Peanut Punch

Jacob shoved the box of energy-bars with enough force to split open its cardboard. An explosion of Champion’s Chocolate and Powerful Peanut Punch showered the dressing room floor.

“I’m fightin’ in ten,” he spat at his manager, Kieth Hoggs. The portly, old businessman had arrived at MGM Garden and Casino just seconds ago, thick patches of sweat already seeping through his cheap blue suit. 

“Just a bite! The Power Performance guys want their product out there.” 

“Do they want it all over the canvas when I take a body shot?”

A pair of neon red boxing gloves slid over Jacob's wrapped hands, the laces secured by legendary trainer Benny Fetch. Keith threw his hands up. “Fuck me for trying to get you paid, Jakey. It’s an easy photo op, but if you wanna get your brains beat in ‘til your fifty-“ The glare Jacob was now giving Keith was enough to give the old man a third heart attack. 

“Those got nuts in ‘em?” The manager paused. Shit, he thought to himself. 

“They’re all sealed up, they can’t hurt you!” The manager kicked himself internally. If he had just picked out cookies and cream, or maybe vanilla... 

“If I even smell that shit I’ll need an EpiPen and the fights off!” The boxer spat. There was no point arguing when he was like this.

Keith scrambled to gather up the offending snacks, scooping them into the remnants of the box before tossing it into a nearby trash can. “There. Jesus christ, forget I asked.” He was about to tell Jacob not to complain the next time they couldn’t get sponsorship money, but decided against it. Keith had known Jacob Dunway since he won his first National Golden Gloves title eight years before. Now he was defending his WBC and WBA Middleweight belts in front of a sold out crowd in Las Vegas. For five million in cash plus a generous chunk of the pay per view buys. Keith went over the calculations again in his head. Moving numbers around and imaging the five percent slice that would be his manager's fee. It was enough to make his mouth water as much as his armpits in the July heat. 

“I’ll be in the box with your family.” He said, turning to leave. He didn’t get a reply. Jacob and Benny were murmuring to each other about not putting up with any low blows from the night’s opponent, a scrappy french kid named Francois Bennet. Whatever, Keith thought, pushing his way out the dressing room door. He grabbed a strong drink and threw himself into a lounge chair overlooking the ring. The comforts of the suite did little to ease his anxiety. Jacob was undefeated. If he kept it that way, the payouts would only get bigger. On the other hand a single loss could derail everything they’d worked for.

It turned out Keith had nothing to worry about. Jacob didn’t just win, he did so in spectacular fashion. He spent the first two rounds feeling out his opponent with jabs and feints. In the third he walked the Frenchman down with a two fisted assault that had to take a decade off the poor guy's life. The ref mercifully called it off, and Keith felt the knot of stress that had been building in his stomach the last few months finally loosen. He won. Keith could feel the smile stretching so hard across his face he worried it might crack his chapped lips. He felt several hands patting him on the back and didn’t even care about the squishing sound they made as they landed on his damp jacket.

The old man practically tap danced his way back to the dressing room, mulling over how many pay per view buys they must’ve just done. He was so distracted he almost got trampled by a mob of reporters pushing their way to the dressing room as well. He turned, ready to offer the response he had prepared for a victorious result. He would confidently say, “Of course Jacob won, he’s the best in the world. We want Lopez for a unification bout to get the IBF and IBO, then we’re moving up to Super Middle.” It would’ve been the perfect response if in fact there were reporters at his back. There weren’t. Instead a team of medics shoved him aside without even offering so much as a congratulation. Keith’s spirits fell. Boxing was a tough business. They were probably rushing to take Jacob’s latest victim to the E.R., but they didn’t head down the hall towards the opposing dressing room. They were running towards Jacob.

Keith’s heart banged against his ribs. “What’s wrong with Jake?” He yelled out after the medics, but they didn’t turn. He sprang forward, running after them and feeling his achilles tendons stretch to the point of breaking. A wall of reporters, fans, and security guards blocked the room’s sole entrance. “What’s wrong with Jake?” Keith yelled out again, but no response.

On the other side of the mass of people Benny Fetch suddenly leapt into view. In the years Keith had known the trainer the only emotions he’d ever seen the man display were annoyance and boredom. Now his face was twisted with fear. “Let the medics in! Move!” The trainer screamed shoving reporters and drunken fans, desperately trying to clear a path in the chaos. Nobody moved. A second later Fetch was even throwing punches, folding a reporter to the ground like a lawn chair. The medics shoved their way through, and Keith followed behind. 

Tears were streaming down Benny’s face. “He just said he couldn’t breath and-“ The medic cut the old trainer off. “Where?” Benny whirled and pointed a shaking finger to a bench at the room's center. Keith’s jaw dropped at the sight of the champion. His body looked the same as when he left the ring. Sweat covered hands wrapped in gauze, title belts at his side. His face on the other hand looked strikingly similar to Michal Meyers from Halloween. His lips and cheeks swollen into an unrecognizable mask. 

“Why didn’t you do his pen thing?” Keith yelled at Benny after the initial wave of shock passed. The boxer had ensured everyone on his team could administer an EpiPen and had one on his person at all times. 

“It wasn’t in the first-aid bag.” Keith was about to prod him further when he saw a medic pull out a thick green tube and jam it into Jacob’s thigh. A wave of relief started to wash over him, but the look on the paramedics face cut it short. The medic, a young woman with short brown hair was staring at the EpiPen in her hand, bewildered. 

“What?” Keith shouted at her. 

“This-“ The other paramedic, a short older fellow grabbed the pen from her and jammed it into his own palm. 

“It’s a training pen. It doesn’t have the meds in it.” He said in disbelief. The other medic began fishing through her bag, pulling out syringes and bandages. 

“That’s impossible, training pens are grey, that one’s green!” 

Benny stepped forward now, pushing Keith aside. “What’s wrong?” The medics ignored him. 

“The east entrance security guard should have one in their first aid kit.” The older of the two said. The younger nodded and switched on a radio strapped to her shoulder. 

“Security checkpoint three, bring your first aid kit to the red corner locker room now, over.” A voice crackled back on the other side confirming they’d heard. Keith stepped forward looking down at Jacob.

“You alright, kid?” He asked. No response. 

“Sir, you need to give us some room.” The medic pushed Keith away from his fighter. A single panicked thought flashed through the manager’s mind causing his heart to leap so hard into his throat he was surprised he didn’t gag. He ripped the lid off the dressing room trashcan and saw the tattered box of power bars sitting at the bottom along with several bloodied bandages. Keith pulled them out one by one. Six… seven… shit, he thought to himself. There should’ve been eight in total. Four Champion’s Chocolate, four Powerful Peanut Punch. But one of the delicious, nutritious meal supplement bars was missing. 

“Let the guard in!” A paramedic yelled out the door causing Keith’s head to jerk up. There was a mass of people on the other side jammed shoulder to shoulder. Outside the dressing room was pure chaos, while on the inside Jacob Dunway’s throat was closing tighter with each passing second. Keith kept looking for someone to burst in with a functioning EpiPen and end this nightmare, but nobody did. Benny Fetch, the iron-willed trainer fell to his knees and began sobbing. Keith took a step forward, looking down at his fighter. It was too late. The boy was dead.

***

Keith had gone straight home from the funeral. He wanted to be alone with a bottle of a whiskey and maybe some old westerns. The cowboy movies reminded him of the stuff he’d watched when he was younger. He wanted to think of happier times. A loud knock came from the other side of his door. He sighed but stayed perfectly still. Maybe they’ll just leave. They didn’t. More knocks. Keith grunted as he forced himself to his feet and waddled to the door.

Two large, clean-shaven men stared down at him. “Mr Hoggs, I’m detective Franklin, this is detective Abebe. We’re with LVMPD.” Keith blinked at the men. 

“Alright,” He said, unsure of what else to say. The two officers were certainly an alarming sight, but the melancholy of the day coupled with the numbing effects of Jim Bean kept the old manager in an almost zen like stupor. 

“We’d like to talk to you, if that’s alright.” Keith moved aside, letting the officers enter before hurrying to shut off Howard Hawk’s El Derado. 

 “What can I help you gentlemen with?” He asked as the two men looked around the room before sitting in it’s sole lumpy couch. 

“You were aware of Mr. Dunways severe allergic reaction to peanuts?” Without thinking Keith almost laughed, prompting a quizzical stare from the detectives. 

“Yeah, he brought it up every five minutes. We all had to practice using those pen things.” 

“Is it also true you tried to give Mr. Dunway a peanut flavored energy bar before his title fight, on the night of his death?”

Keith paused. He suddenly became very aware of the accusatory tone in the officer’s voice. 

“What, did Benny say something about that?” The detectives glanced at each other. 

"We’ve already received Mr. Fetch’s statement, we’d like to hear it from your side.” Keith’s mouth went dry. 

“I, uh. I think I should talk with my lawyer,” Keith said, standing and gesturing towards the door. The detectives left and Keith turned his phone on for the first time in the last week. Hundreds of alerts began lighting up his screen. A text from Debrah Mathews, his ex-wife read: Is it true?

Keith opened up google on his phone and typed in "Jacob Dunway” with shaking thumbs. The first result was a picture of the smiling young fighter the day he won his WBC title, blood still pouring from a cut above his left eye. The second, was a headline. Benny Fetch Accuses Manager Keith Hoggs Of Foul Play In Boxer’s Death. Maybe it was the headline. Maybe it was the Jim Bean. Either way Keith bent over and vomited all over his carpet.

***

There wasn’t enough proof to put Keith in prison, no matter how many interviews Benny Fetch gave. They hadn’t made a difference in the court of law, but in the court of public opinion they were as good as any piece of hard evidence. It didn’t matter that Keith and Jacob had a typically good relationship for the better part of a decade. Or the fact that Keith had a huge financial interest in the kid succeeding; Benny offered a conspiracy, and the internet ate it up.

A flood of prank calls and accusatory emails blew up his phone and SNL even did a sketch mocking Keith’s sweaty witness testimony. When his address got leaked online, he knew it was time to move, so he did. Far away from Vegas, and into a Midwestern suburb with exactly zero boxing gyms in a one hundred mile radius. Keith tried to move on, but something stuck with him in his mind. He stayed up late into the night pondering the fate of that sole Peanut Butter Punch bar. The one that may have ended Jacob’s life. 

Keith wondered if he would live the rest of his years without ever discovering the truth. About the energy bar or the mysteriously non functional EpiPens. One day, after months had passed and the trauma of the ordeal had finally started to heal itself, Keith got a clue. It was in a large yellow envelope. No stamp, no return address. Someone had just dropped it right into his mailbox. He opened the seal and reached inside pulling out a thin piece of paper. “Looking for this?” The words were typed out and sat at the center of the page. Keith pulled open the envelope and peered inside. It was open, and there was a piece missing, but it was unmistakably a bar of Powerful Peanut Punch. Beneath that was an EpiPen with the initials “JD” written in sharpie across the handle.

Keith looked around, trying to see if whoever left this was still in the area, but the sidewalks that led to and from his new townhouse were empty. Who would want to kill the kid? He wondered. He had convinced himself, and the jury agreed that Jacob’s death was a freak accident. A combination of his unfortunate allergy coupled with the chaos of Vegas after a big title fight. The envelope said otherwise. Someone had wanted him dead and had used the very energy bars Keith brought to his dressing room as the murder weapon. Benny? Keith wondered, but the trainer’s career, like Keith's, was tied to Jacob's success. It didn’t make sense. His opponent? He wondered, but Jacob had reached a level of stardom that even a loss to him was a massive career boost for any fighter, plus an equally huge pay day. Keith didn’t understand what was happening, but there were two undeniable facts. Jacob Dunway had been murdered, and the killer knew where he lived.