I sneer at the penguin referee on my way to the corner. The movie started out slow and I am ready for the intermission. I feel the sinister, playful gaze of the Angel follow me there. I shake off the feeling. I'll deal with you in a second. I have to keep my head up. That last round was brutal. That first round was brutal. The quick and powerful strikes of the Angel did even more damage to my dignity than they did to my face. Battered, bloodied, and bruised I rally the troops of my soul. I breathe deeply. I keep it together. There is a lot of fight left. I make it to the corner. The stool. The towel. The bucket. At last the sweet relief of intermission. The stool is a red velvet lounge chair. The towel, made of silk. The bucket, made of gold. All together they are an oasis in the desert. I can't wait to stop for a drink.
Before I can sit down I am blindsided. Greeted by an ungloved, iron fist. Naked and cold and utterly brutal. I feel four knuckles, in a neat little row, crack my skull somewhere deep inside my flesh. Iron sharpening iron. Bone on bone. I feel the tight little cables that hold my brain in place, begin to tighten within my skull. My face catches this mighty blow just as it caught the strike of the Angel. My mouthpiece goes flying. My face is a whore in a God-forsaken city on a warm summer night. My face is overworked. My face is underpaid. My face is riddled with disease. There is a great bright fire that ignites my being at the point of impact. A raging inferno. A supernova. My being is full of magma. The hot liquid fills the insides of my body; my volcanic heart pumping it all throughout. My legs begin to buckle; the sudden weakness, emanating from the sheer force of the blow, but I don't fall. I'm too hot. The lava inside me stiffens my frame. I spit fresh red mucus at my attacker. I swing. I will crater the canvas with this son of a bitch. I miss. The magma inside me cools and hardens, turning black and omitting smoke. I can finally see the attacker. His face is familiar. He is my trainer. Fuck me.
The referee rushes over, waddling like the penguin he is. We have made quite the scene in our little corner. The drinkers and smokers and gamblers are looking on with pure, unadulterated delight. A fight within a fight! How marvelous! The penguin referee finally arrives, in all his mighty penguin glory. My white knight. My hero. "Get the fuck out of here!" I snap at him, red spittle spraying out of my mouth. My trainer reaches his tattooed, sinewy arm across his broad body. Posing the veiled threat of a back hand. My white knight retreats like a spooked dog. He leaves. My trainer looks down and grabs my trunks with his thumb and forefinger. Royal purple and fluorescent green. "So you want them to call you the Joker huh?" You're fighting like a fucking clown tonight." He releases his grasp, throwing the fabric into me. The words land in the same way that cheap shot blow did. Something within me ignites. My trainer mocks me. The igneous rock of my being begins to soften. I knew it. These fucking trunks were a mistake. My trainer and I have always worn black since this all started way back when. My trainer and I settled on it one winter night after a post-workout bonding session. Mixing whiskey, blow, and oxy we found inspiration in an old Johnny Cash album my trainer played in the gymnasium. "The Man in Black" we decided. I was seventeen at the time. For this fight, I pushed for a rebranding. The green and purple theme, a designed counter to the signature blackness of the champion, the Angel. The Joker to his Batman. My trainer hated this idea. He stands in front of me, punching me, mocking me, insulting me now for all of these people to see. He is wearing his old black robe in stubborn rebellion. His custom-made, green and purple garment hangs untouched in our locker room.
"But I am a crazy motherfucker." I attempt to salvage a shred of dignity. "Fucking clown." My trainer parries with ease. There are little orange cracks forming inside of me. Like little lightning bolts. They glow and grow like spiderwebs. My trainer gives me the usual rhetoric. Three parts belittling to one part technical analysis. I cannot hear him. They're all looking at me. This is a fucking disaster. The penguin referee almost ruled me a knockout in the first round. I am a fucking clown. I can hear the dull murmurs of the bloodthirsty crowd. They all saw me catch the Angel's hook. They all saw me marry the canvas. They all saw my trainer punch me in the face. They all heard him call me a fucking clown. They all see me in these stupid trunks. They're all talking about me. I hear a warm, sharp cackle above the doldrums. The godless laughter climbs slowly in volume and pitch; the music begins to stir me from down in my bowels. It reaches its crescendo on the back of my neck, raising hell and hair and all things all along the way. I search for the culprit. I find him. It's the Angel. He's laughing at me from across the ring. I am the Joker. Laughing is my thing. My volcanic heart erupts. My trainer lets out a sneery laugh and joins my opponent. The little orange spider-webs glow and glow and glow inside of me and explode. I am all magma. I am magma. I am totally 100% magmanimous. I sink my teeth into the mouthpiece. I shove my trainer aside. I can only see red. The penguin referee locks eyes with me and signals the start of the round. I stare right back at him. Deep into his soul. Full of hateful magma. He looks away with wide eyes. The bell finally rings. The second round begins. I make my way towards the Angel.
