Elder Lion

Perspiration lay thick over my brow, dripping and drooling on my burly body, succumbing to the damp despair as the seconds ticked by, tilting tirelessly to the rhythm of the night. Perceptive and intuitive, I observed my opponent, a lanky animal with quickness to match, dipping, peeking , and baiting with false openings. The universe uttered its lullaby, predetermined moves, strings strung on a straw doll, unfolding before my very eyes. I could see the blood vessels beneath his moon-kissed skin, read his brain as if it were naked, perceiving the neurons that sparked and raced around the purple curves all the way to his spine. The world held its breath, for I could see it all.

“TEN!” a voice cried from the crowd, signaling the last seconds of the round. Propelling my collarbone forward for a covert hit, my lanky opponent, unfazed, ducked before the punch had time to take off and threw a hook, like a reactionary robot. I quickly retracted my left hand into a defensive position and charged the right for an uppercut, a bait and switch, landing it clean on the jaw and punching him aloft. The lanky man met the ground with his hands stretched away from his torso and legs stiffened straight, crashing his skull to the mat.

“HOLD ON! WE MIGHT SEE A COMEBACK, FOLKS!” shouted one of the commentators exuberantly, jolting from his seat and peeking above his monitor to catch the action live.

“YOU LOVE TO SEE IT, JOHN! ASLAN, SPORTING THE NAVY SHORTS, MIGHT HAVE PULLED IT THROUGH!” replied his partner.

“BUT WAIT! OLAF CAN STILL BE SAVED BY THE BELL!”

Olaf’s turbid mind scrambled, crawling like a mutt. He pushed himself up and faced the referee, who sluggishly counted to nine.

The striped official held the dazed man’s hands, his question muffled by the crowd’s vivid roars.

“I am good! I am good! Let’s go!” my opponent uttered with a trembling voice.

A sudden methodical clapping, iron struck iron, and the referee guided us towards our corners. I leaned on the turnbuckles, for I had no team, as usual. “See, son. I could win. I can win,” I thought, throwing fleeting glances towards the crowd. A sleazy man with a pencil-like mustache and slicked-back hair held on to the middle rope and pulled himself behind me, sneaking his foul breath on my wet skin.

“What ya doing? You’re supposed to take the fall!” the man chided.

“I just make it look realistic, is all.”

“You’re being paid to be a jobber. Don’t forget, you ain’t doing this for yourself, ol’ chap! You’re doing this for little Alev!” He spat on my boot and disappeared into the crowd, blending between the lines, passing through the rut.

Meanwhile, a blonde dame paced inside the ring holding a sign that read "Four," as she spun around, parading her gorgeous body, covered with a dark-green top and short-shorts. Everyone took their place, and a new round began.

I marched with popping incandescent veins around my temple and a salty simmering taste on my tongue, rapidly jabbing my dazed opponent, dashing from left to right to send another fury of jabs, all directed towards Olaf’s gloves, deflected. My ever-escaping gaze still in search of my boy. After the third set of jabs, I noticed the pale man’s recovered stance, prompting me to throw a Hail Mary hook, aimed on top of Olaf’s skull. The lanky man stepped aside whilst performing a pirouette and responded with a straight punch behind my ear, rocking me illegally, the son of a gun. I darted away, attempting a pirouette of my own, only to be struck behind the head, misting my eyesight, followed by yet another hook, grazing the top of my ear. My knees kissed the mat. I collapsed with my mind intact, staring blindly towards a blonde boy with a crimson shirt. The boy turned around, and with cascading tears, ran out of my vision. The same could be said for my pride, for it too escaped.

The stripe-shirted little man started the count, hurriedly declared ten, and put an end to the bout. The crowd roared in protest, for the stoppage appeared to be botched. Indifferent to the situation, I took the second to fill my tubercular lungs with air and sweat. A couple of coaches jumped inside, celebrating Olaf’s victory, escalating him above a pair of shoulders and flaunting him from corner to corner, crisscrossing the ring, while the loser, I, was snuck out and smuggled backstage, carefully avoiding any and all cameras about; the spotlight must be held by the victor and the victor solely.

Backstage, inside a white room with cracked walls, loitered the sleazy man, pacing restlessly and slamming the two lockers into each other from time to time, awaiting me.

“Finally, you’re here! What the hell was that?”

“I took the dive, didn’t I?”

“You took shit! The ref blew it as you were winning. Look at the riot you caused, you dumb chap.”

“For fuck’s sake, Dany, how is that my fault?”

“And whose fault is it…” The sleazy man kept babbling on, failing to recognize that I had stopped paying attention. Still in search of my kid, I looked around the locker room, examining the benches, the corners, and the toilets.

“You lookin’ for Alev? The boy ain’t here,” he crossed his arms.

“Forget the pay!”

“Just give me my money, Dany, and be done with it.”

The fixer took out a stack, yanked a hefty cut from it, and slapped the rest in my face, as though he were tipping a stripper. Flabbergasted, I kneeled and collected the remaining bucks, stowed the money in my duffel bag, and hurried outside in search of the crimson boy. Rain poured down akin to a waterfall, emitting a sound on impact with the metal cars that prickled my drums, showering the street from smog and dirt and cleansing my semi-naked self.

“Alev!” I cried, searching the arena parking lot, from car to car, all the way to the bus stop, and stumbled on the boy, who had taken refuge beneath the plastic canopy of the commercialized structure.

“You lost again, Dad…” the boy mumbled.

“Son… Losing is the way I earn my money.” I leaned near the boy, marking the spot with a dank dot.

“But why? You could have won that!” The boy shouted under his breath, kept in check by the respect he had half-lost for me.

“Olaf Grimson is a good kid. They will feed him people like me, pump up his record, and dump him the moment his odds invite the occasion. I could have beaten him, but then what? I am approaching forty, my dear Alev. I can at most squeeze a couple of wins. This way I keep my nose clean and pockets full.” Pockets full, yeah right. I couldn’t even look at him straight saying that.

“I will take them on and repair our mudded name Dad.” This kid…

I brushed his hair, driving my fingers along his blonde locks and smiling.

“You will do no such thing. Be better. Beat this cycle by not playing this game. The house always wins, son. Focus on your books…” I pulled a cig out of my duffel bag and lit it up.

Pulling on it and coughing within the same breath, a neat trick that this body had taught me these couple of years. I had to trudge back to my car, but the rain writhed with the wind; I couldn’t risk him catching a cold. My boy acted awfully obstinate, another reason to chill for a moment. Alongside the gust, a tulip-toned Beemer passed, halting nearby.

“Your pa is a warrior, kid!” Olaf’s smug smile stared at us from the passenger window. The man permitted the drizzle to mar the interior just to taunt us, a special kind of turd.

“My pa rocked your ass! If only he wouldn’t have…” I gently struck the boy’s nape, for he was supposed to behave.

“He did! He almost had me! Take a look, Aslan, take a look at what my victory brought me!” He grabbed the hand of the driver and showed off a single-rock ring. A giant one. I could only dream of buying a glass one, let alone an authentic one.

“She said yes! Ha! You are invited to the wedding, old man!” The driver took off tenderly, sparing us the mud bath.

Poor lad, my heart ached with pity… I saw myself in him, young and filled with dreams, unaware they would soon be the nightmares that would keep him awake. This city, man… This city and its vices…