The Laughter of Strangers (18 page)

I throw a succession of jabs, following it up with the clinch.

Spitting out my mouth guard, I whisper into his ear, “What the fuck are you doing? Fight!”

No response, not even a grimace or glare. Behind those lifeless eyes, I discover the fight to be a decoy, one that I can’t help but accept.

I have to win even though the worry is placed elsewhere.

The rest of the round, neither of us is active.

I hear Spencer’s hoarse voice in the background, disregarded commands from a once trusted source.

Even he couldn’t tell me what’s going on.

The fact that I know only makes this worse.

End of the round, back to the corner, the cutman rubs that Vaseline over my face, I spit into a bucket, take in deep breaths.

Spencer with commands, Spencer behaving as expected.

ARE YOU LISTENING?

No, I’m not.

I am two steps ahead, post-fight, looking back at what I had told you would be my comeback, a great fight. A real back-to-basics.

I never expected to face myself in the ring.

I know that’s a contradictory statement. I know,
I know
:

When have I not fought myself in the ring? The fight is an internal struggle. Yeah, all that philosophical stuff, but right over there, sitting on that stool, that thing staring back at me…

He’s not alive.

There’s no one there.

I can see right through Black Mamba. I see into the future.

I see into round nine when it happens.

I get my first knockout in quite a long time.

When the bell rings for round six, I can promise you one thing:

This fight will not go the distance.

ROUND SIX

He stands there, gloves up, idle and unwilling to trade punches.

Who are you to think that I will let you throw the fight! Hear those words echo out through my head. I see through Black Mamba and I see the perfect publicity stunt.

They have fallen for it.

The entirety of round six we stand there in the center of the ring, not a single punch thrown and yet the audience falls for it.

They devour every round like the main-event it should be, not realizing what has been derailed.

I drop my hands.

I look up at the crowd, scanning up to the nosebleed section.

On their faces are grins, smiles, shocked and amused expressions; on their faces are the indications of one of the greatest fights of all time.

I lower my gaze to the ring.

Mamba remains shelled up, predictable fighting stance.

I return to my corner, the rest of the round wasted.

Spencer delivers the memorized speech, the one I ignore.

ARE YOU LISTENING?

It is right then that I realize that it isn’t Spencer that’s asking me if I’m listening. It’s Black Mamba. I see that he’s still standing in the middle of the ring, his crew splashing water, Spencer his trainer, delivering similar lines, maybe the same lines, failing to notice that their fighter remains standing, waiting to beat himself up.

I hear the same garbled noises, the same use of Vaseline on nonexistent facial cuts, I notice the repetition of every minute detail, right before round seven begins. When it does, I watch the crowd, clearly aware that they aren’t tuning into the same fight.

ROUND SEVEN

I walk up to Black Mamba also known as me, also known as Willem Floures, a fighter past his prime but still doing whatever it takes to seize the spotlight; I walk up to myself and I say, “Open up, let your guard down.”

ARE YOU LISTENING?

Yes. I am.

So, why don’t you “let your guard down?”

What’s the worst that could happen?

ARE YOU LISTENING?

Let your guard down!

No one is going to do any favors. I have to be the one to get the job done. I start with the jab, purposefully hitting to the gloves, warming up to the combination left, left, right, right, mix-up of straights and hooks.

The more punches I throw, the more worked up I get.

I see Mamba’s body wince with every blow.

The audience continues to cheer; every moment is as exciting as the one before it. Hearing their laughter only makes me angrier.

I begin to treat Black Mamba like a punching bag.

The entire round he buckles with every single punch. I should be feeling what he’s feeling but, thanks to the adrenaline surging through my body, I won’t feel it until much later.

I return to my corner thirty seconds before the end of the round, just in time to see what I’ve done to Mamba.

He bleeds down the right side of his face and each breath he takes is pained, the evident wheeze of a winded fighter can be heard from my corner.

Spencer and crew begin tending to my body.

Wipe the blood away.

Tend to the cut on my right side.

I breathe out, my breath loud enough to drown out Spencer’s barks.

ARE YOU LISTENING?

This is the round where the illusion shatters.

This is the round where it ends.

This is the round where the confusion becomes cataclysm.

This is the round where something in my head ruptures, and the rendered image I am left with in the aftermath of this fight is less than the sum of both victory and media regard.

They see me as that fighter; I see myself as that husk of a being, idle and dead on his feet, standing in the middle of the ring.

This is where I hurt myself, and the injury lasts a lifetime.

ROUND EIGHT

I am listening.

I am listening to their laughter, their applause. Though I know it’s genuine, I also know that it’s not for me. It might be directed towards me, but it isn’t for me; rather, it’s for the ‘Willem Floures’s they have come to expect via all the publicity, every single video clip, interview, and sound bite given to the media for sculpting. They see the identity as brand rather than identity as person. I could be competitively dancing. I could be a pornstar. I could be a prostitute. I could be a slave under sinister purposes. The root isn’t important:

It’s what they think of you and the media’s portrayal provides the impression.

I am a fighter.

I am lost on my feet as I gain their undivided favor.

And it’s only because, well you know why, but I’ll say it again.

I’ll say it again, just to prove to myself that I’m listening.

I am interesting to them because they haven’t figured me out. The enigma, the walking contradiction that is ‘Sugar’ Willem Floures, is one that has yet to be analyzed. From suspected murderer to suspected philanthropist, I am every much a threat to humanity as I am an asset.

Really though, I’m just a fighter, about to knock myself out.

So then let me show you how to fight before I go lights out.

ARE YOU LISTENING?

I am asking you. Hmm?

I hope so. This is valuable advice.

Anyone can fight but only a few can win.

JAB

You have the jab. Ease in with this punch.

This is a punch that should, like a gun, be the full extension of your arm. You reach out and test the waters. You create opportunities. You create volume; you create room between you and your opponent.

The jab is your ruler, your ability to measure and feel out the nature of the fight.

STRAIGHT

A powerful straight punch, often dealt with your rear hand. This is why the “one-two” is a classic building block for fight momentum.

One—a jab with your lead hand.

Two—a straight with your rear hand.

I mix up my combinations with a number of “one-two” combinations. The straight, or sometimes called a “cross,” is one of the most effective punches if hit flush and with full extension (of power).

HOOK

My favorite.

A mixture of left and right hooks to the body and face can, and will, confuse your opponent.

I can throw a left hook to the body like this…see?

And sure Mamba braces and ultimately blocks it but if I follow it up with a right hook to the body and then a right hook to the side of his head, the mix-up can affect his ability to defend.

Did you see how he kind of took the right hook to the face?

Hooks are great for rapid succession.

Like the name implies, it is a punch that involves the outward extension of your arm in a sweeping motion.

This isn’t to be confused with a haymaker (I’ll end with that too. Going to send him to the canvas with one).

Hooks are quick and massive. They bridge the gap between straights and uppercuts. The perfect combination, in my opinion, begins with a jab, dispenses with hooks and follows it up with an uppercut.

You throw a few straights in there for good measure.

The hook is what often wears down the ribs and body of your opponent.

Every time I punch Mamba…like so…his abdominal muscles absorb the punch. At first it is fine; that’s why fighters condition their bodies, often taking round after round of punches to the stomach as conditioning.

Note to self, I need to train more.

There’s often no time, what with all the booked events.

It’s always something I feel guilty about. Take one look at my old and beaten body and you see a lifetime of fighting. There’s still tone, still muscle, but it’s hidden under layers of flab.

But anyway, that’s why I can’t afford to take too many punches to the body. It’s why Mamba, though he looks in perfect shape, will feel it as much as I would feel it getting punched to the body repeatedly.

Eventually the abdominal muscles get sore and when they do the ribcage is no longer protected from each punch.

Each punch straight to the bone.

UPPERCUT

Crowd pleaser. The uppercut. It’s also incredibly difficult to use effectively. Most fighters can see it coming from a mile away. This kind of punch is popularized by all of the different leagues and all of the different fighters that have successfully landed the uppercut to end the fight.

It often does.

Reason being that the uppercut, if connected well, hits right under the chin. Get hit right under the chin and it’s lights out.

I’ll explain why.

FOOTWORK/DEFENSE

You can’t just stand there and take punches!

You can’t just assume that the punches won’t hurt you. Half the time it isn’t about one decimating punch but rather a volume of punches over the course of the fight that causes the inevitable loss (via decision or knockout—either way it is still a loss).

Basic fighting stance—

Keep your fists up.

Keep your chin down.

You keep your chin tucked in and down because you are most vulnerable there and on either side of your head (temple shots are deadly).

The more likely a punch will cause your brain to rock back and forth inside your skull, the more likely you will get knocked out.

Get hit under the chin and the impact is like your own personal earthquake.

HAYMAKER

And for the final punch, one that is the most common because it’s the one that people use by default, and by people I mean everyone; this is the punch of a drunkard, the punch of an angry individual.

It is the punch that requires zero training.

I’d say this is the one punch that hurts the most.

Too bad it often hurts the person throwing the punch too.

How to throw a haymaker…

There is no “how.”

Just throw it. Like so—

And if it connects, like it does with Black Mamba, right to the side of his head, it’s lights out for him.

Meaning it’s lights out for me too.

If it weren’t for the boxing gloves, I would have broken my hand.

Either way, the referee, nonexistent until now, appears near Black Mamba’s fading body.

The count begins.

The audience has been cheering, laughing, howling, the entire time.

I return to my corner.

The same series of actions repeated:

Spencer shouting, spit, take in water, and exhale.

ARE YOU LISTENING?

And I’ll say—yes.

Totally. If only because it’s the one answer I have yet to give.

Hey, can I ask you a question?

What do I look like right about now?

THE SILENCE I DECIDE

Now that I’m here, I can’t get myself to go back out there. I should. They want to see me. I’m the talk of the industry, and maybe the whole country.

Number one fighter—‘Sugar’ Willem Floures.

Not that it matters much.

They are all disappearing; every time I look away, they disappear.

Them—

All of the would-be better versions of me, disappearing.

All I’m left with is myself, free from self-improvement but fixed in time with nothing to look forward to without looking back.

And I don’t know where they are going. I don’t know where they’ve gone. They know everything, though. Wherever they are, I am no longer. They replace me, showing the world that I’m a fraud. I get the last laugh though, because if they tell anyone, they only end up hurting themselves.

Their identity is my identity.

Spoil mine, spoil yours.

So they better lean towards silence if they don’t want to hear the world’s laughter.

HEY, ARE YOU THERE?

He knew.

We
knew.

What was his alias?

No, not Executioner. The other guy.

BLACK MAMBA

THAT’S THE ONE

MAMBA? YOU THERE?

I don’t hear anything. The house settles, exhales a low rumble, and the basement’s temperature lowers, cold enough to be a chiller.

I look away just to see if another will escape.

Thankfully a few seem to have fallen asleep. I could definitely use some sleep but if I did they’d all disappear. Funny to think I haven’t yet explored why they disappear at all. Is it because I am fulfilled, exactly who I want to be?