The Fighter

Axel Taiari

Fists crash through frostbite-cold metal, and the training drone bursts into a firework of engineered guts. Its tiny remains strike the ground as I take a step back and shake the static pins and needles out of my bones. I close and open my palm again and again as if crushing invisible insects.

The prep room punctures my nostrils with its armpit and oil aroma. A dying bulb dangles from the ceiling, frail firefly glow trying to fight off the thrashing shadows. Concrete floor swarms with hundreds of miniature cogs, rotors, motors and machine parts. Next to the rusty lockers, an open wooden box sits against the wall, still full with an army of apple-sized drones. I consider going for one more when the door creaks open. It's the janitor, with his usual charcoal jumpsuit and the tone of a sedated panda.

"You ready?"

I guess. Just need a minute to call someone.

The light's not strong enough to unveil his features, but I can feel he's staring at the destroyed robots. "Funny how them things go. Few years ago, they was popular kids toys. Then I guess the kids got bored of a floatin' orb that does nothing, and now all they're good for is bein' boxed to death before fights, and I clean up the damn mess." When he understands I'm not going to reply, he steps out of the room without closing the door.

I walk over to the phone, and grab the dust-covered receiver while my heart's hammering my ribcage. I dig through pockets for a surviving penny, manage to find one and slide it into the slot. It takes me a handful of seconds to remember the number before I slowly dial it. Three beeps declare the line's dead, either unplugged or more likely unpaid. The phone refuses to spit out my coin and I consider tearing the thing apart.

Drums pound in the distance, diluted in the buzz of what could be excited bumblebees. Out of the room, and up a flight of stairs. Each step pulls me closer to the noise, and pearls of sweat burgeon all over my bare chest and arms. In the corridor, I slalom between boxers and trainers, faces plastered with fresh blood, bruises, scars, worry or gold nugget rare smiles. I dive into an empty hallway, trading jabs and feints with the air while I weave and shuffle my feet. Soon as I reach the corner, I resume my normal walk.

My designated cut man's waiting near the arena door, finishing his hamburger. When I reach him, he sucks his fingers like greasy lollipops and extends a plump hand. I nod, trying not to stare at the mountain-sized gut lurking beneath his wife beater. He gulps down the last of his bun, crumbs impaling themselves on his moustache.

"Number 433?" He chews, his breath all cheese and garlic.

That's me.

"Nice to meet you, kiddo. You a bleeder?"

Not that I know of.

"How many fights, how many cuts? Any nosebleeds?"

A few. A few. None.

"Ever fought a steamer before? Or a golem maybe?"

No.

"And yet you bet on yourself? Just because you beat two teenage punks earlier tonight?"

Wish I had a choice.

"Okay." He wipes his hands on his jeans, then places them on my cheeks and studies my skin as if looking for loose change on the sidewalk. Vein-blue eyes stare into mine. "Picture your punches as bullets. His punches are missiles. First hit you're gonna bleed and bruise, see red. Second hit you're going down. You're a lightweight, your best bet is to dodge that motherfucker and hit the human parts. Steamers, they're snail-slow. Forget your guard, just dance."

He lets go of me.

Anything else? I ask, jumping in place.

"Yeah," he squashes a red buzzer on the wall with the flat of his fist, and the door grinds open. Noises from the outside rush in. "Didn't bring a mouth piece, did you? That's okay against the newbies you fought, but not for this shit. Keep your mouth clenched shut if you want to keep your tongue. See you on the corner."

I thank him and jog into the arena as a landslide of screams and claps smash into me. Bare feet step on body warm sand freckled with blood. The zeppelin-filled night sky lingers over the crowd, the two moons spotlighting the place. Not a cloud in sight.

As a kid, rainy days were the best for training. Sprint through a summer storm and you can't hear your heartbeat or raspy gasps for air. You can't make the difference between raindrops and your own sweat. I never stopped running until I saw dad had finished his six-pack and was leaving the stadium without looking back.

The horde of spectators barely split open to let me through. I push them apart like I'm trying to swim in a sea of bodies and reach the center. The ground here has turned into a natural blood sponge gemmed with wrecked teeth. The crowd realizes I'm one of the fighters and they spear me with both cheers and boos. Some of them recognize me from my previous fights.

Last punk I downed tonight had full lips, curly mud-colored hair and pink cheeks never kissed by knuckles. He fell flat on his ass after I head butted him hard enough to shatter both of our foreheads and he never got back up. He wasn't K.O, but he had this shocked look glued to his face like he never saw it coming and couldn't understand how I could still stand up. Maybe he was not experienced enough, or maybe slaps, leather belts and empty bottles turned my skin to stone over the years.

My opponent's not here just yet, so I go through my usual sequence – jab, hook, uppercut, go back to jab. It doesn't look impressive, but it keeps my muscles warmed up.

Deserted bleachers surround the ring. Two hundred people are sardine-packed in a tight circle tonight. My brother once said this used to be an ice rink used for long dead sports, now transformed into a mostly human freak show. I stretch a bit, twisting my torso left to right, and a new noise adds itself to the racket, like someone's just awoken a furious lawnmower. Heads turn and people shove each other to let the steamer enter the fray.

One glimpse at my opponent and butterflies detonate in my guts, flutter through my veins and limbs in search of an exit. The thing stands at least seven feet tall, and makes the earth hiccup with each stomp. He moves with the brutal grace of a bulldozer. Silence from the crowd, followed by cheers that drown out the noise belched by the steam engine grafted to the man's back. Polished metal envelops most of his chest, and two silver pipes erupt from his shoulders. His fists are the size of ripe watermelons, paired with feet forged into combat boots. He angles his neck down to look at me and his untouched human face radiates the bored expression of a war machine during peace time. He stops moving and waits.

I spin around and eyeball my cut man, sitting on a stool in the corner. He gives me the thumbs up and grins, holding a hotdog with his other hand. He did not bet on me.

A horn trumpets from somewhere deep within the crowd, signaling the beginning of round one.

His wrecking ball punch's already rocket launched my way. I skip to the left in a semi-crouch, face shielded by fists that feel way too small. His arm displaces metric tons of air, then stops dead in its tracks before he hurls it sideway like he wants to backhand a mosquito. It hammers my ribs and homeruns me into the crowd. I bounce off unfriendly hands; they propel my body back in the pit. I stagger over to the steamer, left side spiked with spreading thorns. I glimpse a blurred fist, barely lunge under it and uppercut him in the armpit. I skid behind him and machine-gun jab his exposed lower back. Knuckles connect repeatedly with a meat-slapping smack and I back off, leaving him with a temporary tattoo the color of rushing blood.

The steamer turns around, brow furrowed.  I take deep aching breaths as he stares. Ribbons of pain expand within my chest, entangle my lungs and I start to worry about internal bleeding. Cigarette burns pepper my vision. His body is sweat free, but white clouds escape from his tubes. He advances and I have no choice but to dive back in.

He sprays a chain of haymakers, vast sweeping punches trading finesse for a large dose of centrifugal force and raw strength. They're predictable, and I sift through them until my eyes are inches away from his abs, close enough to see my reflection. I gift him with a light right-right-left combo, and slip behind him again. I press my palms on his back as if I were about to give him a massage, use the leverage to lift one foot off the ground, and kick him behind the knees with the tenderness of a shotgun blast. The steamer screams, dragon roar echoing around the arena. The crowd goes feral, blows up in a chorus of cheers and shouts of surprise.

I allow myself a nanosecond of glory in that moment, seeing my father's sober smile for the first time in ages, but that's before I notice the steamer's upper body tilt to the right, hear sub dermal gears shift within his bulk, and then this dark, growing asteroid smashes into me and unplugs the lights in my skull.

#

I whirl through ink and distant thuds, and awake to a grey blur. I rise up like a vampire from its coffin, and blink away the haze. The cut man's here, holding a blue vial the size of his pinkie. "Waking juice," he says.

What the fuck.

Speaking triggers an explosion in my nose and I bring my hands to my face, feel the bandages as I hiss through clenched teeth.

"You lost, in case that's not obvious. First round."

The pain won't withdraw, and I probe it with a shaky finger.

Is my nose broken?

"Yes. Bastard elbowed you. Your ribs are okay, by comparison. What did I say about getting two hits before going down?"

I look down at my throbbing torso, amazed at the lilac tinted contusion. I gather the pieces of the puzzle and snap back to reality.

You also said he was snail-slow.

The cut man shrugs. "Yeah well, that's why I ain't a fighter."

Get out.

"If you don't want your face to triple volume in the next hour, I need to remove your bandages and apply some mo-"

Get out, now.

I pull myself up, carry my weight on jelly legs. This is the prep room from earlier. The faint song of another fight drips through the walls. I stare at the telephone as the cut man walks out in search of the next stranger to care for. I steady my breath, wait for the world to stop rocking and tiptoe my way to the receiver. Trembling fingers fish out my last coin, and slide it in knowing it'll never be seen again.

The line works, this time. The sixth long beep is severed and replaced by a groan saying, "What?"

Dad?

"It's you."

Four words and I already feel the alcohol quick sanding his speech.

"You got the money?"

No, Dad, I lost. Nose's broken. I tried calling you earlier, where were you?

"Where's the money you had?"

It's gone. I bet it all.

I hear a sigh loud as a tornado, mutating into a silence that spreads over mental seasons. "Well, guess you got until morning to get it again. Don't come home without it."

Dead tone hums in my ear and I let the receiver drop. I inhale through my mouth, eyes unfocused, and step out of the room heading toward the sign-up booth for the next match.



© Axel Taiari 2007

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Axel Taiari is a 23 year old French writer living in Paris. He studied French Literature and Screenwriting. After a workshop with the great Craig Clevenger, he recently quit his job to write full time. He is currently working on a noir science-fiction novel and a handful of short stories.