I glance over at their table situated at ringside.
They wear straight faces. Very little is being said.
ROUND ELEVEN
This round will go down as the turning point in the fight.
I punch him low enough to hit his groin but high enough so that it doesn’t appear to be an illegal shot. The referee doesn’t see it. The audience doesn’t see it. The cameras don’t capture it and therefore it didn’t happen.
It is legal.
And X falls to the ground.
AUDIENCE SHOCK
I get a nine count.
You get punched in the groin hard enough and it’s stunning, really, to see a man make it in time to keep fighting. I nearly had it won.
Confidence boost.
The rest of the round he isn’t very active. What can he do other than rely upon recently obtained anger?
I toy with him. A clinch whenever he tries anything more than a jab.
The round ends and it’s mine.
Spencer laughs, “Wow, just wow. I don’t recognize you out there. You are fighting as someone else.”
His would-be compliment comes off as a threat.
What does he mean I’m fighting as someone else?
Who am I if not someone familiar?
ROUND TWELVE
X goes all out, flurries of punches and more than a few stun me.
I shell up, mind elsewhere, focus fractured, preoccupied with Spencer’s comment. The round doesn’t end well. Stunned, he gains a knockdown.
I take my time getting back up, eight count.
I stand there, glaring at him, and it’s captured on camera. The look on my face reads: “Not impressed.”
With a minute left I do my best to send a hook low enough to land another shot.
X applies pressure using a traditionally effective combination:
JAB
JAB
HOOK
JAB
HOOK
UPPERCUT
He doesn’t land the uppercut.
When I see the opening coming, I lean in, letting the jab hit me, and I say to him, “Hey…I know you…”
And this time, I send the uppercut, but not before landing a low blow.
The cameras only see the uppercut, the one that sends him to the canvas.
Saved by the bell?
Not in this league.
The referee starts the count.
THE AUDIENCE IN APPLAUSE
In this moment, I feel content.
I forget what I had to do in order to remain in contention. I feel like myself. I repeat it over and over, “I’m Willem Floures,” while watching part of me stumble around the ring, legs knocked out from under him.
But he stands up.
The referee looks into his eyes.
And that’s the end of the fight.
Not a knockout.
THE VERDICT
We wait for the judges’ scores but already I see it all falling back in on me. I feel a great numbing pain in the back of my throat, unaware that I am biting into my tongue, my molars shredding it, all too consumed with what I know to be the conclusion.
WINNER BY SPLIT DECISION
The name given, it isn’t mine.
Figure the X on the marquee paid handsomely for the betting crowd, the warm wads of green bribery handed under the table, passing hands between one opportunist to another, bookie to judge and vice versa.
Who am I to judge the already judged?
What isn’t dirty, what hasn’t been lowered in order to leap higher?
UNDERBELLY
And in this moment, I no longer have any standards.
It has always been personal.
But now—
I will create the laughter.
I will create the momentum.
I will become the exact opposite of everything they know about themselves. I will change what it means to be Willem Floures so much that they will be fighting in a league entirely their undoing.
Not just you X, but every single one of you.
Every part of me will be confused.
I will infuse a new identity, one that is about winning.
For so long, I have taken the personal as professional.
For so long, I looked at myself as a leader, best of the best because there was always something left to reinforce, to further understand and define.
Challenge myself.
Understand myself.
For so long, that was how I treated my career.
I looked for the true identity, unaware of the fact that the identity of Willem Floures was always shifting and changing.
They were applying their own textures.
Well now I change us.
I turn us into everything the world cannot help but watch.
I TAKE IT PERSONALLY
And Executioner, I know you…
Do you know me?
Because if you did, you would see what’s happening next.
THE LAUGHTER I LOVE
This is worth a laugh. Spencer hugs Sarah, kneels down and, at eye-level, he tries to calm her down, “Why don’t you go back upstairs? Isn’t James supposed to be reading you a bedtime story?”
Sarah looks up at me, “Why is he laughing?”
Spencer tilts his head to one side, “Sometimes people laugh when they are nervous or worried.”
“Why is he nervous?”
Sarah pleads with Spencer, hoping for a sincere explanation, one that he will not give. Try this instead, “He’s nervous about society.”
Sarah, typical inquisitive child, with her rejoinder, “Why is he nervous about society?”
Spencer holds back a sigh, “Society needs a reason, but do you sweetie?”
“Yes,” Sarah whines.
“Oh, go on upstairs. Be a good girl. I can tell that you’re tired. Look at those dark spots under your eyes…”
Sarah frowns but concedes; each step is an exaggerated stop up the staircase. “He’s just nervous?”
“Yes, he’s nervous.”
“Why is he nervous?”
Looking at me, Spencer shouts to Sarah at the top of the stairs, “You know, I’m not so sure.”
SILENCE
I cover my mouth, suppressing laughter.
The sound of a door, opening and closing, the creaking of its hinges followed by the healing silence of the house.
I exhale and the house exhales.
Spencer points at the smile worn prominently across my face, “What? What is this shit, huh?”
LAUGHTER
MY LAUGHTER
Between lapses the house seemingly contracts, clutching every word escaping my mouth, like I shouldn’t be saying this, shouldn’t be having this conversation. I won’t be able to take it back when all is said and done.
This is a conversation not worth having.
This is a conversation that I can’t let pass.
“You…” and a little giggle, suppressed. “You…fucking kidnapped Executioner…”
Spencer doesn’t find it amusing. In fact, he is neither angry nor frustrated. He is calm. “Yes. I did.”
“You kidnapped…the champion…” Choke on my laughter.
Spencer nods.
Nonchalant about it: “I have him tied up in the basement, arms and legs bound and immobile. He won’t make so much as a noise. I’ve made sure of it.”
“What did you do?”
“Oh,” Spencer shrugs, “nothing. His mouth is taped shut. Kept the mouth guard in there too. He couldn’t work the tape free using his jaw or teeth if he wanted to.”
My laughter turns into a long sigh, “Did I say you could do this?”
Spencer walks over to the basement door. He grips the doorknob, “You were the one that said it.” Right before venturing downstairs, he narrows his gaze, “You said it first, remember?”
“I KILLED A MAN.”
“What did you say?!” I follow him down into the basement.
Sure enough X is plastered against the wall with tethers that stretch his appendages in such a way that it looks like it hurts. Duct tape in layers wrapped around the entirety of his face. Spencer left the blindfold off.