Sucker Punch
“Remember, champ, watch out for that left hook.”
“The left hook.”
“And the jab. The kid’s quick. Little bugger’s quick as fuck.”
“He’s nothing. He’s raw.”
“He’s won twelve in a row. That’s raw, then I wouldn’t mind some of it myself.”
“Bunch of stiffs.”
“Still got to knock them out.”
“He hasn’t fought anyone like me.”
“No. That’s true.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You’re fifty-three.”
“I’m fifty-one.”
“Champ, you’re fifty-three.”
“Okay, fifty-three, what’s the difference?”
“You should be at home watching the telly. Feet up, having a nice cold beer with your slippers on.”
“I can take him. I know I can.”
“Maybe a few years ago.”
“Whose side are you on?”
“Yours, champ. You know that. Always. But-”
“The kid’s good, I know. But he’s never fought someone like me.”
“Roy Wilson said the same thing. Right before they carried him out on a stretcher. Roy’s no mug and you saw what the kid did to him. Roy’s never been the same again, the poor bastard.”
“Roy Wilson? Roy Wilson couldn’t tie my shoe laces.”
“Roy knocked you out in the first round, champ.”
“It was a cheap shot.”
“You walked right into it.”
“I didn’t see it coming.”
“I saw it coming, everyone saw it coming. The old bloke in the back row with the white stick saw it coming.”
“I was fine, the ref shouldn’t have stopped it.”
“Champ, he hit you so hard you emptied your bowels. Forty years in the game and I’ve never seen that before. Never. A guy hit so hard he actually shat himself.”
“Doc said it could’ve happened to anyone.”
“Forty years, champ, and I’ve never seen that before. I could live another forty years,
another hundred and forty years, and I’d still never see it again.”
“I could’ve got up.”
“You were still out cold when they were cleaning up your mess with a mop and bucket. They’re spraying that disinfectant all over the place and you’re still in cloud cuckoo land.”
“They’ll be cleaning that kid up off the canvas when I’m done with him.”
“Course, champ, course they will. Come on, it’s nearly time.”
“I’m telling you, I’ve got a good feeling. I’ll show him it’s just a number. That fifty-one’s nothing.”
“You’re fifty-three, champ.”
“What?”
“You’re fifty-three. I think you meant to say you’ll show him fifty-three’s nothing.”
“Right. That’s what I meant.”
“Ready?”
“Ready. Let’s do it.”
Jack Larkham lives in London. His short stories have appeared in Near to the Knuckle, Dead Guns Press, Spelk Fiction, and Yellow Mama. He can be reached on Twitter @JackLarkham
