With Her Fists

Chapter II-2

The cheers lit up her pleasure centers like they never had before, pumping her full of her favorite d**g: Invincibility. The rooty-poot term `confident' didn't begin to describe her current mental state. The wonder d**g the fans had immersed her in had inflated her ego to universal proportions, expanding like the Big Bang, flowing through her entire body and bonding to every molecule like armor.

I'm bulletproof, baby. An invincible predator. And tonight I'm going to jail for murder.

Torres is going in the ground.

The referee called his combatants to the center of the ring. Put his latex-gloved hands on a shoulder of each of them and spoke into the microphone, reminding them of the instructions he gave earlier in their locker rooms. She glared at her enemy. Looked her up and down. Growled because her light blue trunks with gray fur looked way cuter than hers. Torres' gray tank, no boobs, and manly shoulders didn't match her very feminine heart-shaped face and button nose. Big eyes and thick lips, dark hair in micro-braids, tied in a ponytail. Prominent Latin features. She looked down at the mat, a psychological tactic that worked as a confidence tool for most fighters. Clarice had Invincible overconfidence shooting out of her like lunch from a supermodel, so glaring was the only function she had at that point.

The ref wrapped it up, the microphone was reeled up. The trainers and Teams ducked out of the ring. The fighters went to their corners.

Ding! Round One.

The blue mat didn't sound a peep as their bantam-weighted boots circled the Tecate beer logo in the center of the twenty-foot square ring. Circling left, two right-handed boxers dipping knees, weaving heads. Feigning jabs. Torres lunged forward with a double-jab and Clarice pivoted right while countering with a quick right-hand punch. Missed. Torres avoided it with ease, obviously having trained for that move. They circled some more. Clarice stopped, flat-footed for a ruse. Torres lunged again, a viper striking with liquid grace. Shifting her weight to her right foot, Clarice threw a jab that slid right down Torres' arm and, bam! Solidly thumped her button nose.

Damn that felt good.

First landed punch is always the best. Like an alcoholic taking her first sip of the day.

Give me more.

It is on, you little bull. Toro, b***h! TORO!

Torres' corner started yelling to her in Spanish. She attacked, jabbing, trying to sneak in an uppercut to the body. Clarice jabbed to fend her off, pivoted left, back to the right, catching Torres' punches on her gloves, waiting on her to fire another right-hand. There it comes! Focus so acute everything slowed down like a scene in The Matrix, surreal, megamo. Torres' punch reached the end of its range, Clarice ducked under it, weaved out over her left foot, shot a left-hook towards Torres' ear like a Tomahawk missile, really thrusting up from legs and transferring that weight and momentum into twisting shoulders and through the punch.

Through her head.

Sweat exploded off Torres' head, spraying the panel of judges that sat ringside behind a table. One of the judges, an elderly lady with snow white hair, wiped her face and grinned.

Torres wobbled into the ropes and Clarice attacked with four and five punch combinations that had the crowd on their feet, screaming with glee. The Invincible dope and bloodlust overcame her and she stupidly wasted more energy than she should have.

Torres was hurt but still firing back, still defending. As it turned into a slugfest, the cheers became deafening, teasing, taunting and enticing Clarice with more of the Good Stuff, urging her to keep throwing. Keep chasing that first-hit reward. Torres felt it, too, and was beginning to land more punches as Clarice's shoulders tired.

Eddy yelled and Clarice's senses returned, telling her to get out of there, let go of the bloodlust, put a leash on the fight junkie. “Box! Box!” Eddy shouted. “Move your butt, girl!”

She needed to get Torres back on her terms, control the fight with boxing instead of punching. Slugging is what Torres did best. Clarice needed to pick her apart like a surgeon. She jabbed out, away from Torres, moving back to the center of the ring for more movement options. Torres followed, gliding smoothly and showing no signs that she had been hurt.

Did I hurt her? Or did that b***h trick me into punching it out with her?

“Ugh!” she grunted in frustration.

Torres jabbed, threw a right that Clarice blocked. She did it again, but feigned the right. Too late, Clarice fell for it, threw a counter-right that missed and gave Torres the opening she had set up. Torres snapped her hips and whopped Clarice in the chin with an uppercut.

Backwards Clarice went, arms pin-wheeling in an effort to keep the balance her brain had temporarily forfeited. Her butt hit the mat. She squawked in anger.

Mother… fucker.

Torres' fans roared. The ref counted. Eddy started cursing. All really bad signs. Clarice took a few deep breaths and concentrated on the ref. He focused clearly in her vision so she got up, shrugged shoulders and rolled her neck, bounced on her toes. She took the standing eight-count to recover, then nodded to the ref that she was ready to continue. Nodded that she was ready to murder.

Oh, baby. She will pay for that one.

The ref told Clarice to walk to him, rubbed her gloves on his shirt, got out of the way. “Box!” he said.

She launched a series of jabs that backed Torres into the ropes. Torres tried to pivot and counter, but Clarice anticipated the angle and dropped down below it, throwing a steaming right-hand into Torres' stomach, immediately stepping with her left foot to throw a hook. Torres clinched to catch her breath, grabbing Clarice's arms, then tried to sneak in another uppercut. Clarice blocked it with her right glove, reached up and grabbed the back of her head with her left and pulled down. Instinctively, Torres raised her head to pull away, wasting precious energy and prolonging her recovery. Clarice held her.

“You can call me Herpes, b***h,” Clarice spat at her. “Because I always come back.”

Growling in pain and anger, Torres struggled loose and sprang off her back foot with a wild four-punch combination that Clarice danced away from, landing jabs on Torres' forehead. Snapped a wicked right-cross that landed with a satisfying smack on Torres' cheek, the crowd echoing it with a collective “Oooh…”

How you like me now?

Ding! The ref jumped between them and pointed to their corners. The crowd was on their feet cheering and clapping raucously. They raised their gloves to acknowledge the fans' support as they walked to their respective corners.

Eddy propped the stool on the mat and tore Clarice a new one as soon as she sat down. “What the hell were you doing? You abandoned the fight plan! I know you're smarter than that. When a jackass brays at you, you don't bray back! You trick him into carrying your load! Stop being stupid and listen!” he bellowed right in her face. His breath smelled like peanuts, but it felt like fire. The angry passion he emanated was super scary. Realizing how bad she had f****d up, all she could do was nod vigorously and agree to get back on the game plan.

“Yes, Coach!”

“I told you. When she wants to punch, you box! Get it through your thick head, girl! Box!”

“Yes, Coach!”

“Remember: weave, hook, weave, hook! Trick her with the right, then hook!”

“Yes, Coach!”

“You got knocked down, so you lost that round. You better not lose another to this girl.”

“Yes, Coach!”

He ducked under the ropes, the cut man smeared Vaseline over her eyes and cheekbones, put her mouthpiece in. She stood. The bell rang.

Ding! Round two.

Clarice's ponytail, tank top, and trunks were soaked, sweat pouring off as if she were standing in a steam room. A towel flashed between her legs, wiping up the puddle she had left from the sixty-second break. Her cheeks were beginning to throb, the jaw muscles inflamed from absorbing that bomb Torres had nailed on her chin. Motherfucker would be sore as hell later.

Super-duper.

Clarice made a conscious effort to clear her head and focus on nothing, an illusion of elsewhere that erased all emotion from her body and allowed her muscles to connect directly with her instincts, the muscle-memory that was programmed with Eddy's custom pugilistic software. Thinking slows a fighter down, inhibiting the mind-muscle connection with unnecessary pulses of information. Like spam, all in the damn way. Acting without thought or emotion is the recipe for speed.

And you know what they say about speed… It kills.

Torres darted in like a jackhammer, jab pumping as her feet pumped across the Tecate logo towards Clarice. Right-hand c****d. Clarice slipped the jabs, staying right in Torres' face, watching for her right as she watched for Clarice's. Let Torres chase her around the ring for a minute while she got into position for a counter punch. Torres kept coming straight at her, relentless, homing in, being the aggressor as part of a strategy to impress the judges and gain favor in the event that the fight went the distance. Aggressor is the only role Torres knew, a Mexican style of fighting she was taught, and taught well. Problem is, it's one-dimensional, all attack with little defense or counter punching involved. She would be in serious trouble if the roles suddenly reversed. That's why she's good at standing her ground and slugging. To prevent role-reversal, survival, protection of her style. Clarice needed to hurt her to reverse it, get her out of her rhythm and off her game.

Hurt her bad… Speed speed speed…

Clarice pivoted the wrong way, seemingly by accident, as a result of frustration, let Torres chase her into a corner, raised her gloves to cover her head, elbows close together to cover her body. Pop-pop bam! Torres wailed on her gloves and arms with a beautiful three-punch line drive. A half-second later, she reset and wailed again. This time Clarice turned to the right and caught the third punch, a heavy right, on her left shoulder.

“Gaah!” she cried, grabbing Torres' forearms and clinching. Having sensed the injury, Torres yanked up hard on her left arm, grunting sadistically, spraying spit and hot breath on her arms. Clarice cried out again, grabbed Torres' elbow and pushed her left while pivoting right, spinning her into the corner, trading places. Clarice backpedaled to the center of the ring, shaking out her arm and grimacing like her shoulder was torn or out of socket.

Torres paused in the corner and smiled at Clarice. A green, white, and red flag of Mexico appeared behind her lips, a fierce grin representing the country she was kicking a*s for. “Muerta, puta,” she said, bringing her gloves together in front of her face. She raised her Cleto Reyes and jabbed after Clarice, explosive and feline, a lioness pouncing on her hamstringed prey.

Standing with her left arm hanging, Clarice stepped and weaved her head as if she actually believed she could slip punches and fight with just her right arm. Torres went right at her with a one-two. Clarice shifted onto her back foot to avoid the punches, right glove brushing her nose. Clarice stepped toward her hard and quick, throwing her `useless' left arm up horizontally into a hook that had all of her legs, hips, and shoulders behind it, leverage and weight distribution in perfect textbook form.

Her glove hit Torres' chin and she tightened her fist, forearm and shoulder as it connected, solidifying it, driving it through the girl's face. Torres' head twisted, her eyes rolled, she flailed her arms reflexively, punches her brain triggered while forgetting to tell the rest of her that she was going down for a crash landing.