Fight Card Presents: Iron Head & Other Stories
Page 17
This guy was really pissing me off. I knew this wasn’t going to be anywhere near a sport fight, so I should have expected this. But hell... The loaded shots were taking the starch out of me quick.
Well, if we were going that direction, I had an answer.
I sent a jab to his unprotected face, but threw my right cross at his crotch. It buckled him over as he brought his hands down again. It set up my left hook, and I clocked the monster. Stunned, I sent out an uppercut that rocked him. He swung wild, but hit me in the ribs with a wild hook that caught me perfectly. He cracked a rib for sure, and I backed away unwittingly, giving him a chance to recover.
The problem was I was now having a hard time breathing.
The pain in my ribs was tremendous, and the guy charged at me again. Even though I kept my hands up, his loaded punch penetrated my defenses and caught me in the mouth. I stumbled, my bottom lip tearing open as I spilled to the floor again. When my rear hit the canvas, it rocked my body enough to send a sharp pain through my ribs. I tumbled to the mat, trying to catch my breath. But I had to cover up as the big galoot took three shots at my head. Two of them struck my arms and stung like being struck with a bat. The other caught me on my ear before he backed off.
“Get up,” they shouted from the upper deck.
I sat there on the ground, counting stars, when I heard a miracle.
The bell rang.
Saved by the bell, Aguilar. I guess there’s my sporting chance.
“Bring the chair over here, Rafa,” I shouted at my brother as I stood up. The pain in my ribs was burning like a fire as he stepped into the ring at the blue corner with supplies. “Where’s the ice?” I asked. He eagerly held it out. “Place it against the right side of my face,” I told him.
“What’s going on out there?” he asked me.
“Jerk’s got dusters under those gloves,” I said, trying to catch my breath. “I think my ribs are cracked, and my arms are doing me no good to protect against loaded punches.” I took the water bottle from Rafa and took a long swig. I was breathing deep. But I could see across the way I had tested the dude with my science. He was panting like a tired dog. His conditioning wasn’t great, either.
“This guy’s got power,” I said. “And I don’t have much gas left in the tank, but I think I’ve got a little bit more left than him. I’ve got a puncher’s chance,” I said, looking at my brother as my eye and lip swelled. “And I have science.”
With no warning, the bell rang again. And like last time, the big guy charged after me. The speed was not half as fast as before, and my counter was the same: Hook to the body, uppercut.
But the moves that normally didn’t hurt sent pain rocketing through my upper body. It made me hesitate enough for him to swing at me wild, pummeling me with shots to the arms and head. There was nothing else I could do. I had to fight through the pain.
But this time, I didn’t let up. My left hook got caught up in the guy’s looping right, but my right cross caught the guy square on the nose. With his vision blurred, it was time for a receipt. I followed up with a head-butt to the nose, cracking the big man’s schnozz.
Knowing the guy was getting blinded by my science, so to speak, I didn’t let up. I put the pedal to the metal, ready to spend all my fuel gas on this last flurry. I popped him again in the crotch with a right cross. Though he kept his hands up this time, he was stunned enough for me send another uppercut that dropped the dude on his ass.
This was my chance.
With his hands breaking the fall on his ass, I went for the KO. His chin was wide open, and I gave it everything I had with a cross to the mouth. I hit the button, and the back of the caveman’s head smacked against the canvas. His arms and legs went stiff, and he was finished.
But I wasn’t.
These guys were not going to let my brother off until I had finished this fight definitively. So I clocked the dude three more times with solid blows to the mouth, bouncing his head off the floor again and again before standing back up. My ribs burned like a four-alarm fire.
I could hear the cheers and boos from the peanut gallery. I could hear Rafael cheering as he ran up to embrace me.
“Take it easy,” I muttered to him, trying to catch my breath. Exhausted, I held up my hands in victory, but quickly pulled them down as they stretched the injured ribs.
“Victory is yours one minute, nine seconds into the second round, man!” shouted Rafael.
“Thank you, Rafa,” I said, chuckling at my brother the savant, holding my ribs.
That’s when I heard the slide on pistol clicking in place, placing a bullet in the chamber. It’s a distinctive sound, and I was surprised to hear it over the cacophony of cheers and jeers. So this was how I was going out.
I heard the gun fire. I saw the muzzle light up again and again. I should have been dead in mere milliseconds.
But the bullets weren’t for me. They were for the big caveman. The bullets busted holes in his head and face. His stiff arms and legs fell to the floor as blood began to pool around his body on the canvas.
Silence.
I looked to Rafa. He gulped –old Tom from Tom and Jerry again.
“You are free to go,” said Aguilar from the stage.
The folks in the peanut gallery cheered as I looked up at them and Rafael embraced me again. Big brother protecting little brother. I cringed, adjusting myself to my brother’s hug.
Above us, drifting down from the upper level, dancing in the stark white lights illuminating the dance floor, was good old American dollars. Rafael and I started to pick them up. They were 20s, 50s, even 100s.
“Take your money and get out,” said Aguilar from the stage. “And congratulations. It was a good fight. I like good fights.”
Of course you do, Aguilar. Any time anyone’s fighting for their life, it always tends to make for a good fight.
AUTHOR’S NOTE:
This story is dedicated to my late father and my uncle who shared with me the enjoyment and appreciation of boxing. To my uncle Carlos and Uncle Martin, who both participated in amateur boxing events. To Mike Night Train Trejo and Roman Baby Trejo, who taught me the fundamentals of boxing.To every boxer that ever stepped in the ring, and for every boxer who ever will. Thank you for honoring the sweet science that is boxing.
BOWIE V. IBARRA
Born and raised in Uvalde, Texas, Bowie V. Ibarra has been active in theatre arts as a performer, director, and house manager for over thirty years. In that time, Bowie has also pursued writing. His first book, Down the Road: A Zombie Horror Story, was initially self-published, but subsequently picked up by Permuted Press. The story has made moved to a joint venture with Permuted and Pocket Books. Bowie is currently working on other writing projects, and hopes people enjoy his works.
www.zombiebloodfights.com
ROUND 10: NO WAY OUT
MATTHEW PIZZOLATO
The brakes squealed as the old Ford pickup eased to a halt on the side of the highway.
"Thanks for the ride." Lucas Quaid stepped down from the cab and gazed back into the shaded interior.
The crusty old timer nodded and spat a stream of tobacco juice out the driver side window. "Sure thing, buddy. Anything to help out a fellow Marine."
Lucas watched as the old truck eased away from the shoulder and stood there a moment beneath the afternoon sun. He swiped his arm across his forehead and tugged his cowboy hat down low over his close cropped brown hair.
He started down the long driveway to a place he hadn't visited in fifteen years, not since his parents had died in an automobile accident when he was ten years old and he'd been sent away to St. Vincent's orphanage in Chicago. He'd been in the back seat when the wreck had occurred and had wished more than once that his life had been claimed as well.
He'd made the best of his time at the orphanage though, learning the sweet science as a youth and then enhancing his training in the Marines. Now, fresh out of the service, he had nowhere else to go but back to his roots.
The fields which had once supported livestock were overgrown with weeds. The garden his mother had tended might never have existed. The wind ruffled the tall seed heads and brought to him the squawking sound of the horsehead pumping jacks scattered across the land. Off in the distance, a derrick reached skyward.
Lucas grunted and started toward what remained of the house. He knew the land had been sold after his parent's death, but somehow he'd expected a new family to move in and keep things just the way it had been.
In a way, this made things easier. He'd come here for a reason.
The screen door fell off its hinges when he pulled it, and a well-placed boot heel slammed the wooden door open. He stepped inside and glanced around, long forgotten memories tugging at his mind. Sunlight streamed through the roof in two separate spots.
Pushing the painful thoughts away, he let out a ragged breath and strode to the basement door. It swung open with a loud squeak and he paused a moment, letting his eyes adjust to the dimness. He descended the stairs and was struck again by how much everything had changed. All the familiar furniture had been cleaned out and he felt as if part of his soul had been removed.
His eyes caught on the decrepit bookshelf and for the first time, he smiled. Two of the shelves were missing and all of the books were gone, but that didn't concern him now. Reaching into a recessed crevice hidden from view, he pressed a button and the entire shelf swung away from the wall, revealing an old safe.
He dropped to his knees in front of it and spun the combination dial. The familiar clicking transported him to another time. Snapping out of his reverie, he entered the numbers that had long ago been stamped into his brain. He used to chant them mentally as he lay in bed at St. Vincent's.
When he turned the handles, the safe popped open. Several stacks of gold coins glinted in the back of the safe. He noticed a sheaf of paper money, but it was the large bundle, wrapped in an oil cloth, which interested him.
Unwrapping the layers of cloth revealed a black leather gun belt with a WQ stamped on it. Swallowing hard, Lucas withdrew the Colt Peacemaker from the holster and turned it over slowly. He eared back the hammer and was rewarded with a satisfying click. Lowering it to half-cock, he spun the cylinder. The gun was still loaded.
After several moments of reflection, he decided to take a few of the bills from the stack, figuring his father wouldn't begrudge it. The gold coins were Double Eagles and best left where they were. According to family legend, they were stolen anyway.
An old deck of cards caught his eye and he slipped them into the pocket of his pants. He'd played many a game with those old cards, both with his father and with Roxanne, the neighbor girl who had lived just down the road. Thoughts of her brought a wide smile to his face and he wondered if she ever thought of him.
He rewrapped the gun belt in the oil cloth and replaced it. The Colt, he tucked behind his waistband at the small of his back. Then he pushed the bookshelf back to its original position.
Footsteps sounded upstairs and fear shot through him.
"Hey there!"
Lucas ground his teeth and kept silent, reaching behind his back. The butt of the Colt gave him a satisfying feeling.
"Come out of there right now. We saw you go in."
"That's right," said another voice. "Mr. McCord don't allow vagrants on his property."
McCord? Somehow that name had a familiar sound. "Okay. I'm in the basement. I'm coming up." Lucas let go of the gun butt and eased up the steps, relieved the men hadn't caught him digging through the safe. He paused for a moment in the doorway of the basement before stepping outside.
"Move along, stranger."
Lucas raised his left hand to shield his face from the glare of the afternoon sun as he moved forward and appraised the men through squinted eyes. These were not oil field workers, but armed security guards. What kind of man was McCord anyhow?
"I was just looking for a place to stay the night," Lucas said.
Both men were armed, one with a double barreled shotgun cradled in the crook of his left elbow with the muzzle pointed at the ground.
"Find somewhere else, then." The man wielded an axe handle and was at least twice as thick as the other man.
Lucas grinned and relaxed his stance, with feet spread apart and his hands dangling by his sides.
The big man moved closer, hefting the axe handle. "There's no need for this to get ugly. Just move along."
"You'd best listen to Bobby, there," the man with the shotgun said. "He can get mean real quick like."
"Okay. Fine." Lucas raised both hands above his shoulders and started to turn away.
From the corner of his eye, he saw the axe handle swing toward him. Lucas jerked his head back sharply and the handle missed his skull by inches. Using the man's momentum against him, he grabbed the arm and wrenched the handle away, putting the man in a headlock with his left arm and flinging the axe handle toward the other man with his right.
The flying handle struck the man in the face and the shotgun blossomed flame from both barrels, peppering the wall of the house.
Clasping his hands, Lucas tightened his left arm and the man was out in a matter of seconds. Dropping him, he leapt over the body, grabbed the shotgun and slammed the stock into the side of the blubbering guard's head. His body stilled.
With both men unconscious, Lucas scanned the immediate vicinity. No more threats appeared and he took a deep breath. He noticed a green Jeep and wondered why he hadn't heard it approach. Had he been that enraptured in going through the contents of the safe?
After checking on the men and confirming they were still breathing, he drug them through the front door of the house and pulled it shut. Then he jumped into the Jeep. It was a World War 2 surplus model and fired to life immediately.
If this Mr. McCord was the kind of man Lucas suspicioned, there was one place he could find out more information about him. Pulling out onto the road, he pointed the Jeep toward Ft. Worth and the Jacksboro Highway.
***
Lucas stepped through the door of one of the many night clubs on the Strip. He felt like a fool. He'd replaced his jeans and cowboy hat for a fedora and an imported suit he'd purchased from a guy named Elmer Sharp. The Colt rode snuggly under his left arm in a shoulder holster. It had been thoroughly cleaned and oiled and operated flawlessly the few times he'd fired it.
He rubbed his left hand over his freshly shaven face. Since getting his discharge, he'd kept a beard but figured a thorough appearance change was in order, given that the two guards weren't dead and he didn't know who could be looking for him.
Taking a seat at a corner booth in the back, Lucas turned over the few facts he knew about this man named McCord. Over the past few weeks, he'd been listening, never asking questions that might arouse suspicion, but he'd overheard a few things. The man made his fortune in the oil business, but had quickly spread into other areas of corruption.
On the surface, McCord was a respectable business man and oil tycoon. But Lucas quickly gathered his name was feared along the Jacksboro Highway.
A girl in high heels and a miniskirt approached his table. "What'll you have?"
Knowing his face was rugged from the many fights he'd been in, Lucas grinned, flashing a dimple in his left cheek at her. "Shot of whiskey with a beer chaser."
She returned his smile and disappeared to fetch his order.
The waitress returned with his drinks, leaving him to his thoughts. A few days ago, he'd been sitting in a diner eating a burger when a trio of goons had spotted the Jeep. One of them drove it off and the others entered the diner, so he'd dropped a couple of dollars on the table and exited quickly through the kitchen and out the back door before they noticed him, cursing himself for not getting rid of it sooner.
A smattering of hand clapping jarred him from his reverie and drew his attention to a small
stage. A girl in a low-cut sequined dress approached the microphone hanging from the ceiling. Jazz music began playing. After a few notes, the girl's voice rose in song.
When the spotlight struck her full in the face, Lucas' heart stopped. It clearly skipped a beat and then began hammering in his chest. He coughed and had to take a deep breath. It had been fifteen years since he'd seen her, but not a day had passed that he hadn't thought of her.
Roxanne Sullivan, the girl he'd spent every possible waking moment together with as a child. She had been the only friend he'd ever had in his life.
Lucas sat back and just admired her. She'd blossomed into the most beautiful woman he'd ever laid eyes on. Lush, full red lips, creamy white cleavage and long flowing auburn hair, but then her hair had always been that long. He used to pull it sometimes to tease her. He smiled at the memory and collected himself.
After several more songs, she finished her set and exited the stage to an enthusiastic round of applause.
Finishing his beer in one long pull, Lucas wiped the foam on the sleeve of his coat and stood. Every fiber of his being urged him to speak with her, but he knew better than to draw attention to himself in a place like this. With emotions swirling within his chest, he left the nightclub and stood for a moment, gazing over the parking lot.
A jet-black Cadillac with chrome trim glided into the lot and wheeled around to the back of the building. On impulse, Lucas followed, keeping to the shadows. As he rounded the corner, a back door opened and Roxanne stepped through.
Immediately, thoughts of the car slipped from his mind. "Roxy."
She gave a startled gasp and put a hand to her mouth.
Lucas pushed the fedora back on his head and smiled at her. "It's been a while, remember me?"
Her brow furrowed as she gazed at him.