Celtic_Tiger's blog

Although a lot of my boxing was done privately, during my early twenties I had a number of “outdoor” or backyard venues fights. This particular match became a highlight reel in my mind that carries through to this day for several reasons. The first being that my opponent was a friend from my high school days who I hadn't seen for a few years. Adam had always been a stocky build, similar to my own. A wide chest with big arms and shoulders. Years, physical fitness and his volunteering with a local Fire Station had added to his build and strength. As did his working out with a heavy-bag and focus pads but that wasn't apparent to me till after our match concluded. His background a mix of Italian and Armenian gave him a Greek or Mediterranean appearance. Boyish face, handsome features with a strong, wide jaw and big brown eyes made him more model than fighter looking to me. Some extra weight around his midsection, not a flat stomach was one way he and I also looked similar, but he was bigger now than I was overall. He picked me up at the train station and took me back to his Father's house, the sizable back yard was set up for the boxing. His elder brother Brett had been there for a visit, and they had done some sparring with each other. Which explained the mark under his right eye and beside his mouth which he admitted was from Adam. All these clues went right over my head though. My ego was standing in front of me with it hands on my eyes apparently. His Father Brett Sr. hadn't seen me in years and was surprised to learn that I was into boxing. He was going to be playing the referee and Adam's corner man. Brett would be handling my corner. They had stools, large black mats set up to form a 12x12 area to act as a makeshift ring. Brett Sr. Showed me where I could change inside and that he would be handling the wraps and lacing of the gloves. Although I had brought my own pair of 16-ounce Black Tuf-Wear gloves that had Velcro and elastic closures. He had a much nicer set of black lace up Everlast ones that he presented as a substitute. I guess you could say he was a bit of a controlling type of person. They were new though and had that amazing hardness still. Agree, I went into the downstairs bathroom and got changed into my white protective cup, bluish-purple satin Tuf-Wear trunks with bright white trim, threw my towel around my neck and returned to the yard barefoot and shirtless. Adam was still inside but his brother and Father greeted me, and I took a seat on a nearby patio chair to get my wraps sorted out. Brett asked me a lot of questions about boxing, what my game plan was against Adam, but he didn't give me any hints. No pointers on where Adam would be open for attack. I honestly could see in his eyes he was hoping that I would kick Adam's ass, but he was still his brother and blood is thicker than water as they say. Brett Sr. took his time with wraps but didn't do more than listen to our conversation. He too was remaining neutral. I was taking on the hometown hero of sorts on his own turf. What could go wrong?

Adam emerged a few minutes after my wraps were finished and my gloves all laced on. His Father asked that we go barefoot as the mats had poor shoe traction, unlike actual ring canvas. Wearing a pair of black and yellow satin Everlast trunks, and his towel over his shoulder. He looked bigger to me somehow. A black ring of connecting patterns on his right bicep was a new addition, the tattoo made him look tougher. Clearly, he had matured. He gave me a once over and was clearly smirking at me. While his father wrapped his hands with black cloth, he kept on smirking. Brett noticed us looking at each other and chuckled. “Hey Dad, these two are really anxious to duke it out. Might move some of the expensive patio stuff away or it might end up broken.” Brett Sr. shook his head. “Duly noted.” Adam grinned and looked over from his father while the pair of lace up black Everlast gloves were being put on. “I figure if I could kick your ass Brett, a shrimp like Mike won't be much of a challenge.” His Father shook his head, Brett just gawked and when Adam looked in my direction, he saw that my expression had become quickly aggressive. It was a pretty badass comment though. He winked and as soon as his gloves were on tight, he banged them together and grinned, showing his teeth wide. Brett Sr. suggested that we warm up a bit with focus pads and do some stretching. Once we felt read, we would step to the centre of the mats as a signal it was time to box. He would than give us the rule break down. He preferred we kept the rounds two minutes in length and would be going four rounds total. It was our fight, but he was clearly the alpha male and being it was his property the bout was taking place on, he set the rules too. I honestly didn't care, I wanted to punch Adam in his smug face. His Father opted to warm Adam up and Brett took me over to the other side of the mats to warm up. Leaning in while I was throwing jab jab cross hook combos, Brett whispered “You have my permission to knock Adam the fuck out, he deserves it.” He looked over at Adam than back at me and winked, I chuckled. It didn't occur to me to go after Adam that hard though. I didn't even think to ask what level we were going to fight at. I just assumed that it was more exhibition level like more than half output. Brett commented that he could see I had good punching power, quick too. He mixed in some ducking drills and than tagged me to the stomach with the flat part of the pad. Exposing a weakness of mine to ignore my body being open after a duck. “Keep your elbows in man, Adam likes to work the middle” I nodded and than his father asks if we were all set. He came over with a small jar of Vaseline and applied a thin coat of it around my eyes and upper cheeks area. “Just to be on the safe side, no cut-man here.” He smiled and motioned for me to join Adam on the mats, he was already at centre with his gloves up at chest height.

The mats were a bit cold on my feet as I moved up to stand in front of Adam in the centre who was rhythmically tapping his gloves together. He would periodically stop to wind his arms around counterclockwise and go back to tapping. I could feel my cock harden in the plastic cradle of my jock strap and the straps along my inner thigh tightened a bit watching him. The gear made him look a lot tougher and his boyish face didn't have its usual soft overtone now. He looked like a hungry tiger waiting on its next meal. Standing a few feet apart we looked each other over and then locked eyes. He had a serious expression, but it melted into a cocky smirk. Brett Sr. stepped to the side of us and acting like a proper referee told us the ground rules. This was sparring not fighting and we were to keep it at that pace, keep on the mats or return if prompted and in case of a knockdown, to move to the patio chairs which was the neutral zone. He then turned to me “Adam prefers that you guys don't wear headgear, that okay with you? I have my reservations, but I'll allow it.” I agreed. Anything to get this bout going. This guy was talking too much was what crossed through my mind. Brett Sr. grinned and motioned for us to return to our corner stools. Mine was the blue corner. Once there Brett inserted my white mouth guard, and he gave my shoulders and arms a quick limbering up. Brett Sr. got Adam into a black mouth guard, and we were all set to start the boxing match.

I tensed up a bit looking across the black mats at Adam and the realization that we were going to be boxing each other fully set it. One would have thought it would of long before this, but until the gear is on and your across from the other man it isn't as intense. There was a strange ticking at first, counting off ten times and then the timer produced an electronic ding ding ding. Brett Sr. 's voice was clear and loud as he motioned to both of us to box. I crossed the span between us which wasn't that far, and we tapped gloves briefly before we raised them up in defence and the first round was underway. Adam started off the action making forward circular motions with his gloves and then a quick jerk of his left shoulder. I took the bait like a hungry fish and raised my guard up expecting a punch from the left hand, he tagged me instead with the right hand pretty solidly to the stomach just above my belly button. The hardened leather glove putting a dimple into the soft belly as it struck. First taste of his punching power and it was a pretty solid blow. I could see over the top of my gloves that as he delivered that shot his right side (my left) was wide open. I retaliated with an angled left hook that started off like a jab in form. It tagged him to the side of the face near the top of the cheek and he was caught flat footed as he hadn't seen it coming. The black leather glove levelling up against his tanned, rounded cheek was visually amazing to see. His wincing eye partially drooping. This threw off his focus on his second punch and we both pulled back into guard. Several seconds passed as we re-sized up each other and looked for openings. Adam moved in fast with jabs forcing me to guard my face, but my rookie defence left my mid to lower body exposed and he caught me with a solid one-two punch to my solar plexus. The area where the chest meets the stomach. Brett's cautioning words echoed in my head. Stiffness overtook my legs and my lower back locked up like a key had been turned. “Oh man, guard that better Mike” Brett's comments were just loud enough to penetrate my shaken concentration. I looked up to see a blur of black and then the stiff impact of a straight right met my mouth and lips flush and my neck stiffened up. My neck locked up, my lips were mashed flat by the black hardened leather and my eyes turned inward. I could see Adam's “game face” beyond the glove as his focus was paying off in spades. The punch crossed my eyes and produced a couple of white flashy specks of light. If my eyes could have knocked together like in some cartoon show, they would have. I could see Adam's face as my blurry eyes cleared and his smirk return. Seeing white flashes was one thing, but these light specks like when you sneeze to hard were a brand-new experience. His punch had made me see actual “stars” and my mind had very little time to process this information. His punching power would be a problem.

Backing off I got my guard up to defend against what I think were several jabs and missed blocking a strong right uppercut to my stomach. This was a lot harder than the previous body blows. I felt the air in my throat before it escaped my lips in a grunt and my body leaned forward. From the spectator’s point of view my posture showed just how hard the punch had tagged me. Adam had extended his body forward to land that punch and in doing so had put a bit more of his weight behind it. Effective and well placed it made me feel “seasick”, but I didn't want him to see how much it hurt me. Any reservation about going at him because we were old friends was pretty much knocked clean out of me. My only goal this round was to get him back for that and I crossed the gap before he could throw anything else. Right after the body uppercut hit me, he visibly paused to admire my staggered posture and pained expression. He was sure it was in the bag this round. He was pulling up his guard when I landed my first of two jabs flush to his nose and upper lip area. His face contorted out of surprised and the impact of the shots and bobbed his head like bate on a lake. I then pivoted on my right foot and struck him in his own solar plexus with a thumping straight right putting my weight behind the blow. Adam's eyes popped open in a cartoonish manner and his guard sank. Brett commented loudly “Payback time sucker” Adam's face sagged in discomfort and the punch had wiped his smirk off. Not waiting for him to recover, I went after his stomach several more times and my punches went in and slightly up knocking the minor folds of his excess midsection like water on a choppy sea. I had this image of a battleship on his chest being tossed about by the changing waters. Mayday! Mayday! I must have landed five punches in total before his thick arms grappled me and he clinched me hard enough to stop my ability to throw anything. Brett was cheering “Yeah, kick his ass, Mike!” He began hooking the upper right side of my face at short range until Brett Sr. stepped in and pried us apart with hands to our shoulders. “Ok guys come on, break it up here.” just after we separated Adam landed two good jabs to my face the second one tagging my nose and my eyes watered up fast as a familiar stinging sensation followed. The hits made me take steps backward, but I recovered and moved inside. The triple tick tick tick of the ten second mark sounded almost like a signal. Striking Adam in return to his chest with a few left jabs which were a bit weak, I was going to try and catch him with a right hook, but it was poorly executed, and he dipped under it and this time used his left hand to uppercut to my stomach hard. My mouth pulled tight into a letter “o” and my eyes both popped open. I had the classic “bowling ball” expression. “Damn!” was all Brett could reply. The electronic timer sounded, and the round ended on me still stunned from the shot. My mouth guard showing as I winced, and Brett Sr. helped me back to my stool. “Walk it off Mike, good round both of you.” he commented “Like watching a professional fight.” Sitting down in the folding chair I kept near the front edge because my back was stiff. Adam knew his boxing for sure. These body punches were causing me long term distress and after taking a sip of water I spit it out a bit slowly. Money in the bank as they say in boxing. Work the body and in time it pays off. Brett Sr. checked that I was good for the second round, and I raised my right glove to signify that I was. He was supposed to be attending Adam, but time didn't permit that to be switched up now. Brett was over by Adam working his corner and patting him on the back, but I didn't hear any audible advice. Adam clearly won that round, but it wasn't at least lopsided. I saved some face by returning some of my own body blows but his duck and counter work was clearly showing our lack in skill level. This felt like the prelude to a real glove war to come though as I am both Irish and Scottish and both sides of me are there to do battle.

The electronic triple knock sound which meant ten seconds till the next round went off and I stood up. Adam was already standing and tapping his gloves together. That same eagerness to fight covering the expression on his face. Brett Sr. grinned as he re-inserted my newly washed mouth guard and the chime just after he reached the middle of the mats the timer bell went off. “Ok guys, Box!” He made a hand gesture as he spoke this to indicate we should meet and touch gloves. We both got to the centre of the mats pretty quickly and this time we tapped just the one glove before raising hands and starting up the second round. Adam's training was showing now as he was in tight defensive stance with his hands held close together and up at nose level in the peek-a-boo style. Mine were up but not as close together and my elbows weren't in the right position to parry with. I jabbed first though, went right after his face like the gloves weren't even in the way thinking he might relax them as he avoided my shots. He just defended them with his guard and hardened leather met hardened leather with its distinct sound, as I was going to throw my right cross off the third jab that was blocked, Adam sidestepped still in tight formation and pounded the back of my ribs with a great left hook. He pivoted off this punch and struck me now to the side of my jaw with another left hook which sank hard into my cheek area. No time to even process the pain in my ribs area from he is opening hook, his jaw hook replaced my head with the first strands of cob webbing. This made me cover up properly and I took two steps backward before moving counterclockwise. Adam threw another punch that fell short by mere inches to my nose. “Quick feet on Mike, stick and move bro.” Brett called in a commanding tone. Whose side was this clown on anyway. Having moved out of range it forced Adam to come to me to retry his punches but as soon as he was in range, I threw out punches to the face and body. Left jab high, straight right low, left jab high and right hook low. Forcing him to pick an area not to be hit. He opted to block the body work and took the face jabs to his chin. Spittle flew off his lip and his neck locked up. I felt like I was hitting a doubled ended bag at some gym, seeing bullseyes on various places. In the zone. His eyes were a bit glassy now. Not giving him an inch, I put my hip into a right hook that caught him just to the lower part of his temple and side of forehead. This shot rocked him, and he made a kind of angular stepping motion before falling forward to land on a shaky knee with both gloved hands down propping him up like a track runner waiting for the gun to go off. Brett Sr. signalled me to go off the mats over by Brett which I did. I was looking at Adam, the knockdown was a shock to Adam, and it showed. Brett patted me hard on the back. “That was a great shot! He's hearing the birds now” Brett Sr. gave Brett a disapproving look that I noticed, and Brett looked away sheepishly.

Adam shook his head free of the cobwebs a minute or so later and stood up. Brett Sr. held his gloves and held up some fingers. Then he gave him a proper standing eight count. Nodding he motioned for me to return and the round to resume. The knockdown shook Adam up a lot. He was a lot more defensive now and I was the aggressor going after his exposed ribs and stomach every chance I got but those magic bullseyes were gone. Several of my body blows made him double forward and grunt or groan. Looks like I had just opened up my own bank account fucker. Toward the end of the round however I was getting a bit sloppy through my sudden burst of over confidence and two of my direct shots to his eye and nose area were both deflected, and he counter punched me hard to the chin with a straight right that made me stagger and sway. The backyard was like someone had put it in a blender and hit the spin button. A heavy-handed shot struck my solar plexus as it did in the first round and my back, hips and legs all felt like someone had turned them into a cement block. Adam kept the pressure on landing a couple of good face punches and in the mix a few to my right eye that started the road to blackening. The hardened gloves blocking out my face like some strange eclipse and hitting my eye like a wrecking ball.

Then like he had taped a stick of dynamite to my chin and lit the fuse, BLAMMO! He dipped down and pivoted to land a classic right uppercut flush to my jaw. Having seen how a good uppercut causes the opponents face to sag and frown up greatly. I figured that was how I looked. Both eyes were shut tight, and my jaw was bending to take the shape of his rounded glove. Everything went from a burst of blurry vision and a huge mass of those light specks flew off everywhere. His arm still up completing the punch, then his face, then his chest all a bit out of focus but these lights dancing all around and then something cool and strange hit my entire body in several spots. The mat. I flopped forward and had stuck it flush. Arms at my sides, ass up as my knees locked. My ears filled with a vacuum like rushing sound and all other sounds seemed to be coming from a great distance. I wasn't fully unconscious, but I was very close to that state of confusion and my scrambled brain wasn't able to clear things up to be any help in beating the ten counts. Adam had just knocked me the fuck out with one masterful uppercut bomb. Brett Sr. got me laid down, and Brett assisted in getting the smelling salts out of the first aid kit. I came too still blurry but my vision clearing to all three of them standing over me and I was lying on the sweat spotted mat head tilted back slightly. My mouth guard had been pulled out and thick clear spit flowed out now from my agape mouth. Brett Sr. had a deeply pallor complexion. Adam was asking if I was ok, and he was apologizing for punching me that hard. Brett was slightly smirking. I could see it, but I didn't say anything about it. I was too busy watching the last of the stars dance before my eyes. Once my head fully cleared, I assured Brett Sr. I was okay. He had gotten an ice pack for my shiner. I got to my feet and gave Adam a strong handshake. Gave him his respect. Sitting down in one of the patio chairs while Brett handed me a beer once my gloves were off. I never saw that uppercut coming.

The End ~

Daniel didn't make the connection that their stopping the fight was related to his spying. Having parked the cleaning cart off to his left-hand side it formed an unintentional barrier now as the room door was pulled open suddenly. He could only pull himself up off the milk crate partially before the strong bodied Hispanic guy walked through the door almost in slow motion in his mind. The shock of being discovered threw Daniel off and as he was standing up he bumped hard into the cart. Carlos felt the cold winter air on his sweaty torso but his adrenaline was flowing at full steam and his focus was only one thing. Once he had range to throw a shot, he sank his gloved right hand deep into the pit of Daniel's stomach area, knocking the wind from his lungs and stunning him. Again, he landed another deep stomach punch. This one caused the younger man to falter and sag a bit. Pulling him into a reverse arm headlock, he dragged him toward the open motel door and stopped once past the threshold to push the young man into Chet's waiting arms. Soon as he was in range, Chet struck the younger man with a quick left uppercut. Daniel's face in the process of turning red from the tight grip of the headlock was jolted backward from this new blow. The power however was a bit more then intended and it knocked him loose from the grip as he took two staggering steps backward and fell into the nearby chair. Carlos shut the door quickly before anyone saw them and turned to face the spy now in their midst. Looking up at the two boxers before him and glancing back to the room door, Daniel's mind raced to figure out how to get the fuck out of this situation. Chet took a step closer, banging his gloves together rhythmically. “So, you like to watch the fights, huh fucker?” his voice was edged with malice and it rode up Daniel's spine like a locomotive. “Uhh, well no I just understood something clearly at last on in here as I am the main cleaner. I didn't know anyone was using the room till I looked in the window.” He kept from making full eye contact, this guy looked mean. Carlos looked the younger man over, he was lean and probably had a cut physique. He imagined him sitting there wearing boxing gear, thick brown gloves, and dark blue trunks with white trim. Daniel hadn't moved the phone camera and these two guys didn't know about it so this was still being recorded. “Hey Chet, I think we should let him go. I mean he has cleaning to do and I have cleaning your clock to take care of still.” Carlos laughed heartily now and banged his own gloves together as if to add a period to the sentence. Chet smirked. His narrow mouth twisting up slightly at the edges. “No no, he wants to “get out of here” he has to earn his freedom” taking his left glove off, he walked over to the hotel door and turned the lock as well as applying the chain lock. Walking back in front of the younger man he grabbed him aggressively by the collar of his shirts with his un-gloved hand and pulled him up to his feet. “So, kid, who are you going to fight to get out of this room? Me? Him?” Last 3 rounds and you’re out, score a knockdown and you’re out but get knocked down or out yourself.” Chet's smirk was so edged now with malice it gave his face such a sinister expression even Carlos was a bit unnerved by it. “Well if you lose, I won't ruin the surprise if that happens.” Looking over the two men he sized them up as to which might be the easier to take on and outlast. Chet, the Caucasian guy was strong looking but the uppercut to the face wasn't as bad as the stomach shots he had taken hits from the unnamed Hispanic guy and those were solid even through his jacket a clothing. Daniel swallowed hard. His mind raced “Fuck fuck, which one to choose.” he fidgeted a bit in his seat and was about to speak his choice when a voice broke the awkward silence. A tinny sounding intercom sprang to life coming from the ceiling above them. What looked like a smoke detector was in fact a cleverly disguised two-way microphone. “Carlos, pick up the phone if you would.” the voice was older sounding. Chet had no clue who that was. Taking off his glove, Carlos walked over to the phone on a small table in the far corner and picked up the receiver.

Daniel fidgeted a bit more but then he seemed to relax in his seat. Looking up at as he stood up now he put up his hands in a gesture of none aggression and slowly pulled of his jacket. Chet looked over at Carlos on the phone taking his eyes of of the younger man. “Understood. If that is what he wants then I will follow your orders.” Hanging up the receiver, he turned to the two of them and his expression was a bit different. “Change of plans Daniel, your going to get to fight Chet here and I will be the prize when you knock him out.” Turning to look at Daniel, the expression on the man's face was completely different. The scared rabbit expression was more like a hungry wolf now. “Oh, whoa. Who the fuck just talked to us.” He motioned at the smoke detector with his gloved hand. “Change of plans? You fucking bean and rice eating son of a bitch....is this a set up?” Daniel smirked as he started to take off his clothing and Carlos ignored Chet all together as he walked over to the closet and opened the door to reveal a small paper shopping bag. Pulling out the contents it was a set of boxing gear. Shoes, trunks, gloves and a small box containing a white mouth guard. Chet's mind failed to process all of this and part of him was becoming so angry at being deceived that the urge to fight grew too strong for him to ignore. “Oh okay, well suit up then junior. Going to give you a real good ass whooping and then I will be the one taking Carlo's immigrated ass over the side of this chair here.” Both Daniel and Carlos exchanged looks of disbelieving. Chet began to flex his arms and swing his arms in rotating circular motions to loosen them up. He began to shadowbox in place, his quick punches flicking about the space like the tongue of a snake. Daniel stripped down to his black boxer shorts was a lean semi cut-bodied man with a rose tattoo on the right side of his chest just above a thin smattering of hair. It was devoid of color save for a single red blood drop falling from the edge. His upper left arm was also tattooed with a similar rose but this one had the pattern of the American flag. Chet felt like he had seen these before. Once his socks and black/red boots were on he unfolded his trunks. Red with black trim and a thick black waistband. The word “The Thorn” was written in some stencil like font. He pulled the trunks on and they hugged the lower part of his stomach securely. Mere inches below his navel line. His gloves were also red/black but they had a strange filmy looking sheen to the rounded part near the top. This reminded Chet of candle wax. He still felt like he had heard this fight name before, these tattoos were also so familiar. Daniel noticed Chet looking intently. “Don't worry man, just a bit of cleaner I use to preserve these. It won't cause you any problems, but I sure will.” the cocky tone to his voice was just more motivation for Chet to knock the shit out of this lighter guy. “I like this “new” you kid and I am sure going to enjoy fucking up that handsome face. Maybe I won't fully knock you out so you can watch how I ass rape this wetback two-faced asshole and teach you how to top a man the right way.” Carlos let out a loud cackle. “You are so full of yourself Chester. I promise you I will take some photos of you knocked out in round or so. Daniel is going to enjoy this.” Chet made a distasteful gesture with his tongue and the thumb and edge of his glove as the location for it and then gave an arm over arm fuck you sign as he walked over to his corner on the far side of the motel room. He held his black mouth guard in his left glove awaiting the signal to shove it in and put up his dukes for the coming fight. Carlos walked over to Daniel and before putting in the white mouth guard, he deeply French kissed the younger man and slowly turned his face to fix Chet with a look as to say, “want a taste of this sucker” Chet made a gesture with his right glove over his nose like something smelled bad in the room and he pushed his own plastic guard over his lips and into place. Carlos fiddled with the timer and announced it was set for four rounds. Daniel nodded and raised his arms into defensive stance. He glanced over at the window where a small device sat recording the visual but not audio setting and the timer emitted a triple knock to indicate ten seconds till the first round began.

Mere seconds after the timer filled the small room with its sound there was sudden motion and Carlos moved back almost into the wall out of reflex. Daniel held his gloves up with the underside facing forward and like a frog catching a fly he intercepted the double jab that Chet tried to land on his face. One...two. Both gloves were swatted off course and neutralized. Chet had gotten so close to Carlos on his initial movement that it seemed as if he might strike him instead. He was just avoiding a straight line into his opponent and using the angles to deliver the initial punches of the round. Next, he stepped in to land a straight punch to the stomach area but Daniel pulled back by bending at his upper back and that failed to hit him as well. He simply tapped the top of Chet's head with the tip of his glove like “tag...your it” He was toying with the older guy. Several more shots were either blocked or slipped and Daniel did a bit of fancy footwork, sort of like a cha cha cha. Chet was growing frustrated by the second with this lanky fucker, time to feign in and catch this asshole flat footed. Pretending he was going to come straight in with a straight right, at the last second, he pulled to the left and executed a hard-left hook to the body. It met lowered elbow and forearm and it too was blocked. Then without hesitation two jabs, a left hook, and a straight right to the mouth all pounded into Chet's face. Hard and accurate the punches stiffened his neck and after the hook knocked it to the side the right hand smashed into his right eye, gliding off the edge of the socket. That was going to leave a nice shiner. Quick as Daniel had struck Chet, he moved around him now with his gloves up in tight defense. Chet's face was red from embarrassment, frustration, and the impact of the shots. He had enough. Charging in blindly though to hopefully land a punch would just put him back in this fucker's control. It was evident this guy's speed was twice that of his and the shots weren't light on power but hurt him more than he was visibly showing. There was one technique left, something he picked up from a Marine boxer he used to spar with. Pulling his guard tight in a peek-a-boo formation, he made small arc like motions back and forth like drawing a smile in the air. Daniel didn't recognize this tactic and became slightly less comfortable with how Chet was behaving suddenly. He wasn't coming in range but instead rocking back and forth. This had Daniel as the attacker now and he didn't like to fight that way. Moving forward now he looked to pull off his own feign and catch Chet to the body with several good shots and hopefully tag his solar plexus or the side of his chest which if done correctly would disrupt his lungs from both angles. He had the speed advantage clearly so he didn't worry about Chet getting him before the shots were delivered and he would be backing off if some did land after the fact so he would pull the power off them. Stepping forward he got within range of punching and lowered his guard to seem like he was being careless, inviting the jarhead to strike at his face. There was some psychological imperative to hit your opponent's face when given the choice over upper or lower targets. Like an insult to them on some level. Chet came straight now and his eye contact was on Daniel's upper chest area. He arched his right shoulder as if that was where the first shot was going to be delivered from. Daniel took the bait and went diagonal dipping down to duck under the high shot and fire off a volley of shots the Chet's body. Chet wasn't there though. He had gone along the opposite diagonal and he whipped out his left hook to pound into the side of Daniels exposed rib area. The shock of the punch and its power caused the younger man to part his arms and expose a nice path to this chest and solar plexus. Chet pounded the chest first with a hard-straight right and all the “pumping motion” he was doing before that had boosted the shots power. Catching Daniel in mid breath, the force of the Marines right hand assaulted his lungs. Air caught in his throat like a bubble and he lurched forward. His eyes were both large and semi-bulbous now. Caught in a reverse gambit he was stunned and his face was open season. Chet went right to landing shots to the face, jab jab, cross, jab. The shots belted the nose and upper lip area. A small drop of blood slid out of the right nostril. Striking the right eye with his own right hand, the glove mashed into the eye socket and forced the eyeball to retract as the lids closed to protect it. Daniel would have a black eye from this too. Touché mother fucker was the expression on his face while Daniel took a step back and got his guard up tight again to avoid more blows. The timer ended the first round.

Walking over to his corner, Chet spat his mouth guard out into his right glove and took a long swig of water from the bottle sitting there. Daniel got back to his corner and Carlos rushed over like his bitch to help him clear his mouth guard. Chet sat down but with his legs spread out and his forearms propped up on the sides of the chair. He poured some water from the bottle on the center of his chest and watched it glide down his stomach and onto his satin trunks. He knew Daniel was staring at him from across the room. Carlos had his back to Chet and was saying something in hushed tones. The two fighters exchanged glances and Chet's smirk was met with Daniel's intense expression “Next round asshole” was what it was saying and the Marines smirk was replying “Yeah, come get some kid.” Pouring some water on his hair now, he shook his head to get it to spray off. He then drew in what seemed like a deep breath but it was a thick wad of saliva. Ejecting it onto his right glove, he worked it in good with his left one so that both gloves were lubricated with it. He banged them together now to emphasis this for Daniel's watching expression. The younger man held up his own gloves, fist side outward to show off that strange waxy like sheen. He then made the gesture of jerking off and it was then that Chet realized what that was.... old dried cum. This fucking son of a bitch. His face went red with anger and he got up off his chair. Bouncing in place he jammed his mouth guard back into his pie hole and pointed at Daniel with his right glove, then banged them together again. Daniel stood up and had this “come get it” face on when the second-round bell sounded. Carlos got away from the two of them again, he wasn't going to play referee at all. He had a side view of the two men now and both had a nice bruise under their right eyes. When they met near the center of the room, Chet was on the offensive coming hard at Daniel who was blocking but being hit so hard that he was having trouble maintaining his guard and had to start slipping shots. He did this flawlessly again and started to tag Chet's body with hard hooks each time the overzealous puncher missed. These were quickly taking their toll and forcing the older man to either get angrier and careless or smart and go on the defensive. Clearly the guard of one and the mental state of the other were in a strange tug-of-war now and one was going to fail. Daniel got in a shot over the guard and caught Chet's nose knocking a drop of blood loose. He got in a good left to the temple too and Chet staggered a bit but ducked the next hook there before he was fully dazed. That shot would have been a clock cleaner and possibly the knockout blow for Daniel. Grabbing the leaner guy in a tight clinch, Chet looped his arm over Daniels neck pulling him into a reverse headlock and he turned him quickly in a 360-degree loop. Carlos started to step in to break it up but the look he got from Chet had him stay put. His head pulled low, the blood rush caused Daniel to get slightly disoriented and it was enough. He staggered toward the window side of the room and suddenly a right uppercut leveled off under his chin and he saw a white flash of light. He was stood up but this hit and too dizzy to duck properly. Chet stepped in close, landing left and right hooks to the body and forcing Daniel's lean body to lurch forward. Then a left uppercut was delivered along the chest and up to the jaw. The room exploded in white light in Daniel's watery eyes. He pulled his arms instinctively up to guard his face and just as his elbows cleared his midsection he was treated to a hard set of left/right punches to the stomach. Glove over glove, Chet's barrage of shots shook the man's body and had his chin bobbing back and forth, a look of pure discomfort on his face. Carlos had to get in there and disrupt this or Daniel was finished. The body hits were like out of an old kung Fu movie. He half expected to see Daniel cough up blood. Taking a step back to admire his opponent, Chet seemed to know that Carlos was moving toward them. Once in range he quickly struck out and caught him flush on the jaw with a quick one two...Carlos stopped, and a hook to his right temple dropped him to the carpeted floor...out cold. “Nah, you’re not getting involved asshole. Stay put.” Chet spoke the words through his mouth guard so they came out muffled. Daniel moved back and was semi recovered from the head shots now. Chet moved toward him and with one good shot he planted his right hook to the jaw and took the kids mouth guard out in a hail of spit and sweat flying. Daniel went down.

Daniels mind struggled to clear out he webs that Chet's punches had created. He lay on his back now on the carpet semi aware. His stomach ached so badly he thought he might vomit. He could hear Chet's voice but it sounded like it was far away, like someone yelling at you from across a busy street. “Get up, come on let’s keep going your lanky fucker.” Suddenly a watery substance greeted his facial skin. It was warm and had a very odd smell. Like someone had hit a reset button in his brain he recovered enough to realize that he was being urinated on. His eyes popped open. Pure anger and humiliation filled his mind now and stayed the sensations of pain to his jaw and stomach. Chet could tell he was coming around and stopped peeing long enough to pull up his trunks. “Yeah exactly, wakey wakey punk. You have another round in you, I know you do.” Chet leaned over the younger man and cleaned off his gloves with a wet towel. No telling how long he was semi-conscious but it was enough time for Chet to remove the cum and knock Carlos out and prop him up in a nearby chair and taped his wrists to it with the tape used over hand wraps. “Yeah, get up and clear all the cobwebs out. This last round is for stakes fucker. First man down loses and gives up his ass.” Daniel took out his mouth guard and spit a glob of red tinged spit into a nearby ice bucket. “Good...you’re going to pay for fucking pissing on me.” Daniel roared the words. Chet smiled and tapped his gloves together. “Get your mouthpiece in bitch, ShowTime.” Once he had, the two men circled each other like a spider and a scorpion locked in deadly combat. Forgoing any tactics this time, Daniel just wanted to land punches and was willing to go toe to to with the jarhead to do it. Chet liked an old-fashioned fight and was more than happy to forgo defense for the sake of smacking this lanky fucker back down to the carpet below. The first shots were from Daniel, quick double jab to the face and a good solid right cross to the already bruised right eye. Chet returned with a good left hook to the body and a straight right to the solar plexus that was partially blocked but still managed to catch Daniel in the sore spot. His face made a grimace of discomfort and it was removed by a straight right dead center as Chet stiffened the younger man's neck up. It was a solid hit but Daniel wasn't as stunned by as he let on, and once the other man was in range he stopped playing possum and delivered his own set up uppercuts to Chet's flat jaw line. Left first, pause then right caused his eyes to wince shut and his head to bob slightly. Those rocked him clearly. Wasting no time, Daniel struck at the body and in almost similar fashion to the assault he was punished with earlier, he got to work on his payback. Using hard rib hooks mixed with glove over glove shots to the central body, he stiffened the older man’s back up. Methodical shots to the body could reach the level of pain that would end a fight but Daniel didn't want a body KO here so he backed off to focus on the head instead. Chet was guarding it like it was made of gold or something though. Daniel feigned in a head shot but dipped and pounded the solar plexus with enough force to cause Chet to lean forward. Then out of nowhere he connected with a hard-overhand right to the forehead and edge of temple and this shot visibly rocked Chet's noggin. His hands dropped and in his dizzy state he was too out of it to pull them back up. Jab, jab, jab. The three hits lifted his chin up into range of a follow up right hook. The black and red glove mashed hard into the tanned jaw line and Chet's head snapped to the side. Next a left hook came in and the punch followed past the jaw to turn the man's neck the other way pushing his chin to his shoulder. Two more hits to the eye sealed it with a good shiner. Daniel stepped in and forced Chet to lean on him while he pounded away at the body. Shot after shot shaking the increasingly limp body. Chet's eyes were still closed tightly and his jaw biting down hard on the mouth guard from pain when Daniel's final four punches landed. A hard-left uppercut that snapped his head up and back, a left hook just below the ear that shook his face and ejected spit from his guard, a right cross that tagged his lips solid and the final punch a right uppercut that sent Chet falling backward to the floor...as his body hit home his mouth guard was pushed up and out by a torrent of bloody spit and ooze. Unconscious now he was prime for a good ass fucking and Carlos was awaking just in time to see it all happen.

Henry Lakewood shot his way around the time that Daniel was landing the hook and straight shots to Chet’s body. Cleaning up he looked over at the screen and the total attendance online for the match was 259 people. An instant message box popped up from FightGuy4All. “Very good. Chet Donnelly had this coming and my client is very satisfied with the outcome. Make sure you pay Carlos and Daniel and I will be in touch. Oh, and leave Chet in his car bound and gagged. I have someone coming to take care of that.” The message box closed automatically when the connection was dropped. Henry smiled and lit up a cigar, taking a long puff, he looked up at the monitors and saw the limp and badly beaten face of Chet was directly below the camera. “Lights out asshole.... lights out.”

The late evening skies were heavily jacketed by thick gray clouds still producing a steady stream of snowflakes. Nearly 10 o'clock at night and the few cars slotted in the parking area beside the twin leveled building were all covered with a layer of powder, except one. A chocolate brown Ford GTO with a tan stripe sat idling here. The heat of the engine melting the flakes as soon as they fell and the internal heat handled that which attempted to land on the front and back windshields. The driver watched a room on the second floor for the darkened window to become illuminated by a lamp within and a sign to be posted against the glass. Chet Donovan bit the edge of his thick cigar and illuminated his angular face with the orange glow as he took a good drag. His close-cut brown hair was thick near the center and stood up a bit. He wore a black leather jacket over an army green button-down shirt and that was open to expose a low-cut white tank top. The undershirt dipped down to sit just above his solar plexus an inch or two and his muscular chest which was adorned in a small patch of brown chest hair was exposed to the light as well. He had the look of a guy who had been a lanky guy at one time but grew into his body, his pointed chin and button nose gave him a semi-boyish face. Thick eyebrows had been trimmed a bit to angle and give his face a harder edge at 32 years old he looked a bit younger than that. He liked to think he was the best-looking guy in the world. Chet's ego was healthy and gaining weight since he releases from the Marine Corps. He hadn't been to this motor inn before but they were generic. This would be his sixth match this year taking place in this kind of venue. Staring up at the window again he grinned. His wide mouth formed a smirking shape as he saw that the light was on and the number 6 was posted. “Six it is you fucking bean and rice eating son of a bitch.” Chet's voice had a strong masculine reverb here in the interior of his GTO. He spoke the words in a mocking tone though. Leaning back over the leather seat, he grabbed a dark green and gold gym bag and took a moment to turn off the car and seal the window. Getting out of the car he slung the bag over his right shoulder, holding it with his thick fingers by both straps at once. Climbing two sets of dark wooden steps to the second-floor landing, he puffed twice more on his cigar and flicked the remaining bit over the edge to land in a thick blanket of snow near some type of thorny bush. His free hand, thick and strong looking reached up and gave the door to room 16 three good rapid knocks. The door slowly receded after the final rap of his knuckles upon the cheap wood like material. A voice from inside came suddenly through the small gap. “Your just in time white boy, ready for an ass kicking I hope.” Chet grinned as he pushed the door wide open, stepped inside and gave it a good hard shove with the bottom of his left boot. Taking in the room before him he shifted his attention to the door itself, slipped the metal flip bar and locked the door lock as well. “Smart thinking chico Blanco, don't want you taking off like a little gatto during the action.” Chet turned from the door to the source of the voice taunting him. Taking his free hand, he reached down and grabbed the crotch of his tan military cargo pants and pulled it up. “I won't be leaving before you take a good long suck on my cock, you are fucking bean farmer.”

Standing across the motels medium sized room was Carlos Montoya, 29 years old and in very similar shape body wise to Chet. His facial features seemed like a mix of Hispanic and possibly Irish. The reality was that he had some Irish blood but he was nearly one hundred percent Mexican. His dark brown and gold complexion illustrated that. His brown eyes very dark almost black, thick black hair of his beard and that on his chest were thick and mane like. He had a similar button nose and brow to Chet’s' own though and this is where he might be construed as a half breed by an ignorant person. Standing here he was stripped fully bare except for white cotton jock strap with red and blue lines along the waistband. He had on a pair of white leather boxing boots the high kind and white socks that stuck over the edge. Chet looked him over for a moment. “That's why I grabbed my crotch, after seeing what your packing it’s the only real cock in this room.” He looked left to a small waste basket near a badly upholstered chair and spit like it was the period to his sentence. Carlos rubbed at his own crotch for a moment before replying. “Fuck you Blanco, you’re going to learn all about my skills with my fists soon enough. Get your shit on and let's get this boxing underway.” Chet looked around. The room was roughly thirty by twenty dimension wise. The bed was gone completely leaving the two night tables on either side without a purpose. This left a good 15×20 space between the back wall and two chairs and a table near the door. “Did you send the mattress to your mother, I mean she should get a new one for that back alley anyhow.” looking at Carlos as he said this, Chet grinned. “Another wise ass remark Blanco you will pay for.” Slowly he began to wrap his hands in bands of cloth, which were used to secure the knuckles while boxing and keep the wrist from getting damaged. “My friend works here, he had the bed removed for cleaning for a little extra cash from me. We have enough space to get this shit going. My hands are aching to punch that handsome face of yours Chester.” Tensing his neck muscles, he gave Carlos a mean glare “You’re going to get dropped like your wages, your migrant worker son of a bitch” he then went back to unzipping his gym bag and removing its contents before he started wrapping his own hands in black. The other chair had a pair of black Reyes 12-ounce boxing gloves, Mexican flag satin trunks and matching mouth guard. Taking out his own gear and placing it on the chair he had his own pair of medium brown 12 ounce Tuf-Wear brand gloves, blue trunks with gold waistband and an American flag on the right leg. He also had a white mouth guard and black hand wraps and lastly a pair of white boxing boots with gold laces. Chet stripped down to his white boxer briefs but left his boot socks on. Carlos brought out a scale from the bathroom and placed it in the center of the room. Standing a few inches from each other, they were nearly twins in height and relative body type. Carlos was a bit smaller in chest and shoulders though. Staring at each other intently, they raised their hands and gripped each other firmly by the other hands. Nodding, they started a small test of strength. The first to force the other one down to his knee was the winner. Each phase of the coming action was carefully planned beforehand and each man knew the consequences for failure. He would have to suck the others cock. Carlos threw in that it would start with a nice bathing of the testicles before the loser had to put the shaft in his mouth till the timer went off. Staring at each other now, dark brown eyes looking deep into dark green ones. They started to struggle against each other their forearms tensing up under the pressure. Bearing their teeth as their necks strained Chet as well was forced down, his arms shaking from the downward momentum. Once his hands were free he pounded his right fist on the floor. “No fucking way!” he stayed on one knee while Carlos set a nearby timer for three minutes and returned to position his crotch in Chet's face. “Yes way, get to sucking on this dick.”

Dropping to both knees from the one, Chet gripped the sides of Carlos' strong thighs with his wrapped hands and drew his face closer into the crotch area. Extending a longer then natural tongue from his pursed lips, he caressed the underside of the testicles with enough force to lift them up and draw them into his waiting mouth. They both fit easily and he began to suck on them with his entire mouth. Carlos felt his whole body becoming fully relaxed and his penis became fully erect rubbing up against Chet's forehead. Taking some time to properly wash each side of the ball sack, he reached over with his right hand and took hold of Carlo's cock by the shaft. Sliding his mouth free of the testicles, Chet licked the underside of the penis head. “Yeah you like that fucker.” He spoke the words in a whispering tone not one of malice but more of sexual stimulation. Carlos nodded. Then the shaft was drawn deep into his waiting mouth. His unnaturally long tongue acted like a sort of blanket as it wrapped around the underside. A mix of musty sweat and flesh covered Chet's taste buds as he began to work the thick appendage back and forth like sawing a log. The various states of warmth, moisture and pressure were nearly close to overloading Carlo's mind. Chet suddenly pulled his mouth free of the cock and stood up. He moved faster than expected and was in time to watch Carlos open his eyes slowly and the fresh expression of fading pleasure cover his face. Chet stepped over to the small table between the two chairs and picked up one of the ice buckets. He rinsed and spit. “Well that's about all of the free preview you’re going to get. Let the boxing decide what happens next ahhh-mee-go.” He pronounced the word amigo like he was mocking each vowel sound. Placing the bucket on the floor he dragged the chair at an angle to form his corner for the fight. Carlos did the same, taking his chair to the far corner. “Get suited up Blanco, your ass kicking is getting cold.” They both took some time getting all set. Trunks, boots on they each had their mouth guards in hand. Opting to just box without the headgear, it blocked the view of the punches hitting the head and they both liked seeing that. Carlos took out some waters and handed two over. He took out a small electronic timer. “We are going rounds or just till I drop you fool?” he didn't bother to turn around to see the look on Chet's face. “Let's go rounds, that way you can reflect each break just how nice my punches feel wetback.” Adjusting the timer to time them for 6 rounds at 2 minutes in duration, Carlos set the break time for one-and-a-half-minute rest periods. Neither of them needed more than the standard minute but he liked to rub his crotch and fuck with his opponent’s head during the extra time. The timer had a nice voice activation feature that responded to the word “box” Picking up his gloves, and walking to the middle of the carpeted area Carlos met Chet there. They got their gloves on and applied the Velcro fastening. Shoving the mouth guards into their waiting gaps, each locked eye with the other and smirked. Carlos turned his head and spoke through the front hole. “Box!” he said this loud enough that the timer made a clicking sound, nine more till the first round was underway. The only rule was that they keep within the chairs and away from the walls. That would hinder footwork but this wasn't a boxing ring nor was it for some large group of people to enjoy. Fancy wasn't going down here. Just a good old-fashioned fight.

The last tick of the timer had just sounded when Carlos stepped forward into an oncoming left jab that Chet had begun to throw. Slipping it like it was moving in slow motion, he fired off two stiff shots of his own and connected both times to Chet's chin and lower mouth. Immediate gratification filled his mind. The first punch landed was a small victory in boxing, like setting the flag on a new moon or planet or in this case this asshole's chin. The shots were stiff enough to jar Chet's neck a bit. They were also so fast that his failed to process except to get his gloves up to guard his face. The gloves blocked the thinking expression on his face and Carlos might have noticed he was being baited into going to the body now. He took it. Dipping forward he attempted to pummel Chet's stomach just above the belly button with straight left and right punches. His guard compromised as he began to throw the shots and equally as fast as the double jabs had connected, a powerful left jab and right cross combination tagged Carlos in the lip and nose areas. He still managed to sink his first shot into Chester's abdominal muscles but they were very well conditioned and the punch didn't have the desire affect. Jarred by taking two surprise face punches, he found himself thrown off long enough to receive a couple of good punches to his own body. The former marine had struck him near the edge of his ribs, and the solar plexus area. Stinging of his nose and sharp aching of his body seemed to mix now. He took a step back but ducked instead of leaning back with his gloves tight to his face area. This was a great ploy, because Chester had an incoming hook miss as it sailed over Carlos's head. Stepping into the punch it left his own body open and with a great amount of force, a straight right smashed into the solar plexus causing the marines pecs to shake from the force. Chet's eyes popped then pulled tight into a wince. Carlos began to pummel the midsection with left and right punches, rocking his head back and forth with the rhythm. The leather gloves pulled into thick balls smashed into abdominal muscles, flesh, and some fat rocking them all into small dimples. Chet bared his mouth guard as he tried to stomach the punishment. His arms began to grow heavy and began to lean forward from the onset of stomach ache when a straight right parted his gloves and crashed with a thwap! sound into his jaw dead center on the chin. The button as it’s called. His lips curled up and his eyes remained winced shut. Disorientation took its toll on his mind and deep down his tough military training was struggling to bring his focus around double time. Carlos shuffled back and forth with a good bit of personal rhythm on his foot work. He only needed to get an inch more between Chet's guard to deliver his dropping shot. “Come on fucker, loosen it up” was what he thought when he struck at the body again but thick forearms met his gloves and stopped the start of the assault cold. Perhaps desperate to not have his strategy over turned, Carlos tried to land a solid right uppercut to the jaw flush. Chet leaned in time to dodge it connecting at all and as the right glove sailed upward past his field of vision, time seemed to hang for a moment. He had an opening and took it. Dipping down he brought up his left hand into a similar uppercut and it struck Carlos flush under the jaw and his head seemed to quiver. Thump! The stern expression folded into one of surprise and pain and as his eyes began to open a right hook leveled off on the side of his face and jaw. Carlos turned to look off into nothing as he dropped to the carpeted floor below.

Chet rolled his gloves one over the other and pumped the right one out in front of him several times in bravado. “Yeah, how’s the rug taste es-say” he pronounced the word ese' with emphasis on the a sound on purpose. More mockery. Carlos got his head clear of the hooks effect and striking the floor and in seconds he was back on his feet but his vision wasn't fully aligned. The protocol for a knockdown was standing 8 count once up then glove tap and back to action. Carlos didn't make eye contact with Chester while he counted off the 8 through his mouth guard. The sarcasm of his tone over each of the numbers was apparent though. It was tough to be the first one down. He knew better to underestimate Chet's punches but he was too focused on making the other man look foolish and tagging the face was all he cared about. Giving him, a black eye was priority one. Seven. Carlos broke off his thinking and readied his gloves for the tap. The final number called and the tap came. He jabbed out and struck brown gloves instead of the face or eye area. Chet looked to land a punch to Carlos's stomach are after blocking the punches and the timer indicated only ten seconds left in the background put some urgency into his plan of attack. He had to instead fold his elbows in close to his ribs to defend against a barrage of punches to his own body. Carlos caught him twice to the abdominal area. The round bell went off. Walking back to their chairs, they sat down and each pulled off a glove to be able to get water and wash out their mouths. The mouth guard forced the inner wall to produce a lot of saliva and some of it was lying in a small thread on the carpet. Chet could see it in the lamp light. Once the guard was out he taunted “Oh man, you really dropped like a busted elevator Chicano.” laughing he waved his gloved hand at Carlos then grabbed his crotch. Sticking out his unnaturally long tongue he wiggled it mockingly. “Just wait Chester, I am going to plant you like a daisy this round.” Sticking his glove back on, he grabbed his own crotch and jarred his erect penis below. Staring across the room at his opponent’s deep farmer's tan, thick pectorals and sparse chest hair was making him hard. Almost as if Chester knew, he poured water over his chest and down his stomach. “Whoops” They locked eyes now and dark brown and deep blue held each other transfixed. Chet banged his gloves together just after the ten second indication. Carlos did the same. This round would begin with them looking right at each other’s faces, generally a smart boxer would look at the chest of his opponent to read shoulder and arm movement. This wasn't as much a boxing match as it was an exercise in foreplay. Jamming in their mouth guards they both stood up and raised their hands in defensive posture. The timer used a variation of recorded voices instead of chimes after the first round was over. A man's voice which was probably taped and not electronically created acted as the bell “Round Two! Fight !!” They moved right into the center of the room both rotating each glove in tight little circular patterns. Watching each other’s faces and then like a snake striking its prey, both threw an opposing punch at almost the same instance. Chet's straight right and Carlos's left jab glided past each other and met the opposing sides glove and both were blocked. Rock, Paper. Scissors style.

Daniel hadn't been employed long as a room cleaner (also known as guest service technician) by Mister Lakewood the owner of the Two Owl's Motor Inn. It was a shit job that paid nine thirty and hour but it was steady work. These winter months the place should just be closed but they were in a good spot for passing highway traffic. So, he got part time hours now. The second floor ended near an ice machine and there was a small supply closet located here. Daniel watched the snow falling past the bright orange halogen lights as he took out a small joint from his pocket and a red Bic lighter. Sparking it up he took a couple of puffs. He pulled out a tucked away cleaning cart from the back of the small cinder block room and pushed it off to one side. Moving into the small room he finished smoking the weed while taking a seat on a milk carton. Lakewood wouldn't leave the comfort of the main office to come checking on his progress and there was only some old man renting a room on this floor. What was the rush. He was just twenty-four years old and at times he acted a bit younger. Finishing his illegal break, he closed and locked the door tight. He was at the first room door and was fishing in his coat pocket for the keys when light caught the corner of his eye. He saw a set of squares made of light down in the parking lot and then he noticed the two new cars. Looking along the row of doors before him now, he spotted room 16 was the source of the light. Pulling out a small pad from his coat pocket, he examined it to note that the only occupied room was 22. So, who was using 16? Sticking it back into his pocket along with the keys he had just taken out, he moved slowly along the wall to draw closer to the window and see if he could spot anyone. There was a small metallic edge to the window frame that would allow him to wedge his smart phone into the gap and use it to see into the room without sticking his face into the window and risking being seen by the occupants. He did this a couple of times before during the summer, got nice footage of a newlywed couple fucking each other. Maybe there would be some hot woman laying on her bed waiting for someone to come in and warm her up on a cold winter's night. Daniel grinned as the though caressed his mind and after fitting the edge of his smart phones underside into the gap in the window, he tapped a few icons and the video camera filled the screen with an unexpected sight. Two men boxing each other. Crouching down, he pulled a milk crate from the cleaning cart's lower shelf. He used this to stand on when cleaning light fixtures and tops of shower rods. Sitting now on the crate he tapped the red circle to record as he watched. By the looks of things, it was a military type Caucasian guy fighting maybe a civilian Hispanic one. He knew the haircut and posture of a military man; his late Father was in the Army. It looked like the Hispanic guy had just been knocked down and was back up on his feet. The solider guy was saying something and holding up both of his brown gloves each time. A count of eight. Daniel liked boxing a lot, he had often watched it on bar televisions at home or with his Father growing up. This was cool and very strange all at the same time. Why were they boxing in a hotel room? Did Mr. Lakewood know? Then they tapped gloves and were looking to score a hit on each other. Both shot off opposing punches that were blocked by each other. It was so fake looking but Daniel could tell they weren't playing around. The Hispanic guy pounded hard with his right hand into the solider boy’s glove knocking it into his face and throwing him off a bit. The cold wind was starting to get to him but he wanted to see the rest of the fight so he pulled his coat closer to his body and watched on.

Just after Chet's brown 12-ounce glove was knocked purposely into the corner of his mouth he felt the familiar sensation of a hard-left hook burying itself flush just below his ribs. It rocked his torso and he took a small side step from the force. Lashing out as Carlos pulled up from the lower position, Chet struck his gloves hard enough to push them aside and open his face which accepted the incoming set of blows reluctantly. He strained his neck muscles as the incoming hits pounded into his mouth and chin area. These forced him to back pedal and almost lose his footing. Chet drove forward with a smashing right to the chest and a two popping jabs to the face near the left eye. Angered at losing control of the match, Carlos pulled his gloves tight to his face, his forearms close together to shell up and form a barrier to block any further incoming face shots. Chet knew what this was all about, force him to go to the body and expose his own face. Playing possum. There was a sure-fire way around this ploy, low enough ducking, and a good solid blow to the stomach dead on. Carlos eyed this lowering of his opponent’s shoulders and his ready counter for Chet's taking the bait was all set. Soon as the dark brown hair flat top was at wrist level He moved counter clockwise to dodge the ramming straight right that would have collided with his upper abdominal muscles. Although Chet's left glove was up and protecting that side his right temple was open as was part of the side of his face there. Twisting at the hip, Carlos first struck his temple with a short-range right hook. The blow caught him completely flat footed. His stance wavered and his gloves parted a bit. He was still extended on his right foot too far. The next punch was a wider right hook, called a roundhouse. It pivoted off the hip and powered from the legs. The black glove banged solidly into cheekbone, jaw bone and loose flesh there. Chet's head snapped to the side with such force that his mouth guard flew loose from his mouth. The extension of his own straight right till the second hook by Carlos were mere seconds. Chet wobbled and fell onto his side and when the side of his head hit the carpeted floor, it released a long projectile spit wad. His wincing face struck the carpet and its friction placed a small burn on his cheek. Carlos tapped his gloves together rhythmically. “You are fucking done blanco.... you look it.” It sounded like “U Fugger Un Anco...u ookit.” through his plastic guard. Much like he himself had been right up from the knockdown earlier, Chet shook his head twice and made a motorboat sound with his jowls. Like some cartoon character clearing small birds and stars away from their head. He sat up with his arms over his thighs for a moment, then he grabbed his mouth guard up off the floor. It had struck a nearby wall and left a wet mark. It was bloody now. The blood tax was paid. This was a term some of the boxers he met in these “unofficial” locations would use to express an interest in one of the opponents getting a bloody nose or lip. Chet's cut was inside his mouth, made as his face met carpet after the guard flew free. Standing up he walked over and smacked the big button of the timer to pause it. This was ok with Carlos, it was what they did when someone lost a guard. He dropped it into the ice bucket full of water that Carlos used for his corner and cleaned it off. Getting his glove off he took it out and shook it a couple of times. Still not saying anything. He put it back into his mouth and looked at Carlos. He was going to hit the button again to resume the round and move to tap gloves but a puff of steam rose past the light reflected in the window. The room itself reflected there but in a thin visage. Chet stepped side ways to use Carlos as a block for the window. Pulling the guard out again with a wet brown leather glove he spoke “We have someone watching us asshole.” Carlos motioned behind him with a nod of his head and then tapped his chest with his black glove. “Let me do the honors.”

Sitting in a small, poorly lit backroom that was nothing more than a glorified closet space. Henry Lakewood, middle aged owner of Motor Inn sat here crammed into a folding chair. The door was ajar just enough for him to hear if someone came in, but no one beyond that lazy shit Daniel would now of night and season. Sitting here, he had his pants undone and unzipped. Old khakis with several worn spots near the belt line. His button down white cotton shirt was off completely. The small desk in front of him held a few small television monitors but only two were active. The bottom one was of this very office and a view of the front walkway. The second one was of the room where Carlos and Chet were having their little boxing match. Beside the TV's was an Apple laptop open to a chat room with web cam feeds of their room as well. He was made aware of the use of his Inn for this little “bout” via an online chat service. The man was only known as “FightGuy4All” and he arranged to have these little matches be hosted. The owner of the hotel or motel who subscribed to the site would be given their pick of boxers, removal of any large furnishings like beds or couches and other objects would be taken out. The two guys fighting would have no clue they were being watched via cams hidden throughout the room. The hosting boxer would signal the other one with a sign in the window that read a specific number.

They thought this number was linked to the type of action they were going to have. FightGuy4All had in fact set it up to mean dual things. One was type of match. The other was the chat room and cam feed the online watchers would join to watch the action. They were having a 6 tonight, which meant it was a fight to see which one would be fucked by the other. Short for sixty-nine. The two men were none the wiser and the room was re-sorted out. If a knockout occurred there was a bonus for the hosting Manager. Lakewood couldn't wait for a KO to happen and he had thought it just did when Chet had been dropped hard by a great roundhouse punch. He wanted to see the jar head getting his ass rammed by Carlos, he had a thing for Latino guys. Rubbing his gold and black rimmed briefs he reached in and took a hold of his cock while watching Chet take a sitting break and shaking off the effect of the blow. “Yeah, yes you had your lid loosened with that one huh jar head fuck.” he spat the words at the screen. “Take the lid off this fucker Carlos baby.” Looking at his laptop screen he read a couple of comments that were saying basically the same thing. Chet got his bell rung like it was church on Sunday. Then after getting his guard back in he walked to the middle of the room and without sound to accompany the visuals it wasn't clear what happened next. Carlos said something in return. Then Chet moved off to the far side of the room past the door and darted off to the left side of it. Carlos slipped his right glove off and with a nod to Chet, whipped the door open and rushed outside.

Michael had slipped his golden robe back on, but the front was undone as his hands were still wearing gloves. The room was empty of spectators and the overhead lighting had been restored to its full strength. The halogen lighting bounced off the metallic gold fabric, sweat spots on his forehead and chest and displayed sweat and spit stains on both of his gloves. Looking back at the ring, he felt his crotch tighten in his jock strap thinking about the fight. “Hey Michael, I have something cool to show you back in the change room.” Sean was standing in the doorway of the hall leading to the change area where Michael's night had begun. He was shirtless. The tightness became a full boner now. Michael looked at the far exit which led to where he was supposed to go now to see Jack Cole about his bonus. He looked back at Sean. “Lead the way.” following the younger man, they returned to his change room and Sean closed and locked the door behind them. Jack Cole could wait.

Jack sat behind his mahogany wooden desk, a freshly cut cigar held firmly in his curled mouth as he struck a wooden match and lit it, dragging deeply, and puffing several rings into the air. Peter Egan and his Father Paul Egan were seated across the way. As the office began to fill with the musky smell of his cigar, Jack lifted a large white box from the floor beside his chair and placed it on the desk in front of him. “Seeing how it was your request to see your brother in action before fighting him yourself, I took the liberty of procuring the gear you asked for as well. I was impressed with Michael’s performance tonight, as I can only assume the both of you are as well.” Paul’s expression shifted from suspicious to pride personified. “Both of my boys have grown to become men of strength, Michael and Peter vary in ability, but I feel are perfectly matched in their desire to settle the old score as to whom is better. After watching Michael clobber that neighbor of his tonight, I can’t say I know who to put my wager on.” Peter fixed his father with a stoic expression. Jack could read it though; he was doing this in part for his father’s approval. “Quite right Ser, a hard one to predict.” Pulling off the lid off the box, Jack began removing its contents one piece at a time laying them on the desk in front of him. It was not clear to Paul if these were reproductions or originals, but they were an exact replica of the gear he wore during his early teen years boxing in the Chicago Golden Gloves minus the dark brown cloth robe with gold satin trim he once owned. Peter’s eyes lit up like a child’s who had just been given a great pile of presents.

Michael felt as if he could slowly drift off to sleep. The pressure mixed with the cooling component of the cream being applied across his torso was working all the strain out of his muscles. Sean moved along his chest, down his abdominal muscles and along the perimeter of his cock and balls. Then onto his inner thighs, outer and down all the way to his feet. “I can tell you are enjoying this. I can’t take care of you completely, Jack’s house rule, no sex but we can always make plans for another day, say your place.” Michael grinned and looked up into the younger man’s blue eyes. “Oh, count on that buddy.” Sean gave his full-frontal body a good second pass over, save for his man parts and then had him flip over. Placing his elbow hard into the center of Michael’s back. Any stress that his body had retained from the fight was now gone. Sean’s prowess as a massage therapist eclipsed that of his corner man duties. Michael wondered if he did this as his primary job. Great diligence was made along the side of his back, ribs, and the back of his thighs. When he got to the calf muscles, he began to bend Michael’s legs back till hist heel practically touched the back of his thighs. “Your legs are extremely flexible, explains all that fantastic footwork out there Champ.” Next Sean began to turn his ankles along their natural rotation. He than tapped down the base of the foot below the toes to the heels and this affected Michael’s entire bodies circulation. It was subtle, like a small scratch. Sean administered the injection between the big and second toes and within moments Michael was unconscious.

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Pete left the office with Dan, who was carrying the box full of his boxing equipment. After each piece had been visually and physically appraised, they were put back in. Jack suggested that it might be an hour or more before Michael would be ready for their bout and the small crowd, he had invited would not arrive till two hours from now. He asked if Dan would take Pete to the change room that Dan had used to get him sorted out. Once they had left the small room, Jack offered a cigar to Paul. Taking one he waited while the Englishman lit it. “I must say, you are the first father that I have had contact me to arrange not one but two fights for your sons.” Jack’s smile was partially snake-like. “That was welcomed though.” Paul nodded but he remained stoic. He got a very strange feeling off this man, “Well I always wanted to see what Michael could do potentially and his legal issues with Dave Woodall seemed like a great way to find out. As for the twins settling their old dispute over a fight, they had with each other as boys. Well, that time I didn’t referee, and I think they both let their egos get the better of them. This time they are both grown men, Pete needed to watch his brother win a fight and now they will put that old issue to bed.” Jack nodded. “Good, not that you would tell me, but I wonder who you would pick if they weren’t your sons.” He paused to ash his cigar and passed the tray to Paul to do the same. “You are right. I won’t be answering that question.”

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Through a hazy sheen of water, Michael’s eyes struggled to focus upon waking. Still lying on the thick padding of the rubdown table in the same room but Sean was gone. Another change was now that he was dressed again from robe to booted feet. Sitting up slowly, his gloved hands making his grip of the table tenuous he cleared his mind and slowly stood up. A full-length wall mirror at the back off the room reflected all new gear. Thick, tan 12oz gloves that looked like the kind they used in the early Carnival days of the 1900s were laced neatly upon both of his hands. Their thick cuffs gave them a weighted feeling. His metallic gold robe had been replaced by a black cloth style with tan satin trimming. In some ways it resembled an old smoking jacket. The tan sash undone revealing his thick hairy chest and midsection which met with a pair of black and tan cloth shorts, not trunks in the modern sense of the word. The black leather short top boots on his feet completed the entire kit and exactly what decade of the 1900s it all belonged to was unknown to him. Inside his gloves he could feel that his hands were rebound again with wraps. Why did Sean drug him, dress him? His mind was balancing admiration for the new look versus the urge to find the younger man and punch him out. This Jack Cole liked things to be exactly how he wanted them. His employees were loyal to a fault too apparently. A hard wrap came on the dark wooden door and then the knob turned and Dan the second cornerman entered the room now carrying a towel and a white plastic water bottle with an attached straw. “Your final bout of the evening will be taking place soon. Mr. Cole wanted me to trade places with Sean and work your corner instead.” Michael moved closed to Dan and tapped his right glove twice on the man’s shoulder. “Let your boss know that I could have dressed myself and I am not a fan of his use of sedatives.” The stern look seemed to fall flat on Dan, however. He had an almost military stoicism to his personality. “So, who am I going to be knocking out this time?” Dan wrapped the towel around Michael’s neck and opened the door to allow him to pass through first. “Please Mr. Egan, I am not allowed to answer that question. Proceed into the hallway until announced.”

Both the Platinum and the Diamond sections were completely empty now. The new set of spectators, about thirty or so in all were occupying the gold section. Table trays were added before each of their seats and held various alcoholic drinks, ashtrays for cigarettes and cigars and a small metal bell. These gentlemen were upper society Englishmen visiting Jack’s Club from London and Manchester. Those in the front row were old school chums of his who had known him since his university days. Even then he was arranging discreet fighting for wager and prize money. He also settled a couple of his personal disputes in the gloves. Exclusive crowd fights that saw his closest friends watch him pummel several of those he had a score to settle with often ending in a flashy knockout. He did not tell them anything about the fight they were attending, just that it was two locals settling an old score. Several of the men decided to hold a blind purse/wager based on the red and blue corner method. The winning boxer’s corner color would be decided based on the number of votes for that fighter. Then a bag of random marbles would be passed around and the white one drawn would be the gentleman who got the winnings collected. To be fair that method covered the unknown nicely. The overhead speaker blared open from static noise to Jack’s voice “Good evening, Gentlemen, welcome to tonight’s main event.” Each of the adjoining hallways had speakers as well so his voice carried to both sides. Michael and Dan representing the red corner and Sean and Pete occupying the blue one. “Would the fighters enter now and enter the ring.” Jack paused waiting for the two sets of men to appear. The music was raised now, an old time 1900s style melody that was popular during the Carnival days in early Chicago.

Pete placed both of his gloved hands-on Sean’s shoulders after pulling up his hood to cover his face. His robe was the direct opposite style to his brothers, primarily tan cloth with black satin trim and the long sash. Sean began to walk at a medium pace and Pete bobbed up and down with each step, his body full of pent of aggression. When they emerged into the main room there was a vigorous round of applause from the small crowd. As he was getting into the boxing ring on the blue corner side, Michael and Dan were already arriving at the red one and both boxers’ hoods hid their faces. Michael looked across the ring now at his opponent and what he recognized instantly were the black Tuf-Wear 1950’s gloves the man had on. They were exactly like the kind that his father Paul had used when he fought in the Golden Gloves. Also, the boots he had on with the white soles and thin black laces. For the briefest of moments Michael wondered if his next fight was going to be against his own Father. That notion was quickly wiped from his mind as suddenly his father slid between the top and middle ropes and entered the ring wearing a black and white striped zip up shirt to identify him as the referee. He was surprised. Pulling down his hood he revealed his face and for a moment his father made eye contact then looked away. His opponent did him one better and not only removed his hood but slid his robe off entirely. Michael was familiar with this man, absolutely this body type as well as his twin brother was remarkably similar in build and hair pattern just slightly smaller. The music stopped as Michael took off his own robe and fixed Sean with an angry look. Sean did not meet his gaze though and kept looking straight ahead.

Jack came back on the overhead speaker, and he walked down the middle row toward the ring carrying the microphone in hand. Climbing through the ropes himself, he was dressed again in his partial tuxedo without a shirt underneath. His friends clapped as he took a brief bow and came to stand beside Paul in the centre of the ring. “Thank you, lads, it is my great pleasure to introduce our two fighters for the main event as well as their father and referee, a former Golden Gloves boxer. Paul Egan.” He paused for applause and Paul made a half bow motion. The introduction process was the same as the previous bout. When it came time to give each boxer his chance to say a few words over the microphone. Michael kept it short and simple “I won all those years ago but tonight I will leave no doubts, when I knock you out Pete.” Pressing his gloves together, Michael walked to the side of the ring facing the small crowd and made a bowing motion. Pointing his right glove at his brother he walked back to his corner with his arm extended as if pointing to him. Pete grinned as the microphone came close to his lips “That’s funny Mike, we will see who knocks out who.” Extending his own right hand, he pointed his glove at his brother and with his left gloved hand, grabbed his jocks strap in a rude gesture. Michael felt his hands clinched up in his gloves into two solid fists.

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THE FIRST ROUND ~
Once Jack had exited the ring and both Egan twins had their mouth guards pressed firmly into place. The room erupted in noise as the gentlemen in attendance began to cheer in anticipation of round one’s action. Paul met each of his sons’ eyes and did a “Ready” check. Pete nodded that he was as did Michael. Pointing at both men, he bit slightly down on the small plastic whistle in his mouth and blew through it then as it dropped from his lips to dangle around his neck, he spoke in raised voice “Box!” Pete and Michael met each other near the centre of the ring and tapped lead gloves, right hand to right hand. Then without any pause or hesitation they both went at each other with opening jabs. Pete clipped Michael’s chin with his left glove and immediately took a flush return jab to his nose. The hard leather giving every so slightly upon meeting the bridge. He retaliated by using his quick reflexes to dodge a follow-up right-handed shot and digging his right hook hard into Michael’s rib area. Jarring his brother’s body with the shot he proceeded to connect a left uppercut to the chin. However, the glove only met its counterpart as the punch was deflected and in that small window of an opening, Michael thumped his brother’s left eye with a solid straight right. Pete’s wincing face was like he had just been fed a lemon whole. A stiff jab met his hair laden chest, another straight right rammed hard to his mid-section and a quick breath filled grunt escaped Pete’s mouth. Paul watched this exchange with a slight grin on his lips. Managing to move in close and grapple Michael’s arms tight they clinched up.

In terms of sheer strength, Michael was the stronger twin and was able to free his right arm from the grapple. Using it to pummel his brother’s abdomen and rib area with shovel hooks. The gloves laces facing upward as the arm was thrust forward. The discomfort of the hits forced the clinch to end, and Pete pulled his elbows in tight, his gloves together in front of his face and moved away to regroup his strategy. It would not be practical to try and go toe-to-toe with Michael. Weaving, bobbing, and guarding he managed to stop two incoming shots and then the window presented itself. Michael’s defensive glove was a bit low and so Pete took the opportunity to connect a wide angled bolo punch to the side of his forehead. The shot made Michael see a white flash of light that blocked out all vision. Pete thumped his right-handed glove flush into his brother’s chin almost dead center and his left uppercut was successful in snapping Michael’s head back as a ribbon of spit flew up from his parted lips. Paul’s eyes widened. Michael’s eyes saw floating specks of light and both of his ears popped. He was just barely aware of the sound of the round bell being rung. His return to his corner was disorienting. The room tilted and blurred. Pete got back to his corner and a giant smirk was strewn across his face. Sean tugged his mouthpiece out and gave him water. “You almost ended the show early, he really got rocked.” Sean’s voice was full of restrained arousal. Dan got Michael’s nose filled with the pungent sting of the smelling salts and his guard out. Already his saliva was red with blood. Although no advice came or response. Michael got his head clear and fixed his gaze across the ring at his brother. Anyone who could see his face knew exactly what he was thinking. You are going to pay for that.

THE SECOND ROUND ~
The ringing bell just barely finished its distinctive sound before the room’s crowd drowned it out with the cheering. Leather met leather as the two Egan’s tapped gloves out of traditional respect and the jabbing began anew. The speed advantage of Pete’s saw him land first to Michael’s lips and again in rapid succession. Although the shots only barely registered as Michael’s focus had become rock solid after the narrow escape at the end of round one. He ducked and brought a short, looping style uppercut hard into Pete’s stomach. Following it up with a good solid hook to the upper ribs and stunning his brother, his legs faltering. Pete went forward to attempt a new clinch, but his reaching arms went almost slack now as Michael turned his glove as it smashed hard into the solar plexus area of the chest. On the exhale at the time the punch buckled him at the knees and his legs went stiff as a corpse in an ice storm. These punches happened in the span of seconds and his arms were only halfway sagging down when Michael struck his left eye again. The birth of a lump raised against the outer eye socket and bruising was soon to be the result. Then the hooks came, left and right-handed gloves buffeted Peter’s head from side to side. His vision seeing a blurry Michael’s face, the gloves tan leather and then spots before his eyes.

Paul watched this one-sided session as if it were all taking place in slow motion. Michael’s sudden control of the round really filled him with deep pride. He wasn’t even aware of how Pete was now down on his hands and knees near the ropes, as he hadn’t even seen him fall or what punch had put him there. Michael’s 4th left hook had turned his brother’s body and head at the same time and he crashed first into he ropes and the reflexively he put out both of his hands as he went down to the canvas below. His upper lip split and bleeding slightly, his left eye sporting a proper blackened mouse. His parted lips fighting to gather oxygen as strands of spittle hung down. Michael stood over his fallen brother and with a motion he pointed at himself with his gloves thumb and taunted loudly “Come on Pete, get up if you can.” Paul intervened to move Michael off to the neutral corner while he had one glove raised to the ceiling as he walked there. Pete was up and leaning against the ropes when Paul gave him the standing eight count. Michael looked his brother over now, admiring what he had done so far. Even his chest hair seemed a bit limp as if he had knocked some of the masculinity out of his brother. To his surprise, Pete was willing to continue and had his guard up and moving toward the center of the ring. Michael banged his gloves together out of pent-up excitement at the idea of being able to work his brother over some more and went into the center of the ring to do just that. Something like a miniature tornado formed inside the middle of the ring, like those old cartoons strip clouds with stars and spirals and gloved fists shooting out. Both Egan brothers were actively exchanging shots back and forth. Moving around the ring wildly. Pete connecting jabs to the face, Michael tagging his brother’s body. A sudden evening up of the fight seemed to have occurred. Paul could only imagine hearing one of those old timey fight commentators calling the blow by blow. When the round bell called a halt to the brawling, Peter had just caught Michael’s right eye hard enough to begin the bruising process. Exchanging looks they returned to their own corners and rested.

Sean cupped his hands under Pete’s upper chest to apply some of the tiger balm he had hidden there. Jack taught him this trick. A potent concoction of herbs and alcohol it would continually refresh Pete’s concentration for a short time. “There, just keep your chin down low enough to get a whiff of this champion. Guaranteed to help you power past any big hits that Michael might connect. I can only assume your going for the knockout this round?” Sean was actively kneading both of Pete’s shoulders in a drawn-out circular motion. Michael stared across the ring as he spit out his water at Sean. “Fucker” was all he could think to mutter. Dan didn’t act like he had heard but he knew that Sean was playing head games. Business as usual. Jack’s booming English voice filled the rooms speakers “Gentlemen, lets have a round of applause for these two brothers. They truly have been giving us a great bout this evening. They remind me of the Krays. The mention of the infamous twin London gangsters got the crowd even louder in their approval. The bell sounded on the heels of his announcement.
THE THIRD ROUND ~

Meeting again in the middle of the squared platform, the brothers tapped glove to glove hastily and instead of commencing with a wild exchange, they began to pace around each other with their individual guards up. Looking deep into each others’ eyes for the cue to strike. As if they had flipped a coin beforehand to see who would punch where. Michael went high while Pete went low and several good shots struck nose, chin, ribs, and it was Michael’s turn to get shaken by an unexpected solar plexus punch. He wasn’t as disoriented by it as Pete had been, but it opened enough of a gap in his defense for a flurry of frontal face punches by alternating gloved hands found their mark. Paul had this visual of Michael’s head turning into a double-ended bag and Pete was doing routine workout against it. Jab, Jab, Straight shot combos after combo turned Michael’s forward vision into a flashy, black leather filled punch-fest. He was forced back against the ropes, and they shook as the up top punching came low to attack his stomach and sap some of his stamina. The room tilted and spun as Pete landed across the outer edge of Michael’s chin dislodging his mouthpiece. Down goes Egan. Michael hit the canvas on the upper part of his right arm first before the side of his forehead struck the canvas next. His blood spotted hair sprayed sweat off in all directions. His guard had flown across the ring to land near Pete’s corner. Pete, his chest heaving up and down stood over his downed twin. “Come on, wake up Mikey.” He taunted before Paul got his arm across his chest and shoved him back and away to the neutral corner.

Paul began to lift and then lower his arm in a sweeping motion as he administered the addition of finger meeting finger in the time honored ten counts. Michael was not out yet. He groped for the middle rope with his left glove and all the fight left in his tank seemed to pool now to get him back up. By the count of five he was shakily on his boots and leaning against the ropes. Dan had retrieved his mouthguard and over the sound of the crowd came Sean’s voice “Leave it out, he’s done” followed by a hard laughing. A couple of the men in the crowd laughed as well at Sean’s insult. While Dan got the guard back in Michael’s mouth and Paul looked deep into his son’s eyes. “Do you want to continue” the words were slowed down in Michael’s perception. It wasn’t grogginess that marred his father’s voice it was blind focus. Nodding his head, he looked at his father and narrowed his brow. Pete left the neutral corner to meet his brother in the center of the ring once more. Just as the two of them met there, Pete went to land a big left hook to the side of the head thinking one good knock there would set his brother back on the road to knockout land. Michael waited till the last possible moment to duck deep, dodging the punch and then he railed his brothers stomach dead on to compress his tan leather glove hard and deep into it. Pete’s eyes became as wide as two dinner plates. Michael nailed him hard to the jaw with a big right hook that turned his shoes inward, and his knees practically knocked together. Pete stumbled backward, partially flying there as he was on a collision course with his own corner. Jab, right cross, and left hook became the driving vehicle that brought his back into the stiff leather of his corner’s turnbuckle. His bottom lip began to swell. He meekly pulled up his gloves to protect his face from more hits and in a shocking twist, Michael’s next right cross didn’t target his brother. In a strange simultaneous action, the sounding of the round bell and Michael’s glove pancaking hard against Sean’s shocked expression was slowed in Paul’s perception.

Jack was on his feet just after Sean flew backward and then down to the dark carpet flooring below. Knocked cold. Moving fast, Jack got into the ring and pushed Michael back to his own corner. Grabbing Pete under his arms with his own forearms and propping the disoriented man up against the top ropes. His sleight of hand as good as it was, didn’t go unnoticed by Paul who spotted something slipped out of his front jacket pocket. Jack’s atomizer “wake up spray.” Shined in the lighting above. He had only begun to squeeze the rubber nub tip to bring Pete back “round” for more action when his arm was seized hard by Paul and the small metal canister was yanked away. “Whoa now, my son’s going to fight it will be on his own doing clown.” Jack fixed Paul with a mean expression and then jerked his own arm free. “Very good Sir, as you say.” Crouching down to get his atomizer he exited the ring by ducking under the middle rope and spoke into his attached microphone “Get Sean replaced now, the fight continues.” Michael leaned against his own turnbuckle waiting. He didn’t want to sit anymore. A blond-haired gentleman appeared and began acting as Pete’s corner. Getting his stool in and Pete’s guard out. Cobwebs filled Pete’s mind, but they were beginning to break apart. Paul returned to the center of the ring and waited. Michael leaned his elbows on the top rope and had a smug look on his face. Paul liked it.

THE FOURTH ROUND ~
A fresh mouthguard had been put into Pete’s mouth and when the fourth-round bell chimed, he was up and moving to meet Michael head on. The tiger balm Sean applied was all but evaporated but it had done its job to help bring his aching head back into focus. They met and tapped gloves. All the impending fight action that was stored up in Pete’s brain now wasn’t given much of a chance to happen. His head snapped back abruptly as each of Michael’s rock stiff jabs locked his neck. A fresh coat of swelling to his bottom lip. Paul had gotten with in a few feet of the twins now and he had the best view in the house. Pete’s face turned to be looking his father right in his eyes, but his gaze was glassed over. A beautifully connected left hook was the reason. Then his mouth sagged into a huge frown-like shape and a right uppercut mounted his head like a deer on a hunter’s wall. Pete fell backward following the momentum of his brother’s uppercut. His eyes rolled up and sideways. The order in which he hit the canvas was the back of his head, the upper back, both shoulders, as his legs flew up and then came down hard so did both of his arms and gloved hands. It was up for debate whether he was conscious after the punch or after hitting the deck but either way he had just been knocked out. Paul looked down, then at Michael and grabbed his son’s taped wrist area and raised his arm for the crowd. The gentlemen in attendance all got to their feet and were in the process of cheering the victory when two objects followed by a smaller, third object struck the overhead lighting and flew into the ring. They were a pair of black modern lace up boxing gloves and a white mouthguard. Jack’s voice rose above the cheering crowd as it had before over the room speakers and his tone of voice had sharpened like knives. “We have seen what the son can do, now its time to see what the father can do.” Jack entered the room from the back now, he was shirtless and a pair of black lace up boxing gloves hung around his neck.

Dan and Michael helped Pete recover and got him first to the nearest corner and then using his brother for support, Michael pulled Pete under the lowest rope while Dan supported him from the other side. Getting him into one of the closest seats that bordered the front row. Jack arrived now, he was in ornate looking black and red boxing trunks and boots, a rose on the left leg panel. “You will work your father’s corner.” He spat the words at Michael like commanding him, he wasn’t asking. Michael instead of looking at Jack investigated the ring at his father. Paul had already scooped up the gloves and guard and was to the red corner. He was clearly taking the challenge. Michael looked back at Jack “I am going to enjoy watching him kick your ass pal.” Michael strut across along the front of the ring. Jack looked at his back with two small contempt filled eyes. The blond man began to wrap Jacks’s hands and apply the gloves as Michael discarded his own on the floor by the corner apron. Paul had stripped off his shirt and was still in his referee slacks. “Hey Dad, you want my gear?” Michael asked. Paul shook his head. “No need son, just get me laced up here. This won’t take long.” Michael grinned and did just that.

One of the men in attendance got up from his seat and walked over to stand just outside of the ring by Jack’s corner. “Oi Jack, you sure about this mate. This geezer looks like he will give you a proper thrashing in there. I mean your rusty son.” Jack turned and with a quick sweeping motion, back hand slapped the man with his gloved hand across the face. “Mind your tongue and get back to your seat.” The man did as he was told, a red spot on his cheek for his trouble. In not time both were laced, guards in and ready. A familiar voice came over the speakers now, Jack’s accent filled the room, but its proper London cadence had been replaced by a more American sounding accent, a poor attempt at Chicagoese. “Gentleman, welcome to the main event. Jack “The Fighting Rose” Cole versus Paul Egan. This will be an open round. The first man to get knocked down will be declared the loser of the bout. Good luck to both fighters.” Paul banged his gloves together several times and stood up in anticipation of the bell ringing. Jack stood up and had both of his gloves up, resting on his upper chest in a strange sort of posture. A cocky expression on his face and the glint of an unknown substance coating his thick handlebar style mustache.

THE FINAL ROUND ~
Pete was still recovering from being knocked unconscious, but his partially marred attention was fully on his father now. Michael too was intently watching for the way this showdown would play out. Both gentlemen raised their gloves in a defensive manner and the bell sounded. Paul came out in an orthodox stance, while Jack came out in that of a southpaw one. Cole seemed desperate to get his gloves to their target first. This was after all his club, his guests. Sadly, all his opening punches were deflected and blocked. All two of them before Paul Egan smashed Jack Cole’s nose and mouth area with a wicked right cross. Forgoing the standard jab first. The sudden strike had taken Cole out of his game plan. No time was given to him to recover however, Paul tagged the side of his jaw with a beautiful left hook that clearly rocked the older man. Karma, or irony. The slick of tiger balm on his stache had been transposed to Paul Egan’s right glove. When next another great right cross blasted Cole’s jowls into a quivering state, the ointment overpowered his senses forced drastically up his nostrils. This shot had really damaged him. The uptake of ointment met the downflow of blood droplets. Several digging body hooks corralled Jack Cole toward the far ropes and his back met them as his face was contorted. Paul Egan quickly had turned Jack Cole into a punching bag with eyes. Looking back at his sons and the rest of the gentlemen in attendance he raised his left glove as if to show it off and then wham, blasted it hard into Jack’s stomach to the point that the glove sank cuff deep into the supple flesh there. Cole doubled over from the punch and both of his arms and gloves went to cover the spot. His eyes pinched closed and his lips parted to reveal a thick white mouthguard which had been partially unseated.

The body shot seemed to have taken all the fight out of Cole. Paul placed his right glove on top of the man’s head bracing his forehead with it. An extremely disrespectful gesture. Like a schoolyard bully toying with his daily victim. He waved at the crowd with his free hand. Suddenly the side of his face was contorted by a shiny black orb. Jack had jerked his head to the side to free it from the American’s glove and then came up faster than expected to plant a textbook right hook to the side of Egan’s face. Paul took two steps back and then his feet were after a fashion, connected to his jawline. Jack scored several more glove over glove shots dead to the chin area. Each punch making him take a step. “That a boy Jack, give him what for.” Someone yelled from the cheap seats. Although solid and jarring the punches only served to focus Paul’s anger. Suddenly, with the head movement of a cobra he dodged the next two punches. Then counter punched Cole with a center of the glove one-two. The old classic. The forward momentum of Cole’s comeback hit the brick wall of Egan’s knuckles. Spit sailed off his bottom lip as his mouth jerked open. Clearly stunned, Cole was open season. Paul went in with straight jabbing, and right-handed blows to work the eyes now. Punch after punch shook Jack’s head and to Michael, he looked like one of those bobble head dolls. As his fathers left hook flattened up against Jack’s cheek, the man’s faint but budding twin black eyes were born. Jack staggered into the ropes on the red corner side, and he was standing facing Michael when his father followed and came to stop in his forward step to plant both of his feet firmly.

It did not happen by any foreplaning on Paul Egan’s part but the follow-up punches that would send Jack Cole down hard to the white canvas platform below had become Michael’s own ringside show. His mind drifted back to the early years of watching his father work the heavy bag in their basement. Cole lifted his weak guard to cover his face from more punches. The nose full of tiger balm, compacted by the fisticuffs of Paul Egan had him in a bad way. From the side, dead on center to his ear and cheek area. A real beauty of a straight right connected hard. Jack’s eyes glassed up. Paul spoken suddenly “That one was for my son Pete your shady fuck.” His voice was a bit muffled by the mouthguard, but Michael could make out what he had said. Jack heard it. He mistakenly took it as a signal that Paul was distracted and turned to throw a wild right haymaker at the side of his head. Paul simply extended his forearm and blocked the punch. Shaking his head back and forth he smirked. The series of punches that followed were quick, perfectly executed and brought dead silence to the room. A right hook to the jaw, a left hook deep to the stomach, off that momentum a left uppercut flush to the face, not the chin cemented the two shiners created earlier. Cole’s arms flew up from the force and a nasty right hook was connected just below his arm sending a shock wave of energy across the front of his chest. In some circles, this was called the heart punch. It shook his body and head like a puppet on strings. Too out of it now the last shots never registered in Jack Cole’s mind. Paul placed a glove on his chest and pushed the man flush against the ropes. Bam! A flush right-hand shot struck the chin dead center. Another, Another and yes Another. Each shot snapping his head back and forth. Jack’s lower lip was fat as a slug after a rainstorm. Both of his sunken eyes were ringed now by perfect black and blue rings. Pete thought he looked like Bluto at the end of a Popeye cartoon. Michael didn’t want to feel his growing erection his trunks because it was his father doing this beatdown, but it was too late.

His slicked back hair was now fraying in the front. Blood ran down both of his nostrils. His arms had gone slack, and his gloved hands were down by his sides. Like teeing off on a perfect golf stroke. Paul Egan delivered one final blow to finish off Jack “The Fighting Rose” Cole. A punch that time had forgotten. Dipping down, he brought his left glove up in what seemed like a standard uppercut, but his wrist began to twist the glove as it rose into a “corkscrew” style shot once popular in the early 1900s. Laces facing Paul, the shot connected dead center under Jack’s jawline. After his head snapped back from the force his head did a slow circular motion and Paul stepped aside to watch the older man fall, arms to his side face first to the canvas below. His left cheek met first, then his forehead and upper chest as both broad pectorals flattened against the canvas. His knees and boots also met very closely around the same time. What some crude fans called “The Coffin Pose” Cole was completely knocked out cold. Paul Egan put his right boot on Cole’s back and raised both arms. The crowd who had fallen fully silent now began cheering. Pete Egan knew that Jack Cole wouldn’t hear him yell but he did anyway. “That’s what we call and old-fashioned Chi Town Ass Whooping Chump!” Sean who had recovered from his own knockout was sitting at the neighboring table with and ice pack on his head. He looked across at Michael who had been staring at his twin and laughing. Their eyes met.

~ The End

Reputation. The understanding that the opinions of others can become such a crushing weight that one must adhere to keeping this precious sense of public scrutiny to a minimum. For Dave Woodall, a crimson red envelope adorned with gold leaf accents arriving in his mailbox would prove to be just such a weight placed against his very sense of what being a man truly meant. A thick, card stock type stationary expertly scripted in gold ink was his name on the front. No return address or indication from the outside as to whom might have sent it out. Hesitant to open the envelope with his bare hands, he retrieved a Ziploc baggy and used it as makeshift glove to undo the sticker seal and expose the card inside. Standing several feet from the front door of his split-level house, an expansion recently completed to the property widening the yard told those neighbors on the street that Dave had status. Wearing a loosely tied black silk robe with black slippers. He was still in very tight shape for a man in his early forties. Just under six feet tall, his angular face was accented by a mane of thick, well groomed mahogany brown hair with accenting grey tips where the sideburns met the upper cheeks. His face was wide, and his chin pointed jutted down under a medium sized jawline. His muscular abdominal region and pectorals were borne as the robe slipped open defined and lean and devoid of any hair at all. His medium sized hands removed the card, one covered in the baggy. The card inside read as follows:

• • • • • Chicago Gentleman's Club *****
    • BOXING CHALLENGE ***

Chicago's Underground Gentleman's Club

• • • Michael Egan ***

A hand drawn picture of a black boxing gloves hung below the block of text and the word “over” beside it. Flipping the card revealed an address on the edge of the east side of the city and a date and time. June 10th 6 PM and a mobile number. Michael's hands tensed as did his cock and balls. A sudden jolt of excitement moved through his body now. The Gentleman's Underground was a well-known urban legend among the local gay population and for years he had heard rumors of their famous challenge bouts. The glove symbol could only mean that he was being called out to box someone. He did not care about the who though. Boxing was ever present in his daily thoughts, picturing men on the street in gear sometimes just watching one stranger fight the other right there on the sidewalk or the soft grass of a nearby park. He would also pit them against him in a crowded gym of only male spectators. He was the reigning champion and there was not a man in the city who could overcome his ability. Lost in a thick clot of daydream, Michael did not notice that he had begun to precum. A small droplet had fallen from the head of his penis to drip to the dark hard wood floor below and once more. Looking down he took a moment to admire the sight. He had a month to prepare for his first “underground” fight. Already having assembled a small home gym set up consisting of a black leather punching bag, a red/white and blue double ended bag and matching speed bag he was already doing the routines daily. Skipping rope, shadowboxing in a full-length mirror, and lifting weights. He was going to give this chump the worst beat down of his life. The only authentic way to conduct himself as a true boxer would be to knock this man unconscious. Call his left-hand karma and his right-hand justice. He was inevitable.
Placing a call to the mobile number on the card. A deep, slightly baritone British accented man answered the call. “Mr. Egan. I trust you are calling to confirm your participation in our next event on June 10th.” Michael's reply of “Absolutely, I am honored to be chosen.” was met by a short chuckle of approval. “Very good sir. It is men such as yourself that keep our gentleman entertained. This bout will consist of official boxing shoes or boots, your preference. Gym or boxing type trunks also your choice. We will provide the gloves and mouth guard. The rounds, and duration there in will also be determined at the night of the event. Should you win, you will be given a bonus, a proper title belt and a place on our “Wall of Warriors.” You will be visited by our representative soon to provide you with location information soon. Good luck sir. Fight well.” the voice disconnected the call and Michael put the mobile phone back on its charger. Getting into his gym attire he began to workout in preparation for the event to come.

Michael spent the weeks leading up to the bout solo training, no pad work or sparring in person but over video sparring sessions he had found on YouTube. Taking hits, getting hit was not going to be an issue. He had been scrapping in various form of combat with his identical twin brother on and off for years. The feel of hard, leather covered fists was not new. The jarring sensation of a good punch to the mouth or upon the base of the eye was familiar territory. Even if his opponent turned out to be some seasoned veterans with superior boxing ability, the art of the match was the give and take of the punches. Those who focused on what might happen were usually the ones kissing the canvas early. Michael felt like a tiger that had been starved a solid meal for weeks and now caged was just spoiling to be let free and go after his prey. He found a nice pair of black high style boxing boots with a single gold lightning bolt on the rear. The kind that laced tight to the lower thigh and hugged the ankles, balancing the pivot of steps beautifully. He found a very nice pair of dark green 1940s style boxing trunks by Tuf-Wear on an auction site and used the “buy it now” feature to grab them. They were owned by a small time Chicago boxer at the time who had passed away. Michael could only imagine how they would look on him as he stepped between the ropes. He finished the looks off by obtaining a gold metallic robe that made him look like he was some rich man. He was valuable to this club in his mind. He toyed with getting it embossed with his name and a ring name but decided against it. Why spoil its golden looks with that. The match was only days away. As he worked the black leather punching bag over, he pictured it being his opponent for Friday's bout. Digging hard round leather bombs into the man’s mid section and hooking hard to his ribs. Bobbing his head back and forth with sharp jabs and then rocking his world with crosses and overhand rights to the forehead. He smirked lost in thought.

Mid afternoon on the 10th of June and Dave Woodall had spent a good deal of the morning with a thick clot of butterflies in his stomach. Unable to eat or sleep the night before the pressure of his upcoming fight like carrying around a giant boulder. His desire to prove his manliness to Dana struggles against an almost equal urge to just not show up and deal with the fallout of being a chicken. Eventually it was now close to mid afternoon, and he was packing his gym bag. The side of him that wanted the glory won out in the end. He had also found an ingenious canteen type water bottle that was a hidden micro-camera. This way he could have it in his corner of the ring and get the entire match on hidden video as it could record for up to an hour total and save the data to its internal memory card. How great he would look being able to replay the footage for her in the bedroom. This thought pushed all others aside as he packed his bag and left for the address he had been provided. He was not familiar with the outskirts of the west end of the city, but it was one of the better neighborhoods. While he made his way to the location, Michael Egan was doing the same heading for the edge of the east side. Both men were greeted at the address given with an empty lot. The surrounding buildings looked abandoned. Before the thought of it being some kind of “test” crossed Dave's mind, a person on a black motorcycle approached the side of his car. Michael had gotten out of his own vehicle and was walking toward the vacant lot when a grey and black street bike sped up to the curb and the driver gestured for him to come over. Suddenly both men were sprayed in the face by some type of misting spray from a bottle and within seconds were rendered fully unconscious. Their gear as well as their personal affects, keys and phones were collected. A van approached both locations and men moved the unconscious bodies into the back. One man took the car and followed and within minutes it was as if neither man had been at the meeting point at all.
***********
As his vision unclouded and the scope of his surroundings became apparent, Dave Woodall was unsure as to why he was not more alarmed. The small room was painted a deep crimson red and the furniture, including the long table on which he now was sitting up; were made of dark expensive looking leather. A small bathroom was situated toward the back, and it had a stall type shower. Various color and black and white images of boxers from different decades adorned the walls in a circular pattern. Dave's gym bag sat on a nearby chair. Slipping off the table, he opened it up and made sure than nothing was missing. Beside the chair a small wooden framed table with marble top held his car keys. Removing his trunks, boxing shoes, socks, jockstrap, and hand wraps he placed them all on the table. Again, a nagging feeling like he should be in a full panic seemed to scratch at his mind. He was unaware that an injection of a mild animal anti-anxiety medicine had been administered when he was taken into the van. He was just finding his metallic water canteen / camera when the door opened. The Englishman who had visited his house paused for a moment and then entered the room closing the door behind him. He carried a cardboard box under his right arm. “Good to see you are awake and sorting out your gear Mr. Woodall” he walked over to the table place the box beside Dave's other belongings. He then extends his right hand and Dave shook it. “We have not had a proper introduction but now that you are here within the club’s walls, let me introduce myself. My name is Jack Cole. I am the founder of this club back in London and its American chapter here in Chicago. My apologies because you arrived but our location must remain a complete mystery to those who participate. Here are your gloves, there is an hour till your bout. Proceed to get dressed, the wrapping of your hands and pad work will be handled shortly.” as he reached the door and turned the knob he stopped to look back. “Oh, and I took the liberty of refreshing your canteen. Your corner attendant will handle that for you Ser. Good luck.” grinning or partially smirking, he left the room and closed the door.
Leaving the room, Jack walked down a narrow hallway into the main room beyond. He motioned to a younger man wearing a low-cut black tank top and carrying a towel around his neck. “Give him about 5 minutes and then check that he is dressed and begin the pad work warm up Scott and make sure he has fully recovered from the injection.” the man nodded, and Jack proceeded to cross the large room, making his way past he first section of spectator seating. There were three in total, the “Platinum” area was comprised of very expensive seating with cigar humidors and tray tables. This had the widest view of the ring, and the overhead lighting obscured its view of the other sections. Next, the gold section had the same type of seating minus the additional accessories for drinking and smoking cigars had the most direct view of the ring and both its blue and red corners. Jack passed the end of this section as he made his way to the back bar area to retrieve a second box that had been left there. A network of panels had been set up along the side of the gold section to block its view of the Diamond one which was situated just before the blue corners dressing area hallway. This section was comprised of long couch-like seating and wooden foot stools that held small white bathroom towels and baby wipes. This area had been a big success in London and Jack himself had frequented it as a younger man. Reaching the entrance to the small hallway to the next dressing area, he paused to give it a second look and grinned. Its main feature was a partition wall comprised of a large one-way mirror. This way those using it were able to remain anonymous and enjoy the release of masturbation during a fight.
Sometime before Dave had come to in his room in the “red corner” section of the Chicago Gentleman's Club. Michael Egan had already come awake, propped up in a dark brown leather chesterfield style couch. The sedative given did not fully dull his bodies surging endorphins. Shock was quickly dissipating into excitement. He was here, and it was really happening. Standing to stretch out his body, he spotted his gym bag sitting on the wide rub-down table open and his gold robe was hanging on a hanger on a small hook on the nearby wall. Michael began to look around the room and then at the pictures. They were not of known boxers but of models dressed in different time gear, in settings that matched. From the bare-knuckle days of linen pants, sashes to modern day. One picture a black and white action photo caught his attention as it was the only one that depicted a match in progress.

The raw nature of the subject matter, one man clearly on the edge of being knocked out and his eager opponent wanting nothing more than to land the final punches and send the beaten boxer through the ropes to his complete failure, defeat and humiliation on the other side struck a chord with him. This photograph illustrated his desires tonight. Michael felt a familiar tightening in his crotch and his scrutiny of the photograph was only interrupted by the sound of the door opening. “Mr. Egan. It is good to finally meet you in person Ser.” the Englishman from several weeks prior was now entering the room with a younger, ginger haired man who was carrying warm up pads and a towel around his neck. Upon entering the room, they closed the door and the Englishman introduced himself as Jack Cole and the other man as Sean. Michael grinned as he eyed the small cardboard box under Jack's arm and extended his hand to shake first his and then the young gingers. Jack's grip was like iron, a much stronger man than he seemed to be. “Are those my gloves Sir?” Michael felt like a small boy on Christmas morning. Jack smirked. “Ser, your enthusiasm to be here and to be participating this evening is one I appreciate. Your lust for combat is admirable so I am playing favorites when I say that I took extra detail in finding you a suitable pair of boxing gloves.” Placing the box on the rub-down table he removed the lid to reveal a pair of 1950's vintage black Tuf-Wear brand boxing gloves. The kind that laces up, bordered by visible white cotton stitching in 12 oz weight. “These are not the exact style that were used in the Golden Gloves at the time, but they are similar. I know that your father was a fighter and thought you would appreciate the reference.” Michael eyed the gloves as if they were made of solid gold. Again, his crotch tightened. “These are incredible Mr. Cole.” he picked them up in his hands and to his surprise they were not butter soft from constant use but still stiff. The only way that this was possible was if they were never used. “Yes, I chose the right man to have his grudge realized here tonight inside the boxing ring. Sean and I will step out now so you can change. Knock twice on the door so Sean can return to do your hands, lace your gloves, and warm you up for the fight. The bout will commence within the hour. My expectation of you Ser is that you will be going for the knockout. I highly approve if that were to be in the later rounds. Give the lads in attendance a good showing” Jack's smile now was telling that he was looking forward to seeing Michael fight for as long as possible.
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Both men were now geared up and standing in their perspective hallways that led to the main room and boxing ring beyond. Dave Woodall wore a royal blue boxing robe made by Everlast and its hood was up. His neck wrapped in a thick white towel covered his upper chest. The arch of the robes hood shadowed his face obscuring it. Upon his hands were a pair of modern Reyes navy blue lace up gloves in 12 oz weight. They were brand new from their smell and the stiffness of the leather. Expensive but worth every penny and they looked completely out of place on Dave. Like a young boy who finds his fathers gear and puts it on. Playing make-believe. Dan, the young man that had warmed him up prior to exiting the dressing room could not help but wonder if he was even going to land a single punch. Would the gloves remain unused even after tonight? Standing behind Dave now he smirked and choked back the urge to laugh audibly. He loved his job here at the Club. Grudge night was always entertaining. One more lamb going up against a wolf. Dave kept his mind focused on Dana, how she would admire the oil painting he would have commissioned of him standing over his defeated opponent as she knelt nearby like one of those slave wenches in those Barbarian fantasy portraits. His own crotch tightened as he rested his gloves on Dan's shoulders, and they began their entrance walk.
Michael's hands felt like they had been dipped in gold and then sprinkled with diamonds. These Tuf-Wear felt like a second skin on hands. Banging them together made the most intoxicating sound. He had his own robes hood up and instead of obscuring his face in shadow it was covered by a towel like hood with eye holes. So, his identity to his opponent would be a total mystery until the bout was ready to start. He really liked that idea. Give the other guy something to worry about. Banging his gloves together again, Sean grinned and motioned for him to put his gloves on the slightly taller ring attendants shoulders. “It is time Mr. Egan. Good Luck out there” they began moving and the closer they came to the exit door into the brightly lit room beyond, the more the jock strap fought to contain the penis beyond. Like leather reins on a wild horse recently caught. It bucked against the leather at every step. The room exploded into noise, cheering and whistles. Four hundred gentlemen were in attendance this evening. Many were dressed in tank tops or muscle shirts as it was hot outside this 10th of June. Those sitting in the Platinum section were in proper tuxedos. These were the visiting guests from the London Club. Varying in age and social standing, many were young thirties. The Gold section housed the locals. It had one special sub row in the very front, as close to ringside as you could get. The men all cheered as they spotted both boxers entering. The light striking Michael's gold robe made it seem like he was angelic. He looked over the myriad of faces before him and a lot of these younger Englishmen were very handsome looking. Tight moustaches and trimmed hair parted perfectly. Smoking cigars and drinking expensive cognac. Just as he rounded the corner of the professional sized 20x20 foot ring with its black ropes, white canvas, and Dual English and American flags in the center his knees almost knocked together. Sitting across from his corner in the front sub-section of the gold area was his father and identical twin brother Peter. Both with bottled beers in hand. This had been a dream of Michael's for years, to have them be in attendance of him boxing someone. This Jack Cole was some type of mythical being. The sight of them and knowing they did not recognize him yet only empowered his urge to get the fight going. Looking across the way at his opponent now, who was walking up the small stairs to his own corner he could not make out who it was, but the build was not that of someone intimidating. His mind still reeled from seeing his Father and brother and as Sean lifted the ropes for him to enter, he gave his gloves one final bang together. He then spotted that some of the gold section attendees were in military uniforms, Navy and Marines distinct looks stood out.
Dave's entrance into the room was from the Diamond section side and what he encountered there gave him an uneasy feeling. The men sitting there were all shirtless. Some of them were in nothing more than boxer briefs. It was strange. His mind was too busy processing that he was about to enter a boxing ring and fight someone. It jumbled to recall his trainer’s words and strategies. Keep away, counter punch and just keep moving was the advice which returned to him now and to use your fitness as your asset. It was true, the daily runs and gym routines had made him very fit for his age. Dave half expected to see Dana there in the crowd too but alas women were obviously not allowed in. He imagined her in the first row in some black lace teddy lingerie and grinned. Spotting his opponent now, someone in a gold Metallica robe whose thick chest hair was jutting out of the opening a bit. Even from this vantage point he could see it was grey coloured. So, he was up against some old man. Dave hoped he was not going to be knocking any dentures out tonight and smiled. Once inside the ring however his stomach knotted up and the room felt like it had suddenly become five sizes too small. He quivered a bit and Dan who was to act as his corner man noticed it. As did some of the men watching from the Diamond area and they visibly rubbed themselves. Confidence and fear were both energies that one could get off on seeing. Jack Cole emerged from the back room wearing a pair of pinstripe suit pants, a long-tailed Tuxedo jacket and a bow tie. Otherwise, he was bare chested underneath. His abdominal and pectoral muscles were gym hardened and he had a distinct rose tattoo on his upper chest with a small pair of black boxing gloves hanging from its stem. He also wore a top hat; he was like a circus Ringmaster instead of a boxing announcer. The production values for this Club were high. Slowly a metallic microphone receiver was lowered from the rafters above. Dave and Michael were both in their corners now and the introductions were about to commence.

“Gentlemen.” Jack tapped the microphone a few times to gain everyone's attention. Michael kept looking back at his father and Peter and anticipating the moment that he revealed himself. Dave was looking around the room but mostly at Jack. “Now that I have your attention, I would like to introduce the fighters for tonight's six round melee.” he paused to allow for applause once again. “Tonight, we have a special treat. These two gentlemen are already acquainted. They met once before in a very different venue that deals in swift and absolute justice, but the squared circle relies not on verdicts but on raw strength of mind and body. “Jack paused again, and the room erupted into cheers. He smiled, like a hyena does when it spots a gazelle in the plains and its next meal. “I would like to introduce the combatant in the blue corner first. A man who I was honestly a bit surprised to see accepted the challenge.” Laughter came from various areas around the room and Dave's stomach flooded with butterflies again. “Now now, gentleman, let us welcome him. Fighting out of the blue corner, standing at five foot ten inches tall and weighing in at 182 lbs and 13 stone” on cue, Dan took down Dave's hood revealing his face. Michael gasped. If the sight of his family had been like a pile of bricks falling on him in terms of a surprise, that he was actually going to get to fight the one man he had wanted to since their property dispute a year before, well that was like the whole damn brick wall had fallen on him. This Jack Cole had to be some type of magician. Fuck yes, showtime baby. He almost let out an audible sound. Dave meekly raised a glove of greeting and turning to the diamond section he quickly turned back as he spotted a man visibly stroking his exposed penis. A shudder of revulsion washed over his body. He jerked his mind back to focusing and tapped his gloves together. “Gentleman, now I will introduce our combatant in the red corner. He stands at 6 feet even and weighs in at a 185 pounds, thirteen stone as well. Please welcome Michael Egan.” Cheering now was the entire room. The loudest being from Michael's Father and brother. His hood and towel removed his face was exposed. He turned to look away from his family to see the expression on Dave's face. It was clear that this revelation was a shock. Dave looked a bit pale too. Like a mouse who just sees a cat. “As is the custom here, we have no central ring introduction. No standing eight count or three knock-down rules either. If the bout should reach the end of the sixth round a winner will be declared by attendee’s mutual vote on performance but let us hope that is not the case lads.
Michael tensed his body for the burst of energy he was about to expend charging out to meet Dave head on. His mind swirled with the memories of his court defeat, the poor communication and arrogant behavior of Dave over a change in property which encroached on his own enjoyment. Like a large fence that blocks the sun from your pool. The extension was worth kicking this man's ass over and here he was finally going to get the chance to do just that. His robe removed, some of the diamond section attendees admired his body, Michael was what they called the “Silver fox” type of guy. Dave too had shed his royal blue robe to reveal a pair of American flag trunks, a tired cliche but not as bad as the “Rocky” themed ones. His tall boxing shoes were also white with red/blue laces. Only the military men in attendance found this empowering. Michael saw how awkward those Reyes gloves looked on him now. Like they were bigger than 12 oz size. Jack Cole walked over to Dave's corner and the microphones chord followed him as it elongated. “It is my custom to give each fighter the chance to say something before the first round commences. Do you have anything to say to Michael Egan Ser?” He raised a glove meekly in what seemed more like a wave of greeting than a threat. Some of the lads in the gold section bust out laughing. Jack strode across the ring to Michael and asked him the same thing. Michael raised his gloves to chest height and smirked “This one's for you Dad and Peter.” he paused and spoke again “Oh and Dave, I am going to kick your ass. No hard feelings” Extending a glove outward to point at the other man, he turned the attached thumb down as if to show him where he would be going. Jack Cole's grin widened. “Well then let me get out of the ring and let’s get this fight underway.”

• • • • • ROUND 1 *****

• • • • • ROUND 2 *****

• • • • • ROUND 3 *****

The bell's familiar tock tock tock sound filled the air, and the room became alive again. The ten second warnings. Suddenly someone with a strong voice shouted. “Hey blue corner, you going to start earning the right to wear old glory. You are embarrassing the USA son.” the immediate are erupted into laughter from the military guys seated around the Marine who had just called out. Dave took this insult like a punch. It quickly was absorbed thought as the bell went off and both fighters were on their feet. Michael had minor redness in comparison to Dave's two black eyes, and fat lip. The round however did not immediately start with Michael landing the punches first. Dave had gotten his defense behind him and was able to deflect the first couple of jabs, partially stop an incoming right cross that hit his glove more than it did his chin. He saw an opening and lunged forward to ram a straight right hard into Michael's solar plexus. Sending a jolt of paralysis down both of his legs. A brief stunning move that left him vulnerable for Dave to attack him to the chin and face now. Mimicking his trainer’s drills on the pads for weeks prior he scored two jabs, a right cross to the mouth and then he crouched and launched a wicked bolo punch that struck dead on the right temple area and produced the first knockdown off the bout. The bolo, a slightly turned gloved “overhand” shot was like a sledgehammer when it was done correctly. Michael's satin covered ass cheeks met the canvas as his legs flew upward and his back came crashing down. His arms were still tight to his body. The room became of blurry glut of color, sound, and disorientation. The shocking punch silenced most of the room aside from the sudden broadcast from the overhead speakers.

Michael was back on his feet and without a referee there to interrupt the match with a check of his ability to continue or to administer a standing eight count he took a moment to clear the cobwebs and then went after his opponent like a bullet fired from a gun. Dave saw Michael coming in fast at the last moment and he got his gloves up to cover his face and was partly out of the corner and moving away when a ripping right hook to the ribs was off target crashing into his mid section instead. Forcing his body hard into the ropes and producing a loud grunt from the younger man’s throat. A revenge punch for the embarrassment of being knocked down. Shelling up, his gloves took the brunt of several failed face punches but several of the mixed in body shots connected perfectly. The gentlemen in the diamond section were collectively jerking off now. Having the best view of the expression on Michael's face and the failing defense of Dave's weak knees and sagging back. It was a sudden move of desperation, but Dave quickly grabbed both of Michael's arms around the biceps with his gloves and shoved with all his body weight. The momentum forced him to backward toward the other side of the ring like a bulldozer was pushing him now. Most of the room began to boo loudly. “Poor form Davey boy” one of the English fans yelled. “Hey there chap, its a boxing match not a wrestling one.” laughter from the platinum section followed. Frustration filled Michael's mind and for a moment both men locked eyes. Planting his foot hard behind him, and the lead foot hard up against the inside of Dave's lead one, he applied the breaks to this push back and managed to maneuver Dave hard into the ropes. This put him in a great position now to see his father and brother's faces briefly. They were both tense looking. Dave kept trying to clinch and hold on but suddenly the right gloved hand of Michael sank deeply as a pendulum like uppercut smashed hard into the abdominal section. This one really shook him up. Nausea washed over him. His grip weakened enough for the other man to break full free of it. Three long, wide angles round house hooks were the shots that sent Dave free falling to the canvas below. Each one, the left – right – left contorted his face like a candle melting under the heat. His head hit the canvas without bracing so it bounced hard, and his mouth guard ejected. His body seemed go stiff.
Jack Cole rushed into the ring now and directed Michael Egan to the neutral corner. He crouched to check on Dave and via a nice bit of sleight of hand he withdrew a small atomizer from his sleeve and sprayed a potent mixture of cologne and ammonia carbonate in his face. A quick spray of the old smelling salts. Dave began pawing for the ropes and with effort he climbed them glove over glove to get standing on his feet. Dan met him along the ropes and worked a new mouth guard into between his lips. Jack gave him a brisk slap across the cheek. “There you go lad, your okay. Get back in there. The bell sounded on cue and Dan helped Dave back to his stool putting an ice bag on each eye alternating the duration. No towel there to throw in. The only way out of this bout for Dave was to win or stay unconscious. Michael had a renewed spring in his boots as he got to his corner, a towel went around his neck and water was poured over his head. “Fuck that was amazing Ser, what a great knockdown. I thought you had him there, but that yuppie has some spunk huh.” Michael nodded and then looked backward at his twin who was gesturing like he was flexing his biceps, and he gave Michael a big thumbs up. “That a boy Mike, good round” His chest was heaving with signs of exhaustion now, but Michael's mind was still fed a steady diet of adrenaline and endorphins. He tapped his gloves together without noticing. Dave's left cheek joined the ranks of the swollen. His once moderately handsome face was becoming liken to an old pumpkin long after Halloween had ended. Still there was a spark in his eyes. Michael had to give him credit for beating the knockout just then. Dan slid Dave's guard in and tapped him on the shoulder. “Hey man not sure what to say. Good luck” across the ring Michael was on his feet already. His eagerness was appreciated by the gentlemen in attendance and several of them shot their loads onto the provided terry cloth towels in their section.

• • • • • ROUND 4 *****

The room became nothing more than a blur of color, light and sound all filtered through teary eyes. Dave was worked over until his back hit the far ropes nearest to the wall. The two men travelled from there to the left now as body hooks were applied to move Dave along the ropes. Pain filled his swollen, black-eyed face. He was nothing more than target practice now. When they got to the end of the line, just before Dave's back was trapped on the turnbuckle of the neutral corner; Michael gave the top rope a yank with the rounded part of his glove, and it forced Dave forward a step. A move he had seen done in a movie once and always wanted to try. Then he began landing consecutive right hooks, alternated from the side of the head to the body but not with full force. Just enough to work Dave along the next set of ropes toward his own corner. When they arrived at the position now where he had pulled the ropes the last time, instead he opted to just begin the last set of hits to finally wrap this fight up in a bow. Dave was out of it; his legs were close to rubber now and his gloves were just hanging limply at his sides. “Yeah Mike! Peter shouted. “He's done, knock him out!” someone else yelled. Each punch that came next was like being landed in some sort of slow motion in Michael's perception. A crushing left hook to the upper cheek area, jostled spit off Dave's lower lip. Several hard body shovel hooks made his body dance like some strange marionette. A hard cross to the chin lifted his back up onto the ropes and he seemed to stagger to the right before his body weight shifted and a parting shot to the side of his head from Michael's glancing left hook was the final punch of the bout. Dave fell sideways again, and his shoulder, cheek and temple area all hit the canvas at the same moment. His eyes were closed, and he was out cold. Michael stood over him looking down at his defeated opponent and his jock strap slowly filled with warm rush of ejaculated cum.
Jack Cole rushed up to the ring and climbed through the ropes. Sean and Dan both entered the ring as well. Jack motioned for Michael to join him in the center of the ring and then grabbed his left hand and raised his arm in victory. Most of the attending spectators got to their feet and began cheering. Michael's father and brother were among the first. All smiles and Michael's father exclaimed “That is my son who just won that” Dan and Sean got Dave up and onto his round stool, but he was still pretty much unconscious. The slow microphone came down and another man entered the ring carrying a small briefcase and a title belt over his shoulder. “Gentlemen.” Jack's English accent was hard to place but it was commanding. “Yes yes, settle down now lads. The winner in the fourth round by way of glorious knock out, Michael Egan will now receive his prizes.” The man who had brought the case and the belt into the ring helped fit the belt around Michael's waist. It was gold plated and adorned with two men fighting in the center. The English, American, Irish, and Canadian flags were represented as well, and the bottom was embossed by the word “Champion.” His gloves were removed and handed to Jack. The man then opened the briefcase and inside was the metallic gold robe that he had worn into the ring except now it had been embossed. Jack took the robe out and held it up for the crowd to see the back. “Michael Egan, Chicago Gentleman's Club Champion, June 10, 2021” was spelled out in tight white threading. Michael smiled as the Jack fitted the robe back on. “As I promised there is also a bonus tonight for the winner. Anything they ask within reason will be granted but they will do so privately within my office. I ask now that those in attendance depart. I will see most of you back here next month.” Jack leaned in and spoke only loud enough for Michael to hear. “When you have showered and changed, new clothes have been provided in your dressing room. Return to the bar here and ring the bell. I will meet you and take you back to the office. Feel free to use the briefcase to carry your new gloves and title belt Champ. Well, earned mate.” Michael nodded and left the ring. When he got down onto the floor just before the platinum section. He paused to look for his Father and brother, but they were already gone. Walking back to his dressing room he hung up his robe, took down his trunks, removed his cup, and proceeded to use the provided bathroom to shower. He also took the opportunity to jerk off and release even more of the load he had been storing up. The visual of the final shots landing, seeing Dave fall to the canvas knocked out cold was all the visual aid he required. As the water flowed over his face, he closed eyes he grinned to himself.