No way to dodge this

“It was almost midnight, I think. I was shopping for groceries, and I had just parked my car under the streetlamp when I was ambushed by a local gang. I've lived in this neighborhood for ten years, so I know how to handle some punks trying to pull shit, you know?

One of them shouted to me as he walked towards me. “Yo, big guy! Drop the bags, and no one gets hurt.”

I dropped my bags on the ground, and settled into my old stance.

“Hey, look at this guy, thinks he can fight!” one of the other punks said. “Movies don't really show how to fight, dumbass!” he said as he rushed at me from the side. A left hook to the face knocked him down.

You never really forget how to box, especially when you stop fighting in your prime. My name's Matthew Black, just call me Matt. Anyway, the punks tried to fight me. Now, there's a big difference between fighting a single opponent in a ring with distinct rules, and fighting some twelve opponents who may or may not be armed in a parking lot outside an apartment complex. Thing is, the basic techniques for fighting don't leave you.

So these punks really didn't scare me at all. They were street trash. The one who had originally shouted at me rushed at me with his arms up. I side stepped him and smacked the back of his head. Can't imagine he enjoyed his headache in the morning. The others went down as easily, though they seemed to keep coming. Ten minutes in, there were fifty punks on the ground, and there were still more coming around the corner. Outside of the rare taunt to try and catch me off guard, the gang members didn't say anything articulate. I kept quiet, to match them. Besides, it's not polite to talk during a match. Bad sportsmanship.

Eventually, two of them managed to sneak up on me, and slam me against the car. One of the punks, who had been hanging in the back of the crowd, stepped forward. My guess is he was in his late twenties. A few of the younger gang members gasped in awe of the kid, though, saying, “Jimmy...” like he was God, come to wreak havoc amongst the mortals who dare enter his turf.

Jimmy barely acknowledged their presence, and stopped some five feet in front of me, pulling out a switchblade, and spinning it, letting the blade catch the light.

“So.” He said, looking around. “You're the guy who just punched out my boys, huh. Let's see your name, shall we. Get on speakin' terms, professional-like.” I tried to keep him from reaching into my pocket, but he stuck his knife in my face, scratching my cheek. I focused on him, as he flipped through the wallet, mumbling to himself.

“What was that?” I asked. Figured force wasn't an option at the moment.

He waved me off with my wallet. “Ah, nothin'. Just tryin' ta figure out who you are... ah! Here we go, much better. Name's Black, huh. Matthew Black.” He mocked resting his chin against the tip of his blade. “Matthew Black, Matthew Black. What is up with that name, it's on the tip of my tongue.” After a no doubt carefully rehearsed pause, he snapped his fingers. “Got it! Matthew Black, Demon of the ring. Champion boxer 1978-1984. Best known for his merciless an cruel beating of his opponent, Oliver White, at the end of the last match of his career.”

I remember Oliver White well. Abandoned by his parents at the age of six, he was adopted by some rich parents when he was eight. Went into boxing at the age of twenty-one, claiming to be a rags to riches story in real life, a “fact” he loved repeating for the papers, who adored him. He never seemed to mention that his parent's money was the only thing that kept him out of prison, let alone in school. Never liked the kid.

“Papers had a field day, from what I can recall.” Jimmy was saying, spinning his switchblade in his off hand, while reciting from the other. I could feel the goon holding my right arm relaxing a bit. Still wouldn't be enough, I'd have to wait. “Black Beats White, Left in Gray! White Trashed! Personal favorite had to be one that had a big picture of White walking out of the hospital, one arm holding his thumbs up, raised for the crowd, and the other arm holding the title belt, because the victory was his by default.” He smirked, leaning into my face, giving me an unsettling view of the scar on his cheek. He noticed me looking at it, I guess, because he immediately started chuckling. “You want to know how I got my scar?”

“No thanks,” I replied with a smirk of my own, “I saw that movie. Never much liked comics.”

“Oh, that hurts, man! It hurts! But oh well...” I tuned him out. My memories seemed more important, for some reason this Jimmy kid reminded me of someone.

That last match against White was brutal. The papers loved him, but they didn't listen to the fights, just the commentators. Oliver had a simple strategy he'd use, for every match. Step one, bribe the ref. My case, the ref made some $2000 on the side for ignoring Step two: make up for his lack of skill by taunting his opponents into blind rages, allowing him to get some hits in. Not sure if it worked on me or not, though.

White didn't let up with the taunts even between rounds. Constantly spitting insults into my face, mocked my past, my dreams, and my wife. Followed up with allusions to him having engaged in varied acts with my wife, cousin, and mother. Was about then I decided I had enough of that and shut him up with a left hook. I could hear my fans cheering for me in the background, drowning out the shouts of his fans. He kept talking anyway. Until that last round, where he decided he was bored of insults, and just went for something I might have cared about, like my boxing skills. He began calling out what punch he was going to use before he threw it. Faked me out a few times, mixing it up, and managed to back me against the side. “Can't dodge left! Can't dodge right!” He'd said, stopping me from sliding around him. “Hell, no way you can dodge this!” He pulled back his right arm, and began to throw it towards my face.

I saw an opening. I ducked forward, jamming my fist into his lower ribs. I could hear a crack, as the room began to fall silent. I kept moving. A left cross to his head, I couldn't hear the audience. A right jab to his chest, I couldn't hear the ref screaming at me. I grabbed him as he started to fall, and slung him against the ropes, pulling my right arm back, and throwing a straight punch straight for the top of his head. I was expecting him to try and imitate what I had done. The punch hit him square in the forehead, throwing him out of the ring. I couldn't hear a thing. The audience was probably saying something, the ref grabbed my arms, and pinned me to the ground, and the commentator was screaming into his microphone.

Jimmy shook me into the present. “Hey, Blacky-boy, wake up!”

“Hm?” I asked.

“Whatchoo fall asleep on me for, man? I was talking, here!” He paused, assuming that same pose with his knife. “Oh, I get you, you're the fighting type. You'd only know what I was saying if I told it to you with this little sticker, huh.”

I relaxed my arms. The punk holding my right arm to the car let go. I punched him in the throat, and spun around on the other goon, slamming his head into my car's trunk. Suddenly, I felt something cold against my neck.

It was the switchblade. “Now, just slowly turn around.” Jimmy said, “and I won't slice you up. You ain't got nowhere to run, son.” He stabbed the air to either side of my head. “Not right. Not left.” He pulled back his knife, saying “You don't have any way to go, now.”

Yeah, Jimmy was just like White. Even the same opening. I took it, ducking forward under his arm as he stabbed the air, and I slammed my fist into his chest. Just like White. He tried to turn towards me, and I began to hear a commentator, shouting in my head. “Black dodged White's brutal punch there, where did he find the room?” A left cross to Jimmy's head, nearly knocking him down. I could hear the audience screaming. Both my fans and White's. The commentator kept screaming, “and an uncharacteristically brutal beatdown from Matt Black, he's just wailing on him!” A low right jab to Jimmy's chest, along with the audience gasping, and the commentator saying “Whoa! That's gotta hurt!” I grabbed Jimmy around the waist as he started to fall, and threw him against the car, pulling my fist back for a straight punch to the head. The commentator shouted “SOMEBODY STOP HIM FROM KILLING WHITE!”. I stopped, my fist hanging an inch from Jimmy's face. He fainted against the car, his switchblade rolling somewhere past the tire.

I ran inside to the lobby telephone, dialing 9-1-1. “There's been an attempted mugging outside my apartment, 35 lakeview road. I defended myself, but there's at least one person seriously injured. Send an ambulance and a couple police cars.”

“Alright.” the voice at the other end replied. “They're on their way, please...” I dropped the phone, and ran outside to check if I had injured any of the gang members seriously. Jimmy was the only one. I made sure he wasn't bleeding too bad from the broken rib, and then you arrived.

That's the story in full, officer. Jimmy's the one being put into the ambulance over there. Anything else you need to know from me?”

The officer sighed. “I'm gonna have to ask you to come down to the station tomorrow so that can be put as your official testimony, but you're free to go. Careful next time, Black. If it was another officer in my place you'd be under arrest for assault and battery, albeit aggravated.”

Matt shrugged, and picked up his groceries. “Out of curiosity, sir, why aren't you? It's reasonable here.”

He laughed. “I shouldn't tell you this, but I was at the match, Black. Your last one. I was doing commentary that night for public radio. It's kinda scary hearing my words repeated back to me ten years later.”

Matt laughed himself. “Small world, huh.” He looked up at the sky. “Hey, make sure Jimmy lives through this, alright?”

The cop smiled. “Sure thing.”

Draft One - Full Criticism Ahead