White Wide World

Wild World

I listen to the almost musical thuds of my fists hitting human skin. I step back, giving the guy a chance to get up and charge again. This fight hasn't gone as expected. We've been fighting less than 10 seconds and he's already tired and fighting for breath. I'd thought this guy would at least give me a challenge, but I was wrong. He's double my size in muscles. Don't get me wrong I'm no small guy; I'm actually in the high- end in muscles mass. Most would fear a guy his size, but what they don't realize is that all they have to do is avoid him for more than 15 seconds, after that He won't have enough oxygen to keep his muscles going.

He gets to his feet once again, lifting his hands to protect himself, and as he does, I strike. I do a round kick, hitting him in the pelvis and he bows over in pain. When he does, he exposes himself to an attack. I quickly bring my knee up and hit him in the head. I hear his jaw crack. The mighty man falls to the floor with a cry of pain, a cry of weakness. Weak ass motherfucker should've been able to take me down. I stare at the mighty man lying on his back fighting to stay conscious. He made a lot of mistakes. He thinks he can just show up here unprepared and cocky, thinking it would be easy just to take me down, underestimating me. It's fucking insulting.

I look at the man's battered face. His battered face looks much like my own has appeared so many times. Except this guy is nothing but a poser. He thinks he's the real deal, being tough and all. Still, he lays withering on the ground after a few wee punches. Had he been the real deal, he would have taken them like a man. That's how you see who's grown up on the streets, and who comes from rich families that pay instructors to teach their children to fight. You can't just be taught to fight, fighting isn't just throwing the punches, it's taking them as well. If you can't take a punch then go fight in some brawls and don't come back till you're as messed up as me.

You can see the rich kids from afar. You can see it in their stance, they're used to throwing the punches and maybe getting a few warned punches in returned. As soon as they see a fight like this, a real fight, they throw themselves in, head first. What they don't realize is that their trainer is now a fighter, a fighter who needs that money, and that they're standing in that fighter's way. They get surprised when the target suddenly starts to move, and not just bounce around like a crazy boxer. No, every step they take is calculated, every punch is thought through, every kick is full force and every punch they take is to send one back.

I look down at the man with distaste, I know the man is no more than a boy, a few years younger than me, but still it isn't possible for me to feel guilty. I just feel empty, as always. I love to feel like that—empty. That feeling is the best I've ever had. I feel like there's always something pulling me, talking to me, a restlessness in me that keeps me awake and alert. But after a fight, I feel nothing, nothing at all. I feel calmness rushing over me in steady waves. Let me tell you, I sleep best after a fight, preferably a good one. I let out a deep-throated chuckle—how sadistic of me. Among the many traits I've gotten from my dad, my neutral expression is the one most used. I like taking the piss out of people, by just staring at them with my natural and indifferent look. Funny how one look can scare a full-grown man?

When the incompetent referee has finally decided that the poor fellow has taken enough beatings from me and calls it quit, I quickly get the hell out of there. I don't like the crowds of people that line up to watch us fight, so as soon as I get the money in my hand, I'm off. I don't even care to wait for the judge to hold up my hand and declare me the winner, what's the point? Everybody saw me wipe the floor with my opponent, then why the show with holding up one hand and all that shit. Save it for the official fights. This is underground, not the local fight club.

When I get outside I see it's started to rain. I pull up the hood on my jumper. Not so much to protect my sweaty hair, more for the look of it. The money I just won is safely tucked away in my inner pocket, not that anyone would try to steal it. I never get jumped on the streets. I've beat up too many guys at the underground fights, so people already know me. Only when I once in a while decide to go to the local bar to have a drink, some puny guy chooses to challenge me. It's usually a very drunk guy, so they're out within a single punch. When that happens, it reminds me of the story of the mouse that laps up a bit of spilt beer and gets a little cocky and then asks, "Now where is that damn cat?"

Sadly, it always ends in tears.

CON}zE