Bum Magic: A Tale of Sludge and Slime

I was looking forward to training with a professional boxer, I'm not gonna lie. What kid didn't watch Rocky II and dream about becoming the heavyweight champion of the world? In my experience, fighting hadn't been all that fun, but if we weren't killing each other with disgusting, obscene powers, maybe it could be.

Houston was a goddamn sight to behold, too. We weren't in Arkansas anymore, that's for sure. The place was huge; I had never been in a city half as big. It took nearly an hour to get to the other side, through a dense jungle of skyscrapers, to arrive at what appeared to be a guy’s house with a boxing ring in the backyard.

“Caleb.” I said as we were pulling into the parking lot, which only had about ten parking spots. “The fuck is this?”

Caleb shrugged timidly. “It was the only gym that said it was run by a heavyweight champ.”

“Did you check those credentials? I can’t imagine a world champion running a place this small when there are probably fifty other boxing gyms in this city,” I said.

“Size ain’t everything, big boy.”

A man who was about as wide as he was tall stood in front of the van. He was incredibly short, but built like a brick house. Sweat beaded on his shiny bald head, and his loose tank top flitted in the wind. He looked at me through the windshield and smiled.

“Just ask Mr. Jones over there,” the cubic man continued.

A much taller man with a slim, athletic build came stumbling towards us from the backyard boxing ring. Both of his eyes were nearly swollen shut, and he was trying to stop blood from streaming out of his nose. He didn’t seem to be in the talking mood.

“Are you Freddie Kidd?” I asked the man in front of me.

“Damn right I am. Now, I heard you talkin’ shit. You wanna hop in that ring and see how far size gets you if you don’t know how to move?”

Anita and Caleb both looked at me, clearly trying not to laugh.

“Shit, I reckon I can’t exactly say no,” I said.

I stepped into the ring. I took my shirt and shoes off so that I was wearing nothing but my jeans — not exactly boxing gym attire, but this wasn’t exactly a boxing gym by the looks of it. Even the “ring” in the backyard was more of a plywood box line with bungee cords. I cracked my knuckles and my neck. This guy sounded like he needed to be taken down a peg, and he didn’t know who he was fucking with. I didn’t plan on killing him or anything, but a broken bone might be good for his attitude.

He stepped into the ring from the other side. He had blue shorts on with a white waistband, and matching blue gloves. He bounced up and down, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. It made him look surprisingly light given he looked like he swallowed a mini fridge. He lifted his right hand into the air and flicked his wrist twice.

“Ding. Ding.” he said. This man really thought he was Apollo Creed.

I put my hands up and we started to circle each other. He had a fierce look in his eye like this fight against a random stranger meant a lot to him. This wasn’t a sparring match to him; it was the damn Rumble in the Jungle.

He threw a couple of jabs and a right hook to my liver. I wasn’t ready in the slightest and they connected. A couple of months ago, that combo probably would’ve put me in morgue somewhere, but now it just hurt really fucking bad. His hands were small, which made his punches feel like hornet stings. I moved out of the way of his next body shot, but I dropped my arms and he came in with an uppercut right on my chin. It stunned me for a second and he pounced on the opportunity like a fucking animal, bashing his fists into my chest and face over and over, knocking me into the bungee cords; I couldn’t get away from him.

I would’ve never come out of that fight conscious if I wasn’t a literal goddamn superhuman. But since I was, the fight was taking its toll on him before he could do any major damage. He stepped back, his chest heaving, and I threw a haymaker at his shoulder. I didn’t use all of my strength, but I still heard a crack when the punch landed. To his credit, Freddie didn’t fall to the ground. The tough son of a bitch didn’t even grunt in pain. He just said “I think you broke my damn shoulder!”

“Sorry about that,” I said. “We can drop you off at the hospital if you want.”

“Nah, it’s all good. I still got one arm. I can drive myself. When I get back in a few days though, I wanna see you in some fuckin’ boxing shorts, big boy. First lesson’s free.”