With Her Fists

Chapter II-3

Clarice stood over her, glaring, snarling, ignoring the referee who urgently motioned her to a neutral corner so he could count out her victim. But Clarice didn't want him to count her out. She wanted Torres to get up so she could ride that roller coaster again. Feel that satisfying crunch of her jaw that made her eyes flash like flags of surrender.

The crowd was going mad from the action, feeling the blood-l**t and cheering the violent skill they had paid good money to witness, voicing their appreciation for not being disappointed.

Well, how about an encore?

“Get up, Torres!” Clarice shouted. “You're not done yet. Get up!” Spit flew out of her mouth, drooling down a sweaty chin from lips that wouldn't seal properly around the mouthpiece, pink with tiny white bolts of lightning for teeth. The huge TV monitors showed Clarice screaming at her inert opponent, shaking the glove that had knocked Torres down, spit and drool flowing from her snarl, rabid.

Eddy's voice broke through the noise and her zone of rage. “Get your a*s in that corner! Now! Shocker! Get your goddamn a*s in that corner, girl!” he roared, spitting, snarling with even more rabid nature.

Clarice glanced around, expecting a mob of people to be running away from her coach's vicinity, listening for a siren to start blaring a warning. Remembering why she was suddenly scared, she trotted to a neutral corner, turned and watched the ref count, refusing to look at Eddy and his heated glare directed at her.

Torres was on one knee, slowly recovering from the extra seconds given to her, staring at her gloves on the mat in front of her as her corner and her fans yelled and cheered encouragement to get up and fight. She stood, eyes wide and not completely focused, nodded to the ref. The ref told her to lift her gloves and step towards him. She did so without stumbling. He wiped her gloves on his shirt, asking if she was okay to continue. She nodded, stoic, a true warrior's reaction, showing her people she wasn't a quitter and would fight on regardless of consequences to her health.

Gotta give it to the broad. She's a soldier. But she's still gonna be Shocker Victim #32.

The ref signaled them to continue. They raised their gloves.

Eddy yelled again, “Thirty-seconds! Get in her a*s!”

Torres was game and tried to work a few power punches behind her jab. But Clarice just bowled right over her, hammering her into the ropes with hard, driving, blistering quick right-hands that busted her nose and lips, spraying pink sweat all over the mat and outside the ropes onto the Beautiful People that sat nearest the ring. Torres bounded off the ropes with a wild hook. Clarice ducked it, banged a right-hand, left-hook to Torres' stomach and ribs, springing up to make it a double-hook to her head, landing it hard.

Sideways Torres went, grabbing the ropes for support. At that point, the referee should have stopped the fight, but he didn't.

And Clarice wasn't mad about it.

Torres hit the corner post and covered up. Clarice jumped in and out at her, throwing a right-hand bomb every time her weight came forward, rocking her monster, rocking Torres' head even though Torres caught the punches on her gloves. Threw a ridiculously flashy over/under combination of about ten blows, mostly ineffective, showboating her speed demon to please the crowd. Torres fired back before the ref TKO'd her for not defending herself. Clarice paused and laughed, relaxed her shoulders for a fraction of a second, launched what she knew would be the coup de grace.

Right-hand, left-hook, right-hand, left-hook, over and over, harder and faster, flowing, rocking Torres like a bobble head dashboard toy. Switched, right-uppercut, left-hook, over and under, upper-cutting between her elbows to split her guard, tagging her chin, popping her head up behind her gloves to meet a perfectly thrown hook.

Clarice's left glove compressed against Torres' jaw, twisting her neck sharply, disrupting the flow of nerve impulses between her brain stem and spinal cord.

Incommunicado. Lights out.

Torres' eyes flashed surrender, her body dropped like a sniper had picked her off. The ref jumped in front of her, his back to Clarice, waving his arms like he was doing jumping jacks. The fans were literally off their feet, jumping up and down screaming, spirit and spittle flying in joyful chaos. Someone grabbed Clarice's legs from behind and hoisted her above the people that flooded the ring with towels, cameras, and pumping celebratory fists. Eddy held her up on one shoulder like a trophy, his prize, a winner that made him a winner. She leaned sideways and kissed the top of his curly head.

Several officials in suits of grays and blues appeared in the twenty-foot squared circle, a sea of boxing's privileged locals, shuffling, pushing, turning through the throng to stand next to Eddy. He lowered her. Clarice's boots hit the mat and she looked up at huge men that lowered championship belts over her. One over her head, one around her waist. Eddy stood behind her and held the belts in place. The towering suits flanked them and a dozen cameras flashed, zoomed in. The TV monitors showed the WBC and WIBF world championship belts wrapped around an emotional girl who was visibly relinquishing the killer instinct in the form of tears. The giants surrounding her were blocking the view for most of the fans so Eddy lifted her again, slowly rotated her, his trophy holding her trophies. Clarice basked in their adoration for what she knew would be the final time, tears pouring like sweat, smiling and sobbing, trying to breathe through an emotionally constricted throat.

She kissed Eddy's head again and choked out, “We did it, Coach.”

He patted her leg. “You better believe it.”

He lowered her, hugged her. Grabbed the belts she shrugged out of and looped them over a huge arm like bracelets. Flicked out a knife and cut off her gloves. She waded through the suits and media, ignoring the microphones shoved in her face, until she saw Team Torres jackets. Her opponent's people saw Clarice and made way so she could hug her no-longer enemy. She raised Torres' hand. Cameras zoomed in. The TV monitors showed two serious combat women acknowledging respect for each other's lethal skills in battle. Clarice hugged her again. Hugged her trainer. Waded back to Eddy.

And started sobbing harder. It was all over.

Forever.

“Let's get out of here, darling,” Eddy said, wrapping a protective arm around her. He marched them through the suits and pursuing media like a cruise ship plowing through small waves.