A Dying Wish

by Henry Roi

  “Did you really have someone's blood around your mouth?” Perry rumbled next to me. “Tell me they were exaggerating.”

  Eddy laughed loudly. The judge frowned at him. My grin felt like it would split my head in half.

  “Would you like to share your humor, gentlemen?” the judge asked us, leaning forward with a scowl.

  I looked up. “Not really.”

  His scowl deepened. I almost commented on how un-judge-like he looked. He shook his head and sighed. Looked around at the jocks and their parents. He said to the room, “I find this whole situation unbelievable. A star boxer and his trainer assault seventeen star football players on our very beach.” He closed his eyes to show exasperation, but I could tell he secretly thought differently. As if he remembered some incident during his prime that held a special place in his heart. I could see he had been athletic once, and maybe knew what it felt like to take on impossible odds and win. There's no better feeling in the universe. He said, “I think I'll charge the lot of you and send you to the county jail.”

  Several people complained loudly.

  “Quiet!” he screamed. “One more outburst and I will do that. You young men don't realize how fortunate you are no one was seriously injured.” He ignored the looks of outrage from the men wearing casts. He looked at me, at Eddy. “You two will each pay two thousand dollars to the city, and you are ordered to compensate these young men and their parents for any hospital bills that resulted from your shenanigans.”

  He looked thoughtfully at the people that obviously wanted to protest. Looked back at us. “Because of your status in our community and the good you have done for our youth through boxing programs, I am lenient. I won't be next time. You understand?”

  “Yes, sir,” Eddy and I said together, suppressing grins.

  “Good. Dismissed! All of you get the fuck out of my courtroom.”

  “Did he really say 'fuck'?” Bobby asked me, sitting on a couch behind me and Anastasia, Blondie and Julian on either side of him. They shared a bowl of popcorn, and from the looks of it had been there a while. The bowl was nearly empty, empty beer bottles on the table between us. My dry mouth told me I had gotten carried away, talking for a long time. How long? Damn cocaine trance…

  Anastasia looked at me quizzically. I realized she wanted me to answer Bobby's question.

  “Yes. He said 'fuck'.” I took a breath. Snorted. I need to get re-keyed. I talked away my buzz.

  Bluh!

  “Damn good story, Babe,” Blondie said, crunching popcorn.

  “I'd buy a ticket,” Bobby agreed and tossed a kernel in the air. Blondie's arm flickered deftly, catching it right before it hit his open lips. She crunched it loudly, looking at him with her Shall We Duel? look. He chuckled in high spirits.

  “I thought you said you had forgotten about that,” Anastasia said, smirking. “I doubt any story that has Coach in it is boring. All mine are unforgettable.”

  “Can't wait to hear more of yours,” I said as a courtesy. She smiled. I turned around and muttered, “Big Brother” before maneuvering around her. I've had enough social intercourse for now. I went into the hallway, intending on revisiting the launch pad, and remembered something.

  Shaking my head, I spun back, stuck my head around the corner and glared at my girl. She lounged on the couch like a supermodel. She noticed me and I amped up my glare. I said, “Popcorn? Really, Babe? I'll twist your blonde pubbies for that.”

  She squawked in a very satisfying manner, and just like that I was out of debt. No foot massage for her. Bobby and Julian hooted laughter. Anastasia gave me a look that said, Why I never!

  Blondie smiled sensuously to acknowledge my one-up, gave a slow, foxy wink that promised unspeakable pleasures and tapped her nose, bright green fingernails gleaming. My Johnson took note. I waved for her to follow me to the bathroom.

  III. A Dying Wish

  “Before I tell you, I want you to call me Shocker,” Anastasia said when I asked her what the hell that thing on her arm was.

  “And I'm Ace,” Julian said, smiling at me and Blondie. He and Shocker sat on the loveseat facing us. Bobby kicked back in a recliner with a Michelob and listened, all of them pretending they hadn't heard my girl cry out in orgasm minutes ago. Blondie's face was still flushed, an interesting shade that differed slightly from Shocker's prudish embarrassment coloring her cheeks.

  I looked at Shocker and Ace, shaking my head. “Good. Now my Lame Detector won't go off every time I hear your names.” I blew out an amused breath. “Anastasia and Julian. Geez.”

  Blondie and Big Swoll laughed, but Shocker and her guy didn't think it was funny. Hey, they shouldn't have chosen names that invited ridicule. If I knew them a little better, I'd roast their asses.

  “Murderize,” Shocker blurted.

  “Huh?” I turned my head to the side.

  “Sometimes I hear voices. They like to create words for the moment. The fight junkie in there just suggested 'murderize.' ” She smiled, showing too many teeth. “I like it.”

  “Me too.” I returned her canine smile and her entire body flexed, looking every inch the freaky-built athlete, her so-called inner fight junkie straining to come out. My head throbbed in warning, perhaps to remind me of her ability to make murderize a real word. Blondie unconsciously gripped my arm, and I thought, Okay. I'll have to check my candor around her. Until I brush up on my defense, anyway…

  “The compression sleeve is a recent creation of my husband's,” she said after taking several calming breaths. She inclined her head towards Ace, who adopted a proud squint at her words.

  “Uh,” the geek said, getting his thoughts together. He was definitely of the intelligence elite. He knew most people couldn't follow his train-of-thought, so he simplified his prose for us. “It's electroactive polymers.”

  Blondie jerked up straight, staring at him in disbelief. “You work in materials?” she asked, referring to the engineering field.

  Now it was his turn to stare in disbelief. Maybe I don't have to dumb down my explanations, his raised brows expressed. He looked pleased and confused.

  Blondie chortled, said, “You actually figured out how to control an electrical response from polymers? I thought that was only theoretical.”

  “Technically it is. This prototype is unknown to the scientific community.”

  “And we have no plans to advertise,” Shocker added, watching Blondie, baffled that this girly-girl was knowledgeable on the subject.

  “Understandable,” I said. Everyone nodded.

  Ace went on, speaking excitedly. “The polymers bend and stretch just like muscles. The inner layer has sensors that intuit muscle fiber movement, telling the material how to contract or stretch to assist. The sleeve adds substantial speed and power to her punches.”

  “Power source?” Blondie quizzed, standing and walking to study the sleeve intently. It looked like liquid metal, black-silver, reflective. A small ribbon containing wires came out of the top of the sleeve at the shoulder and plugged into her tank top.

  “Surprisingly, it doesn't require much voltage. So I designed this tank top that converts core body heat into direct current. It powers the sleeve. The hotter she gets, the better it works.”

  I chose to ignore that straight line, humor the geek didn't seem to understand. Everyone but him snickered. I looked at Shocker's black tank, which was tight against her torso but showed no outward appearance of being comprised of anything special. It looked like a thick, expensive shirt you'd see on a rack at Macy's.

  Blondie sat next to me again. Looked at Ace. “Power Felt?”

  He nodded, impressed. He must now realize she was a student of engineering. With her Giselle-like looks she fools everyone. He looked at her hands, perfect long fingers that were unlikely innovators, appearing more suited to creating hair styles than mechanical or electronic inventions. He looked back to her expectant face. “Carbon nanotube based fabric. It creates a voltage from a difference in temperature between the skin
and the outer layer of the shirt. Heat energy on one side of the material sets electrons in motion. They slow down and accumulate on the cooler side, generating a voltage.”

  “You could probably charge a cell phone or run a flashlight with it, huh?” Blondie ventured, tapping a finger on her bottom lip.

  “Sure. Maybe power a laptop. All sorts of accessories.”

  “Why only one sleeve?” I asked.

  Shocker looked at me. “I was shot in the left shoulder while rescuing my son.”

  “Ouch,” I sympathized. “Bullets are a bitch.”

  “For sure.” She rubbed her shoulder. “Thirty-ought-six. Shattered my humerus.” Ace squeezed her other shoulder and she gave him an appreciative smile. She told us, “Ace thinks the titanium in my arm is boss. Don't you, sweetie?” She stroked his hair.

  “Yes dear,” he murmured like a dork.

  “Big Brother,” I grumbled in reflex, though for some reason didn't quite feel the disgust for their drama that I felt earlier.

  What are these people doing to me? I care nothing for them, I told myself, not believing it.

  I snorted loudly, and like a yawn that's contagious, Blondie sniffed next to me. I looked at her. She smiled, teeth bright and perfect. Pert nose turn up slightly at the tip. She wore only lip gloss today, no other make-up. She didn't need it. Her face, even tweaked out on coke and just-fucked-flushed from our bathroom snort-and-hump, would be the envy of any girl if it were on the cover of a magazine. I looked down at her blouse, perfect round boobies swelling out of a black lacy bra. I hung my tongue out, panting, leering at her chest like a perv at a strip club. “Babe, I like how your boobies are presented today. It's like they are making a speech, informing the haters that there's a new standard to hate, and demanding double attention from all who admire the aesthetics of a quality bosom.”

  She rolled her eyes, lips twisted to hold in a smile. “Raz, the score is even. We settled that on the sink. Stop trying to start more shit just so we can fuss then fuck again.”

  “Worth a try,” I grinned. She smacked me for my effort.

  “Uh,” Ace uttered, looking like he was going to ask if we needed privacy.

  “Whoa,” Bobby said. “You guys are crazy even for white folks.”

  “Yeah. They should have their own reality show,” Shocker said sarcastically, suddenly impatient.

  “We did,” Blondie shot back.

  “You should watch it,” I suggested, ignoring her attitude.

  Shocker glared at me. I gave an exaggerated glare back and she laughed. She looked around at everyone. “I don't know about you people, but being here has made me emotional. All I want to do is go home to my kids.”

  “You have kids?” I asked. That was unexpected.

  “Two. A boy and a girl.”

  Blondie squirmed. I grimaced, recalling our recent conversation about our future and the possibility of having kids. She wanted one. I wasn't ready. She didn't exactly demand that I play her or trade her, though it was close. Thankfully, I've been able to distract her with sex toys and drugs (Yes, I realize this is wrong. Fuck you for pointing it out. I'm just not ready to commit yet, okay?).

  I could tell my girl wanted to grill Shocker for details on her rug rats, but was reluctant to engage her in girl-talk. Worked great for me. I was about to put on some music and suggest everyone get up and shake their ass, guzzle some more beer, when Eddy's brother walked in the front door.

  “Good. You're all here,” Perry said, closing the door. He walked in, stopped next to Shocker and Ace. He was six feet, nearly three hundred pounds, dark hair short on a massive head, chin beard, enormous arms holding several bags of groceries, which crinkled against Levi's jeans and a simple green shirt advertising the Beau Rivage Casino. He was probably the finest cook I've ever known, his under bitten smile and dark, twinkling eyes excited about creating some gastronomic extravagance that weighed heavily in the Winn Dixie sacks. He took his time scrutinizing the five of us, his presence as eye-commanding as ever, once again bringing to mind that day in court that made local history. Smiling in genuine cheer, he told us, “If you want to eat, get your asses outside and unload the groceries,” then walked into the kitchen, knowing we would do as he bid.

  With a stomach full of cocaine drip I wasn't hungry at all, but knew I should eat something. I usually eat six small meals a day, a regimen that keeps my metabolism soaring, burning fat and processing nutrients much more efficiently than a traditional three meals-per schedule would. It was a job to eat while flying on speed, but necessary. I was thankful that Perry offered to break bread. It's been too long since he, Eddy and myself sat in this very house gorging on ridiculous amounts of food. I couldn't forget the quality of Perry's and Eddy's cooking if I had Alzheimer's. I ate here for years as a teenager.

  “Chow time, Babe,” I said, slapping Blondie's thigh, standing quickly to avoid her counter. Her hook blurred inches from my stomach, thumping hard into the back of the couch. She squawked at the miss. “Ha,” I said with malicious delight, dancing away as she flipped me off. I turned, heading outside to grab some grocery bags. Everyone followed. The load from Perry's truck, a tricked '49 GMC that nearly glowed in the dark from the orange paint, emptied in minutes.

  With a satisfied chuff after the groceries were laid out on the island counter, Perry scrubbed his hands at the sink and moved around the kitchen like a mentor on Master Chef. He picked through cabinets and drawers, grabbing various pans, utensils and in minutes the mélange of heating sauces, marinating meats and chopped fresh vegetables intoxicated us.

  Music began jamming in the living room. My Girl by the Temptations accompanied by Bobby's snapping fingers. They sounded like .22 rifle cracks. He stepped around like the legendary band members did on stage, swinging arms, tilting shoulders, humming, fresh beer in hand. Blondie giggled, watching him for several minutes before joining in his harmonizing hum and dance.

  I looked back into the kitchen. Ace and Shocker chatted while washing lettuce and tomatoes, handing them to Perry, who chopped them for salads on a huge wooden cutting board mounted on the island counter, blade blurring tat-tat-tat-tat in his tremendous hand.

  I was not used to what was going on here, beginning to feel extremely uncomfortable. The only time I ate with a group of people was at restaurants, and they were all complete strangers, not people I liked.

  Thought you didn't like these people, my subconscious mocked.

  “Sorry bastard,” I grumbled at myself and the situation. I didn't like being outside my comfort zone. It wasn't just the eating together. It was the camaraderie, the friendly-feeling-and-goodwill bullshit. I prefer to spend my life in the company of my bitch and my bike. I like parties and clubbing on occasion - who doesn't like dancing, drugs, and a herd of marks - but this was something entirely different. There was no percentage for participating in this. It felt high-maintenance, filled with drama, and, the worst part, these people were not expendable witnesses.

  “But I can't ditch them now,” I sighed.

  I looked around at my new acquaintances, reluctantly submitting to the alien feeling elating my core. Ugh. Feelings. Then, relenting the last of my cynicism, At least they aren't posting every minute of their lives on Twitter.

  Perry caught a break while waiting on things to cook. He waved to get everyone's attention and announced, “I have a surprise for everybody. Including myself, come to think of it.” He chuckled. “I haven't seen it either.”

  Everyone murmured in pleasant surprise, crowding around Perry as he turned on the TV in the living room, a fifty-five inch Sony plasma screen. He loaded a DVD into the side of it, used the remote to start the video. Suddenly my trainer's enormous head filled the screen, ten-times life size. It was fairly disturbing. He looked healthy, slightly older than the last time we spoke twelve years ago, though basically the same dynamic bulldog with gorilla strength that I used to love like a father. Seeing his face on video made me miss him more than the obituary photo had.

&nb
sp; You know that feeling? Shitty.

  Eddy smiled, jaw kicked out as if to say, You ready for this? He looked straight ahead, seeming to know Perry would be standing in the middle, having started the video and stepped straight back. “Thanks for handling this, Perry. If things work out this crew may become part of your life. God knows they need you.”

  Eyebrows around the room rose at that, lips pursed or frowning. It was a bombshell. The idea of us becoming familial hadn't been thought of, much less voiced. And wouldn't have. Eddy, always putting people on the spot, just slapped all of us with planet crushing pressure. It's actually hard to make six people uneasy with a couple of sentences. Eddy did it as if reiterating something he had studied in the Book of Destiny, an oracle only accessible to those that are as worldly and knowledgeable about humanity as my trainer.

  He resumed. “No pressure, or anything.” Another smartass grin, then he addressed the girl-beast. “Clarice. The Shocker. You are my most special achievement. My legacy as a trainer is extraordinary because of what you accomplished in the ring. My pride as a mentor is extraordinary because of what you've accomplished as a woman, a wife and a mother. A business owner.”

  He went quiet, groping for words. Shocker sniffled, tears streaming down her cheeks. Everyone grew more uncomfortable. I felt like I wasn't supposed to hear all this endearment BS, and wasn't exactly thrilled to be part of it. I snorted, shifting foot-to-foot.

  Eddy looked to his left, right at me, and barked, “Razor! Boy you need your butt beat for so many reasons.” Heavy sigh. “But regardless of all the STUPID in your life you're still a good kid. You made the Old Man proud countless times. We had a good run in the amateurs, didn't we? Lots of memories that I cherished. I hope your kids and protégés make you as happy - and as frustrated - as you made me. You worked hard, son.” He smiled, then shadowboxed a few combinations.