Have you ever dreamt the sweet, triumphant dream of sweet, triumphant victory? Have you ever tasted sweet success in a dream? Have you ever felt that elation, that delicious mixture of relief and joy that comes as you emerge from a contest, the victor? One time I found myself in a dream, a contestant in a game of Jeopardy on television. I found myself in the Final Jeopardy round, the conclusion. The question flashes in white lettering on the blue screen; "This famous fighter knocked out the Angel of Death in a stunning comeback in what critics refer to as the Fight of the Century." Who is Mike Tyson? The opponent to my left answers incorrectly. No. Who is Muhammad Ali? The opponent to my right gets it wrong also. I buzz in. Who is the Joker? Correct! The camera zooms in on me. The victor. And the Joker wins the game and takes home $10,000,000! I smile and shake hands and hold up my enormous check with all the zeroes. I book my free cruise that all the victors get to go on.
One time I found myself in a Little League baseball game, a child, engaged in a heated contest. I found myself battling at the plate with the winning run on third base. I found myself swinging. I found myself delivering. I found myself in my father's arms, surrounded by elated teammates, a triumphant victor. I found myself at an ice cream parlor with my father afterwards. Enjoying the cold dish of sweet victory fit for a champion.
One time I found myself in Las Vegas. At a poker table. A finalist in the World Series of Poker. "And it looks like they're both all in. It all comes down to this. Here's the river card." The announcers quietly call the contest. The dealer flips the final card over. It's a joker. The clown smiles that wonderful, terrifying, red-painted smile just for me. I have pocket jokers in my hand. Three of a kind. The Angel had pocket aces, he's stuck with only a pair. Sweet victory. I take everything from him. I rake the chips in. I rake the glory in. I'm the champ. I find myself at a strip club afterwards, surrounded by beautiful, naked women, $100 bills flying in the air. I find myself dreaming of such things on my way to my final intermission. My trainer meets me before I reach the corner.
"Fuck yeah, you're a fucking animal." He's all jacked up. He lands a celebratory combination to my chest and arm. They land harmlessly. I approach the corner with a steely focus. As I begin to sit down, I feel a strong hand grab the hair on the back of my head. It feels as if someone tied me by the hair to the front of a freight train. The hand forcibly pushes my head into the corner. Slamming my bloody face into the post. My particles smear the post red. I am all the volcanoes on all the exotic islands in the bright blue water. I am all the supernovas in the cold dark galaxy. I am magma. I am totally 100% magmanimous. I shove my face into the post on my own. As hard as I can. Three times. I feel the cables holding my brain in place beginning to fray. I let our a hellish laugh. They will all call me the Joker soon. I'm a real fucking bloody maniac now. I open my eyes. Everything is red. Red. The Woman in the Red Dress. I go to look but she is not there. Her seat is empty. Her purse is gone. Her glass is gone. Her cigarettes are gone. She left. My eyes return to my trainer. He is smiling, big and goofy, deliriously happy. "I fucking hate you." I tell him. I open my mouth and spit a red beverage into the bucket. "I know." He beams. The penguin referee comes around to our corner, takes one look at me and waddles away with wide eyes.
For a second I consider the nearness of this victory. In three minutes time I'll become more than a man. In three minutes time I'll be holding the belt. In three minutes time I'll have mortalized the Angel and taken everything from him. I think of the after party. I think of the cocaine and the booze and the twelve hookers my trainer promised me. One for each round. I think about going on talk shows and doing interviews and letting them film my house for MTV's Cribs. I think of my car collection. I think about how my trainer fits into all of this. He doesn't. I think about getting rid of him somehow. Maybe I'll fake an injury and take a year off. Maybe all that cocaine and all that booze will catch up to him and solve my problem for me. Hell. Maybe all that cocaine and all that booze will get to me first. My trainer sees me daydreaming. I see the cold, hard fist coming this time and duck. My trainer misses. I throw a right hook and stop it just short of his degenerate face. "You're locked in." My trainer is glowing with pride. "Finish him." "Fucking animal." I am magmanimous and ready. The bell rings.
All night I've approached the Angel and met him on his side of the ring at the start of the round. Now he approaches me. Still hot from the embarrassment of the last round. You fool. He is still ahead in the fight. It would be smarter for him to just stay away from me. I dodge. I duck. I strike. Bang. Right hook to the head, little red droplets go flying. Like little wet fireworks. I dodge. I duck. I strike. Bang. I land a mighty uppercut. I feel his chin loosen from the rest of his jaw, I'm ready to launch that little square through the back of his head. I dodge. I duck. I strike. Bang. I land a right cross in-between his beady little black eyes. I imagine his skull splitting in two. Right down the middle. Like a piece of wood split in half by a karate chop. He stays on his feet. I see the defeat in his eyes. This last round and a half have been like a completely different fight in comparison to the first ten. The Angel is a shell of himself. I can feel the inevitable and I know he can too. He puts his hands up. He just won't quit this fucking Angel of Death. He charges forward again. I dodge. I duck. I strike. My signature combination. Right jab. Bang. Right jab. Bang. Left body shot. Bang. I hear his ribs crack upon the impact. His head moves slightly to the right. But so do I. I step right, I lean right and suddenly. It all stops. A sledgehammer in the form of a mighty fist catches me flush in the face. The Angel's hook. The cables that hold my brain in place inside my skull snap like rubber bands stretched too tight. My brain hits the wall of my skull with the force of a speeding car. The blood shines on the blackness of the Angel's glove. It's the last thing I see.
I find myself falling. My body stops on the canvas floor but my soul continues. Falling. Falling. Falling. The darkness. The black abyss. The depths of hell. The Angel of Death sent me home. The sweet victory was his all along. After a week of coke, hookers, booze, and oxy my trainer joins me. Just as I lost in a boxing match with the Angel, my trainer is a loser too. He lost a game of Russian Roulette. Rumor has it he pulled the trigger seven times before finally coming home.
