Writing [Mature Audiences] The Ninth Round

[Charles]

All right, I've labored over this fiction story. I'm really happy it's finished. I'm never satisfied, so I'll probably make revisions. But, I would [b]really[/b] appreciate it if people took the time to read it and comment. I know it's long, but I think it's worth the read.

If you're offended by swearing--don't bother. It appears quite frequently throughout the story. The censors aren't bypassed, so it shouldn't be so bad. But, one can still tell what is being said for the most part.

Thanks for your time.


[b][center]PRIDE GOETH BEFORE DESTRUCTION
AND A HAUGHTY SPIRIT BEFORE A
FALL.
(PROV. 16;18)[/b][/center]


[i]It?s the greatest show on earth.[/i]

Two men are swinging--two clumsy silhouettes finding one another through a blanket of smoke and hot wetness. Their arms are dangling at their sides like they?re either numb or asleep. When they swing, they swing slow--[i]go to the bathroom, wash your hands, take a nap, fix yourself a sandwich and you?ve still missed nothing[/i]--slow. Nonetheless, their fists are wrecking balls that give small iron kisses, so it?s exciting in a way, a testosterone-driven ballet. It?s not graceful, see. But, it does tell a story.

Both fighters are wearing lumpy 10 oz. gloves--and they?re not boxers. They?ve received no formal training. There are no television cameras; no titles on the line. The ring isn?t regulation--it holds the charm of a child?s macaroni necklace; it?s a crude imitation of something much grander. The dimensions aren?t measured perfectly (it resembles a trapezoid more so than a square) and the ropes sag like a pair of old breasts. But, it serves its purpose and leaves something to the imagination--and for those reasons it?s beautiful.

It would be exciting to claim that in the center of this hazy brothel of mixed chatter and hushed gambling, two gladiators? granite faces are locked on one another with utter contempt. But that?s not the case at all. There is idle chit chat--but it sounds more like one long, pitiful drone than it does enthusiastic banter. Make no mistake about it,--there is illegal gambling. Not a seedy underbelly of mafia deception, just bets being placed on the fight and scattered groupings of dockhands and roughnecks huddled in damp corners playing cards. And both fighters [i]are[/i] locked in a gaze, but their eyes speak confusion louder than they do malice.

By now, their legs are trembling like it?s the first day of grade school, knees knocking louder than any opportunity ever has. It?s the ninth round, but no one is keeping count. Some rounds even exceed the two minute time limit. This isn?t a multimillion dollar spectacle, a forty-five second pay per view disappointment--it?s a forty minute long distraction in a string of distractions for a group of people who have nothing better to do.

When the fighters find one another, they embrace. They come together, as if guided by some mysterious force, and push and pull and shove. Either man huffs and puffs. The one with bronze skin and demonic inkings covering his perfectly sculpted torso butts the other, bloodying his lip. The other rubs his stubble against his opponents? face, burning it. From there, they swing out, beginning a chain of misty explosions. The crowd stirs--moved by the plopping sounds. One fighter sniffs. It?s not clear who, and it doesn?t matter--both have crooked noses, bubbling and erupting with juice. The round ends in a flurry of fakes, jabs and failed attempts at fancy footwork. The combatants sleepwalk to their respective corners, dragging their feet like the undead.

Hunching over, his hands and knees pressed against one another, J.D. stares at a mat, smeared brown.

?What?s da matter wit? ya? Why aren?t ya kickin? his mother****in? *** you stupid mother****er!?

He feels a flurry of gloved hands sweep over his body, probing and exploring. They feel cold. They find holes he never knew he had and holes he never had until now. His brain is throbbing against the innards of his skull. His face is a battered pulp with bruises and welts rising prominently from the crimson glaze that streaks his features. His eyes, barely open, illustrate just how close to the brink of unconsciousness he really is. Taking a moment to regain his composure, he brings his left hand up from its support position to cradle his ribs, now thoroughly battered. Running his gloved hand down the creases of the bones, J.D. convinces himself that at least two of them are broken.

?You?re a mess. [i]One of ya hand me a towel[/i]. Jesus Christ, you?re a mess-?

J.D. mumbles incoherently.

?-You?re a Goddamned mess-?

The cold, squeezing fingers reach into his slobbering jaws and pry out his mouthpiece, slimy with pink foam. His tongue immediately begins to explore. Salty. Numb. Cotton swabs are thrust up into his nostrils and stirred.

?Sweet Jesus, look at ya. **** or get off the pot, son. Ya can?t--[i]gimme the water bottle Rand[/i]--you can?t--[i]I said gimme the mother****in? water bottle[/i]--Ya can?t go on like this. Ya--just-- can?t.?

It?s true. He can?t. There isn?t much else to be said, really.


It hurts.

[i]They only knew me when they wanted me, only wanted me when they thought they knew me. Only one that?ll be in my will, is Harriet.[/i]

Pop has three children. His youngest has no father. She hasn?t seen him in years, refuses to. Says it?s because of his Puerto Rican friends, but they?ve been gone for a long time, faded with his youth. He doesn?t party anymore and she doesn?t despise him any less. Her hatred is red, magma that burns through her eyes, he imagines. He suspects the real reason he has a broken family lies in a brown paper bag somewhere. Pop will probably never see his great grandbabies. It?s probably better that way. To them, he died a great war hero or something. [i]A name without a face[/i]--that?s what he is. He knows this and accepts it like a punch in the stomach.

He doesn?t know what his son looks like anymore; an example of blood turned bad because of money. Harriet tells Pop that Fred?s back has gotten worse, that he?s lost weight and gone gray. Fred?s youngest son now hits him back. He?s working in the casinos again, but still loves the horses. When she visits, Pop complains to Harriet about the old junk Fred left behind in his basement while he and his wife were separated. Tells her that he?s going to throw it away because his house ain?t no public storage. He?s been saying this for years.

Harriet, his oldest, often offers to take him to lunch but he refuses go. She always tells him how handsome he used to be, says he looks like a ghost now, and asks him to fix himself up. Wants him to see a doctor.

She can?t take him to cash his check today because she?s ill. He decides to go shopping with what little money he has left, wants to buy himself a bag of corn chips. Instead of going to the corner market, he takes a bus into the heart of the city. He has a pain in his chest in the store. ?The cashier didn?t say anything but she sure seen it,? he convinces himself.

After buying his lunch Pop has no desire stronger than that of the one to return home. He braces himself against the winds? attack and walks down the street as fast as his legs will allow him. His calves are sore, they burn hotter than his cheeks. He has ten minutes to go before the bus arrives. It?s usually late and never early, but he isn?t taking any chances. The sun looks dim, like a solitary pale headlight suspended above the clouds. No warmth. Piles of snow huddle together, speckled with soot. They resemble large deposits of dirt, lined on a sprawling concrete bank. He is careful not to step on them. Days of rain and chill have frozen them slick.

Glass towers, concrete of flesh, and steel of bone, look down upon the city and smile boarded-up smiles. Old men play checkers on foldout tables Faces hidden in pullovers and baseball caps line the street alongside flimsy jewelry displays. Radios crackle. Incense sticks burn. They smell putrid. Men offer Pop discount DVDs and cheap clothing.

?I?ve gots senior discounts an?s--?

?-Naw, no thank-?

?- I?ll have you looking? nice, man.? a salesman begins to thumb through an index of ironed-on logos with ?Made in Mexico? authors. ?Look, two for-hey where you goin man? I wasn?t done talkin? yet. How you gonna-- Yo people is rude as heeeell-?

Pop fumbles around in his hungry pockets, spilling old lottery tickets, change and prayer slips onto the ash-streaked sidewalk. The bus terminal is unusually crowded. Yellow tape gift wraps the lobby. The floor has just been waxed. Deeper in, it looks like a cave infested with scavenger pigeons instead of bats.

?Pigeons,? a young boy shouts.

The birds flutter underneath the wrath of his sneakers, lap the terminal, and resume their dinner on the smoky concrete, as if nothing has happened. Pop glances at his watch. The boys? mother looks tired and small under the weight of it all. She orders her son to stop hitting his sister, her voice a low, resolute growl. Pop glances at his watch. Someone asks him if this is where you catch the 303. He tells them that it is and studies his watch. Doesn?t want to make eye contact with the strangers in line. Hopes that no one cuts or begs for money.

The bus arrives fifteen minutes late, appears through the tunnel with huge glowing eyes. It prowls up slowly, groans, and hisses to a stop. His chariot awaits. It has a large ad plastered on its side that reads ?DO YOU KNOW WHERE YOUR CHILDREN ARE?? The door folds open after putting up mild resistance. Pop notices how the driver?s carefully buttoned uniform barely contains his large stomach. Reminds him of a water balloon about to explode, for some reason. The buttons struggle in an effort to not become zinging bullets.

?Rose Street,? Pop says to him.

He doesn?t think he said it loud enough, so he repeats himself. This time with more pitch in his voice.

?Rose Street,? Pop says again.

Pop finds a seat, the one in front of him is scrawled with marker graffiti. It isn?t legible, but an apple-shaped heart tells him that it?s some sort of juvenile proclamation of love. When they leave, the bus makes normal bus sounds, squeaking and rattling like it could fall apart at any time. He engages in brief conversation with a bald, probably thirty-something year old man whose head barely manages to stay afloat in a sea of flannel and blue jumpsuit.

They talk about a myriad of things, matter-of-factly, masquerading as experts on every subject they touch upon: politics, drugs, education, women. Awkward silence often punctuates their sentences. The man makes random comments when Pop seems to lose interest with him; like how the houses they pass look like prison cells with their twisting iron bars and threatening faces lurking behind them, for instance. That comment offends Pop for some reason.

?Bail Bonds!? the man says when they stop at a red light.

Pop is confused until he notices a red brick building with the words ?BAIL BONDS: 24 HOURS A DAY,? stamped on the side. It?s hard to determine whether cracks or vestige vein up the walls.

?Holy ****, would ya imagine that? Ain?t that-?

?Well, I-?

?-something? We were just talking about prison houses! I?ll be darned, that?s something.??

?Yeah, it is.?

He?s thankful when he reaches his stop, his bones are aching because of the cold weather. Snow or rain must be coming. Pop tells the man that it was nice talking with him. They never exchange names or a handshake. The bus hisses, jerks forward, and rattles off, finishing its evening stroll of the city.

Laughter rings out like a million bells. Children, boys, [i]must be up to something[/i]. He follows their voices, a cacophony of mixed swearing and hollering; skulks into a clearing between two houses painted with a coat of ice. He sees them and they see him. It?s only two or three, hot-faced, pumping their fists in the air, jumping up and down.

?Aw ****!?

Pop?s blood goes cold. They scatter, fling their bodies over fences, yelling back obscenities. Pop notices a storm of gray fur trembling and crying. God damned children had blinded another stray dog. He takes off his relic of a jacket, stalks forward, and wraps up the miserable creature, half expecting it to growl or snap at him. It doesn?t. The old man scoops the huddled mass of up into his arms and struggles to his home. Struggles home. They struggle together.

Immediately after the fight they throw a drinking party. White doors with golden cherub knobs disrupt the flow of passion red with white hearts wallpaper that give a splash of color to the walls. The zebra print floors add a touch of ?class? to the joint.

Music flows as smoothly as the liquor. Anthony is standing by himself. No one looks at him. He?s tired and lost in thought. He shuts his eyes to keep everything out. He brushes his hand on his shirt occasionally and dabs at his forehead when there?s no sweat to dab. What a night, what a night. Mucho dinero.

Across the room, Matt talks about how he?s the epitome of a Romeo, about how many cherries he?s popped. Epitome. It annoys Anthony, instantly snaps him out of his far-off euphoria. Apparently epitome is Matt?s new favorite word and he uses it a lot. Someone is always the epitome of someone or something else. Where the hell did he pick up that word? Sometimes he didn?t even use it properly or pronounce it correctly.

Tyrone and Carl don?t seem to mind; they?re more concerned with the raunchy details of Matt?s sexual escapades--even if they don?t believe him. They are second cousins, bigger than their fathers; they roll their eyes, following Matt?s exaggerated gestures. Anthony breaks in, killing the music and waving his gun. Silence. He examines each of the boys. They turn their eyes in an effort not to meet his; study generic portraits of mountains and flowers that decorate the room. Out of place. Feels like a Las Vegas dentist office. The sounds of the day are replaced by the sounds of the night. Distant fire engines and wailing police sirens put a different perspective on the party. Everyone is afraid to move, but ready to pounce.

The cockfights have been good to them. That?s what Anthony calls underground boxing matches, cockfights. Two worthless cocks fighting. Tonight, though, had paid off. At last. J.D. Swinger always starts out strong, but begins to chug as the fight wears on. His shoulders and arms are muscular, but his body?s out of shape. He has a belly and breasts. Lousy endurance. The kid he fought is barely scraping nineteen. He is in better shape than J.D., but it was his first fight. He vomited before the match. That was it. That was their ticket. Most mistake vomit for a weakness. To Anthony, it?s heart. A fighter should never be too comfortable with himself.

Now it?s time to play chess, they are going to ?make? the local bank, have it all planned out, would pull some Viet Cong in an urban jungle. They have a strategy and ****. Enough money to buy guns, ammunition, disguises, even a used van.

?It?s a *****, man,? Anthony says, addressing them all. He says, ?You make a nickel, you make a dime and they want a dollar.?

It?s like Sunday mass. The crew bow their heads down listening to the sermon. They create mental figures of how much money they need to live normally.

?You look stoned,? Anthony says out of the blue, shoving Carl in an attempt at being playful.

He is stoned. They all are.

?One beer queer!? Tyrone shouts. The small room explodes with laughter, followed by a long unsettling pause. It?s like they?re taking in what lies ahead of them for the first time; a breath of fresh air. It makes them more dangerous than they really are, if that makes sense.

Crumpled bills, sexy Barettas and a Browning lie on the bed all innocent-like. Strangers spending the night, begging to be held and caressed. They?re easy and deliver instant gratification, [i]the feeling of power[/i]. Earlier Anthony told them that when a man holds a gun, he?s transformed into the hand of God. They convince themselves that they?re like angels, almost. Everything is cool.

?Two clips each?? Tyrone says.

?That?s cool,? the other three murmur at once. ?Yeah, that?s cool.?

They are smooth, quiet; the vice grip of tension has loosened. The night?s an endless void that absorbs their thoughts. Matt has become especially quiet. He cups a small paper bag decorated with a golden arch in his right hand and picks at a few grease sticks. He offers a portion to the others, but they decline.

?I?m hungry for gold, but I don?t mean arches,? Carl says, slapping hands with Anthony and Tyrone.

?Now that?s what I?m talkin? ?bout.?

Anthony assures him that as long as he follows orders like a good German, he?ll get paid. It?s starting to get light.

To some, a city is reminiscent of the human body; each individual person represents a cell, with its own function. Some parts of the city, are more useful than others, and like the human body, it has its own set of diseases. J.D. doesn?t know what he is. After the fight, he returned home to his apartment, looked in the mirror and was disgusted at the abomination staring back at him. He puked, pissed a red piss, took a red shower and collapsed into darkness.

Now he?s standing in front of a pizza joint with an Italian name he can?t pronounce. He has a job there cleaning tables, washing pans, refilling grated cheese shakers, and cleaning the restrooms. Pay is lousy. He?ll need to fight again when his body heals. His face is disfigured, eyes small and sunken behind swollen flesh, lips bulbous and split, and nose bent, whistling. Everything is sore, especially if he touches it. J.D. felt hot in his chest, ashamed.

He decides to take a walk. It doesn?t matter why. He can?t explain it. J.D. shrinks away from everyone he sees, but he has to walk. It?s like he can get away from himself if he keeps walking; pulls his collar up around his neck and thrusts his hands deep into his pockets.

Sirens wail. Crowds gather about a block away. Curiosity blends with anxiety. J.D. decides that no one will pay attention to him. There must be a bigger spectacle than a busted up nobody. He can blend in with the sameness of the crowd. When he gets there, he allows himself to be absorbed into the swell of humanity and pushes through.

The words ?bank robbery? hang in the air. J.D. sees an old man lying on the ground smeared in blood; his gray hair streaked sticky red. He has been hit again and again with the butt of a gun, and shot once--an exclamation point in a tragedy that will begin another day of tragedies. His back is arched upwards in agony, as if he?s being exorcised. A woman, probably in her fifties, who turns out to be his daughter, is standing idly by. Her eyes are moist; she chews on her knuckles, but doesn?t look down, isn?t moved.

The ugliest dog J.D. has ever seen whines deep at the man?s side, barking furiously at anyone who dares approach. Its eyes are closed, look deformed, almost like his. The old man?s hand is lost in the dog?s thick mane. He moves his lips but no words come out. Everyone is still frozen, a portrait of stares. Women shield their children?s eyes. When the man?s fingers stop moving, the dog lies by his side, getting as close to the man as it can without becoming one with him.

J.D. feels weak and tired. It feels like he never left the ninth round.

[conpiracymonki]

[b][size=1]
I actually read the whole thing, lol.
I thought it was brilliant the way you switched settings, although it did confuse me a lot when you went from JD's fight to Pop the first time, because I thought it'd all just be about the fight only.
>.>
[/b]
Is this going to be continued, or was that an end? It finished like it was the end, and a cliffhanger at the same time. o.-[/size]

[The Vampire: Ed]

Well, I for one loved it. There were a lot of great decriptions in there, and I loved some lines. Like this one: "Earlier Anthony told them that when a man holds a gun, he?s transformed into the hand of God. They convince themselves that they?re like angels, almost. Everything is cool."

I really liked that line. Overall it's a great story, well written like everything you write. But I thought the same about the ending AJeh did. It seems like a cliffhanger.

[future girl]

GOD, that was good.
so much vibrancy, detail, good good.
i loved it!!!

[Raiha]

[COLOr=royalblue]It was alright....not my favorite of your works, but it was up there.

Rather depressing of course, reminded me of the begining to Daredevil.[/cOLOr]

[Charles]

Thanks for the feedback. I'm happy that some of you actually read the entire thing. I appreciate it.

Do any of you have any suggestions? Is there any way I could improve the story? Don't be shy. At the very least, I'll experiment with your suggestions.

[Mitch]

[color=red] I sort of liked it. In parts. It was really really really confusing how you switched perspectives and such. I'm still hazy as to what the entire thing meant.

I did not like how overally it ran. It wasn't smooth. It didn't keep me in an extreme iron grip. From the beginning on it seemed like it got slower and slower. I don't know, maybe I need to read it all over again. But it needs to better transition between those two perspectives. Because that was extrememly confusing and it just didn't feel definite or anything. But I think I need to read this all over again and actually get what the story was about.

Because I didn't catch much of what exactly it was about. I don't know who all of the other characters you brought into the story are. Anthony and all of those others. Gah, the whole way you presented it was very confusing to me. Sorry, but it definitely isn't one my favorite works of yours.

Who knows, I'm just so confused as to what the entire story was about.

Other than that, I believe you used too much description in parts which may have also concluded my entire confusing meaning of this entire piece. It seemed to just spasm and go so slowly. I don't know. I'm going to read it again and see if I can more clearly catch the story. [/color]