Fight Card Presents: Iron Head & Other Stories

by Jack Tunney

  "10...9..." Backward? Why was the ref counting backward?

  Jack wanted to stay down. The side of his face felt broken, blood pooling in his throat. He tasted something else mingled with the copper. Champagne?

  The Mauler rested against the turnbuckle, and that was when Jack saw he was a no-good cheat. One of Mauler’s corner men extracted something from the Mauler's glove, then made it disappear in the folds of a towel. Their sleight of hand was good. Probably no one saw it except Jack. A piece of dark iron the perfect size to fit within a clenched glove.

  Railroad spike.

  That no good son of a devil. Was that how he beat all those boys down South? Cheating?

  Jack wasn't about to let a traitor beat him.

  "5...4..." Jack started the climb to his feet, using the ropes to steady himself. The world tried to slide out from under him and he wasn't sure what he'd do if he got hit again. He needed a miracle.

  The bell rang. Good enough.

  Jack staggered to his corner where his stool had reappeared. He plopped onto it and leaned back. The left side of his face throbbed. His tongue played with his back molars, digging at the sharp edges of his broken teeth, exploring the new cracks.

  Where the hell was Christian? Why was no one in his corner?

  You couldn't trust him. You should know that by now.

  Jack’s head was still swimming. He and Christian had lived through the War together. The endless nights in the trenches, keeping each other sane and alive through the rain, the gas attacks, the dysentery, and the artillery fire.

  But you couldn’t trust him.

  Jack wondered if he had retreated to the wrong corner. Get knocked to silly street and it wouldn’t be odd to stumble to the wrong side. But the stool was here and the Mauler sat opposite him. He was in the right place.

  "I'm here," Eleanor said, ducking between the ropes. She wore a blue dress with red polka dots, black silk stockings, and her blue velvet hat.

  Jack exhaled, the relief so sudden that tears came to his eyes. He tried to hug her, but she warded him off with a hand on his chest. "There's no time for that."

  "Eleanor ... where have you been?"

  "Out."

  "Out? What does that mean?"

  "That's my business. You've got to focus. We can talk about us later." Eleanor wrung a sponge into a tin bucket and then dabbed the back of his neck.

  "I'm so sorry, Eleanor. Those things I did ..."

  "Focus. Nine more rounds. I think you took the second. He took the first and the third. The third might've even been a ten-eight round."

  "This isn't going to the judges." He noticed her quick glance and knew what it meant – she didn't think he could do it. Even Eleanor didn't believe in him no more. "I'm knocking him out. Then you'll take me back, right?"

  "You think that's what this is about? Boxing?"

  "I'm going to do it for you. You just watch."

  She smiled, but her eyes remained flat.

  "Where’s Christian?" Jack asked.

  "This isn't about Christian, okay? We'll talk later, Rick."

  That name hit him as hard as the Mauler with an iron spike in his mitt.

  "My name's Jack."

  "No, it's not. Your name is Rick."

  The bell rang and Jack watched her slip through the ropes taking the stool and bucket with her.

  Maybe the railway spike had knocked something loose. It had happened in the past. Get hit hard enough and people start to change their names.

  "Fight," the referee yelled and Jack turned to face the Mauler. He wanted to grit his teeth, but the side of his face grated. Time to put the traitor down. Then Eleanor would come back to him.

  ***

  Jack couldn't see straight. The left side of his face was broken, the bones grating every time a jab sailed through his defences. The pain had numbed, but he knew for each minute that passed in the bout, there was another day of agony waiting for him when this was over.

  He had thrown everything he had at the Mauler. Hooks, crosses, kidney shots, even an accidental head butt. Even though he didn't go down, the Magnificent Mauler had finally started to show the first cracks in his shield of invincibility.

  He bled over his right eye, probably from the head butt, and his nose was crooked. Jack had tried to mess it up further with a few hooks and a nasty jab. The fire in the Mauler's eyes had dimmed, all the pummelling was taking the fight out of him.

  Another couple of rounds, Jack thought. Another couple of rounds and he would send the Mauler to the canvas – because Eleanor was depending on him.

  The bell rang and the referee separated them, both men dropping their mitts from exhaustion. The Mauler returned to his corner, his seconds bringing a stool, buckets, and towels.

  When Jack returned to his corner, only his empty stool waited for him. The sudden sting was worse than any punch.

  Eleanor?

  Jack leaned over the ropes and tried to his shield his eyes from the flashbulbs. The Daily Mirror and the Daily Mail always wanted blood for their front pages because it sold copies. Let's see how many copies you sell tomorrow, Jack thought. A million, I bet.

  Jack wanted to call to Eleanor, but his jaw hurt too much.

  She was supposed to give him until the end of the fight. She couldn't leave now. His stomach twisted and a bout of vertigo forced him to his stool.

  He had promised her a knockout, but she had to give him time. The Mauler was one of the new breed – young specimens who hadn't been ground down from four years in the trenches.

  Jack gazed into the crowd but couldn't see her hat. His breathing was getting away from him, the world brightening, and he heard individual voices in the crowd – Washed up. Champion. Scandal.

  He had to get it under control. Jack buried his head in his mitts and the world muted. No more typewriter keys, no more flashbulbs or lust of the crowd.

  The bell rang and he climbed to his feet, kicked his own stool between the ropes. His legs were wobbly. How can she do this to me?

  When he turned to face his opponent, it was no longer the Mauler. At least, not the Mauler he'd been fighting. Advancing toward him was another beast of a man, face dry and unblemished. The new Mauler tapped his gloves in anticipation.

  "Bloody Hell," Jack muttered. It was one thing to use a railway spike – he wished he had one right about now – but it was quite another to replace a fighter with a fresh one.

  He looked to the ref for help, but discovered Christian was now the referee. Now he knew he'd been hit too hard.

  "Christian? What are you doing?"

  Christian looked at him quizzically. "You okay to fight?" he asked.

  "That's not the Mauler," Jack complained. But Christian ignored him, standing outside the punch zone and watching impassively as the new fighter descended upon him, fresh and hungry, shoulders hunched protectively, hands in a crouched, aggressive style.

  So that's how it's going to be.

  They had rigged the entire game. Did they think he wouldn't notice? Did they even care? What about the fans, the photographers, the reporters? Did none of them notice or were they in on it too?

  Then he had a dominating thought – For Eleanor.

  A promise was a promise no matter how many fast ones they pulled. His body ached, his legs like rubber, and his arms as heavy as concrete. He raised his guard and prepared to face the new Mauler.

  Jack survived the first onslaught, slipping the worst of the punches. A few snuck through, turning his world grey. His body wanted to quit. A liver shot sent him to the canvas. Christian hurled the count at him, but Jack didn't stay down, pushing Christian out of the way as he stood.

  They were trying to break him, take away his desire to survive. Jack's punches, weakened after five rounds of fighting, barely slowed the newcomer.

  Jack cried because he knew he couldn't win their cruel game.

  Just survive the round, Jack. One more round, he thought.

  This new Mauler fought differently, had diff
erent timing, and Jack tried to adapt, but too many punches were slipping through.

  The bell rang and Jack slouched low, hands on knees to keep himself partially upright.

  "Hey, what's up with you?" a man asked. Jack glanced up at the Coronet Club's doorman who wasn't a doorman at all but rather Sam The Magnificent Mauler Madison. He wore a brown silk suit with a white hankie tucked into the breast pocket.

  Jack coughed, the air heavy with cigarette and cigar smoke. The piercing tone of a clarinet ripped through the din of raucous laughter and drunken revelry. Crystal chandeliers hung from pressed-tin ceilings, amplifying the sounds of celebration.

  “Hey, Rick,” the doorman said.

  Jack stopped. “Why’d you call me that?”

  “It’s your name, isn’t it?”

  “My name is Jack Dempsey.”

  “You ain’t Jack Dempsey or the heavyweight champ of the world. You’re Rick Borland.”

  They were trying to keep him guessing, keep him off balance. Maybe they thought he had taken one too many punches over the years and wouldn't see through their schemes.

  “Let me by, Sam.”

  "You going to cause any trouble?" the Mauler asked.

  "I'm looking for someone," Jack heard himself say. He clutched a handful of crumpled letters. Jack looked at them as if seeing them for the first time, recognizing Eleanor's handwriting. Much of the ink had run from water exposure.

  "You all right?" the Mauler asked. Funny, hearing that from the man who broke his face with a railway spike.

  Jack pushed by him into the Cornet Club, the finest gin mill in all the town, and descended the three steps to the main floor. The men wore fine suits and the women wore short skirts. They drank from teacups and stumbled and danced to the four-piece band playing on the stage. Someone slapped him on the back and slurred something encouraging at him.

  The jazz quartet ended their song with a piercing note from the cornet. The crowd cheered and raised their teacups in salute, the smell of gin so strong it made Jack's eyes water.

  A woman took the stage, lips bright red.

  "Hello, suckers!" she said. A musician plucked a few deep notes from his standup bass and the crowd cheered again. "Quiet everyone!" The place fell silent except for an errant laugh.

  Jack thought he might've recognized the woman from the movies but he couldn't be sure – he didn't get to the cinema much.

  Jack jostled his way deeper into the club. He thought he wanted to find Eleanor, but didn’t really know what he wanted.

  "It's almost time, little girls and big boys. Ready to count with me?"

  The crowd shouted its confirmation. She stared at a timepiece. "Okay...ready...10...9...8..."

  The crowd joined the countdown as Jack slipped through them. She's here. He became forceful, shoving people out of the way, teacups falling from jostled hands and shattering on the floor. There were curses and threats but no one acted.

  "...3...2...1...Happy New Year!"

  The place erupted in cheers and celebration and the band struck up a lively tune. White folk hugged colored folk, rich danced with poor.

  In the chaos, he saw Eleanor's blue velvet hat. Her arms were around Christian's neck as they held each other in a lover's embrace. They kissed, seemingly oblivious to the churn of the crowd around them.

  Jack's world pulsed, the sound of the New Year's festivities fading to the background. His balance titled dangerously to the right. The pressure, the pressure inside built, like the feeling he got back in the trenches seconds before he knew the artillery was about to strike.

  Eleanor, he tried to say but he made no sound.

  The bell rang.

  Jack moved out for the final round. He was broken, smashed, and exhausted – only determination keeping him upright. He had faced their lies and still he was standing.

  "Jack Dempsey's no man's fool," he said.

  Christian was his opponent, but he looked as surprised as Jack about it.

  They stood across from each other in a lavish hotel room adorned with crystal lamps and velvet-brocade wallpaper.

  "I know about you and Eleanor," Jack said.

  "I don't know what --"

  "I read the letters. I saw you at the Cornet Club."

  "Rick, I..."

  "My name's not Rick!"

  For a brief second, he was back in the ring. Jack swarmed, unsure from where he drew the strength, simply fighting on instinct.

  His glove smacked into flesh with the popping sound of a gunshot. A spurt of blood. Uppercut. Pop. Right cross. Pop. More blood.

  Christian staggered back with each blow. Pop, pop, pop. Christian crumpled to the floor, his chest stained with round circles of blood. He struggled to draw a breath and Jack watched as the fire in his eyes faded. Christian's final gaze betrayed him, eyes flicking to the side. Jack turned.

  He slipped the blow enough to prevent Eleanor from cracking his skull. The bottle shattered, liquid spraying across his face. He staggered sideways, knocked one of the lamps to the floor, caught himself on a bookshelf. He tasted champagne mixed with his own blood.

  Eleanor held the neck of the shattered bottle. Her eyes were wide, hands shaking.

  Jack took a deep breath and straightened. He moved his jaw, felt it click. She must've broken his jaw.

  "Eleanor," he slurred, the physical pain locked far away.

  "What have you done? Oh my God, what have you done?"

  "I saw you," he whispered. "At the club. I saw you."

  Jack held the railway spike in his hand. Except it wasn't a railway spike. He clutched the Colt, the one that Eleanor had sent him when he was fighting in the mud.

  He pointed it at her.

  "Rick, please don't –"

  The crowd erupted in cheers, people on their feet, wanting blood.

  In boxing, it was called the perfect punch, the one where the entire body was perfectly aligned, power generated through the heels, up through the hips, into the torso, along the arm, and into the fist. He knew he was behind on the cards. Only one thing would save him.

  Jack launched that perfect punch, a looping overhand right that sailed through the covering arms, and hit with such force that the neck snapped sideways. On the button.

  Bang.

  The Magnificent Mauler lay crumpled on the canvas. The ref knew it was over – waving it off, pushing Jack back as if he had energy to attack again.

  The bell rang. He had done it.

  Jack fell to his knees put his head to the canvas and cried. The champ cried in the ring, because after all their underhanded schemes and against all odds, he had won, knocking out the Magnificent Mauler in the last round in the last minute.

  The ring flooded with people, all wanting a piece of Jack Dempsey, heavyweight champion of the world.

  Their hands were on him, pulling him to his feet. He wanted to resist, to close his eyes and burn this moment into his memories, but he didn't because he had nothing left.

  The Polo Grounds exploded with excitement, and Jack knew it was because they had just witnessed history. One of the finest displays of courage and heart. This day would be talked about for generations. His exploits would be legendary, passed down from grandfathers, to fathers, to sons. Each talking about the story of Jack Dempsey versus the No-Good Mauler.

  "Eleanor?" he called out, hoping to spot her blue velvet hat.

  The hands pulled him out the revolving doors of the Polo Grounds and into the throng on the sidewalk. Flashbulbs popped. The side of his face throbbed and he hoped his broken jaw wouldn't ruin his smile for the cameras. He'd probably meet the mayor too.

  Police pushed aside fans and reporters, directing him to the street. Jack stopped, alarmed at seeing a paddy wagon idling at the curb. Why were they leading him to the paddy wagon?

  “What’s going on?” he asked.

  “Rick Borden, you’re under arrest for murder.”

  “Murder? I…” He felt like he’d woken from a terrible dream. In this dream, Eleanor had le
ft him for Christian. He frowned. That wasn’t possible though. He was Jack Dempsey and Eleanor would never leave him. “I just knocked out the Mauler. They kept changing the game but I overcame their no-good cheating.”

  They pushed him roughly inside, the doors of the wagon slammed shut behind him and the crowd gave a final roar for their hero.

  As they drove away, Jack heard the announcer: "And still heavyweight champion of the world ... Jack Dempsey!"

  He had done just as he had promised. Knocked out the Mauler. He leaned back against the wall, lost in the sound of his victory, and waited for Eleanor.

  RYAN MCFADDEN

  An Aurora-award winning fantasy/SF author in London, Ontario. His novella Dues Ex Machina was one of the four Aurora-winning stories of Women of the Apocalypse. The Apocalyptic Four are planning their next project: The Puzzle Box. Ryan’s other writing credits include stories in Alienskin, Chicago Overcoat, Afterburn SF, Sinister Tales. He was also a finalist in the $1500 JFJK contest.

  www.ryanmcfadden.com

  ROUND 3: SAILOR TOM SHARKEY & THE CHRISTMAS SAVAGES

  MARK FINN

  I was feeling pretty low in December, 1914. Kate was gone, and I was all alone, and it just wasn’t feeling much like Christmas, what with everything going on. Bar troubles, mob troubles, political troubles, you name it, I had it. Even managed to work up a good-sized gambling debt, betting on the horses. Not a very merry Christmas, I can tell you.

  I mostly kept to myself, but even loners get thirsty, so I spent some time in the bar, sipping whisky and eating pickled eggs. It was no kind of lunch or dinner, but with Kate gone, I didn’t have the energy for much else.

  It was in this general state of configuration Charlie Murphy came walking into the bar, his nose up, his eyes all crinkly, like he was smelling something. Politics, most likely. Murphy was the leader of Tammany Hall, which meant he controlled the Gas Light District, and it also meant he controlled me. At least, he thought he did. Or, more appropriately, I thought he didn’t.

  Anyway, he comes walking in and gives me his stiff-upper lip look, and holds out a beefy hand, and says, “Tom, how’re you doin’, lad?” He was peering at me over the tops of his eye glasses, and made him look like a scolding Bishop.