Fiction: Brutal (Bum Fight Noir)

By Drew Bufalini

 

Derick decked me sloppily, his filthy fist narrowly missing my face but still grazing my ear. I hit the dirt anyway, doing my best to make it look authentic. No point in dragging this shit out. I wanted him to have this, I thought, picturing my own night ending at the bottom of a fifth of vodka.

 

We used to box like this when we were kids, marking out a proper ring size, donning grown-up boxing gloves, and hammering away at each other until our hearts were content and Mom yelled that lunch was ready, which seemed to attract the whole famished neighborhood to his house.

 

“On your feet, man!”

 

“You want the prize, you gotta win the prize fight!”

 

Derick kicked me in the stomach. Hard. I mean, I think his toe caught the back of my spine. I couldn’t breathe. He kneeled on the ground next to me and proceeded to wale on my face with both fists at the same time. Like a child throwing a fisty tantrum. He landed more than he missed. It was a terrible look on him. This was already charity. And the hell with that. Charity shouldn’t break your nose. And two best friends shouldn’t grow up to be bums. The world turns on, mercilessly.

 

With all my might, I swept Derick’s legs out from under him, bringing the stumblebum to the ground. Surely, the hospital would be his next stop. Then, this would be over.

 

When I didn’t immediately take advantage of the higher ground, jeers flew at me from every direction. Howls that the fight was fixed. Taunts that I was a loser personified. Spoiler alert, assholes: I already know! 

 

The audience standing around us was as rabid as any at the coliseum in Rome. All male, all hollering, all waving fans of cash. Most were dressed professionally, business suits and spotless shoes. This crowd was definitely dry-clean only. Blood was in the air. The circle closed around us, creating a bubble of hate twenty paces wide. The only way out was through.

 

How could I help Derick win? My mind squirrelled away from the fight, trying to remember better days from ancient times. When we were kids, Derick’s Mom made lunch for us after our backyard prize fights. She was famous for her sandwiches. They were too big to fit your mouths around. She made sure we had chips, pop, and dessert. She never neglected dessert. Nobody ever went hungry if Derick’s Mom had anything to say about it. 

 

While Derrick managed to find his feet again, I aimed a punch at his mouth but stumbled and grazed his shoulder instead. Something about the booze was making me off-kilter. I landed my next three punches. All in his gut. My gut told me it was time to end the fight before one of us was seriously injured. 

 

“Time out!” I broke out of the circle and downed half a bottle of vodka like it was spinach and I was Popeye.

 

“There are no time outs!”

 

“Get your rummy ass back in the circle!”

 

“You see any strange strutting around here in a bathing suit waving round number signs?”

 

Someone grabbed my bottle and tossed it into the bushes without bothering to put the cap on. Damn, I thought, I hope I don’t need more liquid Scooby snacks.

 

They pushed and jeered me back into the circle where Derrick immediately sucker punched me in the nose. My blood gushed everywhere. Looked worse than it felt, I thought as I tackled Derrick. Sitting on him, I started hammering him, pounding him until kingdom come or someone stopped the fight.

 

Then I was on the ground, the living daylights having been knocked out of me. Exhausted, I didn’t want to play anymore. I lay on the ground sucking air. Praying for it all to end. The ends would definitely justify the means today.

 

Derick stood above me with a bloody two-by-four in his hands, looking both vicious and victorious. He was slathered in so much muck, I couldn’t tell where the blood ended, and the mud began. Maybe his inner warrior within was finally making an appearance.

 

I rolled out of his range and stood up. He swung the two-by-four and I ducked. I managed to buck and weave around him before he caught me on the jaw. This time, instead of waiting for me to get back up, Derrick decided to break my arm.

 

When I hit the ground, he put his ramshackle shoe on my shoulder and gave it a mighty twist. I have never howled so loud. I could see my collar bone sticking out an odd angle. My breath was missing-in-action. 

 

A faceless voice hollered for a ruling.

 

I opened my eyes and saw two cops in crisp blue uniforms standing over me, arguing about my fitness to continue fighting. Where was John Law when you needed him? They squinted at my shoulder. One was shaking his head, like he knew there was no way I could continue the fight. The other seemed bemused and proudly announced to the crowd, “I think he’s got another round in him!”

 

I had never fought so hard for a sandwich in all my life, and I’ll spare you further gruesome details. After I won, I gave Derrick the sandwich. A Jimmy Johns Italian sub with all the toppings. Nothing like his Mom used to make.

 

 

 

 

 

Drew Bufalini has been writing professionally for over twenty-five years. Primarily creating content for the advertising industry (www.drewbufalini.com), he has also published non-fiction in Aoide Magazine, Creativity, Advertising Age, and The Big Idea. Drew recently completed his first novel and is starting another. He lives with his wife and dogs just outside Ann Arbor, Michigan.