Page 43 of Forgotten Comeback
“Whore!” A woman jeers at me, and I’m taken aback. As expected, a few men have acted infantile, but it knocks me off guard that the hate is coming from a woman.
“If you want to fuck me, just say so.” I wink at her before walking on.
“Damn girl. What that mouth do?” A man shouts from the fourth row.
“Crush your ego. Bite your dick off. That sort of thing.” Sadly, he can’t hear me over the buzz of the crowd, so I wave.
Returning to my seat, I place the number 3 card at the bottom of the stack. It may not be rocket science, but I suspect this crowd would be unforgiving if I get the rounds mixed up.
The sixth and final featured fight ends on a TKO. Thank God. One of the fighters is bleeding so profusely that he can’t see to fight.
There’s a pause in action as things gear up for the main event. A man hops through the ropes and tries to clean the mat as best he can. I’ll take the ring girl over the bloody bucket gig any day of the week.
Organizing my stack, I take a sip of water and ignore the men seated behind me.
“What’s up with the body positivity bullshit and the new ring girl?”
“Hey now, I like a little something extra to hold onto. Thic girls do all the freaky shit a thin bitch won’t.”
Having been two sizes smaller before I started my current medication regimen, I can’t say my ass thickness has any bearing on my level of freakiness, but I don’t waste my breath.
The lights go out, and a hush falls over the crowd. A spotlight illuminates the announcer in the center of the ring. “He is the reigning champion of bare-knuckle boxing,” the man announces dramatically over the loudspeakers. “Tonight, he’s ready to lay the hammer down.”
The spotlight shifts to the back, and a boxer struts out holding a hammer, surrounded by his entourage, one of whom is thrusting the championship belt in the air. The boxer makes a show of twirling the hammer while his intro music rattles my teeth.
His monster frame slips through the ropes, and I sure as shit wouldn’t mess with this man.
“He’s the challenger hoping to catch the Hammer in his web.”
The spotlight shines on a man wearing a spider mask with red glowing eyes as he silently approaches the ring. No music. No entourage, save for one masked man with glowing Xs for eyes stalking behind him.
The crowd roars with excitement as the fighter makes his way to the ring, and I swear, my ovaries high-five each other. Hands down, it’s the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen, and I wonder when it got so hot in here. They should really turn down the air or something.
My jaw hits the floor when the boxer slips through the ropes and I spot it. Aspidertattoo with a skull for a body. Gavin rips off the spider mask, tossing it to the other masked man, who keeps his in place.
“In the red corner wearing red, weighing in at 175 pounds, with two knockouts, let’s give it up for Gavin ‘the Spider’ Webb!” The announcer says with flair, and Gavin holds up his right fist as he shuffles.
“In the blue corner wearing blue, weighing in at 177 pounds, with eleven knockouts, let’s make some noise for the reigning bare-knuckle champion, Mike ‘the Hammer’ Samuels.”
Oh shit. Eleven knockouts versus two. Gavin doesn’t appear fazed, but I’m worried for him.
It’s my cue, and I don’t have time to wonder why that is as I grab the Round 1 sign and climb the stairs to the ropes. A man holds them open for me, and I slip through and lift my arms with the sign overhead. Making my circle around the ring, I can’t see Gavin; his masked trainer is blocking my view.
My ovaries are confused, that’s all. Seems to happen quite a bit around Gavin, now that I think about it.
Deciding it’s betternotto think about it, I exit the ring and walk the gauntlet of insults and/or pickup lines, returning to my seat.
The ref approaches Gavin’s corner, and there’s a discussion before the ref moves over to the Hammer’s corner. Same deal, and the ref moves to the center of the ring, signaling both fighters.
Both men stalk over, facing each other down. “Gentlemen, I want a clean fight,” the ref announces over the loudspeaker. “Protect yourself at all times. I will enforce the rules, but you are responsible for your safety. Tap knuckles.”
TapKnuckles.
Because this is bare-knuckle boxing, the white mat streaked with crimson a brutal reminder.
They tap and return to their corner, and my heart’s beating frantically as the bell rings.
The boxers meet in the center of the ring, and Gavin receives a solid jab to the right side of his face. I watch as the man with amazing footwork now appears to have two left feet.
