At the bell, the kid felt a familiar sense of exhilaration surging through every fibre of his being, his body charged with more than adrenaline. Macho didn't keep him waiting. The supermodel opened with a jab to the face meaning to end it there.
Everything Mac had learned, all his training boiled down to this moment. But in the heat of the moment there was little room to think intently on the sweet science of defense and attack. He instinctively stepped to the right, forgetting to flinch as he felt the leather glove brush roughly against his cheek, and threw a hook meant for the nerve cluster of Macho's solar plexus. But the supermodel caught the blow on his gloves.
"Nice try!" The man sneered, sinking into a deep knee bend as Mac swung at him again. A blank look flashed across the kid's face as his missed his target – but before he could move out of range, an uppercut caught him with his mouth slightly open. Juddering his skull, it sent a blurry ripple through his vision, his saliva-soaked mouth guard flying into the air. The crowd hollered as Mac staggered backwards, just barely recovering his balance. In the corner, the referee stood by, unconcerned.
"Dance around his punches, baby!" Doc shouted above the din. "Dance an' knock this sucker out!"
"Oh, I'll make him dance, old man." Macho scoffed, closing the distance between him and the Bronxite in a single, lunging step. Rising up from the opposite side, his fist arched with a ferocious speed towards the underside of the boy's chin. And with firecrackers still bursting behind his eyes, throbbing blindingly bright, Mac managed to weave out of the way, desperately focusing his energies into a swift counter-attack. A vicious left to Macho's exposed ribs made the man's mouth gape. Seizing his chance, the kid followed up with a cross, digging his glove fiercely into the boxer's gut.
Even as he felt himself crumple at the middle, Macho tried to swat Mac aside. But the instant the man felt a fist smash flush into his broad, jutting chin with more strength than he expected, a switch in his brain flicked off and on and he wavered drunkenly, toppling to the mat with a crash. All two-hundred-and-forty-two-pounds of him.
Stepping back guardedly, his nerves prickling with readiness, Mac took a moment too long to process what had happened as the referee edged in and began counting. He couldn't suppress that premature rush of excitement inside him but he managed to keep it off his face as his attention shifted to the furious, insistent ache of the punch his foe had landed, a deep soreness underlying the burn.
The spectators didn't quite mirror Mac's sentiments. Howls of dismay and cautious cheering carried across the stadium.
A sense of urgency and purpose jolted Macho to his senses and out of his daze, his eyes flying open. There was no way in hell he'd let some snot-nosed punk from the Bronx mess with his fans, take him down once, and get away with it. Hollywood was watching. The world was watching. With a mad, ox-like strength, he grit his teeth and pushed to his feet, a few stray white hairs having escaped his ponytail. He shot the kid a resentful look - but one that gave way to a smug little smirk. With an irresistible flex of a bicep, he rocked his fist and threw his body into a wild haymaker as Mac approached, the kind of punch with the brutal power to snap a flyweight's neck like kindling.
Move, Mac urged himself desperately, breaking into an icy sweat. Hair-trigger reflexes kicked in last minute and he ducked sharply, feeling the scalp-tingling rush of pure force behind the attack that brushed past him. And just as he swung up his head, Mac caught Macho's expression transforming into one of stunned, wide-eyed disbelief too exaggerated to be anything but comical.
The kid had dodged his very best move. It had been nothing but pure luck, pure- -
"Bogus!" He bellowed, whirling a full one hundred and eighty degrees.
When he twisted himself around to face forward, his jaw suddenly met the boy's fist. Spit sprayed out of his mouth, his knees turning to trembling jelly. But, he anchored himself in place this time, snarling as he was tagged twice more in the chest. A furious backhand intended for the kid's face struck Mac's shoulder instead. It hit him like a flying medicine ball and Mac stumbled, unintentionally lining himself up for a punch that nailed him right in the forehead. The bell rang just as his head whiplashed, droplets of sweat splattering the ring.
Eye contact was broken reluctantly, the boxers retreating to their corners.
Macho remained standing and slung an arm over the ropes, deciding he had more than enough energy to wink at and chat up a few ladies he spotted in the front row.
Huffing, Mac dropped onto his stool and closed his eyes a moment as he leaned back against the turnbuckle. Doc swiped the towel from around his own shoulders and stepped into the ring with the referee's permission, acting as a corner man and a fight doctor for lack of any. He dried Mac's bruised face and his neck with brisk but careful dabbing motions, wishing he had had a spare mouth guard on him for Mac's had been trampled on, by now. Unfortunately the kid would have to do without one.
"Took a few rough ones out there, son." He remarked. "Super Macho Man sure can spin like a top. If you ain't careful, he can really make your head spin."
"Yeah," Mac agreed between gulping breaths, falling silent as the other unscrewed a water bottle and held the rim invitingly to his cracked lips. It was hard for the kid to restrain himself to a few sips when his body greedily clamoured for more, but Doc helped eliminate temptation by pocketing the bottle. The last thing he needed to deal with when fighting were cramps.
A look of weary gratitude and relief washed over the kid's features. "Thanks, Doc." He sighed, half-wincing at the throbbing of his skull. The blows were just as hard, if not even harder than those Bald Bull had delivered, and punching Macho felt like he was pounding away at a tough wall of meat, making it hard to gauge how much of an effect his attacks had. But there had been a great opportunity to counter right after that one clothesline that could have taken off his face.
"Ten seconds left, baby. You ready?"
Hoping to shake off his brain-fog by sheer force of will, the Bronxite nodded, pumping his gloves together.
He was up only a few seconds later and moving towards the centre of the ring. The moment he met Macho there and the bell rang, galvanizing them both, they dove at each other to the delight of the enthusiastic stadium-goers as if more were at stake in their angry, rapid-fire exchange than prize money and rank and reputations.
An attempt at a tried-and-true liver shot was punished with a hook that split Mac's lip and smeared blood-tinged spit across his cheek in a long streak. A missed uppercut was answered with a series of viciously quick jabs that made Macho flinch and his ears ring.
Cameras went off sporadically from all sides.
Panting, the kid kept on his toes - dark hair falling damply over his forehead - ever-searching for the decisive instant to unleash his best uppercut. The Star Punch had become his trademark technique passed down from Doc himself, an aptly named, fearsome move that would often have the opponent seeing stars if properly executed. As powerful as it was, though, it had its risks, being slow to set up and exhausting to perform several times in one bout.
Mac felt his pulse quicken sharply and echo in the hollows of his body when he caught sight of the telling shake of Macho's fist and the way he raised his leg like a pitcher, winding up for a huge- -
Beer bottle?
The kid jerked back in surprise, blinking as something green flashed across his line of sight barely a foot from his face. Hitting the ring with a thump not far from his foot, the bottle went rolling a short distance. He instinctively glanced downwards a split-second, recognizing the danger in stepping on it when focused on more important things- -
And when he swung up his head, he saw a spinning clothesline hurtling straight for his jaw.
Mac threw his upper body low, unconsciously sucking in his breath as the punch shaved by his head, and then sank into a half-squat, back straight, stomach clenched, right arm cocked and tucked to his side, locked into position. His muscles quivered with barely restrained strength, sweat pouring down his sides.
This was it.
Anticipating Macho's need to twist around after his clothesline left him with his back turned, Mac felt his muscles uncock and launched himself off the mat, thrusting his right arm high into the air to catch the model's prize-winning chin.
A cringing tension gripped the crowd, breaths sucked in.
Everything slowed to an adrenaline-induced crawl, and to Mac, it was like watching someone slam the brakes to avoid a crash and feeling like it took forever for the car to stop. His Star Punch had hit air.
Macho had delayed his turn by half a second - and now moving in, his gold tooth glinting, he threw a second clothesline while the kid was still in mid-leap, his fist like a wrecking ball on the end of a blurring chain.
Mac felt a stab of terror, his mind freezing over - and then a glove was driving into his side with a brutal, near-blinding impact he felt to his teeth. It cut his breath off mid-inhale, crushing it out of his lungs in a hoarse, strangled gasp. And for a split second, he could feel his ribs folding – a realization he registered as an icy twinge through his brain – before the full force of the punch flipped him sideways like a limp ragdoll and flung him towards the mat. The last thing he saw before the world tilted upside-down in his vision was a glimpse of Macho's face, glowing with triumph.
A collective gasp arose as Mac's body slammed bonelessly against the ring. Unconscious, it seemed. Until a short, ragged scream burst from him, one that died as a keening whine in the back of his throat. There was an explosion of pain not like the steady aching of his face and skull. It sliced through his disoriented haze like a shaft of too-bright light, burning sunspots into the backs of his eyelids as he pinched them tightly, too aware of the hot prickle of tears gathering at the corners. A reflex he couldn't fight.
Resting his hands on his hips, Macho could only roll his eyes as the referee looked to the fallen boxer a moment, almost curiously, before beginning the count. "Why even bother?" The model jeered, rolling the empty beer bottle out of the ring with a nudge of his foot.
1
2
Mac tentatively uncurled, a strained, shaky moan issuing from his clenched teeth.
3
4
Up - - he had to get up- -
Though his head was still reeling, he doggedly propped himself up on an elbow, feeling a fierce, icy sweat breaking out between his shoulderblades. His heart was drumming too hard, too fast.
5
6
7
Then, climbing to his knees- -
8
- - he groped for the ropes and struggled to haul himself up the rest of the way, a shudder rippling through his groin as he tensed and pushed up off his left foot. His rubbery legs wobbled as he rose to his full height.
9!
Macho's eyebrows shot up when Mac came at him adopting an orthodox stance with visible discomfort and reluctance. Gone was the kid's fire, it seemed. He ducked his head and sluggishly raised his gloves, barely able to lift his left arm more than a few inches.
"Bummer!" The model's voice dripped with mock-sympathy. "But don't worry - I know what'll make you feel better, dude. Check this out!"
And while drawing back a thick arm for a finisher…
- Mac blinking hard, bracing himself -
…Macho was interrupted by the bell.
"No!" He howled, stomping once for good measure and shooting the bell-ringer a peevish look. But rules were rules.
Shuffling away into his corner and too lost in a haze of pain to feel very grateful, the kid grasped the ropes and eased himself down onto his seat, skin gleaming with a film of sweat.
Doc was at his side in a heartbeat, looking him over.
It was easy enough to tell from the jerking of his chest in anguished attempts to sneak in a breath that something was wrong, but it was a nagging feeling deep in his gut that told him that this was somehow different than what had happened with Bald Bull. Knowing the kid's tendency to undermine his injuries to keep his own spirit and confidence high, Louis tentatively reached out, meaning to lift a corner of his shirt just enough to try and gauge how bad the situation was from the bruising. But Mac stopped him, slowly pushing his hand away with one of his gloves.
"Need water." He said, breathlessly.
Reaching for the bottle after a beat, Doc obliged him by offering him a few small gulps, his eyes never leaving the kid's paled face. "Jesus, kid." Replaying the knockdown in his mind, over and over, he whiplashed between alarmed disbelief and dread that took him back to that nerve-wracking night in the club years ago, watching Mac stand his ground against 'Crusher' Cohen.
"I can do this." Mac managed, his sides heaving and air puffing in and out of his nose. He nodded dimly as if to convince himself and swallowed hard. "Gonna… gonna fight through the pain, Doc… jus' like you been sayin' in the gym."
"This ain't the gym, son!" The man snapped, jarring Mac to attention. "There's a difference! An' there's more to it than that!" Pausing, he rubbed at his forehead and his throbbing temples as the kid looked on, just needing a moment to think, needing a moment to force a calm he couldn't feel into his voice. "It's about havin' that sense of when t'push and when t'pull back." He continued, sighing. "I know how much this fight means to you, son - you and me both. I want you t'know that I couldn't be more proud of you for coming such a long way."
"Doc…" The kid fixed him an anxious, pleading look. "Doc, don't throw the towel... not now. When, when he... throws another spinnin'- -"
A wrenchingly frustrating sense of helplessness swept over Louis. He was trying to reason with a brick wall. "Listen, Mac," He cut in, desperately, "I thought Bald Bull was crazy... but the way Super Macho Man throws his punches… if he gets you with that clothesline again…"
But he didn't finish. The words tangled up in his throat mid-sentence, taking him by surprise. He looked aside.
Mac tried to pretend he hadn't noticed. "...I know." He wheezed. "But... he won't, Doc. I'm gonna get 'im this time… I jus' know it." His gaze lifted, hopeful. "Y'gotta trust me."
"Mac—" Doc warned.
"Please."
Pursing his lips grimly, the man stared back into those half-lidded, feverishly bright eyes, searching past the pain and the fear, and saw in them a keen, burning hunger. A hunger for air - but more than that, a hunger to pull through, to prove himself.
It was reckless. It was stupid.
But it was Mac.
Doc shook his head. And then he shut his eyes and let out a breath, feeling his body sag with it. Feeling every bit his age as the heaviness of resignation sank deep into his bones. "...Alright, son." He relented, unable to believe he was doing this. "When you go back out there... just make sure you keep that elbow in close to your side, okay?"
The referee stepped in suddenly, urging the kid back onto his feet.
Macho rose from his stool.
Trading glares under sweat-laden eyebrows, the boxers stood before one another, Mac willing himself to be ready with the help of the adrenaline pumping through his bloodstream. As his vision began to tunnel on the powerhouse standing before him, the wild cheering vibrating through the arena faded to dull hum, nearly drowned out by the thundering of blood against his eardrums and the sound of his own rough, shallow panting.
Macho was quick to pick up where he had left off, throwing himself into one ruthless corkscrew uppercut after another. The kid bobbed and wheeled around them, feeling as if he were trying to move quickly through water. The last swing clipped his chin and rocked his head back, the spotlight above piercing into his eyes – and then a roundhouse punch came at his left side, aimed to bury deep into his throbbing ribs. Mac caught it on his bicep instead, some of the ferocious impact absorbed. But a choked up noise escaped him all the same, jostled out of him, his eyes pinched shut and stinging wet.
A terrifying sense of nakedness swept through Mac when his eyes snapped back open to see Macho staring him full in the face with a savage, knowing grin. The man's hooks and jabs came faster and fiercer- -
-But by ramping up the aggression he opened himself up to a vicious fist hammering into his already bruised cheek and another smashing into one of his collarbones as Mac desperately fought to get punches in edgewise. The latter threw off Macho's rhythm with a pain that nearly made tears spring to his eyes.
They broke away from each other for just a moment, heaving for air like dogs and sweat streaking down their faces, their gloves spattered with each other's blood. Doc watched tensely from the sidelines.
It had to end.
Too aware of the tingling heaviness invading his body, Mac gave his head a brisk shake and willed himself to focus harder, blinking constantly to keep his eyes from tearing up as he fought to pull in every sharp, hissing breath. Every one felt like a knife twisting into his left lung. He tasted the coppery tang of blood in his mouth.
Macho didn't have to guess what it felt like. He'd been there when he had once attempted dead-lifting a barbell much heavier than he was used to as to impress a pretty airhead, only for it to drop on him from a few inches above – which had been more than enough to crack a rib or two. Breaking into a sweat, he had walked it off with a strained, shaky smile. Not one of his crowning moments, which was why he had simply offered everyone the more respectable explanation that he had injured himself pumping iron a little too vigorously.
"Show's over, dude." Macho huffed, his teeth slimy with blood but for the one in gold. "You'll be tasting the mat for weeks when I'm done with you!"
Rallying the strength for a grand finale to make the history books, he puffed out his bruised chest menacingly and stepped to one side, his lips peeling back into a snarling smile. "SUPER- -!"
Pivoting smoothly, he turned away from Mac and flexed vigorously, basking for a moment in the glow of admiration and flash photography. The people were roaring and whistling for him. This was his moment.
"MACHO!" He bellowed, turning in profile and emphatically striking one more majestic pose. "MAAAAAN!"
That mighty right fist rose into the air, rocking – and at last, twisting his head around sharply with a gleefully predatory smirk, he fixed his sights on the young boxer. From the sidelines Doc grimaced at the train-wreck waiting to happen, his white-knuckled fists gripping the edge of the ring. Even if he were to throw the towel now, it wouldn't stop Super Macho Man mid-rampage.
A frisson of alarm shot through Mac, curling his insides into a tightening ball. Even with his brain still rocking with convulsions of pain he had enough presence of mind to slip under his opponent's heavily swinging arm. But just as he sought to close in to counter, the model flung a second haymaker that narrowly missed Mac's nose as he bent backwards.
And another clothesline.
And another, all in rapid succession - and increasingly sloppy - forcing Mac into retreat with every half-step the model advanced.
The referee ducked out of the ring and from the path of the human tornado carelessly whipping around and around with a raging determination to wreck anything in its path.
Wheezing, the kid barely kept on his toes, his attention trained on Macho's face. And just a split second before clumsily bending under the fourth punch, he caught a glimpse of something unexpected. Mac struggled to blink away his own daze.
"Argh!" Macho gave a cry of childish frustration as he wound up for the seventh clothesline. "That's it!" He paused for one huge, surging breath, his eyes crossed and his nostrils flaring bullishly. "You're going down!"
Bracing his side with his left glove, the boy backpedaled, striving to remain cautious and level-headed despite the knee-trembling excitement and the sense of desperate hope bubbling up in the pit of his stomach. But the moment he felt something press into his back, his confidence suddenly dissolved, all the blood seeming to drain out of his body.
The ropes.
He stared wide-eyed into empty space, his heart thumping painfully hard as Macho's glove came for him, arcing through the air. His jaw would be smashed to pieces in a moment, unhinged with a sickly wet crack.
Kicking himself into action, the kid swung his head down, flicking sweat onto the mat. Macho's glove grazed his scalp as it swept past, splitting the skin with the laces, and the man's mountainous bulk followed, twirling. But when the model wheeled around again, readying himself to throw another haymaker, he could only raise his arm in a half-hearted threat, his mouth hanging open as he teetered on his feet.
Awareness surged through Mac like a powerful electric current. Though shaky and cotton-mouthed, he was suddenly ready, as ready as he could be - and found himself so possessed by single-minded determination that he didn't hear the groan through his clenched teeth as he bent his knees, reaching deep within himself, and dredged up the very last of his strength, his face tight with strain. Nor did he hear the ragged cry blasting from his lungs as he squeezed his eyes shut and sprung into the air with a powerful pistoning motion of his legs, his right arm launching from his side and slamming squarely into the reeling Macho Man.
It not only flung Macho head back; it knocked that one gold tooth of his out of its socket and sent it spinning into the air.
While tipping backwards, his eyes lolling in his skull, the man threw a blind, clumsy hook in retaliation. Though not half as strong as it could have been, it connected with Mac's vulnerable side with enough force to tilt him some twenty degrees sideways mid-air. The kid's face twisted up into a gasping rictus, but with the wind jostled out of him a second time, he could only give a harsh croak.
The model dropped to the canvas flat on his back – and Mac landed, clumsily, on his right foot, his knee shuddering dangerously for the instant it bore his full weight. He went careening into the ropes and bounced off, stumblingly regaining his footing.
The crowd went into a frenzy.
A deep, lead-limbed exhaustion bore down on Mac and he doubled over, blindsided by agony. Biting down on a scream, he let out a sound somewhere between a moan and an anguished, shuddering wheeze, saliva frothing between his teeth as his breath rushed in and out. It didn't seem like it could be possible to enter a higher stratosphere of pain - but he was there and feeling it clamp down on his brain in angry spasms. Bile churned inside him.
Please don't puke don't puke don't puke hold on just a little while almost there - -
3
4
Distant sounds drifted through his ears and he raised his head with his mouth hanging open, trying to make sense of it all and suddenly remembering he had floored his opponent. Then he stared at the referee counting from the ringside. He felt a ticklish prickling along his scalp of something crawling through his hair and touched his head, his glove coming back spotted with blood.
5
6
There was a groan as Macho strained to lift himself off the mat.
7
8
Mac set his teeth and prayed, prayed fiercely with every fibre of his being that the guy wouldn't climb to his feet and that the referee would hurry up and count faster and let him go so he could throw up somewhere quiet and lay down, just for a moment. His tank was soaked with sweat, pasted to his back.
9
The model's head dropped back in exhausted surrender, eyes closing, bloodied saliva oozing from the corners of his mouth.
10
"KNOCK OUT!"
Shock rippled through the stadium and hundreds of people jumped from their seats, breaking into a massive, full-bodied outcry. Within half a minute there was trash and half-eaten foodstuffs flying through the air and raining down over the ring. Pelting the canvas; pelting their fallen idol.
Covering his head as best he could, the referee climbed back into the ring and made his way to the boxer left standing – although standing wasn't the most fitting word. While still on his feet, Mac remained hunched over, head hanging low and his hands on his thighs. He didn't resist his right arm being hoisted up high.
This was his moment; his and Doc's. At least, it was meant to be, despite the chaos and the barrage of litter. Mac shut his eyes. The full-throated hollering and applause - all the noise - faded back into his awareness. It was overwhelming, exacerbating the pounding ache in his skull. He wanted to really feel the exhilarating buzz of his hard-won accomplishment; he wanted to look about himself and smile and really mean it - -
"Mac!"
Bent up still, he turned his head towards Doc as the man ducked into the ring and hurried to Mac's side, hands half-outstretched to help but not knowing how. Reluctant to touch him.
After standing there by the ring and questioning at every instant his decision to place his faith in Mac while his own anxiety wrenched him apart, a part of Doc had wanted to feel furious. Furious that he had not asserted himself as a manager and trainer and furious that he had just let the kid have his way when he was struggling just to breathe. But when he stopped and just stared at Mac, the kid looking back with blood dripping down one temple and reddened, glassy eyes, trying failingly to muster a grin for the both of them, Doc's frustration just couldn't hold. He forgot everything else.