The Laughter of Strangers

Praise for
The Laughter of Strangers

“Like a ghost fretting over its lost body (or is it bodies? – in this book whatever you think of as ‘you’ might simply float like a butterfly right into someone else’s body) a boxer attests to his presence, damaged and shimmery though it may be. That this fractured first person narrator feels the need to put the word ‘me’ in quotes speaks volumes. Terrifying volumes. This elastic, hurtling narrative pivots (and pivots again) on a recurring image of almost unimaginable dread – that of being laughed at in your hour of need by an audience of strangers.”

—
GRACE KRILANOVICH
, author of
The Orange Eats Creeps

“The last time I got punched in the face (by someone I wasn’t married to or dating) I was 16 years old.  What began as an exchange of witty banter, turned into a pummeling. Never make jokes about a man’s mother enjoying the erotic companionship of goats, or you’ll find out about this world.
The Laughter of Strangers
is like that beating. I never trust people who use a middle initial, but Michael J Seidlinger is different. If
The Laughter of Strangers
had a middle initial it would be an F. And that F would stand for “Fuck yes.” I’m on my back. I’m having my behavior corrected. It’s teaching me a lesson. And I can see stars.”

—
SCOTT MCCLANAHAN
, author of
Crapalachia

“Michael J. Seidlinger’s
The Laughter of Strangers
is vicious and unforgettable. Willem Floures’s search for meaning in a world that keeps knocking him off his feet is as gritty and enthralling as a fight. The Laughter of Strangers destroyed my expectations of what a boxing novel can be. Seidlinger is charting new narrative territory, and we should follow him wherever he goes.”

—
LAURA VAN DEN BERG
, author of
The Isle of Youth
 

“Steeped in noir, Michael J Seidlinger’s superb boxing novel delivers 12 rounds of sweet science and shifting identities. Both physical and philosophical, it’ll leave the reader with a complicated bruise – the closer you examine it, the more it resembles your own face.”

—
JEFF JACKSON
, author of
Mira Corpora
 

The Laughter of Strangers

by Michael J Seidlinger

A Lazy Fascist Novel

Lazy Fascist Press

an imprint of Eraserhead Press

205 NE Bryant Street

Portland, Oregon 97211

www.lazyfascistpress.com

ISBN: 978-1-6210-5097-1

Copyright ©2013 by Michael J. Seidlinger

Cover Art Copyright ©2013 by Matthew Revert

Edited by Cameron Pierce

Proofread by Andrew Wayne Adams and Kirsten Alene

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written consent of the publisher, except where permitted by law.

All persons in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance that may seem to exist to actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental. This is a work of fiction.

Printed in the USA.

WILLEM FLOURES

THE LAUGHTER I HEAR

I can take a punch. That used to be the problem. Twelve rounds without so much as a knockdown, or getting numb at the knees, tends to bore the audience. It bore right into the audience’s attention span, splitting it in half. I gave them ten seconds at the start of my career. At best one of my fights rendered them five.

Five seconds.

If I don’t make it count, they watch the other guy, who does everything I do, but maybe a little bit better. If you asked me, I’d agree:

ACCURATE STATEMENT

But, yeah, I can take a punch. The problem then is when I start to feel those hooks to the body, the punches right against my shoulders. I shouldn’t feel those; I am conditioned to embrace the impact and go searching with the jab, jab, jab, jab, even if they only end up hitting air, jab, jab, waiting for the moment I can launch a power shot left right where it counts.

If I can take a punch, they can take a punch.

IT STILL HURTS

I give them my best and at the very least they might take a step back, shake off the hook, the uppercut to the chin.

Maybe a knockdown, four count, if I’m lucky.

If it’s me that’s hitting the canvas, it takes me three just to get my old tired ass off the ground, another four to get up to my feet. The referees with their endless commentaries—

“Are you okay?!”

“Can you see me?!”

“Look into my eyes!”

“Follow my nose!”

Does very little to reassure me.

How many times have I hit the canvas at the expense of myself but to bolster what this is, the betterment of the brand?

ARE YOU ASKING?

Lately it’s been a lot.

So what I’m saying is—

I COULD TAKE A PUNCH

Nowadays every punch feels like glass cutting skin, earth quaking up my spine, calling me collect, telling me to stay down.

END IT NOW

I’ve got a few fights left in me, thank you.

Thank you everyone, my would-be fans, people that used to bet their holiday bonuses on me, the penultimate of the name everyone couldn’t help but stop and watch whenever we fought.

‘SUGAR’ WILLEM FLOURES

That’s a name I built from the ground up. I wasn’t the first to systematically climb the ranks, beating the sugar out of everyone I had known to be inferior, leaving only the sour taste of defeat, my claim forever being:

“I am the greatest!”

I can still hear it now. In the silence of this locker room, blood drying on my face, I can still hear those words.

And I was. I was the greatest.

IS

WAS

WILL BE

TWO OF THESE SIMPLY WILL NOT DO

But the most appropriate might be the least flattering. Past tense.

I
was
‘Sugar’ Willem Floures.

I had mastered it all, the ins and outs of what I could do to beat myself up. I had everything under control. My demons, my weaknesses, my vices, my tendency to lose track of time, all of it was under control.

I could take it on at a second’s notice, some wide-eyed newcomer thinking he’s got it all down, what it means to be me, calling me out, challenging me like this is some game and not the sweet science, but you know what? I always did. I fought cold, straight, no training. I used to be able to see every single punch, bob, weave, flick of the cheek, squint of the eye, long before they’d ever register.

Now, this blood as evidence of my defeat, they see the very same in me.

I USED TO BE ABLE TO TAKE A PUNCH

I have never been able to take defeat. And when I didn’t see that punch coming, I swallowed the blood alongside the painful realization that maybe, just maybe, I forgot what it means to fight.

I AM FORGETTING MYSELF

How difficult it is to climb to your feet when rocked, stunned, trying to beat the ten count only to go back to doing your best not to be beaten to the punch yet again by someone thinking they’ve got it right, me, everything from strategy to street cred.

I hate the way it feels, a trickle of blood slowly dripping down your forehead. I thought the wound had healed. Guess not.

Wipe it away quick enough to feel the warm liquid grow cold.

It is starting to swell up.

The welt will be big enough to be unforgettable.

Spencer is going to take a picture of it. I know he is.

He’ll never let it go, this loss. My first loss in the last five fights.

What he doesn’t understand is how hard I fought only to barely win by decision. When you win you always remember the cheers of the audience; when you lose you try your damnedest to erase the sneers and laughter they send in your direction. No one is able to completely remove the mark a loss leaves on your psyche much less the scars that show in the faintest of light.

I used to be able to take a punch, now all I seem to do is take on losses.

FIGHT RECORD

Okay, look, let me say something about my record. Don’t think I’m narcissistic because I am not (at least I don’t think I am). I have a good record.

You can say that “Ironman” did well to spread the Floures name with his attempted suicide and bout with depression, one of the biggest national stories in recent sports history, but I was the one Williem Floures that created this whole league, made it so that the name Floures is synonymous with combat, with boxing.

FIFTY-TWO WINS

Might as well be a fine wine because thinking about it makes me feel all warm and buzzed.

TWELVE BY KO

I managed that not because they couldn’t take a punch—they can take a punch as well as I can—but because of wearing them down first with the jab. Like Spencer always said, lead with the jab, smother with the jab, and wait for the opening. Land as close to the temple or as snugly under the chin and rock that brain, send them to the canvas, watch them dance their way to defeat. I waited them out, knowing that I’d get impatient.

“Fight like you are not who you are and that’ll keep them on their toes.”

WISE WORDS

Spencer, my trainer and agent, I couldn’t have amassed the record without his guidance. He’s right though—

I know how they’ll fight just like they know how I’ll fight.

They know what I’m thinking.

I know what they are thinking.

We are alike because we are alike.

So to win, to be the best, I can’t be myself.

I must fight like I’m someone else, like I don’t know what I’m doing.

Worked for the majority of my wins, not so much for the four losses.

But I don’t like to talk about that. Means Spencer always talks about it. Means it’s something that I should do because I wouldn’t normally do it myself. Go against the grain, the expected.

FOUR LOSSES

Not so bad.

MAKE IT FIVE

Still not bad.

IT IS BAD

I’M JUST NOT GOING TO ADMIT IT

UNTIL I HAVE TO

Here’s the rationalization that works best: