With Her Fists

Chapter II-1

Chapter IIPhiladelphia, Pennsylvania

March 19, 2010

Twelve miles from the Philadelphia Airport her destiny awaited. The cornerstone that will cap the legacy of Shocker the Fighter and initiate a new era for Clarice the Woman. The Wife and Mother.

North Broad Street was filled with old buildings, but none was more distinguished than the four-story beauty that was the Blue Horizon. The legendary boxing venue was over a hundred and forty years old. It pulsed with an ancient force beyond its years, a residual energy that permeated the structure's core from the hundreds of thousands of fans that had screamed within these walls. She could feel that energy now, revitalized from the crowd of fifteen-hundred that surrounded the ring and voiced their joy from the previous fight, a ten-rounder between welterweight contenders. If she read the commotion correctly, someone got knocked the f**k out.

The exterior and design of the Blue Horizon were exquisite, but the interior showed the aged and worn characteristics of an establishment with a maintenance budget deficit. Well loved, well used. Reminded her of the patina on her El Camino's 1959 paint and body. It had needed to be restored but broke her heart to do so because she was reluctant to change his O.G. personality, rough and gruff. This joint had that O.G. effect. Rough, dirty, powerful, like it was the Grandpa of Philly. A mean old son of a b***h of a grandpa that would outlive God, kick His a*s every time it thundered, and turn His angels into his own personal harem with a schlong as big as a mountain.

Old School, architectural pimp.

The locker room floor tiles were white, chipped and pitted with black mold stains, and sprouted benches along the walls and down the center of the small, rectangular room. The walls were thick concrete with peeling white paint and brown stains from strong disinfectant that didn't like to wipe off. Fluorescent lights with dirty globes shined dimly over their heads. It smelled like it looked, old and dank, with detergents that couldn't quite mask the odor of degeneration.

Like my grandpa, she thought.

The walls vibrated with the crowd's energy, towering resonators that shook her little bones with immeasurable power and buzzed her head with sensations that mirrored her thoughts and intentions for the upcoming battle.

Hyper thoughts. Violent intentions.

Her mouth was suddenly dry, her bladder full. Symptoms a soldier experiences before going into a deadly war she knows she may not make it out of in one piece. That feeling of High Risk that takes the mind into an alternate reality where instincts do all the driving and leave all the drama and whiny emotions in the dust. A nervous want. A fear of blood loss and a desire for blood l**t.

A Sweet Science.

The strategy of Hurt and Not Get Hurt. The strategy of You Better f*****g Win Because There Is No Second Place.

She wanted it.

Her monster wanted it, the fight junkie dwelling in her head.

“I want it,” she told Eddy. He straddled the bench in front of her, wrapping her hands, ignoring the Philadelphia Boxing Commission representative and the Latino dude from Team Torres that looked over his shoulder to monitor his work.

“Believe it, girl. You'll get it. She's all yours,” he said, adjusting the sleeve of his black and pink Team Ares jacket, unrolled another length of tape. The white athletic tape he layered on her fists tightened, hardened her hands into lethal weapons. Grenades she planned to decimate Torres' head and body with. She tensed, foot started bouncing. Eddy started taping faster, his mind on the same alternate realm as hers.

She wanted it. He wanted it.

Now.

“Tell them to just play the song. I can't sing it. Don't know what the hell I was thinking,” she told him.

Eddy looked over at her promoter, Silvio, who sat on a bench to their left, brushing imaginary dust off his black Hugo Boss suit. Smiled at him. Looked back at her, underbite sticking out with a grin. “I already took care of it,” he said.

Her mouth turned down, brows rolled into one. “Really,” she said.

“Don't worry, darlin'. No one doubts your singing ability. Your ability to overcome the killer instinct you feel now, and perform a song you've only practiced in your car. That was in doubt.”

“Really.”

“And like you just said, what were you thinking? This isn't a singing contest. Forget about it.”

“Yeah, Shock. Forget about it,” Silvio said, adding his two cents and earning a glare-scowl from her. The Commission rep snickered and she aimed her mean mug at him. His expression became focused once more.

“Let's get these gloves on. Then you get your butt in that contraption. It's show time,” Eddy said.

“Yes, Coach,” she snapped at him. He just continued his stupid grin and unwound the final length of tape. Cut it, stuffed the roll in a jacket pocket. Taped her hand.

Silvio had several event assistants running around double-checking his commands. The referee walked in, a late-fifties white dude with smooth movements and a tan, cosmetically enhanced face and Just For Men gelled brown hair. A herd of people and cameras followed, HBO Pay-Per-View staff. The commission rep signed his mark on her hand wraps and she stuffed them into the gloves Eddy held. Eight-ounce Cleto Reyes, black. He taped the wrists of the gloves quickly, securing the laces. The commission guy scribbled his mark over the tape, a seal that proved the gloves weren't loaded and prevented tampering between here and the ring. The ref stepped forward and did his thing, instructing her to avoid illegal punches and obey his commands at all times. The cameras zoomed in on them. She agreed to obey. He turned and walked through the HBO staff, who directed cameras after her as she walked into the hallway.

The `contraption' sat outside the locker room door, in the hall that led into the Carmichael Auditorium where the crowd and ring awaited. Event assistants swarmed her. The huge mutant rat costume was thrown over her shoulders, around her pink and black trunks and legs. Zipped up. The head was placed over hers so that her eyes, nose, and mouth popped out under the rat's snout. The clear plastic spikes that ran over the rat's crown and down the spine were turned on, LEDs flickering white and purple. The feminine mask and wild, mutated dark brown furry body made her feel like Godzilla's b***h.

She noticed the microphone had been removed from the snout and figured Eddy had done it before she even arrived.

Old bastard, doubting my singing skills. I ought to take him to the fried seafood buffet and order us salads. Watch him sweat like a druggie in a c***k house that's only allowed to smoke cigarettes. Teach the ol' geezer…

Music started, interrupting her thoughts of revenge. She Wolf by Shakira blasted from the auditorium, pummeling the walls and pillars with the Latina superstar's lilting voice and dance beats. The crowd roared its delight and she could picture women of all ages shaking their hips and waving arms over their heads.

Silvio appeared beside her, waving the cameras back. “Shocker, baby. You look fierce! Phenomenal!” he yelled over the resonations. The hallway was like a huge bass port, the air moving with the sound waves and fluttering all around them. Silvio's cologne wafted in her face. Polo Black with a dash of Cuba's finest tobacco.

“You're wearing too much cologne,” she told him.

“What?”

“I'll miss this when I get home!”

“I will, too. You're the best, doll!” he yelled back.

She hugged him, decided against informing him that no amount of Polo could hide a Havana Sweet; he'd never fool his nagging wife. Stepped into her cage. Assistants stepped forward and secured the Plexiglas door. A toggle switch was positioned next to the door frame. She flipped it. The clear liquid crystal displays on the outside of the Plexiglas walls, roof, and floor burst with bright blue, white, and purple streaks of lightning. It was so realistic looking it made her believe she could hear it sizzle and pop, anticipating thunderclaps. She smiled, thinking of her husband, Ace, and the mad scientist laugh he must have guffawed after creating this thing.

Shakira quit shaking the fans' rumps, returning to dormant Os and 1s in a digital hard drive somewhere in a tiny control room out of sight. The crowd calmed to a simmer. The ring announcer boomed his intro for Consuela Torres, giving her kudos for being the WIBF champ with a record of twenty-six wins, zero losses, and eight knockouts. A nice account with ample embellishment.

The sound system started wailing again, this time with the heavy guitar chords of Smashing Pumpkins. Billy Corgan, Bullet with Butterfly Wings. Her gloves and boots started moving of their own volition, anticipating the show they had trained so hard for, bouncing on her toes, shuffling fists. Four huge bodybuilders in white lab coats walked into the hall, scientists to carry their experimental rat beast in a cage. They took up positions at the four corners, grabbed the handles and lifted the eight-by-six box of lightning above their shoulders, started walking slowly towards the auditorium.

I am the Shocker.

Thirty-one fights and twenty-nine knockouts. A feat that hasn't been matched in her weight class, or in any of the classes below a hundred-and-sixty-eight pounds. She looked at her right arm. All of the KOs owed credit to it. It's a lot bigger than her left. Not as fast, but a hell of a lot more powerful. A sixteen-year mechanic's arm, formed since she began turning wrenches at ten, that made her pound-for-pound the hardest hitting gal in boxing history. She wanted to use The Mechanic as her fight name, but inadvertently let Silvio see her shock herself one morning when he came into her shop.

Hey, she was out of coffee. Had a shitload of work to do.

He wouldn't let it go. Insanely original, and would pique the interest of the world, he said. The slick hustler was right. That stunt had landed them some pretty big pay days, for women's boxing, and landed her the name Shocker. A huge portion of the crowd was chanting it right then.

Goosebumps tingled up and down her arms, little icicles sprouting up under the beads of sweat.

Hyper thoughts. Violent intentions.

“Despite of my rage/ I am still just a rat in a cage!” Billy Corgan sang as they entered the auditorium proper, verse timed perfectly. She started shadowboxing, dancing, dipping, pivoting, boots squeaking on plastic, throwing combos with easy speed, a freak in an electrical storm. The crowd loved it. The scientists and their insane creation, a monster they intended to turn loose inside the ring.

She rocked her monster, feeling the crowd's pleasure fuel her drive and really get her motor running. She lived for this moment. Nothing else was ever important or ever would be. This was, is, and will be her life, her destiny, her legacy. Her life was on the line, and she planned to shine.

The music ended, the cage was lowered, the door was opened. She bounded out in a crouch, still shadowboxing. The crowd stood to see her costume and bellowed their approval. The monster was loose. Huge TV monitors above the ring showed Godzilla's b***h bounding toward the ring's steps in a frenzy of pumping gloves, snarls, whipping tail and lightning Mohawk, clowning and working her Monster Mash.

She didn't remember climbing the steps or ducking under the ropes. Suddenly, she was in the ring, in a frenzy, in character and mashing her role to the fullest. She stopped on cue, as the music stopped, and Eddy lifted the mask off her head. Assistants unzipped the costume and it disappeared under the ropes. The TV monitors showed Eddy standing behind her, rubbing her right shoulder. She looked up at herself looking at herself. Face a thunderhead, brows furrowed, eyes dark and ominous, mouth in a snarl, boobs strapped down under a black tank. She raised a glove to salute the fans. They cheered and raised their arms in reply.

The ring announcer grabbed the microphone that was lowered from the overhead scaffolding. “Ladies and gentlemen! Introducing the reigning WBC world bantamweight champion!” His smooth voice boomed with super-sized garnishment to make it all sound pretty and important. She loved his voice. A brief pause to let the audience applaud, then he continued. “With a record of thirty-one wins, zero losses, and twenty-nine knockouts! The UNIQUE and PETITE! Clarice–`Shockerrr'–Arreees!”