d always been a scrapper with some speed and fair power, but he liked to think of himself as an iron man and he wasn’t. A real iron man, like me, is a man that can take any beatin’ any other wag can dish out, and keep comin’. Also, an iron man’s got to have that one punch that’ll lay any man out soon as it lands keepin’ the opponent wary. Us iron man types may not be the fanciest boxers around, but most fight people know that soon as another bloke punches himself out tryin’ to finish us, the ‘ole sockdologer will eventually catch up to ‘em. Next thing they know they’re wakin’ up in the locker room.

  Abbott Drooker didn’t have that. Least not enough to come close to stoppin’ me.

  Thing about it was I hardly recognized this scamp comin’ towards me as Drooker.

  He was still tall and rangy – taller than me, even – but his arms hung slack. Where last time he’d come swaggerin’ into the ring bouncin’ around, this time he just kinda shuffled along all slack-jawed. His skin was gray and sickly lookin’, and his eye sockets looked like he’d already had a couple thumbs poked in ‘em – they was just watery holes in black n’ blue circles.

  Marvin whistled low between his teeth. “Looks to me like the wag’s brain is dead and his body ain’t been told yet,” he said.

  I shrugged, watchin’ as Abbott crawled up into the ring. There was a short fellar kinda guidin’ him along, all dressed up in some kinda fancy suit that had clearly seen better days. He was whisperin’ and hissin’ at Abbott, and glancin’ my way and grinnin’ with teeth that showed yellow between big gaps. I figured this one to be the aforementioned “Doctor” but he didn’t look like no doctor I’d ever seen. I almost shuddered, for some strange reason, but I shook it off. I just kept tellin’ myself that a thousand bucks was a thousand bucks.

  Once Abbott and The Doctor was in the ring, that wag Herkimer Yelm, who was actin’ as MC, called us to the center so he could explain the rules of the fight. Three minute rounds with minute breaks, and it wouldn’t be over until one of us couldn’t get up off the canvas, regardless of how many rounds it took.

  I could hardly pay attention though, because Abbott Drooker was ripe. I mean that boy smelled liked he’d been rollin’ in somethin’ the stupidest dog in town wouldn’t come near. I scrunched my nose up and scowled; I couldn’t even stare the way I like to. The Doctor just stood there gigglin’. Drooker stared at me, breathin’ out his mouth. Once the formalities was over, me and Marvin all but sprinted back to our corner.

  “Hoo, wee!” Marvin said. “That boy needs to lay off the onions!”

  “Damn sure needs to lay off somethin’,” I said.

  “How you gonna play this?”

  “Well, I thought I’d string him along a while and give the crowd a little show, but with his state of ripeness I’m thinkin’ I’m gonna get it over with quick as I can.”

  “Good,” Marvin said. “I got a bad feelin’.”

  With that the gong sounded and it was on.

  I come out ready, but Drooker met me damn near before I got out of my corner. I had a brief glimpse of The Doctor pointin’ and then ‘ole Abbott came at me like some kinda freak. His arms was spinnin’ like a crazy windmill, and I was takin’ as many hits from his elbows and forearms as I was his damn mitts. He was moanin’ and slobb
erin’ and carryin’ on like no wag I’d ever fought before – seemed straight up unnatural. I got my arms up to block, but finally I just grabbed him and threw him off. The referee was standin’ off to the side lookin’ flabbergasted.

  Abbott come right back, not so much punchin’ as raking at me with his gloves. I was ready this time, though, and I sunk my left up to my wrist in his belly. I felt the air gush out of his lungs and per near gagged at the smell, but I followed it up with a stiff right that thumped over his heart like a sledgehammer. It stood him up straight and I followed with an uppercut that closed his mouth and flipped him clean over backwards so far onto the top of his shoulders that he did a somersault ass over teakettle. I figured the match was over.

  I was wrong. That gangly sonofabitch wobbled and scrambled back to his feet while the ref counted over him. Drooker didn’t even wait to acknowledge the ref, he just come on back at me, slappin’ and flailin’ away with no skill at all. More blows come than I could block, but I didn’t really need to. They carried some juice, sure; probably enough to hurt a lesser fella. Me, I got scraped and bruised and shoved around some, but I held my ground.

  The frustratin’ part was tryin’ to make a chance to wind up my own punches. When I did the wag didn’t try and block ‘em, so any decent shot landed him flat on his back. I did it twice more in that first round, once with the jab followed by a roundhouse combination, and again with a wild overhand right that sure wasn’t the prettiest punch I ever heaved but it face-planted Abbott into the mat.

  When the gong sounded, it was like a switch was throwed, and Drooker immediately went slack and shuffled back towards where The Doctor was wavin’ his arms and hollerin’. I found that mighty peculiar.

  “What in blazes is going on out there?” Marvin said, wipin’ at my scrapes and scratches and givin’ me some water to drink and spit. “That wag’s like some kinda crazy person!”

  “He ain’t right, that’s for sure,” I said. “But I’ll get ‘im. Sure as I’m sittin’ here, I’ll put Abbott Drooker down for the count.”

  From that point on the fight just got gruesomer and gruesomer. We was both bleedin’ bad by the third or fourth round. I was getting’ tireder than usual ‘cuz Abbott was so vigorous. Still, I put him on the mat more times than I can count with punches that should have hospitalled him, and he kept gettin’ up and comin’ back for more. Fact is, the only thing that stopped him was the gong that ended each round. He’d quit what he was doin’ and just shuffle back to his seat. Some rounds I was happy as a call girl at quittin’ time to hear that damn chime.

  I got to admit I was bein’ threatened by nerves. I was gettin’ spent, and my punches was comin’ slower and with less force. I don’t know how many rounds we went, but it was late. The referee took to just leanin’ on the ropes and restin’. The crowd was gettin’ tired, but even they could fathom that somethin’ just weren’t right. No man should have taken the beatin’ Abbott was takin’ and still be back for more. Not even me, I got to admit, and I’m the iron man!

  I know I busted a bunch of Drooker’s ribs. I heard ‘em snap. His chest was black with bruises from my mitts beatin’ ‘it like sledgehammers. I busted his jaw so bad it hung slack. I could hardly look ‘cuz it was downright gross. Still he kept on.

  Saturdee turned to Sundee and still our battle raged. Abbott was gettin’ the best of me more and more. I went to a knee one round. Another he actually knocked me down, and he all but fell on me, buttin’ at me with that wiggly jaw like he was trying to bite but couldn’t bear down with his teeth. I was shocked like I never been and rolled away from him, too surprised to remember to take my time gettin’ back up. Luckily the gong sounded just then, otherwise I don’t know what woulda happened.

  The last round we fought, I thought I was done for. Abbott was everywhere pummelin’ me, and I was pretty much defenseless. Finally, I had an openin’ and I let go a ferocious left uppercut. I’d forgotten all about that slack jaw of his, which I have to admit I’d been avoidin’. My mitt caught him full on the bottom of his chin and ripped the thing clean off. It went flyin’ out into the crowd, and I heard a dame scream. Abbott spun around, his back to me, down to a knee, then stood and faced me. His jaw was gone and his tongue was hangin’ like a piece of jerky out of his neck hole. But his eyes was fierce.

  Somethin’ in my brain just snapped, like the animal thing in me realized it was up against somethin’ dark and unholy and it was me or hell, and no way was I goin’ there. As Abbott come at me, that tongue flappin’ back and forth, I reached way down below my hip with my right, wound it up and put everythin’ I had into one last desperate haymaker. My blessed sockdologer landed with all my weight behind it square in the center of Abbott’s map. I heard a sound like a pun’kin being dropped out a window and his head clean exploded, showerin’ me with blood and gray gook. Drooker went over like he’d been poleaxed. Looked like it too.

  I ain’t never killed a man before, and standin’ there, chest heavin’, relief that the fight was over makin’ me weak in the knees, it was all I could do to keep from pukin’. The whole arena was silent, then such a cheer as you never heard erupted from every throat in the place. The ones not engaged in emptyin’ their accompanyin’ bellies, that is.

  I stood, starin’. Marvin came up, and I’ll be damned if he didn’t point and laugh. “Would you look at that?” he said. He must of seen my expression, though, ‘cuz then he led me away. “We got to get you outta here,” he said.

  ***

  I’m happy to report I didn’t go up the creek for murder or nothin’. I even got paid, though not the full thousand, not yet anyway. Herkimer Yelm is workin’ on that. The Doctor skipped out, and he’s supposedly wanted by the authorities on some kinda charge of “dabblin’ with the profane” or some such thing I don’t know about. I figured his whole scheme was to bet everything he had on Drooker, expectin’ no man to be able to stand against him. He was wrong.

  I’ve heard rumors of Abbott bein’ one of the “walkin’ dead” or somethin’. I figure maybe he was on them drugs I always hear about, I don’t know. All I do know is next time I get in the ring with a guy that has skin like a fish’s belly that’s been laid out in the sun too long and smells like it too, I’m forfeitin’!

  fighting chance by garnett elliott

  I woke up in a ring.

  That shouldn't sound strange, seeing as how I'm a fighter by profession. I've come to on a dozen occasions with hot lights above me and rough canvas under my back.

  This time, though, was different. I'd been sleeping, not knocked out by a punch. And my last memories weren't of roaring crowds or a cornerman yelling at me to keep my hands up. They were much more pleasant. I'd been sitting at a crowded table in the Brown Derby, my hotshot attorney on one side and a leggy brunette from St. Louis on the other. We were all doing some serious drinking, celebrating my victory in court. Victory as in: "Not Guilty."

  I rubbed my head. I felt a pressure drumming there, like a balloon about to burst. Also, a medicine taste lingered in my mouth.

  Medicine?

  Then I remembered--the brunette, giving me that last shot of gin. She'd had a glimmer in her eyes. The booze had tasted strange going down, turning the conversation around the table into a roar. Making the faces spin and spin . . .

  "Mr. Delmonico?"

  The voice snapped my attention back. It sounded harsh, with an Eastern European accent. It also sounded familiar. I sat up.

  "Mr. Delmonico, on your feet please."

  He said 'please' like it was a command. I hauled myself up by the ropes. My hands, I noticed, had been carefully taped, and someone had taken the trouble of replacing my courtroom suit with a pair of lavender trunks.

  "That's better."

  The voice was coming from somewhere above. A box-shaped shadow against the glare of overhead lights. It took a couple moments for my eyes to adjust. I saw bare wooden walls and an open space stacked with crates, and realized the ring had been set up inside a warehous
e. The box-shape resolved into an old foreman's office, jutting some fifteen feet above the floor.

  Three faces peered over the side of the box and down at me.

  You've seen gladiator movies, right? The ones with the Coliseum and the Evil Roman Emperor up on his throne, glaring at the masses? Well, that's what this was like. Only the 'Emperor' was a square-jawed Slav named Salwel Drupczek. He had a gray suit and vest to match his shock of gray hair, but the clothes couldn't hide the raw brutality that bled from his deep-set eyes and thick fingers. To his left hovered a slender, scarred man with a face born for poker.

  Drupczek was the head of the local Hungarian Mob. His companion, Spider Vostov, was chief leg-breaker.

  But if those two faces set my heart thumping, the third rocked me with a one-two. On Drupczek's right sat the beauty from St. Louis, She Who Serves Poisoned Drinks, grinning like Lady Macbeth herself.