Michael had slipped his golden robe back on, but the front was undone as his hands were still wearing gloves. The room was empty of spectators and the overhead lighting had been restored to its full strength. The halogen lighting bounced off the metallic gold fabric, sweat spots on his forehead and chest and displayed sweat and spit stains on both of his gloves. Looking back at the ring, he felt his crotch tighten in his jock strap thinking about the fight. “Hey Michael, I have something cool to show you back in the change room.” Sean was standing in the doorway of the hall leading to the change area where Michael's night had begun. He was shirtless. The tightness became a full boner now. Michael looked at the far exit which led to where he was supposed to go now to see Jack Cole about his bonus. He looked back at Sean. “Lead the way.” following the younger man, they returned to his change room and Sean closed and locked the door behind them. Jack Cole could wait.
Jack sat behind his mahogany wooden desk, a freshly cut cigar held firmly in his curled mouth as he struck a wooden match and lit it, dragging deeply, and puffing several rings into the air. Peter Egan and his Father Paul Egan were seated across the way. As the office began to fill with the musky smell of his cigar, Jack lifted a large white box from the floor beside his chair and placed it on the desk in front of him. “Seeing how it was your request to see your brother in action before fighting him yourself, I took the liberty of procuring the gear you asked for as well. I was impressed with Michael’s performance tonight, as I can only assume the both of you are as well.” Paul’s expression shifted from suspicious to pride personified. “Both of my boys have grown to become men of strength, Michael and Peter vary in ability, but I feel are perfectly matched in their desire to settle the old score as to whom is better. After watching Michael clobber that neighbor of his tonight, I can’t say I know who to put my wager on.” Peter fixed his father with a stoic expression. Jack could read it though; he was doing this in part for his father’s approval. “Quite right Ser, a hard one to predict.” Pulling off the lid off the box, Jack began removing its contents one piece at a time laying them on the desk in front of him. It was not clear to Paul if these were reproductions or originals, but they were an exact replica of the gear he wore during his early teen years boxing in the Chicago Golden Gloves minus the dark brown cloth robe with gold satin trim he once owned. Peter’s eyes lit up like a child’s who had just been given a great pile of presents.
Michael felt as if he could slowly drift off to sleep. The pressure mixed with the cooling component of the cream being applied across his torso was working all the strain out of his muscles. Sean moved along his chest, down his abdominal muscles and along the perimeter of his cock and balls. Then onto his inner thighs, outer and down all the way to his feet. “I can tell you are enjoying this. I can’t take care of you completely, Jack’s house rule, no sex but we can always make plans for another day, say your place.” Michael grinned and looked up into the younger man’s blue eyes. “Oh, count on that buddy.” Sean gave his full-frontal body a good second pass over, save for his man parts and then had him flip over. Placing his elbow hard into the center of Michael’s back. Any stress that his body had retained from the fight was now gone. Sean’s prowess as a massage therapist eclipsed that of his corner man duties. Michael wondered if he did this as his primary job. Great diligence was made along the side of his back, ribs, and the back of his thighs. When he got to the calf muscles, he began to bend Michael’s legs back till hist heel practically touched the back of his thighs. “Your legs are extremely flexible, explains all that fantastic footwork out there Champ.” Next Sean began to turn his ankles along their natural rotation. He than tapped down the base of the foot below the toes to the heels and this affected Michael’s entire bodies circulation. It was subtle, like a small scratch. Sean administered the injection between the big and second toes and within moments Michael was unconscious.
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Pete left the office with Dan, who was carrying the box full of his boxing equipment. After each piece had been visually and physically appraised, they were put back in. Jack suggested that it might be an hour or more before Michael would be ready for their bout and the small crowd, he had invited would not arrive till two hours from now. He asked if Dan would take Pete to the change room that Dan had used to get him sorted out. Once they had left the small room, Jack offered a cigar to Paul. Taking one he waited while the Englishman lit it. “I must say, you are the first father that I have had contact me to arrange not one but two fights for your sons.” Jack’s smile was partially snake-like. “That was welcomed though.” Paul nodded but he remained stoic. He got a very strange feeling off this man, “Well I always wanted to see what Michael could do potentially and his legal issues with Dave Woodall seemed like a great way to find out. As for the twins settling their old dispute over a fight, they had with each other as boys. Well, that time I didn’t referee, and I think they both let their egos get the better of them. This time they are both grown men, Pete needed to watch his brother win a fight and now they will put that old issue to bed.” Jack nodded. “Good, not that you would tell me, but I wonder who you would pick if they weren’t your sons.” He paused to ash his cigar and passed the tray to Paul to do the same. “You are right. I won’t be answering that question.”
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Through a hazy sheen of water, Michael’s eyes struggled to focus upon waking. Still lying on the thick padding of the rubdown table in the same room but Sean was gone. Another change was now that he was dressed again from robe to booted feet. Sitting up slowly, his gloved hands making his grip of the table tenuous he cleared his mind and slowly stood up. A full-length wall mirror at the back off the room reflected all new gear. Thick, tan 12oz gloves that looked like the kind they used in the early Carnival days of the 1900s were laced neatly upon both of his hands. Their thick cuffs gave them a weighted feeling. His metallic gold robe had been replaced by a black cloth style with tan satin trimming. In some ways it resembled an old smoking jacket. The tan sash undone revealing his thick hairy chest and midsection which met with a pair of black and tan cloth shorts, not trunks in the modern sense of the word. The black leather short top boots on his feet completed the entire kit and exactly what decade of the 1900s it all belonged to was unknown to him. Inside his gloves he could feel that his hands were rebound again with wraps. Why did Sean drug him, dress him? His mind was balancing admiration for the new look versus the urge to find the younger man and punch him out. This Jack Cole liked things to be exactly how he wanted them. His employees were loyal to a fault too apparently. A hard wrap came on the dark wooden door and then the knob turned and Dan the second cornerman entered the room now carrying a towel and a white plastic water bottle with an attached straw. “Your final bout of the evening will be taking place soon. Mr. Cole wanted me to trade places with Sean and work your corner instead.” Michael moved closed to Dan and tapped his right glove twice on the man’s shoulder. “Let your boss know that I could have dressed myself and I am not a fan of his use of sedatives.” The stern look seemed to fall flat on Dan, however. He had an almost military stoicism to his personality. “So, who am I going to be knocking out this time?” Dan wrapped the towel around Michael’s neck and opened the door to allow him to pass through first. “Please Mr. Egan, I am not allowed to answer that question. Proceed into the hallway until announced.”
Both the Platinum and the Diamond sections were completely empty now. The new set of spectators, about thirty or so in all were occupying the gold section. Table trays were added before each of their seats and held various alcoholic drinks, ashtrays for cigarettes and cigars and a small metal bell. These gentlemen were upper society Englishmen visiting Jack’s Club from London and Manchester. Those in the front row were old school chums of his who had known him since his university days. Even then he was arranging discreet fighting for wager and prize money. He also settled a couple of his personal disputes in the gloves. Exclusive crowd fights that saw his closest friends watch him pummel several of those he had a score to settle with often ending in a flashy knockout. He did not tell them anything about the fight they were attending, just that it was two locals settling an old score. Several of the men decided to hold a blind purse/wager based on the red and blue corner method. The winning boxer’s corner color would be decided based on the number of votes for that fighter. Then a bag of random marbles would be passed around and the white one drawn would be the gentleman who got the winnings collected. To be fair that method covered the unknown nicely. The overhead speaker blared open from static noise to Jack’s voice “Good evening, Gentlemen, welcome to tonight’s main event.” Each of the adjoining hallways had speakers as well so his voice carried to both sides. Michael and Dan representing the red corner and Sean and Pete occupying the blue one. “Would the fighters enter now and enter the ring.” Jack paused waiting for the two sets of men to appear. The music was raised now, an old time 1900s style melody that was popular during the Carnival days in early Chicago.
Pete placed both of his gloved hands-on Sean’s shoulders after pulling up his hood to cover his face. His robe was the direct opposite style to his brothers, primarily tan cloth with black satin trim and the long sash. Sean began to walk at a medium pace and Pete bobbed up and down with each step, his body full of pent of aggression. When they emerged into the main room there was a vigorous round of applause from the small crowd. As he was getting into the boxing ring on the blue corner side, Michael and Dan were already arriving at the red one and both boxers’ hoods hid their faces. Michael looked across the ring now at his opponent and what he recognized instantly were the black Tuf-Wear 1950’s gloves the man had on. They were exactly like the kind that his father Paul had used when he fought in the Golden Gloves. Also, the boots he had on with the white soles and thin black laces. For the briefest of moments Michael wondered if his next fight was going to be against his own Father. That notion was quickly wiped from his mind as suddenly his father slid between the top and middle ropes and entered the ring wearing a black and white striped zip up shirt to identify him as the referee. He was surprised. Pulling down his hood he revealed his face and for a moment his father made eye contact then looked away. His opponent did him one better and not only removed his hood but slid his robe off entirely. Michael was familiar with this man, absolutely this body type as well as his twin brother was remarkably similar in build and hair pattern just slightly smaller. The music stopped as Michael took off his own robe and fixed Sean with an angry look. Sean did not meet his gaze though and kept looking straight ahead.
Jack came back on the overhead speaker, and he walked down the middle row toward the ring carrying the microphone in hand. Climbing through the ropes himself, he was dressed again in his partial tuxedo without a shirt underneath. His friends clapped as he took a brief bow and came to stand beside Paul in the centre of the ring. “Thank you, lads, it is my great pleasure to introduce our two fighters for the main event as well as their father and referee, a former Golden Gloves boxer. Paul Egan.” He paused for applause and Paul made a half bow motion. The introduction process was the same as the previous bout. When it came time to give each boxer his chance to say a few words over the microphone. Michael kept it short and simple “I won all those years ago but tonight I will leave no doubts, when I knock you out Pete.” Pressing his gloves together, Michael walked to the side of the ring facing the small crowd and made a bowing motion. Pointing his right glove at his brother he walked back to his corner with his arm extended as if pointing to him. Pete grinned as the microphone came close to his lips “That’s funny Mike, we will see who knocks out who.” Extending his own right hand, he pointed his glove at his brother and with his left gloved hand, grabbed his jocks strap in a rude gesture. Michael felt his hands clinched up in his gloves into two solid fists.
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THE FIRST ROUND ~
Once Jack had exited the ring and both Egan twins had their mouth guards pressed firmly into place. The room erupted in noise as the gentlemen in attendance began to cheer in anticipation of round one’s action. Paul met each of his sons’ eyes and did a “Ready” check. Pete nodded that he was as did Michael. Pointing at both men, he bit slightly down on the small plastic whistle in his mouth and blew through it then as it dropped from his lips to dangle around his neck, he spoke in raised voice “Box!” Pete and Michael met each other near the centre of the ring and tapped lead gloves, right hand to right hand. Then without any pause or hesitation they both went at each other with opening jabs. Pete clipped Michael’s chin with his left glove and immediately took a flush return jab to his nose. The hard leather giving every so slightly upon meeting the bridge. He retaliated by using his quick reflexes to dodge a follow-up right-handed shot and digging his right hook hard into Michael’s rib area. Jarring his brother’s body with the shot he proceeded to connect a left uppercut to the chin. However, the glove only met its counterpart as the punch was deflected and in that small window of an opening, Michael thumped his brother’s left eye with a solid straight right. Pete’s wincing face was like he had just been fed a lemon whole. A stiff jab met his hair laden chest, another straight right rammed hard to his mid-section and a quick breath filled grunt escaped Pete’s mouth. Paul watched this exchange with a slight grin on his lips. Managing to move in close and grapple Michael’s arms tight they clinched up.
In terms of sheer strength, Michael was the stronger twin and was able to free his right arm from the grapple. Using it to pummel his brother’s abdomen and rib area with shovel hooks. The gloves laces facing upward as the arm was thrust forward. The discomfort of the hits forced the clinch to end, and Pete pulled his elbows in tight, his gloves together in front of his face and moved away to regroup his strategy. It would not be practical to try and go toe-to-toe with Michael. Weaving, bobbing, and guarding he managed to stop two incoming shots and then the window presented itself. Michael’s defensive glove was a bit low and so Pete took the opportunity to connect a wide angled bolo punch to the side of his forehead. The shot made Michael see a white flash of light that blocked out all vision. Pete thumped his right-handed glove flush into his brother’s chin almost dead center and his left uppercut was successful in snapping Michael’s head back as a ribbon of spit flew up from his parted lips. Paul’s eyes widened. Michael’s eyes saw floating specks of light and both of his ears popped. He was just barely aware of the sound of the round bell being rung. His return to his corner was disorienting. The room tilted and blurred. Pete got back to his corner and a giant smirk was strewn across his face. Sean tugged his mouthpiece out and gave him water. “You almost ended the show early, he really got rocked.” Sean’s voice was full of restrained arousal. Dan got Michael’s nose filled with the pungent sting of the smelling salts and his guard out. Already his saliva was red with blood. Although no advice came or response. Michael got his head clear and fixed his gaze across the ring at his brother. Anyone who could see his face knew exactly what he was thinking. You are going to pay for that.
THE SECOND ROUND ~
The ringing bell just barely finished its distinctive sound before the room’s crowd drowned it out with the cheering. Leather met leather as the two Egan’s tapped gloves out of traditional respect and the jabbing began anew. The speed advantage of Pete’s saw him land first to Michael’s lips and again in rapid succession. Although the shots only barely registered as Michael’s focus had become rock solid after the narrow escape at the end of round one. He ducked and brought a short, looping style uppercut hard into Pete’s stomach. Following it up with a good solid hook to the upper ribs and stunning his brother, his legs faltering. Pete went forward to attempt a new clinch, but his reaching arms went almost slack now as Michael turned his glove as it smashed hard into the solar plexus area of the chest. On the exhale at the time the punch buckled him at the knees and his legs went stiff as a corpse in an ice storm. These punches happened in the span of seconds and his arms were only halfway sagging down when Michael struck his left eye again. The birth of a lump raised against the outer eye socket and bruising was soon to be the result. Then the hooks came, left and right-handed gloves buffeted Peter’s head from side to side. His vision seeing a blurry Michael’s face, the gloves tan leather and then spots before his eyes.
Paul watched this one-sided session as if it were all taking place in slow motion. Michael’s sudden control of the round really filled him with deep pride. He wasn’t even aware of how Pete was now down on his hands and knees near the ropes, as he hadn’t even seen him fall or what punch had put him there. Michael’s 4th left hook had turned his brother’s body and head at the same time and he crashed first into he ropes and the reflexively he put out both of his hands as he went down to the canvas below. His upper lip split and bleeding slightly, his left eye sporting a proper blackened mouse. His parted lips fighting to gather oxygen as strands of spittle hung down. Michael stood over his fallen brother and with a motion he pointed at himself with his gloves thumb and taunted loudly “Come on Pete, get up if you can.” Paul intervened to move Michael off to the neutral corner while he had one glove raised to the ceiling as he walked there. Pete was up and leaning against the ropes when Paul gave him the standing eight count. Michael looked his brother over now, admiring what he had done so far. Even his chest hair seemed a bit limp as if he had knocked some of the masculinity out of his brother. To his surprise, Pete was willing to continue and had his guard up and moving toward the center of the ring. Michael banged his gloves together out of pent-up excitement at the idea of being able to work his brother over some more and went into the center of the ring to do just that. Something like a miniature tornado formed inside the middle of the ring, like those old cartoons strip clouds with stars and spirals and gloved fists shooting out. Both Egan brothers were actively exchanging shots back and forth. Moving around the ring wildly. Pete connecting jabs to the face, Michael tagging his brother’s body. A sudden evening up of the fight seemed to have occurred. Paul could only imagine hearing one of those old timey fight commentators calling the blow by blow. When the round bell called a halt to the brawling, Peter had just caught Michael’s right eye hard enough to begin the bruising process. Exchanging looks they returned to their own corners and rested.
Sean cupped his hands under Pete’s upper chest to apply some of the tiger balm he had hidden there. Jack taught him this trick. A potent concoction of herbs and alcohol it would continually refresh Pete’s concentration for a short time. “There, just keep your chin down low enough to get a whiff of this champion. Guaranteed to help you power past any big hits that Michael might connect. I can only assume your going for the knockout this round?” Sean was actively kneading both of Pete’s shoulders in a drawn-out circular motion. Michael stared across the ring as he spit out his water at Sean. “Fucker” was all he could think to mutter. Dan didn’t act like he had heard but he knew that Sean was playing head games. Business as usual. Jack’s booming English voice filled the rooms speakers “Gentlemen, lets have a round of applause for these two brothers. They truly have been giving us a great bout this evening. They remind me of the Krays. The mention of the infamous twin London gangsters got the crowd even louder in their approval. The bell sounded on the heels of his announcement.
THE THIRD ROUND ~
Meeting again in the middle of the squared platform, the brothers tapped glove to glove hastily and instead of commencing with a wild exchange, they began to pace around each other with their individual guards up. Looking deep into each others’ eyes for the cue to strike. As if they had flipped a coin beforehand to see who would punch where. Michael went high while Pete went low and several good shots struck nose, chin, ribs, and it was Michael’s turn to get shaken by an unexpected solar plexus punch. He wasn’t as disoriented by it as Pete had been, but it opened enough of a gap in his defense for a flurry of frontal face punches by alternating gloved hands found their mark. Paul had this visual of Michael’s head turning into a double-ended bag and Pete was doing routine workout against it. Jab, Jab, Straight shot combos after combo turned Michael’s forward vision into a flashy, black leather filled punch-fest. He was forced back against the ropes, and they shook as the up top punching came low to attack his stomach and sap some of his stamina. The room tilted and spun as Pete landed across the outer edge of Michael’s chin dislodging his mouthpiece. Down goes Egan. Michael hit the canvas on the upper part of his right arm first before the side of his forehead struck the canvas next. His blood spotted hair sprayed sweat off in all directions. His guard had flown across the ring to land near Pete’s corner. Pete, his chest heaving up and down stood over his downed twin. “Come on, wake up Mikey.” He taunted before Paul got his arm across his chest and shoved him back and away to the neutral corner.
Paul began to lift and then lower his arm in a sweeping motion as he administered the addition of finger meeting finger in the time honored ten counts. Michael was not out yet. He groped for the middle rope with his left glove and all the fight left in his tank seemed to pool now to get him back up. By the count of five he was shakily on his boots and leaning against the ropes. Dan had retrieved his mouthguard and over the sound of the crowd came Sean’s voice “Leave it out, he’s done” followed by a hard laughing. A couple of the men in the crowd laughed as well at Sean’s insult. While Dan got the guard back in Michael’s mouth and Paul looked deep into his son’s eyes. “Do you want to continue” the words were slowed down in Michael’s perception. It wasn’t grogginess that marred his father’s voice it was blind focus. Nodding his head, he looked at his father and narrowed his brow. Pete left the neutral corner to meet his brother in the center of the ring once more. Just as the two of them met there, Pete went to land a big left hook to the side of the head thinking one good knock there would set his brother back on the road to knockout land. Michael waited till the last possible moment to duck deep, dodging the punch and then he railed his brothers stomach dead on to compress his tan leather glove hard and deep into it. Pete’s eyes became as wide as two dinner plates. Michael nailed him hard to the jaw with a big right hook that turned his shoes inward, and his knees practically knocked together. Pete stumbled backward, partially flying there as he was on a collision course with his own corner. Jab, right cross, and left hook became the driving vehicle that brought his back into the stiff leather of his corner’s turnbuckle. His bottom lip began to swell. He meekly pulled up his gloves to protect his face from more hits and in a shocking twist, Michael’s next right cross didn’t target his brother. In a strange simultaneous action, the sounding of the round bell and Michael’s glove pancaking hard against Sean’s shocked expression was slowed in Paul’s perception.
Jack was on his feet just after Sean flew backward and then down to the dark carpet flooring below. Knocked cold. Moving fast, Jack got into the ring and pushed Michael back to his own corner. Grabbing Pete under his arms with his own forearms and propping the disoriented man up against the top ropes. His sleight of hand as good as it was, didn’t go unnoticed by Paul who spotted something slipped out of his front jacket pocket. Jack’s atomizer “wake up spray.” Shined in the lighting above. He had only begun to squeeze the rubber nub tip to bring Pete back “round” for more action when his arm was seized hard by Paul and the small metal canister was yanked away. “Whoa now, my son’s going to fight it will be on his own doing clown.” Jack fixed Paul with a mean expression and then jerked his own arm free. “Very good Sir, as you say.” Crouching down to get his atomizer he exited the ring by ducking under the middle rope and spoke into his attached microphone “Get Sean replaced now, the fight continues.” Michael leaned against his own turnbuckle waiting. He didn’t want to sit anymore. A blond-haired gentleman appeared and began acting as Pete’s corner. Getting his stool in and Pete’s guard out. Cobwebs filled Pete’s mind, but they were beginning to break apart. Paul returned to the center of the ring and waited. Michael leaned his elbows on the top rope and had a smug look on his face. Paul liked it.
THE FOURTH ROUND ~
A fresh mouthguard had been put into Pete’s mouth and when the fourth-round bell chimed, he was up and moving to meet Michael head on. The tiger balm Sean applied was all but evaporated but it had done its job to help bring his aching head back into focus. They met and tapped gloves. All the impending fight action that was stored up in Pete’s brain now wasn’t given much of a chance to happen. His head snapped back abruptly as each of Michael’s rock stiff jabs locked his neck. A fresh coat of swelling to his bottom lip. Paul had gotten with in a few feet of the twins now and he had the best view in the house. Pete’s face turned to be looking his father right in his eyes, but his gaze was glassed over. A beautifully connected left hook was the reason. Then his mouth sagged into a huge frown-like shape and a right uppercut mounted his head like a deer on a hunter’s wall. Pete fell backward following the momentum of his brother’s uppercut. His eyes rolled up and sideways. The order in which he hit the canvas was the back of his head, the upper back, both shoulders, as his legs flew up and then came down hard so did both of his arms and gloved hands. It was up for debate whether he was conscious after the punch or after hitting the deck but either way he had just been knocked out. Paul looked down, then at Michael and grabbed his son’s taped wrist area and raised his arm for the crowd. The gentlemen in attendance all got to their feet and were in the process of cheering the victory when two objects followed by a smaller, third object struck the overhead lighting and flew into the ring. They were a pair of black modern lace up boxing gloves and a white mouthguard. Jack’s voice rose above the cheering crowd as it had before over the room speakers and his tone of voice had sharpened like knives. “We have seen what the son can do, now its time to see what the father can do.” Jack entered the room from the back now, he was shirtless and a pair of black lace up boxing gloves hung around his neck.
Dan and Michael helped Pete recover and got him first to the nearest corner and then using his brother for support, Michael pulled Pete under the lowest rope while Dan supported him from the other side. Getting him into one of the closest seats that bordered the front row. Jack arrived now, he was in ornate looking black and red boxing trunks and boots, a rose on the left leg panel. “You will work your father’s corner.” He spat the words at Michael like commanding him, he wasn’t asking. Michael instead of looking at Jack investigated the ring at his father. Paul had already scooped up the gloves and guard and was to the red corner. He was clearly taking the challenge. Michael looked back at Jack “I am going to enjoy watching him kick your ass pal.” Michael strut across along the front of the ring. Jack looked at his back with two small contempt filled eyes. The blond man began to wrap Jacks’s hands and apply the gloves as Michael discarded his own on the floor by the corner apron. Paul had stripped off his shirt and was still in his referee slacks. “Hey Dad, you want my gear?” Michael asked. Paul shook his head. “No need son, just get me laced up here. This won’t take long.” Michael grinned and did just that.
One of the men in attendance got up from his seat and walked over to stand just outside of the ring by Jack’s corner. “Oi Jack, you sure about this mate. This geezer looks like he will give you a proper thrashing in there. I mean your rusty son.” Jack turned and with a quick sweeping motion, back hand slapped the man with his gloved hand across the face. “Mind your tongue and get back to your seat.” The man did as he was told, a red spot on his cheek for his trouble. In not time both were laced, guards in and ready. A familiar voice came over the speakers now, Jack’s accent filled the room, but its proper London cadence had been replaced by a more American sounding accent, a poor attempt at Chicagoese. “Gentleman, welcome to the main event. Jack “The Fighting Rose” Cole versus Paul Egan. This will be an open round. The first man to get knocked down will be declared the loser of the bout. Good luck to both fighters.” Paul banged his gloves together several times and stood up in anticipation of the bell ringing. Jack stood up and had both of his gloves up, resting on his upper chest in a strange sort of posture. A cocky expression on his face and the glint of an unknown substance coating his thick handlebar style mustache.
THE FINAL ROUND ~
Pete was still recovering from being knocked unconscious, but his partially marred attention was fully on his father now. Michael too was intently watching for the way this showdown would play out. Both gentlemen raised their gloves in a defensive manner and the bell sounded. Paul came out in an orthodox stance, while Jack came out in that of a southpaw one. Cole seemed desperate to get his gloves to their target first. This was after all his club, his guests. Sadly, all his opening punches were deflected and blocked. All two of them before Paul Egan smashed Jack Cole’s nose and mouth area with a wicked right cross. Forgoing the standard jab first. The sudden strike had taken Cole out of his game plan. No time was given to him to recover however, Paul tagged the side of his jaw with a beautiful left hook that clearly rocked the older man. Karma, or irony. The slick of tiger balm on his stache had been transposed to Paul Egan’s right glove. When next another great right cross blasted Cole’s jowls into a quivering state, the ointment overpowered his senses forced drastically up his nostrils. This shot had really damaged him. The uptake of ointment met the downflow of blood droplets. Several digging body hooks corralled Jack Cole toward the far ropes and his back met them as his face was contorted. Paul Egan quickly had turned Jack Cole into a punching bag with eyes. Looking back at his sons and the rest of the gentlemen in attendance he raised his left glove as if to show it off and then wham, blasted it hard into Jack’s stomach to the point that the glove sank cuff deep into the supple flesh there. Cole doubled over from the punch and both of his arms and gloves went to cover the spot. His eyes pinched closed and his lips parted to reveal a thick white mouthguard which had been partially unseated.
The body shot seemed to have taken all the fight out of Cole. Paul placed his right glove on top of the man’s head bracing his forehead with it. An extremely disrespectful gesture. Like a schoolyard bully toying with his daily victim. He waved at the crowd with his free hand. Suddenly the side of his face was contorted by a shiny black orb. Jack had jerked his head to the side to free it from the American’s glove and then came up faster than expected to plant a textbook right hook to the side of Egan’s face. Paul took two steps back and then his feet were after a fashion, connected to his jawline. Jack scored several more glove over glove shots dead to the chin area. Each punch making him take a step. “That a boy Jack, give him what for.” Someone yelled from the cheap seats. Although solid and jarring the punches only served to focus Paul’s anger. Suddenly, with the head movement of a cobra he dodged the next two punches. Then counter punched Cole with a center of the glove one-two. The old classic. The forward momentum of Cole’s comeback hit the brick wall of Egan’s knuckles. Spit sailed off his bottom lip as his mouth jerked open. Clearly stunned, Cole was open season. Paul went in with straight jabbing, and right-handed blows to work the eyes now. Punch after punch shook Jack’s head and to Michael, he looked like one of those bobble head dolls. As his fathers left hook flattened up against Jack’s cheek, the man’s faint but budding twin black eyes were born. Jack staggered into the ropes on the red corner side, and he was standing facing Michael when his father followed and came to stop in his forward step to plant both of his feet firmly.
It did not happen by any foreplaning on Paul Egan’s part but the follow-up punches that would send Jack Cole down hard to the white canvas platform below had become Michael’s own ringside show. His mind drifted back to the early years of watching his father work the heavy bag in their basement. Cole lifted his weak guard to cover his face from more punches. The nose full of tiger balm, compacted by the fisticuffs of Paul Egan had him in a bad way. From the side, dead on center to his ear and cheek area. A real beauty of a straight right connected hard. Jack’s eyes glassed up. Paul spoken suddenly “That one was for my son Pete your shady fuck.” His voice was a bit muffled by the mouthguard, but Michael could make out what he had said. Jack heard it. He mistakenly took it as a signal that Paul was distracted and turned to throw a wild right haymaker at the side of his head. Paul simply extended his forearm and blocked the punch. Shaking his head back and forth he smirked. The series of punches that followed were quick, perfectly executed and brought dead silence to the room. A right hook to the jaw, a left hook deep to the stomach, off that momentum a left uppercut flush to the face, not the chin cemented the two shiners created earlier. Cole’s arms flew up from the force and a nasty right hook was connected just below his arm sending a shock wave of energy across the front of his chest. In some circles, this was called the heart punch. It shook his body and head like a puppet on strings. Too out of it now the last shots never registered in Jack Cole’s mind. Paul placed a glove on his chest and pushed the man flush against the ropes. Bam! A flush right-hand shot struck the chin dead center. Another, Another and yes Another. Each shot snapping his head back and forth. Jack’s lower lip was fat as a slug after a rainstorm. Both of his sunken eyes were ringed now by perfect black and blue rings. Pete thought he looked like Bluto at the end of a Popeye cartoon. Michael didn’t want to feel his growing erection his trunks because it was his father doing this beatdown, but it was too late.
His slicked back hair was now fraying in the front. Blood ran down both of his nostrils. His arms had gone slack, and his gloved hands were down by his sides. Like teeing off on a perfect golf stroke. Paul Egan delivered one final blow to finish off Jack “The Fighting Rose” Cole. A punch that time had forgotten. Dipping down, he brought his left glove up in what seemed like a standard uppercut, but his wrist began to twist the glove as it rose into a “corkscrew” style shot once popular in the early 1900s. Laces facing Paul, the shot connected dead center under Jack’s jawline. After his head snapped back from the force his head did a slow circular motion and Paul stepped aside to watch the older man fall, arms to his side face first to the canvas below. His left cheek met first, then his forehead and upper chest as both broad pectorals flattened against the canvas. His knees and boots also met very closely around the same time. What some crude fans called “The Coffin Pose” Cole was completely knocked out cold. Paul Egan put his right boot on Cole’s back and raised both arms. The crowd who had fallen fully silent now began cheering. Pete Egan knew that Jack Cole wouldn’t hear him yell but he did anyway. “That’s what we call and old-fashioned Chi Town Ass Whooping Chump!” Sean who had recovered from his own knockout was sitting at the neighboring table with and ice pack on his head. He looked across at Michael who had been staring at his twin and laughing. Their eyes met.
~ The End
Reputation. The understanding that the opinions of others can become such a crushing weight that one must adhere to keeping this precious sense of public scrutiny to a minimum. For Dave Woodall, a crimson red envelope adorned with gold leaf accents arriving in his mailbox would prove to be just such a weight placed against his very sense of what being a man truly meant. A thick, card stock type stationary expertly scripted in gold ink was his name on the front. No return address or indication from the outside as to whom might have sent it out. Hesitant to open the envelope with his bare hands, he retrieved a Ziploc baggy and used it as makeshift glove to undo the sticker seal and expose the card inside. Standing several feet from the front door of his split-level house, an expansion recently completed to the property widening the yard told those neighbors on the street that Dave had status. Wearing a loosely tied black silk robe with black slippers. He was still in very tight shape for a man in his early forties. Just under six feet tall, his angular face was accented by a mane of thick, well groomed mahogany brown hair with accenting grey tips where the sideburns met the upper cheeks. His face was wide, and his chin pointed jutted down under a medium sized jawline. His muscular abdominal region and pectorals were borne as the robe slipped open defined and lean and devoid of any hair at all. His medium sized hands removed the card, one covered in the baggy. The card inside read as follows:
- Chicago Gentleman's Club *****
- BOXING CHALLENGE ***
Chicago's Underground Gentleman's Club
- Michael Egan ***
Call the number provided to accept.
A hand drawn picture of a black boxing gloves hung below the block of text and the word “over” beside it. Flipping the card revealed an address on the edge of the east side of the city and a date and time. June 10th 6 PM and a mobile number. Michael's hands tensed as did his cock and balls. A sudden jolt of excitement moved through his body now. The Gentleman's Underground was a well-known urban legend among the local gay population and for years he had heard rumors of their famous challenge bouts. The glove symbol could only mean that he was being called out to box someone. He did not care about the who though. Boxing was ever present in his daily thoughts, picturing men on the street in gear sometimes just watching one stranger fight the other right there on the sidewalk or the soft grass of a nearby park. He would also pit them against him in a crowded gym of only male spectators. He was the reigning champion and there was not a man in the city who could overcome his ability. Lost in a thick clot of daydream, Michael did not notice that he had begun to precum. A small droplet had fallen from the head of his penis to drip to the dark hard wood floor below and once more. Looking down he took a moment to admire the sight. He had a month to prepare for his first “underground” fight. Already having assembled a small home gym set up consisting of a black leather punching bag, a red/white and blue double ended bag and matching speed bag he was already doing the routines daily. Skipping rope, shadowboxing in a full-length mirror, and lifting weights. He was going to give this chump the worst beat down of his life. The only authentic way to conduct himself as a true boxer would be to knock this man unconscious. Call his left-hand karma and his right-hand justice. He was inevitable.
Placing a call to the mobile number on the card. A deep, slightly baritone British accented man answered the call. “Mr. Egan. I trust you are calling to confirm your participation in our next event on June 10th.” Michael's reply of “Absolutely, I am honored to be chosen.” was met by a short chuckle of approval. “Very good sir. It is men such as yourself that keep our gentleman entertained. This bout will consist of official boxing shoes or boots, your preference. Gym or boxing type trunks also your choice. We will provide the gloves and mouth guard. The rounds, and duration there in will also be determined at the night of the event. Should you win, you will be given a bonus, a proper title belt and a place on our “Wall of Warriors.” You will be visited by our representative soon to provide you with location information soon. Good luck sir. Fight well.” the voice disconnected the call and Michael put the mobile phone back on its charger. Getting into his gym attire he began to workout in preparation for the event to come.
That same evening there was a knock at his door. Opening it he was greeted by a stern looking Englishman, well dressed and a good decade or so older. The conversation was brief. He told Dave that June 10th at 6 pm was the night of his challenge bout and what gear he was expected to provide. Dave asked if he could know any details about who had challenged him and if he would be allowed to have a guest attend to take photograph. The gentleman shook his head. “Understand Ser, this club must always maintain its. I can assure you however that you will be provided with a photograph at the outcome of the bout. Rest well and train properly and we will see you at this address at 4 pm sharp. We allow for the participants to warm up prior and will provide trained staff to ensure you are warmed up adequately. Good day” leaving the house. The man closed the door and a sly smirk played upon his face. If only he knew who he would be facing. Dave opted to begin searching online boxing equipment sites for the boots, trunks, and robe he would be wearing into the ring. He really wished Dana could be there ringside or in his changing room afterwards to give him his real “prize” for being such a sexy beast of a man. Coming across some patterns and looks he liked he proceeded to order.
Michael spent the weeks leading up to the bout solo training, no pad work or sparring in person but over video sparring sessions he had found on YouTube. Taking hits, getting hit was not going to be an issue. He had been scrapping in various form of combat with his identical twin brother on and off for years. The feel of hard, leather covered fists was not new. The jarring sensation of a good punch to the mouth or upon the base of the eye was familiar territory. Even if his opponent turned out to be some seasoned veterans with superior boxing ability, the art of the match was the give and take of the punches. Those who focused on what might happen were usually the ones kissing the canvas early. Michael felt like a tiger that had been starved a solid meal for weeks and now caged was just spoiling to be let free and go after his prey. He found a nice pair of black high style boxing boots with a single gold lightning bolt on the rear. The kind that laced tight to the lower thigh and hugged the ankles, balancing the pivot of steps beautifully. He found a very nice pair of dark green 1940s style boxing trunks by Tuf-Wear on an auction site and used the “buy it now” feature to grab them. They were owned by a small time Chicago boxer at the time who had passed away. Michael could only imagine how they would look on him as he stepped between the ropes. He finished the looks off by obtaining a gold metallic robe that made him look like he was some rich man. He was valuable to this club in his mind. He toyed with getting it embossed with his name and a ring name but decided against it. Why spoil its golden looks with that. The match was only days away. As he worked the black leather punching bag over, he pictured it being his opponent for Friday's bout. Digging hard round leather bombs into the man’s mid section and hooking hard to his ribs. Bobbing his head back and forth with sharp jabs and then rocking his world with crosses and overhand rights to the forehead. He smirked lost in thought.
Mid afternoon on the 10th of June and Dave Woodall had spent a good deal of the morning with a thick clot of butterflies in his stomach. Unable to eat or sleep the night before the pressure of his upcoming fight like carrying around a giant boulder. His desire to prove his manliness to Dana struggles against an almost equal urge to just not show up and deal with the fallout of being a chicken. Eventually it was now close to mid afternoon, and he was packing his gym bag. The side of him that wanted the glory won out in the end. He had also found an ingenious canteen type water bottle that was a hidden micro-camera. This way he could have it in his corner of the ring and get the entire match on hidden video as it could record for up to an hour total and save the data to its internal memory card. How great he would look being able to replay the footage for her in the bedroom. This thought pushed all others aside as he packed his bag and left for the address he had been provided. He was not familiar with the outskirts of the west end of the city, but it was one of the better neighborhoods. While he made his way to the location, Michael Egan was doing the same heading for the edge of the east side. Both men were greeted at the address given with an empty lot. The surrounding buildings looked abandoned. Before the thought of it being some kind of “test” crossed Dave's mind, a person on a black motorcycle approached the side of his car. Michael had gotten out of his own vehicle and was walking toward the vacant lot when a grey and black street bike sped up to the curb and the driver gestured for him to come over. Suddenly both men were sprayed in the face by some type of misting spray from a bottle and within seconds were rendered fully unconscious. Their gear as well as their personal affects, keys and phones were collected. A van approached both locations and men moved the unconscious bodies into the back. One man took the car and followed and within minutes it was as if neither man had been at the meeting point at all.
***********
As his vision unclouded and the scope of his surroundings became apparent, Dave Woodall was unsure as to why he was not more alarmed. The small room was painted a deep crimson red and the furniture, including the long table on which he now was sitting up; were made of dark expensive looking leather. A small bathroom was situated toward the back, and it had a stall type shower. Various color and black and white images of boxers from different decades adorned the walls in a circular pattern. Dave's gym bag sat on a nearby chair. Slipping off the table, he opened it up and made sure than nothing was missing. Beside the chair a small wooden framed table with marble top held his car keys. Removing his trunks, boxing shoes, socks, jockstrap, and hand wraps he placed them all on the table. Again, a nagging feeling like he should be in a full panic seemed to scratch at his mind. He was unaware that an injection of a mild animal anti-anxiety medicine had been administered when he was taken into the van. He was just finding his metallic water canteen / camera when the door opened. The Englishman who had visited his house paused for a moment and then entered the room closing the door behind him. He carried a cardboard box under his right arm. “Good to see you are awake and sorting out your gear Mr. Woodall” he walked over to the table place the box beside Dave's other belongings. He then extends his right hand and Dave shook it. “We have not had a proper introduction but now that you are here within the club’s walls, let me introduce myself. My name is Jack Cole. I am the founder of this club back in London and its American chapter here in Chicago. My apologies because you arrived but our location must remain a complete mystery to those who participate. Here are your gloves, there is an hour till your bout. Proceed to get dressed, the wrapping of your hands and pad work will be handled shortly.” as he reached the door and turned the knob he stopped to look back. “Oh, and I took the liberty of refreshing your canteen. Your corner attendant will handle that for you Ser. Good luck.” grinning or partially smirking, he left the room and closed the door.
Leaving the room, Jack walked down a narrow hallway into the main room beyond. He motioned to a younger man wearing a low-cut black tank top and carrying a towel around his neck. “Give him about 5 minutes and then check that he is dressed and begin the pad work warm up Scott and make sure he has fully recovered from the injection.” the man nodded, and Jack proceeded to cross the large room, making his way past he first section of spectator seating. There were three in total, the “Platinum” area was comprised of very expensive seating with cigar humidors and tray tables. This had the widest view of the ring, and the overhead lighting obscured its view of the other sections. Next, the gold section had the same type of seating minus the additional accessories for drinking and smoking cigars had the most direct view of the ring and both its blue and red corners. Jack passed the end of this section as he made his way to the back bar area to retrieve a second box that had been left there. A network of panels had been set up along the side of the gold section to block its view of the Diamond one which was situated just before the blue corners dressing area hallway. This section was comprised of long couch-like seating and wooden foot stools that held small white bathroom towels and baby wipes. This area had been a big success in London and Jack himself had frequented it as a younger man. Reaching the entrance to the small hallway to the next dressing area, he paused to give it a second look and grinned. Its main feature was a partition wall comprised of a large one-way mirror. This way those using it were able to remain anonymous and enjoy the release of masturbation during a fight.
Sometime before Dave had come to in his room in the “red corner” section of the Chicago Gentleman's Club. Michael Egan had already come awake, propped up in a dark brown leather chesterfield style couch. The sedative given did not fully dull his bodies surging endorphins. Shock was quickly dissipating into excitement. He was here, and it was really happening. Standing to stretch out his body, he spotted his gym bag sitting on the wide rub-down table open and his gold robe was hanging on a hanger on a small hook on the nearby wall. Michael began to look around the room and then at the pictures. They were not of known boxers but of models dressed in different time gear, in settings that matched. From the bare-knuckle days of linen pants, sashes to modern day. One picture a black and white action photo caught his attention as it was the only one that depicted a match in progress.
The raw nature of the subject matter, one man clearly on the edge of being knocked out and his eager opponent wanting nothing more than to land the final punches and send the beaten boxer through the ropes to his complete failure, defeat and humiliation on the other side struck a chord with him. This photograph illustrated his desires tonight. Michael felt a familiar tightening in his crotch and his scrutiny of the photograph was only interrupted by the sound of the door opening. “Mr. Egan. It is good to finally meet you in person Ser.” the Englishman from several weeks prior was now entering the room with a younger, ginger haired man who was carrying warm up pads and a towel around his neck. Upon entering the room, they closed the door and the Englishman introduced himself as Jack Cole and the other man as Sean. Michael grinned as he eyed the small cardboard box under Jack's arm and extended his hand to shake first his and then the young gingers. Jack's grip was like iron, a much stronger man than he seemed to be. “Are those my gloves Sir?” Michael felt like a small boy on Christmas morning. Jack smirked. “Ser, your enthusiasm to be here and to be participating this evening is one I appreciate. Your lust for combat is admirable so I am playing favorites when I say that I took extra detail in finding you a suitable pair of boxing gloves.” Placing the box on the rub-down table he removed the lid to reveal a pair of 1950's vintage black Tuf-Wear brand boxing gloves. The kind that laces up, bordered by visible white cotton stitching in 12 oz weight. “These are not the exact style that were used in the Golden Gloves at the time, but they are similar. I know that your father was a fighter and thought you would appreciate the reference.” Michael eyed the gloves as if they were made of solid gold. Again, his crotch tightened. “These are incredible Mr. Cole.” he picked them up in his hands and to his surprise they were not butter soft from constant use but still stiff. The only way that this was possible was if they were never used. “Yes, I chose the right man to have his grudge realized here tonight inside the boxing ring. Sean and I will step out now so you can change. Knock twice on the door so Sean can return to do your hands, lace your gloves, and warm you up for the fight. The bout will commence within the hour. My expectation of you Ser is that you will be going for the knockout. I highly approve if that were to be in the later rounds. Give the lads in attendance a good showing” Jack's smile now was telling that he was looking forward to seeing Michael fight for as long as possible.
************************
Both men were now geared up and standing in their perspective hallways that led to the main room and boxing ring beyond. Dave Woodall wore a royal blue boxing robe made by Everlast and its hood was up. His neck wrapped in a thick white towel covered his upper chest. The arch of the robes hood shadowed his face obscuring it. Upon his hands were a pair of modern Reyes navy blue lace up gloves in 12 oz weight. They were brand new from their smell and the stiffness of the leather. Expensive but worth every penny and they looked completely out of place on Dave. Like a young boy who finds his fathers gear and puts it on. Playing make-believe. Dan, the young man that had warmed him up prior to exiting the dressing room could not help but wonder if he was even going to land a single punch. Would the gloves remain unused even after tonight? Standing behind Dave now he smirked and choked back the urge to laugh audibly. He loved his job here at the Club. Grudge night was always entertaining. One more lamb going up against a wolf. Dave kept his mind focused on Dana, how she would admire the oil painting he would have commissioned of him standing over his defeated opponent as she knelt nearby like one of those slave wenches in those Barbarian fantasy portraits. His own crotch tightened as he rested his gloves on Dan's shoulders, and they began their entrance walk.
Michael's hands felt like they had been dipped in gold and then sprinkled with diamonds. These Tuf-Wear felt like a second skin on hands. Banging them together made the most intoxicating sound. He had his own robes hood up and instead of obscuring his face in shadow it was covered by a towel like hood with eye holes. So, his identity to his opponent would be a total mystery until the bout was ready to start. He really liked that idea. Give the other guy something to worry about. Banging his gloves together again, Sean grinned and motioned for him to put his gloves on the slightly taller ring attendants shoulders. “It is time Mr. Egan. Good Luck out there” they began moving and the closer they came to the exit door into the brightly lit room beyond, the more the jock strap fought to contain the penis beyond. Like leather reins on a wild horse recently caught. It bucked against the leather at every step. The room exploded into noise, cheering and whistles. Four hundred gentlemen were in attendance this evening. Many were dressed in tank tops or muscle shirts as it was hot outside this 10th of June. Those sitting in the Platinum section were in proper tuxedos. These were the visiting guests from the London Club. Varying in age and social standing, many were young thirties. The Gold section housed the locals. It had one special sub row in the very front, as close to ringside as you could get. The men all cheered as they spotted both boxers entering. The light striking Michael's gold robe made it seem like he was angelic. He looked over the myriad of faces before him and a lot of these younger Englishmen were very handsome looking. Tight moustaches and trimmed hair parted perfectly. Smoking cigars and drinking expensive cognac. Just as he rounded the corner of the professional sized 20x20 foot ring with its black ropes, white canvas, and Dual English and American flags in the center his knees almost knocked together. Sitting across from his corner in the front sub-section of the gold area was his father and identical twin brother Peter. Both with bottled beers in hand. This had been a dream of Michael's for years, to have them be in attendance of him boxing someone. This Jack Cole was some type of mythical being. The sight of them and knowing they did not recognize him yet only empowered his urge to get the fight going. Looking across the way at his opponent now, who was walking up the small stairs to his own corner he could not make out who it was, but the build was not that of someone intimidating. His mind still reeled from seeing his Father and brother and as Sean lifted the ropes for him to enter, he gave his gloves one final bang together. He then spotted that some of the gold section attendees were in military uniforms, Navy and Marines distinct looks stood out.
Dave's entrance into the room was from the Diamond section side and what he encountered there gave him an uneasy feeling. The men sitting there were all shirtless. Some of them were in nothing more than boxer briefs. It was strange. His mind was too busy processing that he was about to enter a boxing ring and fight someone. It jumbled to recall his trainer’s words and strategies. Keep away, counter punch and just keep moving was the advice which returned to him now and to use your fitness as your asset. It was true, the daily runs and gym routines had made him very fit for his age. Dave half expected to see Dana there in the crowd too but alas women were obviously not allowed in. He imagined her in the first row in some black lace teddy lingerie and grinned. Spotting his opponent now, someone in a gold Metallica robe whose thick chest hair was jutting out of the opening a bit. Even from this vantage point he could see it was grey coloured. So, he was up against some old man. Dave hoped he was not going to be knocking any dentures out tonight and smiled. Once inside the ring however his stomach knotted up and the room felt like it had suddenly become five sizes too small. He quivered a bit and Dan who was to act as his corner man noticed it. As did some of the men watching from the Diamond area and they visibly rubbed themselves. Confidence and fear were both energies that one could get off on seeing. Jack Cole emerged from the back room wearing a pair of pinstripe suit pants, a long-tailed Tuxedo jacket and a bow tie. Otherwise, he was bare chested underneath. His abdominal and pectoral muscles were gym hardened and he had a distinct rose tattoo on his upper chest with a small pair of black boxing gloves hanging from its stem. He also wore a top hat; he was like a circus Ringmaster instead of a boxing announcer. The production values for this Club were high. Slowly a metallic microphone receiver was lowered from the rafters above. Dave and Michael were both in their corners now and the introductions were about to commence.
“Gentlemen.” Jack tapped the microphone a few times to gain everyone's attention. Michael kept looking back at his father and Peter and anticipating the moment that he revealed himself. Dave was looking around the room but mostly at Jack. “Now that I have your attention, I would like to introduce the fighters for tonight's six round melee.” he paused to allow for applause once again. “Tonight, we have a special treat. These two gentlemen are already acquainted. They met once before in a very different venue that deals in swift and absolute justice, but the squared circle relies not on verdicts but on raw strength of mind and body. “Jack paused again, and the room erupted into cheers. He smiled, like a hyena does when it spots a gazelle in the plains and its next meal. “I would like to introduce the combatant in the blue corner first. A man who I was honestly a bit surprised to see accepted the challenge.” Laughter came from various areas around the room and Dave's stomach flooded with butterflies again. “Now now, gentleman, let us welcome him. Fighting out of the blue corner, standing at five foot ten inches tall and weighing in at 182 lbs and 13 stone” on cue, Dan took down Dave's hood revealing his face. Michael gasped. If the sight of his family had been like a pile of bricks falling on him in terms of a surprise, that he was actually going to get to fight the one man he had wanted to since their property dispute a year before, well that was like the whole damn brick wall had fallen on him. This Jack Cole had to be some type of magician. Fuck yes, showtime baby. He almost let out an audible sound. Dave meekly raised a glove of greeting and turning to the diamond section he quickly turned back as he spotted a man visibly stroking his exposed penis. A shudder of revulsion washed over his body. He jerked his mind back to focusing and tapped his gloves together. “Gentleman, now I will introduce our combatant in the red corner. He stands at 6 feet even and weighs in at a 185 pounds, thirteen stone as well. Please welcome Michael Egan.” Cheering now was the entire room. The loudest being from Michael's Father and brother. His hood and towel removed his face was exposed. He turned to look away from his family to see the expression on Dave's face. It was clear that this revelation was a shock. Dave looked a bit pale too. Like a mouse who just sees a cat. “As is the custom here, we have no central ring introduction. No standing eight count or three knock-down rules either. If the bout should reach the end of the sixth round a winner will be declared by attendee’s mutual vote on performance but let us hope that is not the case lads.
Michael tensed his body for the burst of energy he was about to expend charging out to meet Dave head on. His mind swirled with the memories of his court defeat, the poor communication and arrogant behavior of Dave over a change in property which encroached on his own enjoyment. Like a large fence that blocks the sun from your pool. The extension was worth kicking this man's ass over and here he was finally going to get the chance to do just that. His robe removed, some of the diamond section attendees admired his body, Michael was what they called the “Silver fox” type of guy. Dave too had shed his royal blue robe to reveal a pair of American flag trunks, a tired cliche but not as bad as the “Rocky” themed ones. His tall boxing shoes were also white with red/blue laces. Only the military men in attendance found this empowering. Michael saw how awkward those Reyes gloves looked on him now. Like they were bigger than 12 oz size. Jack Cole walked over to Dave's corner and the microphones chord followed him as it elongated. “It is my custom to give each fighter the chance to say something before the first round commences. Do you have anything to say to Michael Egan Ser?” He raised a glove meekly in what seemed more like a wave of greeting than a threat. Some of the lads in the gold section bust out laughing. Jack strode across the ring to Michael and asked him the same thing. Michael raised his gloves to chest height and smirked “This one's for you Dad and Peter.” he paused and spoke again “Oh and Dave, I am going to kick your ass. No hard feelings” Extending a glove outward to point at the other man, he turned the attached thumb down as if to show him where he would be going. Jack Cole's grin widened. “Well then let me get out of the ring and let’s get this fight underway.”
- ROUND 1 *****
In the time while Dave was out of it from the uppercut partially pin-balling his grey matter. Michael recovered from the previous assault and went in after the other man. He alternated his punches, left and right. He landed to the chin, nose, side of the jaw and several to the right eye. These shots had Dave seeing nothing but a blur of light, colour, and motion. The next shot to the eye would begin the process of creating a good lump-like shiner there. Michael went downstairs to land several more shovel hooks, standard hooks and one solid straight right to the solar plexus. The ropes worked to keep Dave pinned and taking a real beating. It was the damn round ending that spoiled the fun. The ding ding ding of the end of the round. Dave seemed like he might go down, but he made it to his corner. Michael plopped down to have his guard removed and his upper back massaged. “You are gold out there Michael, thanks for all those great shovel hooks. That was impressive.” Sean's tone of voice told Michael that he was into him a bit more than just as an enthusiastic corner man. This guy had a serious chub watching him fight. Shit, many of the diamond section did too and they were either stroking their own cocks or the helping the guy in front of them. Water got in and out of Dave's mouth meekly. He was shaken from the assault and struggling to get his mindset back. Fuck, the shock of taking hits wasn't as lasting as he thought. Dan did not offer any advice. He cleared and reinserted the mouth guard into Dave’s mouth and looked around the room. He did not see this being a long fight. He knew however that Jack preferred it. Anything to get the lads fired up right.
- ROUND 2 *****
- ROUND 3 *****
The bell's familiar tock tock tock sound filled the air, and the room became alive again. The ten second warnings. Suddenly someone with a strong voice shouted. “Hey blue corner, you going to start earning the right to wear old glory. You are embarrassing the USA son.” the immediate are erupted into laughter from the military guys seated around the Marine who had just called out. Dave took this insult like a punch. It quickly was absorbed thought as the bell went off and both fighters were on their feet. Michael had minor redness in comparison to Dave's two black eyes, and fat lip. The round however did not immediately start with Michael landing the punches first. Dave had gotten his defense behind him and was able to deflect the first couple of jabs, partially stop an incoming right cross that hit his glove more than it did his chin. He saw an opening and lunged forward to ram a straight right hard into Michael's solar plexus. Sending a jolt of paralysis down both of his legs. A brief stunning move that left him vulnerable for Dave to attack him to the chin and face now. Mimicking his trainer’s drills on the pads for weeks prior he scored two jabs, a right cross to the mouth and then he crouched and launched a wicked bolo punch that struck dead on the right temple area and produced the first knockdown off the bout. The bolo, a slightly turned gloved “overhand” shot was like a sledgehammer when it was done correctly. Michael's satin covered ass cheeks met the canvas as his legs flew upward and his back came crashing down. His arms were still tight to his body. The room became of blurry glut of color, sound, and disorientation. The shocking punch silenced most of the room aside from the sudden broadcast from the overhead speakers.
Michael was back on his feet and without a referee there to interrupt the match with a check of his ability to continue or to administer a standing eight count he took a moment to clear the cobwebs and then went after his opponent like a bullet fired from a gun. Dave saw Michael coming in fast at the last moment and he got his gloves up to cover his face and was partly out of the corner and moving away when a ripping right hook to the ribs was off target crashing into his mid section instead. Forcing his body hard into the ropes and producing a loud grunt from the younger man’s throat. A revenge punch for the embarrassment of being knocked down. Shelling up, his gloves took the brunt of several failed face punches but several of the mixed in body shots connected perfectly. The gentlemen in the diamond section were collectively jerking off now. Having the best view of the expression on Michael's face and the failing defense of Dave's weak knees and sagging back. It was a sudden move of desperation, but Dave quickly grabbed both of Michael's arms around the biceps with his gloves and shoved with all his body weight. The momentum forced him to backward toward the other side of the ring like a bulldozer was pushing him now. Most of the room began to boo loudly. “Poor form Davey boy” one of the English fans yelled. “Hey there chap, its a boxing match not a wrestling one.” laughter from the platinum section followed. Frustration filled Michael's mind and for a moment both men locked eyes. Planting his foot hard behind him, and the lead foot hard up against the inside of Dave's lead one, he applied the breaks to this push back and managed to maneuver Dave hard into the ropes. This put him in a great position now to see his father and brother's faces briefly. They were both tense looking. Dave kept trying to clinch and hold on but suddenly the right gloved hand of Michael sank deeply as a pendulum like uppercut smashed hard into the abdominal section. This one really shook him up. Nausea washed over him. His grip weakened enough for the other man to break full free of it. Three long, wide angles round house hooks were the shots that sent Dave free falling to the canvas below. Each one, the left – right – left contorted his face like a candle melting under the heat. His head hit the canvas without bracing so it bounced hard, and his mouth guard ejected. His body seemed go stiff.
Jack Cole rushed into the ring now and directed Michael Egan to the neutral corner. He crouched to check on Dave and via a nice bit of sleight of hand he withdrew a small atomizer from his sleeve and sprayed a potent mixture of cologne and ammonia carbonate in his face. A quick spray of the old smelling salts. Dave began pawing for the ropes and with effort he climbed them glove over glove to get standing on his feet. Dan met him along the ropes and worked a new mouth guard into between his lips. Jack gave him a brisk slap across the cheek. “There you go lad, your okay. Get back in there. The bell sounded on cue and Dan helped Dave back to his stool putting an ice bag on each eye alternating the duration. No towel there to throw in. The only way out of this bout for Dave was to win or stay unconscious. Michael had a renewed spring in his boots as he got to his corner, a towel went around his neck and water was poured over his head. “Fuck that was amazing Ser, what a great knockdown. I thought you had him there, but that yuppie has some spunk huh.” Michael nodded and then looked backward at his twin who was gesturing like he was flexing his biceps, and he gave Michael a big thumbs up. “That a boy Mike, good round” His chest was heaving with signs of exhaustion now, but Michael's mind was still fed a steady diet of adrenaline and endorphins. He tapped his gloves together without noticing. Dave's left cheek joined the ranks of the swollen. His once moderately handsome face was becoming liken to an old pumpkin long after Halloween had ended. Still there was a spark in his eyes. Michael had to give him credit for beating the knockout just then. Dan slid Dave's guard in and tapped him on the shoulder. “Hey man not sure what to say. Good luck” across the ring Michael was on his feet already. His eagerness was appreciated by the gentlemen in attendance and several of them shot their loads onto the provided terry cloth towels in their section.
- ROUND 4 *****
The room became nothing more than a blur of color, light and sound all filtered through teary eyes. Dave was worked over until his back hit the far ropes nearest to the wall. The two men travelled from there to the left now as body hooks were applied to move Dave along the ropes. Pain filled his swollen, black-eyed face. He was nothing more than target practice now. When they got to the end of the line, just before Dave's back was trapped on the turnbuckle of the neutral corner; Michael gave the top rope a yank with the rounded part of his glove, and it forced Dave forward a step. A move he had seen done in a movie once and always wanted to try. Then he began landing consecutive right hooks, alternated from the side of the head to the body but not with full force. Just enough to work Dave along the next set of ropes toward his own corner. When they arrived at the position now where he had pulled the ropes the last time, instead he opted to just begin the last set of hits to finally wrap this fight up in a bow. Dave was out of it; his legs were close to rubber now and his gloves were just hanging limply at his sides. “Yeah Mike! Peter shouted. “He's done, knock him out!” someone else yelled. Each punch that came next was like being landed in some sort of slow motion in Michael's perception. A crushing left hook to the upper cheek area, jostled spit off Dave's lower lip. Several hard body shovel hooks made his body dance like some strange marionette. A hard cross to the chin lifted his back up onto the ropes and he seemed to stagger to the right before his body weight shifted and a parting shot to the side of his head from Michael's glancing left hook was the final punch of the bout. Dave fell sideways again, and his shoulder, cheek and temple area all hit the canvas at the same moment. His eyes were closed, and he was out cold. Michael stood over him looking down at his defeated opponent and his jock strap slowly filled with warm rush of ejaculated cum.
Jack Cole rushed up to the ring and climbed through the ropes. Sean and Dan both entered the ring as well. Jack motioned for Michael to join him in the center of the ring and then grabbed his left hand and raised his arm in victory. Most of the attending spectators got to their feet and began cheering. Michael's father and brother were among the first. All smiles and Michael's father exclaimed “That is my son who just won that” Dan and Sean got Dave up and onto his round stool, but he was still pretty much unconscious. The slow microphone came down and another man entered the ring carrying a small briefcase and a title belt over his shoulder. “Gentlemen.” Jack's English accent was hard to place but it was commanding. “Yes yes, settle down now lads. The winner in the fourth round by way of glorious knock out, Michael Egan will now receive his prizes.” The man who had brought the case and the belt into the ring helped fit the belt around Michael's waist. It was gold plated and adorned with two men fighting in the center. The English, American, Irish, and Canadian flags were represented as well, and the bottom was embossed by the word “Champion.” His gloves were removed and handed to Jack. The man then opened the briefcase and inside was the metallic gold robe that he had worn into the ring except now it had been embossed. Jack took the robe out and held it up for the crowd to see the back. “Michael Egan, Chicago Gentleman's Club Champion, June 10, 2021” was spelled out in tight white threading. Michael smiled as the Jack fitted the robe back on. “As I promised there is also a bonus tonight for the winner. Anything they ask within reason will be granted but they will do so privately within my office. I ask now that those in attendance depart. I will see most of you back here next month.” Jack leaned in and spoke only loud enough for Michael to hear. “When you have showered and changed, new clothes have been provided in your dressing room. Return to the bar here and ring the bell. I will meet you and take you back to the office. Feel free to use the briefcase to carry your new gloves and title belt Champ. Well, earned mate.” Michael nodded and left the ring. When he got down onto the floor just before the platinum section. He paused to look for his Father and brother, but they were already gone. Walking back to his dressing room he hung up his robe, took down his trunks, removed his cup, and proceeded to use the provided bathroom to shower. He also took the opportunity to jerk off and release even more of the load he had been storing up. The visual of the final shots landing, seeing Dave fall to the canvas knocked out cold was all the visual aid he required. As the water flowed over his face, he closed eyes he grinned to himself.
The Few, The Proud, The Unconscious...
- Celtic Tiger
- 3/01/2025
- 0
- 2
- 0
Nothing but blaring white halogen lights existed now for Gunther Haase as semi-consciousness trickled back into his mind. He felt the stiff, unresponsive aches of his torso and lower jaw now and his legs were like someone had dipped them in quick drying cement. His sweat laden body, a strong muscular physique of bronze like skin dark brown body hair and vividly defined tattoo work was splayed out now on the canvas. His arms were splayed out and the black leather gloves on both of his hands were now limp as if any life had been drained from them. His left eye, which was swelling a bit less than his right opened fully and the lights began to ebb away to reveal someone standing over him and others just outside of his peripheral visions range. His opponent stood a few feet away with his gloved hands folded across his broad, gym defined chest and thick arms. A younger man in his late twenties. His squared jawline raised cheeks and stub nose gave this man almost a rottweiler type quality in Gunther’s opinion. Green eyes and arching medium brown eyebrows accented the smirking mouth below. The most distinctive feature however was the “Eagle, Globe and Anchor” tattoo on his right forearm and the “American flag” just below it. His hair style, the “high and tight” might otherwise be mistaken for that of the Royal Marines of England but there was no mistaking this man was in the USMC. Gunther, who was of comparable physical size, was not however of compatible boxing skill or mental focus and from the first-round bell he was on the defensive, taking hard punches and his stoic German disposition was changed into a visage of pain and heavy disorientation very quickly. Finding himself trapped up against the ropes and travelling around the ring while the Marine before him landed well timed multi-punch combinations.
“Hey there, you are just about full woken up kraut?” There was snickering from somewhere over to his left now beyond the red, white and blue ropes of the ring. Then a voice chimed in, also speaking with an American accent. “Oh yeah, more like “sour” kraut eh, look at that face now John, you really fucked that guy up” Gunther hated that expression and pure humiliation coupled with physical dysfunction only added to his embarrassment. Sergeant John Ingles wasn’t looking for a sparring partner. He was looking to just lay a good beat down on the poor chump who responded to his inquiries around the local pubs of Boeblingen where his Marine Corp. Base Panzer Kaserne was stationed. So, he posted a flyer stating that he was looking for local sparring partners within his weight class. Gunther was his first victim. Clearly, after the first bell rang it was not to be a competitive spar but an actual bout. Pushing up on his forearms, Gunther sought to see if he could get to his feet but before he was able to try, John moved quickly to plant the flat bottom of his red and gold boxing shoe on the older man’s upper chest, and he shoved him down hard back onto the canvas. “Whoa their kraut, you took a nasty fall. Getting up too fast now might lead to more serious complications.” The two men who were out of view to the side of the ring and who weren’t present during the fight now got into the ring with them.
Also, Marines, Lance Corporal Thomas Dover was slightly smaller in build but just as strong looking. He was of English descent and his dark brown almost black hair was accented by his stone-grey eyes. Looked more like some magazine cover boy to Gunther then any solider. Beside him, a man of thicker muscles but even shorter stature was Corporal Adam Highwood. A mutt of Irish, Dutch and Scottish background he was a hard looking guy. Someone who knew how to handle themselves. He took out his phone and took a few photos of John pinning Gunther down. “Good, want to have something to remember this chump by.” Leading down now he made eye contact with Gunther and admired the work his fists had done. Swollen left cheek, fat lip and a partially closed right eye made Gunther look like he was a candle at the end of its life. He had a wicked shiner around his left eye and some blood sat on the tips of his nostrils. “Thanks for responding to my flyer buddy. Maybe if you have the balls you will train up and come back to give me a better challenge next time.” John smirked and then looked at both of his buddies nearby. They nodded. He then proceeded to draw back his right fist, the old-style brown glove creased as he balled it up into an oval shaped fist and then he struck Gunther’s chin perfectly dead center to render the German man fully unconscious again. The three men then proceeded to strip him of all but his jock strap and take him from the gym area out to the yard in front of the small rental building. It was late on a Saturday evening and usually very quiet outside. They were able to get him into the back of John’s jeep along with a black garbage bag containing his clothing and wallet and dropped him off several blocks away just off to the side of the nearby medical clinics front entrance. Wearing only his jock strap and boxing shoes. Laughing they hopped back into the Jeep and took off.
It wasn’t long before a passerby found him, and he was admitted to the clinic. The remnants of his gym gear were replaced by an open back gown and his other belongings were placed on a chair near his bedside. Although he was conscious fairly soon after being admitted he was stone silent. How he was left and in what condition had emasculated him completely and being a German facility, stoic faces were all he got in response to finding any sympathy for his situation and all he dreaded now was that his elder brother Wolfgang would find out what happened. He was the more experienced boxer in the family with two professional fights in Germany and one in Poland under his belt and he had won all three of those by way of knock out within three rounds time. Gunther always looked up to his brother who had only started boxing in his early thirties and was already showing great potential. That night however no one came, he was given medication for pain and ice for his eye and fell asleep. The nurse in charge of his room was able to find his contact information and left a voice mail at the apartment he and his brother shared. Wolfgang was asleep at the time as he had an early regiment of roadwork and exercise on his ‘non training” days to perform so he got as much rest as possible. Any plans that next day would be knocked out much like his brother had been once he heard the voice mail and rushed to the medical facility to see what had happened. The caller didn’t mention anything about boxing just that Gunther had been badly beaten and left outside of the facility doors. Wolfgang figured it was a mugging and it would have to be several men to have gotten the best of his little brother who he himself had taught to fight from an early age. Hastily getting dressed in his running gear he left the apartment.
John had a reputation among the other Marines stationed here at the Panzer Kaserne as being the best boxer out of the number of active Marines that engaged in sparring. He had taken on all comers for over two years and his speed, accuracy and powerful fists had defeated every single one. Some of these went to the final bell and the victory was mutually agreed upon, those watching playing de facto judges and others ended in the undisputed type, by way of knock out. His signature finisher was his left hook or as it had been dubbed “Leatherneck Kryptonite” by his closes buddies Thomas and Adam. One of his more noted accomplishments was his knockout over his former Drill Sergeant at Paris Island who had been briefly stationed here in Boeblingen. The older man nearing his 40s was a one time internal-corps champion so this defeat at the hands of a lower ranked soldier was humiliating. John bragged that it wasn’t difficult, and he expected a better showing from a Sergeant Major. He spent a lot of time during his daily training admiring himself in the wall mirrors. A mix of Irish, Scottish and Italian on his fathers’ side he had gotten the darker skin tone from him. His thick, rugby like build was from the Scottish and he had gotten his boyish face from the Irish as well as his quick punching.
For all of his experience though he had never had a competitive bout. In his mind, being able to best any of the Marines he was stationed with was pretty much the equivalent of being the “local champion” and now he had access to taking on any of the krauts in the area who might think they were tough enough to best him. Adam and Thomas both had been defeated by him several years earlier and they got him a proper title belt that sat in a glass case in the gym. It was custom made silver plated, adorned with the USMC logo, US and English flags to honor the Marines of both countries with the word “Local on the above the central design and “Champion” on the bottom. There was a photograph on the wall nearby of him wearing it, his red and gold Marines themed boxing gear on like he had just beaten the current Champion. Once a day he would admire it then return to his bag work. He was unaware that his skills were going to be greatly tested very soon.
*************************
Wolfgang signed the visitor log and made his way into the elevator and up to the third floor where his brother’s room was. An orderly who was sharing the ride seemed to recognize him but didn’t say anything. Anyone who followed the local professional boxing scene would know who he was. He wasn’t the type to make a spectacle about it though. His trainer for the last three years reinforced humility. Reaching the room, he had to wait for a nurse who was exiting from the doorway before he could enter himself. His brother had just been asleep but was awake the woman told him. Entering the room, he took in the sight of his brother’s battered face. Hot anger welled up inside the pit of his stomach as if it were some types of blacksmiths kiln being fired up to forge weapons. His “wolf-like” piercing grey eyes looked into his brothers’ blue ones and then rage shifted over to concern. Gunther looked at his brother now and felt the strength of his presence. Just about six feet tall and just shy of 195 lbs. he was a bull of a man. His oval face, beak like nose and tight lips were framed by a thick, broad jaw and cleft chin. His forehead shaped by the thick skull beneath was accented by a tight buzz cut of medium blond hair. His torso was covered in a flat, wave light pattern of brown chest hair some of which could be seen from the opening of the vinyl jacket he was wearing. He shut the door now and pushed the nearby chair over to talk to his brother. Gunther’s shame was evident. “Who did this?” Wolfgang fixed his brother will a stare that told him he better answer. A minute or so passed and then Gunther motioned to the pair of black cargo pants he had been wearing that were slung over the back of his chair. Wolfgang retrieved them and began to fish through the pockets. It didn’t take long to find the folded-up flyer in the back right pocket. He looked it over. It was in German but clearly written by a non-native writer of the language. “Sparring Partner Wanted at Panzer Keserne” Wolfgang looked down at the floor in disappointment. “You have one right here, your brother. So, you went there and the Marine you fought did this to you?” He pointed to his brother’s face. “Left you on the sidewalk like a bag of garbage.” Wolfgang’s belly refilled itself with the burning sensation of anger. His eyes flared with it. Gunther couldn’t look him in the eyes. Shame had locked his gaze to the ceiling. “I understand why you did this but now I will be the one to handle this American bully.” he clenched his fists. He placed his hand on his brothers’ shoulder and squeezed it. “Your only job dummkopf now is to rest. I will return when I have given this Marine what is coming to him.” Gunther nodded. He relayed to his brother the location of the base gym and the guard house he signed in at. Wolfgang kissed his brother’s forehead and jammed the flyer into his left pants pocket. . The temperature in the room dropped with his departure. Gunther had only seen his brother get truly angry once and it was a scary thing.
Wolfgang returned home and took the flyer out of his pocket. Punching in the number into his mobile he hit dial and waited. After several rings the call was answered by the voicemail. A brief recorded message instructed him to leave his name and number and expect a text message detailing the time and location. English wasn’t his preferred language, but he was fluent in it and could pass for an American born German. Leaving a message that he was looking to come do some sparring he hung up the phone and waited. Less than an hour later he received a text message, an address only two blocks from the clinic where his brother currently was admitted and the time of nine o'clock that evening was returned. Pulling out a wide footlocker from underneath his bed, he undid the old lock and exposed the contents. Packed right on the top was a black satin boxing robe, with red trim and a yellow belt to tie it closed. In German on the back were the words “Der Sagnagel (the coffin nail)” This footlocker belonged to his late father, a former military boxer who had several post service bouts for money and taught both of his sons how to defend themselves. Below the robe was a pair of high-top black leather boots with yellow and red laces and a pair of 10-ounce black Paffen Sport boxing gloves. The gloves were the only piece of gear that weren’t his fathers. These were the first pair that Wolfgang brought Gunther when they were younger. Taking his gym bag out from under the bed next he fished out his mouth guard and satin trunks made to look like the German flag but there was no writing on these trunks. He was hoping that he would be a complete unknown to American who had beaten Gunther and left him stripped of his clothing and his dignity as a man. He shoved his hands in to the gloves and raised them chin level. He then proceeded to bang them together, hard enough to fill the entire apartment with the sound of thunder to come.
John, Adam and Thomas converged at the small rental space building where their “private” ring and gym equipment was kept. It was close to 8 o'clock now and the next victim would be arriving at nine. Concealed throughout the gym were hidden cameras that sent their data wirelessly back to a storage medium hidden in one of the small lockers that were left behind by the previous renter. It was already used as a gym space with a shower and bathroom built in. A side room held benches and several other lockers for changing. John liked to do pad work with Adam but then use the gym solo while his two buddies hung out int he back of the changing area usually playing cards or smoking cigars. Tonight, was no exception, and the adherence to routine would prove to be a big mistake. John geared up for the fight to come and while Adam wrapped his hands, Thomas massaged John’s shoulders and arms to loosen them up. It was an unspoken practice that none of them would ever admit to enjoying. Next the legs and thighs would get a good rubdown while he stood up and did some stationary pad work. John would mouth the punches he was going to throw but not fully out loud, like a mental exercise. Sometimes Adam would imagine that these fights were taking place naked. Both men fully nude in just gloves. He hadn’t ever seen John’s nude, but he wanted to.
While the three of them worked on the per-stretching and bag work to follow, Wolfgang was putting his skills from his early years in private security to good use. The device attached on the roof was transmitting the signal from within the building, instead he put it to be carried over to his laptop which would be set to record. He had a nice long intro planned of the “change room” portion of the night’s events. He didn’t need to be told who he would be fighting, the man with the USMC & American flag tattoo on his arm. A squared jaw brick of a man and soon he would begin his warm up and give Wolfgang a great view of just how he moved, his power and what he would probably open the fight with. A perfect read on this preening peacock that he was about to defeather. Carrying his gym bag and laptop with him, he bypassed the doors lock with a small device a former co-worker had made for him years ago. A small blind spot on the camera system at work where they would go to smoke and take unscheduled breaks. It worked like a charm. Entering the small facility, he moved silently closer to the back door leading to the inner change area. A lone locker stood in the hallway and made a perfect place to place the laptop. Then he got into his gear and pulled a tight, form fitting black nylon mask over his face that hugged just below his chin line. When he entered the change room, the black ten-ounce gloves he had brought to do battle were around his neck, his wrapped fists would suffice in taking care of the first two.
It was sudden, Adam was struck easily six times to the side and front of his face mostly the jaw area before he was knocked out. No amount of bravado or military training helped stop the swift, power filled hits of a professional boxer. Thomas’s knock out was initiated with body shots as the opening. One such uppercut cut off his throats wind in its suddenness barring his ability to signal John they were in trouble. The last thing he saw was the colors of the German flag and then darkness came. Wolfgang used some nylon jump rope to bind the two men’s hands and feet. He could hear the sound of John using the speed bag and his assault had gone undetected by the way the loud tat tat tat sound masked any others. Getting his gloves on now, he used Velcro bands to secure them. His single layer black mouthpiece already being gripped by his teeth, tightened. His speech would be somewhat muddled by it wouldn’t matter. Walking out into the gym area itself, John had his back to him working on the speed bag across the room. Wolfgang couldn’t wait for some proper round-based fight to occur. His brother’s damaged face was flashing before his eyes now. He banged his gloves together and the thundering sound was sufficient enough to be heard over the sound of the other bag work. John stopped hitting it and turned around. He was surprised to find his opponent had a black mask covering his face. His German flag gloves and trunks looked professionally made and his old vintage boots were from a different era of professional boxing. He laughed. “You worried about people finding out a boxer or something?” John proceeded to pick up his own gloves off of a nearby gym mat on the floor. Keeping one hand free to get his own mouth guard in. The masked figure was in top shape, definitely not the usual dough boy that John’s gloves had tenderized like so much prime beef. This was a man who had prepared. “Fuck it, lets forgo the ring and just box here on the mats.” The masked man nodded slowly 'Yes Ami, if you want to dance then start the music.” Between his mouth guard and his thick accent, it sounded a bit strained the words.
John nodded and smirked. “Good, I like that someone finally answered my flyer who just might box worth a” He couldn’t finish the full sentence because the man had already closed eighty percent of the distance between them. John read the body language as an incoming jab to the face, so he pulled his guard up tight to absorb the shot. Tight till impact was made then on the fly they could be loosened to part for his counter punch. Gross miscalculation saw a right-handed straight punch batter his solar plexus area just at the point where his stomach met his chest area. His diaphragm buckled from the power and his lungs were knocked into a momentary pause. Both of his legs locked up now. Zero time between the first punch landing and the next four that were a digging left hook to his ribs and heel lifting uppercut to the pit of his stomach. His eyes opened almost further than humanly possible when a thick clot of air was forced up from his stomach and out of his parting lips. Locking his back up. Wolfgang’s power turned John into a human punching bag easily. Next his angled right hook met the Marines chin and John’s head smacked into the nearby speed bag from the angle of connection. Somewhat of a metaphor for how the following punches seemed to make his head a lot like a speed bag too. Wolfgang battered him with jabs, two hooks, a big right cross and a left uppercut that tucked under his chin line and levelled his eyelids closed.
John wasn’t seeing full details now. The room had gone blurred around the edges and both of his ears had popped and then lost sound. His feet instinctively moved him away from Wolfgang toward the ring itself. His mind had absolutely no time to process what was happening. Body punches dug into him hard, and he went down from a left hook near the edge of his rib cage. His right arm and shoulder smashing into the mat before his head tapped it next and bounced. A stringy rivulet of Sylvia dripped past his mouth guard and it was slightly mixed with blood. It touched the black mat below. Wolfgang stood waiting. “Get up, you are weak.” John’s head cleared enough for him to hear each word. “Up Ami, get up, I will even let you strike me first.” the taunt was like a new punch to John’s face. He did get up fast though. His mind reverting to its training on pulling its focus together in a moment when needed. He raised his gloves into a fighting stance. “You got me down your kraut piece of shit, but you didn’t get me out, I’m going to fuck you up now.” Rushing forward, he feigned like he was going to the body and at the last moment switched his posture to connect a right uppercut to the German’s chin. The glove found its target and instead of snapping the masked man’s head back, it deflated upon impact. Like hitting one of those tear shaped uppercut bags in practice gyms. John’s punch had hit what must have been a chin made of steel. Wolfgang’s jawline, his skull dispersed the power of the shot. It was unpleasant but nothing that would prove a problem. He grinned and shook his head. Moving with the speed of a cobra, he struck John below his squared jawline with his own right uppercut, then a left millisecond afterwards. The force of both shots reeled John’s neck and head backward and he flew with it hard into the side of the boxing ring.
His vision fully blurred over after the bright, white lighting-like flash had filled both of his blue-Gray eyes. His fallen arms from the impact of the punches and his body hitting the side of the ring began to rise as he recovered, and they were at about chest height when several big uppercut pairs collided with his gym hardened abs and ignored them as the leather sank in deep, he was forced to grunt from each and every punch. The German flag filled his field of vision like he was being made to understand its dominance. A big left straight shot pounded in his nose and mouth area. A right-handed power shot hit and left the center of his partially hairy chest so quickly it seemed almost like a hummingbird had been there. Another grunt came out. Hooks from both sides started colliding with the side of his face, twisting up the cheek area and pouting his now swelling lips. Wolfgang’s punches ping-ponged his head now and he was too dazed to react. His head rocked like a boat on rough waters and Wolfgang began to connect exclusively to his right eye now working it from a lump to a shiner to a proper overcast, a swelling mass that would close it. It took very little time to produce the desired result. More punches struck John’s face now. Splitting his lip, swelling his left cheek, adding a thick black clot under his good eye. From his side, it was a soundless, jarring, German flag filled haze of impacts and disorientation and from Wolfgang’s side it was a complete rush of adrenaline.
The biochemical raced through his German body now. He felt like he could knock John’s head completely off his shoulders. However bad John had beaten Gunther, it was a minor inconvenience in comparison to the damage being dealt now. John’s battered, swollen, blackened and for all intense and purposes broken looks hung there against the lower rope. Wolfgang’s final punches could be thrown without any rush. The Marine was already so out of it from the pummeling he wasn’t able to defend. His limp arms hung at his sides now. Wolfgang almost thought he saw the tattoos seem to droop to. The American flag sure had in his imagination. The eagle had a small ring of stars around its head like it had taken some of the punches too. Wolfgang began to rock from side to side building up momentum. A technique called “The Dempsey Roll” seemed fitting to use a famous American boxers’ technique to finish off this Ami here. Then like two bolts of lighting striking the same target, he lashed out with a quick but compressed left-handed straight shot that connected dead on with John’s cleft mark. Then his whip-like right-handed punch struck the same spot with even more power and without the ability to fall backward, John’s body twitched violently against its confines and his head jarred up then down and before he toppled forward, his mouth guard fell from his mouth in a small river of reddish coloured spit as the plastic white mouth guard with the American flag in the center had split fully into two pieces. The mess and two parts struck the mat below and tumbled into directions. At the same time this was happening, both of John’s eyes rolled back in the sockets and Wolfgang watched the light of consciousness flicker out of them. A perfect knockout. Stepping back, he let the limp body of his opponent fall and watched as John’s cheek skid slightly along the mat and his chest met with the spit puddle waiting.
John’s arms were tight now to his slightly sweaty body and his gloved hands were turned inward and limp like his gloves had lost their mojo. His swollen shut eye was facing up toward the sky. A sudden and rhythmic jerking filled his body as his brain had been met with a sudden power surge. Wolfgang walked to the middle of the room and looked up at the camera. He removed his right-handed glove and dropped it to the mat below. He used his German flag wrapped hand to pull down the front of his waistband and proceeded to begin jerking off his fully erect penis. Minutes passed before he turned around and walked back to where John was still lying. He proceeded to ejaculate all over John’s hair and along the man’s neck and back. He then took out his guard and spat down onto the man’s cheek and walked out of the gym area, the door slowly closing behind him.
The video would run for another ten minutes before suddenly cutting out, but the final minute of the feed was a split screen view of John knocked out by the ring and Adam and Thomas tied and gagged in the change room area, now awake and clearly shaken by their ordeal.
~ The End