The Duel

Donovan was sitting when Larry came into the gym, his feet crossed, reading a newspaper of some kind in his hand. He barely looked up to greet his friend, choosing instead to finish whatever headline had caught his attention.

“So,” Larry began.

Donny folded the broadsheet in front of him meticulously and finally straightened, like a cat being roused from its nap.

“So?” he intoned in response.

Lawrence Jones began to rapidly lose patience, looking around the dusty gymnasium with something bordering on contempt. The center of the space was dominated by an old boxing ring, its ropes fraying in places, faded posters of past legends flaked off the walks nearby.

“You’re the one who invited me out here, man.”

Donovan O’Rourke looked around, as if noticing his surroundings for the first time. His gaze tracked back around to Larry, and he shrugged.

“Oh, right. I suppose I did.”

Larry’s teeth started to grind together, and before he could contain his frustration he belted out:

“Alright, what’s this all about! You sit down on a steel pipe? Wouldn’t be too shocking given the state of this place.”

Donny stood up, and for a brief second his height dwarfed and seemed to envelope Larry, and he felt something that made the back of his neck prickle; then it passed, and Donovan’s slouching, lazy manner reasserted itself, eliding the difference in size between the two men. In the moment he’d looked away though, his eyes fell on the abandoned sheet sitting on Donny’s chair.

“I wasn’t aware you cared much about,” Larry scrunched up his face, “electoral politics.”

Donovan shrugged off his jacket, a light woolen sports coat, and hopped up into the ring. He was dressed casually underneath in a black t-shirt and comfortable looking slacks.

“Lotta things you don’t seem to know about me.”

Larry stared upwards, confusion warring with creeping anger on his face.

“What the heck are you talking about, man!?”

Donny just stared at him, and after a second Lawrence figured out he wanted him to join him. He sighed.

“You brought me out all this way to show me an abandoned boxing ring? What, big fan of-“, Larry looked a the faded fight cards and posters, “Al ‘the Carrion Bird’ Caron?”

His oldest friend just continued to stare at him.

“Alright, alright I get it. Answers up there, right?”

He inclined his head, the closest thing he’d given to a direct answer since Larry walked through the front door.

Larry sighed, reached up and pulled himself through the barrier. As his head came up, one of the ropes finally snapped under the strength of his grip, and his foot slipped on the stretched canvas. Larry felt his large bulk sliding rapidly back and had just enough time to simultaneously reach out in desperate hope of finding a more solid hold as well as to prepare himself for a painful landing.

His fall suddenly stopped as his fingers caught a strong grip. Looking up, Larry found himself staring up into Donovan’s face. He had been over a good ten feet away when the rope snapped, and Larry hadn’t heard him cross the mat. Not that that was terribly surprising, given how quickly everything had happened.

Donny’s face had a strange look to it, the light from the half-functioning fluorescent bulbs overhead making his already dark features appear stark, almost forbidding and pitiful. He grunted and then after a second both men were standing side by side in the ring.

“Watch your step Larry. I hear that’s the rope that took out Al Caron.”

For a moment, Larry detected something like the good humor that he’d come to expect between him and Donovan, and thought he saw something like a smirk on the man’s face. Then he turned his back and walked, practically marched, over to the center ring.

Dusting off his knees and clothes, Larry walked casually over to join him. When he was about 5 feet away though, Donny suddenly shifted. His left knee slid forward and bent, his right going back; both his arms came up in front of his face.

“Uh…Don, what’re you do-“

“Put them up.”

Lawrence blinked, unable to comprehend what the other man was saying.

“You can’t be serious.”

Donovan held his stance for a second, then sighed and looked down.

“Listen,” he said in a quiet, but tight voice. “This doesn’t work if I don’t beat you fair, but it definitely doesn’t work if you don’t fight at all. So I’m going to count to five, and if your hands aren’t up by then, too bad because I’m coming swinging.”

Larry listened, still struggling to understand and shaking his head.

“One.”

“Wait!”

“Two.”

Confusion became replaced by fury, and Lawrence stared straight at Donny.

“Alright alright, the joke is OVER!”

“Three.”

“You know you really are a piece of work Don.” Larry shook his head dismissively and began to turn around.

“Four.”

“I’m leavin-“

“Five!”

The jab came in quick, leaving Larry barely any time to register it from the edge of half-turned sight. He turned, bringing up one arm to cover the side of his face. It was just a little too slow, and the bare fist skidded past his forearm to land on his shoulder. Larry grunted more from the force of the impact than real pain and shifted backwards.

Donovan O’Rourke looked perfectly at ease, his eyes peering out at his friend(?) from between two raised fists. The open, almost paw-like stance once again made Larry think of feline laziness and grace. Then Larry could think of little else but pummeling his opponent into the mat, and charged forward with a furious bellow.

Larry was the bigger man, and he knew how to move his weight. A heavy, straight piledriver rocked into Donovan and he crossed his arms in front of himself to try to ward it off. He managed to deflect much of the blow, but he had to back off rapidly to recover. The two men exchanged a wordless glance, and then the fight began in earnest.

They had both hit the pads now and then in their many years of knowing each other, and while it had always been friendly sparring, most observers had given Larry the edge. More often than not at least. Donny had kept up, and a lot of times it was close, but there’d always been something off. Gaps in his defense, slow reaction speeds, little things that Larry had always been able to take advantage of.

This time was different. Don was coming in hard and fast, sending long looping blows that Lawrence couldn’t anticipate or counter. He knew he had the edge in strength, but that didn’t mean the leaner man was a pushover; or that he would be able to land a blow. Donovan had clearly been training hard, and his movements were crip, precise; practiced. The few times Lawrence had managed to hit him, he was always deflecting or moving off, dispersing the impact.

It was more than that though. Something beyond strength or speed or technique. Something that had been leering behind Donny’s hooded gaze ever since Larry first walked through the door. The low-lying sensation that had aggravated him from the start.

Donovan wanted it more. He wanted to hurt Larry.

He wanted to win.

The two of them had been exchanging blows for nearly half a minute now, and their bodies and faces were beginning to show it. Without pads or gloves, their fingers and knuckles were split, blood and bruises begin to crust around small cuts on their heads. The fight had to end soon, or it was going to end badly.

Larry didn’t know what had come over his friend, or why he had picked this fight. It was starting to worm into his head, to eat away at him from the inside. He shook himself, trying to force some kind of resolve to match whatever Donovan had brought with him here.

He knew he couldn’t just keep swinging; he had to fight smart.

Smarter.

Launching himself forward, Larry knew what he had to do. Coming in hard, he subtly shifted his weight onto his back foot, prepared to stop short and step sideways. When Donny tried dodge and counter, he would drive a heavy shot right into the man’s gut; hopefully enough to put him down, and then maybe they could figure this shit out.

The plan worked, right up until Donny did something unexpected.

He kicked Lawrence. Hard.

As the larger man came in, rather than try to swerve to the side and punch, Donovan changed things up. Up until this point, Larry had been operating under the assumption they were just using their hands. Donny’s leg snapped up quick and straight though, and it landed on Larry’s sternum, driving him back and the wind from his lungs.

Before he could react, Donny came in again. A smooth, snapping side kick nearly took his knees out from under him, but Larry managed to plant his bulk and stay standing. Then suddenly his opponent rushed past him. As he went, he swept Larry’s shin while shoving with his arm. His entire mass hit the mat with a crash, and Larry groaned.

Two sharp exploding points of pain erupted in his ribs, as Donny drove the point of his toe into Larry’s side twice. After a one-two downward punch towards his face that he barely blocked, Lawrence Jones turned his open palms around and waved them in front of him. The fight was over.

Both men were bruised and breathing heavily, but Larry struggled to get words out, to ask why. The pain was mounting though, and the best he could do was gasp heavily.

“This was a long time coming, Larry.”

Donovan’s voice was even, but a sharp edge had crept into it.

“I’m tired, man. Tired of taking shit, from anybody, but especially from you.”

Larry looked at him, uncomprehending.

“What…,” he managed to rasp out.

“And I’m ESPECIALLY tired of watching OTHER people take all the shit you give them.”

Donny sighed and straightened, stretching and rubbing some bruises that had started to form on his arms and neck.

When he gazed back down, he had the same look on his face that he’d had when the ropes snapped. The half-light once again casting shadows over his features. Only now, Larry understood what that look was.

It was contempt. Pure, naked, disgust at the figure beneath him.

“And don’t tell me I could have or should have talked to you. I tried to talk to you. So many times.”

Unbidden, memories began to form in Larry’s head. Messages he’d ignored, meetings he’d dodged. A constant growing feeling of judgmental eyes peering through the back of his skull.

“Guess this is all you understand though. Can’t duck the bill forever.”

A last one, clear as crystal came crashing through the lingering adrenaline and rising pain:

“Don, if you came here to have some kind of ‘talk’ or intervention, get lost.”

He’d told his friend that at the bar a few years back, before Donovan had grown into himself. He knew he wouldn’t push or challenge him on it, and sure enough in a few moments’ time he had been drinking his beer in silence.

“That girl whose time you’re wasting. She know the first thing about you?”

Larry stopped moving.

“Oh come on Larry. I’m not fricking stupid. You think I don’t notice what’s going on?”

Larry lay flat on his belly, and slowly spread his palms on the floor. He forced himself to look up at Donny though.

“Let me ask you: you ever take time to ask her about what’s going on with her, or is it only your problems that matt-“

The tone enraged Larry, and that fury overwhelmed the pain flooding his body enough for him to try to stand.

Then he saw Donny’s foot rear back for another kick, and he flinched. The brief upswell of energy subsided, and he was back to rolling on the floor, staring up at the victor.

Pity filled Donovan’s features, and he shook his head.

“Big man.”

He reached down and picked up his jacket.

“Do me a favor; lose my number until you grow a spine.”

As he fixed his coat, Donny peered over his shoulder. He looked down, sighed one last time, and hopped down from the ring.

“Goodbye Larry.”

His voice echoed around the empty walls of the gymnasium. Larry forced himself up, just enough to watch Donovan open the rusted doors and flick off the lights.

Daylight flooded into the building; one rectangular sliver of genuine light casting Donny’s body into shadow.

“Donny!” Larry finally managed to scream. “Donovan!!!”

The doors began to swing shut. The room rapidly began to descend back into darkness.

Larry was alone. 

The sounds of sobbing filled the gloom, with the faded eyes of legends past the only witnesses.