Blood squirted from the prize fighter's mouth as another heavy blow was dealt to his face. The red faced man stumbled backwards, breathing heavily. For the past ten or so minutes, the muscle-bound jack had been swatted around like a novelt item by one of the boss's top fighters. Sweat was literally pouring off his body, making the light shimmer and gleam on his wet figure.

"I think that's enough for today." A deep voice called out, stopping the fight.

Both fighters respectfully backed down at the authoritative command. The smoke of a fresh-lit cigarette loomed towards the ceiling, the projecter lying securely in the corner of the mouth, between the speaker's lips. The man smiled and took out the small but deadly object, tapping the end lightly to relieve it of it's older ashes.

"Shower up and head home. Tomorrow, if you can stand it, we'll train again. And again, until you are ready for the arena. Got it?" He stuck the cigarette back into his mouth, and shoved his hands into his pockets.

The breathless fighters nodded, speaking simultaneously. "Yes sir."

"Then why the hell are you still standing here?" The boss smirked and inclined his head towards the door. "Wash up and see to your families. Life isn't all about fighting."

The sweat-covered men nodded and hustled out of the ring, jogging to the locker room door, leaving the smoking man alone. A moment later a young man showed himself, looking confused.

"Hey... You got a minute?" He ventured, looking towards the slightly taller man, who nodded his head slightly to show he was listening. "I thought... Well, you said... To Johnson and Daily, I mean-"

"You are wondering about that last comment, Goku?" He dropped the cigarette and stepped on it with his shoe, grinding the ashes into the cement floor.

"Well...yeah. Before you told me-"

"That fighting IS life." The man turned and stepped into the light, making his grass green skin apparent. "For these men, it is. But the key is..." He smiled and shook his head. "Don't let them know it." The man strolled up to the ring, where a single light bulb illuminated the area from above. "You see... We ARE these poor bastards' life. WE give them purpose for others. WE give them money. We give them something to... Well, something to live for."

"But Picc... I thought we were getting out."

"Nobody gets out of life, Goku. You know that."

-

Piccolo Damioh wasn't a bad man.

He just knew what people wanted. And in these times, people wanted something that took them away. Something that allowed them to forget where they were... How much money they had... How many problems lay unsolved. Piccolo's job was simple enugh for him:

Give the people something to look forward to.

And look forward they did. Saturday nights at eleven, without fail, there was a fight. Sometimes it was hopeless; people loved seeing the underdog try. Othertimes it was neck-in-neck, winner to be determined in the last round. In any case, Piccolo and other underground fight-holders like him knew that during the Depression, everyone could use something to look forward to.

The man in question grew up around the ring. His father had once been a top fighter. Someone truly to be reckonned with. As a boy, Piccolo had always dreamed of becoming the image of his father. Someone strong, and brave, and loved by all. Of course, he didn't grow up on the upper side of town. The streets and public recreation areas were home. The neighborhood kids were his friends. Street baseball was played, using trashcan lids for bases. His family had enough money to get by. And growing up, he was happy. But, time brings all happy stories to an end.

As young Piccolo turned twelve, his mother got sick with whooping cough. After a couple of weeks, and much worrying, she seemed to return to normal. However, a short time later something red appeared on her hankerchief that made one thing clear: The Damioh familiy's life just got much harder. Doctor bills stacked up, pushing Piccolo's father to fight more. But he was no longer the young man he once was. Things started to slip, gradually. As his mother's condition worsened, Piccolo realized something important. It was far better to be rich and ill.

After three prolonged months, Piccolo's mother was buried in the local cemetery. No fancy gravemarker, no deep thoughts engraved on the stone... Just the name 'Mary Damioh' and the dates of birth and death. Piccolo was crushed, of course. He felt the little bed of roses he planted on his mother's grave was an insult. She deserved better than that. A little world, devoted only to her young son and husband. A world that she had done her very best to make beautiful.

Unfortunately, only money made things really beautiful.

Now, ten years later, Piccolo kicked off his shoes and tossed his apartment key onto the dark coffee table. The large young man went automatically to his liquor cabinet and pulled out a flask of Jack Daniels. He hated it when he remembered the past like that. Reminiscing didn't do him any good. Working like hell day in and night did. Well, it brought money in, anyway. What Piccolo did for a living came from a cut-throat childhood. After the death of his mother, his father was left with the staggering job of paying off the debt acquired in the last months of Mrs. Damioh's life. The father and son moved into a lower-rent apartment, seated in the middle of Hell's Kitchen. There, Piccolo learned life's lessons the hard way. He was no longer surrounded by familiar faces. Instead, dark shadows and leering grins greeted him. He was always on guard walking home from school, after getting jumped by larger boys in the 11th grade. He was his only friend... Until he met Goku Son.

Goku was the only kid that offered friendship. The fact that he did also not have any pals to speak of probably joslsted the decision to confront the lonely Piccolo... But all the same, the boy was glad for companionship. The pair became unseperable. Where ever Piccolo was, Goku was usually a step behind. Unlike Piccolo's situation, Goku's father had walked out, leaving only the mother and son to make ends meet. Mrs. Son ran a small bakery, which made enough money to keep food on the table, and young Goku in school. Both of the young boys never brought up their missings parents. Goku was sad, while Piccolo was ashamed. He believed that if he was just a little bit older, perhaps he could have done something...

But, that was all in the past. The present Piccolo roughly took a sip of the hard whiskey and shut his eyes tightly. He didn't enjoy what he did for a living... But it was just that.

A living.