Story #112 - With This Ring

With This Ring

“Got yer tix, friend?” the man asked, and Wendal Spinks nodded. “Ya sure, brutha? I got better seats fer sale, cheaper than what ya got.”

Wendal moved around the large scalper, darting into the pulsing crowd to his left. These fights were the biggest draw in town when they happened, so he had no trouble slipping away into the pale darkness. Any tickets the large man had were likely fakes, something Wendal would have found out as soon as he tried to approach the doors. Mike had procured this single ticket for him – told him it was one of the best seats in the house. Still, he was starting to regret his decision to come; Mike was nowhere to be seen and crowds made him nervous.

“Wendal!” He heard Mike's voice call, and he turned. His blond colleague came jogging up, a smile on his face and his own ticket held tight. “Glad you made it, man! This one is going to be epic.”

He shrugged. While he understood the concept of the fights, he still didn't see the attraction. Of course, he'd never watched the televised event either, so maybe he was missing out on something fantastic. The truth was of the matter was that without Rita, he didn't have much going for him anymore, and when Mike had asked him to come along – well, it was better than sitting at home starting into a beer bottle.

As they approached the gate and the crowd bunched up around him, Wendal began to think fondly of that beer.

Within minutes they were through and to the concourse on the other side. Mike had furnished them with damn good seats, judging by the looks of the ticket-tearers as they went through. His tall friend guided Wendal in the direction of a beer stand, and they were soon loaded up with all of the warm alcohol and dubious food they needed for the evening.

Wendal tried to take it all in without focusing on anything specific, but it was tough to get past the smell. There was a massive nasal weight of unwashed bodies, combined with the wafting aroma of stale beer. Noise surged up and down along the crowd as one of their number raised a cheer or had an issue with one of the gate guards, and the entire stadium seemed to be on the edge of pandemonium every moment.

“Isn't it great?” Mike yelled over the din. “Real exciting!”

Wendal could see why Mike found it so fun – his colleague was easily the best-looking of them in the office, with broad shoulders and a chiseled face. He was a stand-out in town, and where people would bash into Wendal without a second thought or apology, they would thread their way carefully around Mike, asking forgiveness if they had to squeeze by him and make the smallest amount of contact. He was good-natured about it, but chances were he didn't know how lucky he was, or how much of his excitement came from the fact that he was in a special position.

Flashing Mike a quick smile, Wendal didn't follow it up with any words. He'd see what all the fuss was about soon enough, and then he could head home, his foray into the world of social activity over. Right now, his couch and a half-dozen cold beer sounded just about right.

Mike waved him forward, and they hustled through the crowd, Wendal staying just behind his friend and letting taller man's beautiful mug act like an icebreaker through the floes of people that came their way. Within minutes they had arrived, and Wendal had to marvel at Mike's seat selection.

In a stadium of over 20,000, the man had managed to get them not only seats that saw the action, but that were along the center of the ring with the commentators, allowing them to watch two shows in one as the fight went on. He'd also been able to avoid the dreaded “post” seats, the ones that seemed like a great bargain until the sitter realized that one of the combatants would be blocked by one of the ring's four corner posts at any given time.

A half hour passed in beer-drinking silence while Wendal took it all in. The spectacle was far greater than he could have imagined, and he could feel an energy surging through the crowd, an anticipation that grew to a fever pitch as the lights were dimmed and the music got louder.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” a booming voice said over the crackling speaker system, “Bender Junction is proud to present for your entertainment – Mr. and Mrs. Taylor!”

Processions began from opposite sides of the stadium as the two were marched down to the ring. As they climbed inside, Wendal could see that Mr. Taylor had sixty or so extra pounds on his frame, and Mrs. Taylor had clearly been doing her makeup according to a guide for 1980s housewives. He had a face that took a moment to look at; hers could have been pretty if she'd made an effort. Both were sitting around the forty-year mark, and they glared across the ring at each other, hate loud in narrowed eyes.

“Enjoy the show, everyone, and remember – stay in your seats.” There was a pause. “Begin!”

Silence fell over the crowd like a blanket, and the two in the ring moved closer to each other. Mrs. Taylor spoke first, words amplified by a suspended microphone. “You fat bastard – what the hell were you thinking? Two of them? In our bed?”

The crowd “ooohed” in appreciation.

“Bitch!” Mr. Taylor shot back. “You were frigid as the day is long – you hadn't touched me in five years. Whatdjia think was gonna happen?”

Several men in the crowd roared in appreciation.

There were more insults, name-calling, poor word play, and finally, threats. Wendal could see the crowd inching to the edge of their seats, and could feel his own heart hammering. He had Rita had split on far better terms, but there were a number of things he'd have loved to say to her.

The real fight started and ended quickly. Mrs. Taylor let fly with a full-armed slap to her husband's face, and the crowd screamed. He countered with a quick jab to the gut, and she fell gasping to the mat. He raised his arms in triumph and she punched him in the groin, dropping him to the ground with a pained wheeze.

On their feet, the crowd hooted and hollered, their preference for a winner unclear, but their desire for blood apparent.

She leaned down to mock him, pulling the top of her tight shirt down, and he tagged her in the side of the face, sending her reeling back and spitting teeth. In a move born of ferocity and the fury of a woman scorned she charged him, bearing him to the ground in surprise. In a moment she was up, stiletto raised and then driving down into the fleshy skin of his neck.

“That's...it?” Wendal screamed over the din at Mike as Mr. Taylor bled out on the mat below, and his friend nodded. He felt cheated – things had just been getting good.

“When's the next one?” He asked, and Mike smiled.

- D