Chapter Ten
Ted Grant dived and dipped against his stationary punching bag. A few jabs, a right hook, then a left, and a right uppercut to finish. The Gym was his, and well past closing time, the lights all dark, but the one he was using. The air would have been frighteningly quiet, if not for Ted's heavy pounding on the bag. His breaths were in huffs, and his legs ached. What made it worse was the joint pain, tearing at his knees and elbows every time he hopped to the right, or threw a punch. Over his shoulders hung posters of his heavy weight fight against Cassius Clay. All he could remember were the lights, the fans, the roaring atmosphere. The world's ears were on him, the radio waves all tuned in on his fight with the challenger of the Heavyweight title. That had been his night, his night to prove that good old Wildcat wasn't out of the game just yet. His night to prove he could still throw a punch. That had been fifty years ago.
The chains holding the bag to the ceiling rang with each hit. Sweat beat down his weathered face, flashes of that night hitting him with each punch he threw. Jab- "Tuning in live now at the MGM Grand where we have one helluva fight- Left cross- "The two men are touching gloves"- Right cross- DING! "And there's the bell!"
Every second of that fight was ingrained into his memory. He'd forget his grandchildren's birthdays every so often, or which meds to take when, or hell, even those rare occasions where the Justice League would let him play with the big boys. Yeah, he'd been quite the League back in his time, of course back then it had been called something else. The Justice Society of America, boy those were the glory days. That Golden Age where criminals were put away and heroes were celebrated. He could remember bits and pieces from way back when. Moments from a simpler time, one where costumed folk weren't ridiculed or debated over. Everything in his head from back then was fuzzy, like scratched up film projection.
Ted knew some of the pieces, sure, and had tons of great times fighting alongside the likes of Black Canary or even Superman once or twice, but things that happened that after that one night, his entire career with the League even, just felt a little emptier.
"Wildcat's really giving it to Clay now!" Ted slammed a series of aching blows against the bag, as if his greatest opponent was in the room with him. "A left, another one, three now. An uppercut-Clay's guard is broken! Grant takes the advantage, drilling into Clay's body! He's giving it all he's got ladies and gentlemen! Clay is taking an absolute beating!"
His fists moved faster and faster, a growl slowly building in him. "My word! He's got him in the corner!" Ted's mouth opened, teeth grit. "Clay just can't seem to get his hands up!" The growl became a furious roar. "Clay's going down! Round One, ladies and gentlemen, and Clay is already on the mat! One thing's for sure, this Wildcat still has his claws!"
Ted leaned on the bag, panting as sweat fell from his brow. That had been his moment of limelight. Clay had gotten up, of course, and in the Eleventh round had won the match by TKO. It had been a good fight, and a great way to end his boxing career, but not enjoy a full retirement just yet. No, he'd left the ring on good terms, so in exchange he'd started his own gym up in '72. Not a lot of guys came by at first, but he got by.
Then a couple decades later, a young gal by the name of Dinah Lance came in, wanting learn how to fight. Thinking nothing of it, he led her to another professional, but she'd asked for him specifically. Casually, he'd taught her the same things he would have taught anyone else, the basics. When she showed how capable she could be in the ring, he'd trained her a bit more. The whole time Dinah had been oddly interested in his form, his movements and most importantly his punches.
She later revealed herself as a member of the Justice League, claiming that they wanted him on board because of his service with the JSA during the war. Sure enough he joined, expecting to be a front runner, or to see action more than once a month. Mostly they kept him on board to teach the young bloods how to actually throw a punch. It was especially demeaning because he knew most of them could kill him with a blast of their eye beams or super strength, or something else like that. Hell, Superman had once asked him to show him guards. Him, a lowly boxer teaching the literal Man of Steel how to block a punch. about two years of their slow torture, Ted had hung up his cowl for a second time, coming back to his Gym, where he was today, stuck remembering that fight.
Yes...That fight against Cassius Clay, who one day would go by another name. Muhammad Ali. Ask anyone on the street who the greatest boxer of all time was, and they'd tell you it was Ali. Float like a butterfly sting like a bee, damn what a guy. And he'd fought him, in front of the world. Yet, say the name Ted Grant to anyone on the street and what do you get? Nothing. Just confused faces. Probably get the same reaction if you asked any of today's new blood Leaguers too. Hell, all his friends from the JLA were gone now, either dead or just knew that the worst part about getting old wasn't the sickness or the pain. The worst part was becoming irrelevant.
There was a click at the entrance, the lock turning. Catching his breath, Ted checked the clock on the wall. It was four in the morning, well before anyone should have been here to open up.
"Hey, Toby-that you?" Walking around the corner, he saw the single pane door was wide open, letting in nothing, but a gentle wind. It was just as silent out on the snowy streets as it was in here. There was no one there. "Damn lock." Closing the door, Ted attempted to click the dial on the door to lock, but for some reason it was jamming.
"Wait a second." On the exterior side of the door, a visible bobby pin was stuck in the keyhole of the door. Someone had broken in. Unsure if they'd run off, or were in the building somewhere, Ted decided to plant his feet.
"Hey pal," he projected, loosening up his shoulder. "I don't know who you think you're dealing with, but I think you should go." There was a small footstep from behind him, somewhere in the darkness inside. "Last chance, I don't want to have to hurt some kid if I don't have to." Ted raised his hands in a guard form. The wind tickled at his sides, only wearing his grey tank top as protection from nature.
There was a moment, no longer than half a second, that Ted could feel something about to happen. It was an unspoken violence in the air around him, an instinct that told him to move. Now.
Trying with all his might, Ted threw himself to the floor, trying his best to tuck and roll. There was a brief flash of light and a metal 'PING' noise. A jolt of pain in Ted's ribs sent him rolling on his back, halfway through his roll. From the pain on his side, and the amount of blood that was seeping into his shirt, it wasn't hard to figure out that this punk had shot him. Struggling, Ted eventually picked himself back up, more blood lacing his teeth.
"Coward. Shooting an old man from the dark." Stumbling, he raised his guard again, sputtering a bit of blood out of his mouth. "I bet you're just afraid Grandpa could take you in a fight. Come on out. Prove me wrong."
Footsteps, slow, methodical, and heavy ones. Big boots stepped into the light, plated and cushioned like a para-military nightmare. Cargo pockets were harnessed all over their body, the armor continuing along the thighs, and especially on the chest. A sword was slung over his back, and a large pistol was in their left had. The most notable feature however, a glossy mask with only one eye hole, split down the middle with orange on one side and black on the other.
"Deathstroke. Huh, figured someone would want me dead eventually. Grrh! Just didn't think they'd send someone like you." The world's deadliest assassin holstered his gun. Slade may have been about Ted's age, but physically he could move like someone in their twenties, while still thinking like a military general. Enhanced reflexes, strength, all of it, Deathstroke the Terminator was the perfect killer. And Ted was just a has-been from Queens.
"Alright, pal. You here to kill me, then you better get-" It was over before it even began. In a single stride, Deathstroke had pulled out his blade and cut clean through Ted, a swipe right through his lower spine. The assassin stood their for a moment, his blade held low, releasing his controlled breath.
Ted regurgitated more arterial blood, falling back into the snowbank. Deathstroke sheathed his blade and called his employer.
"Yeah, it's me...You'll get proof of death in tomorrow's paper...He's right outside his gym...Good...Transfer it to my side account, I'll be needing it for expenses later...No,I think we can arrange that…" He began walking into the street as nonchalantly as if he'd just swatted a fly.
Ted could have heard his footsteps in the snow, if he wasn't too busy listening to something else. "Tuning in live now at the MGM Grand where we have one helluva fight…"