The Republic of Selegania Boxed Set: Volumes One through Four Page 3

  It meant having nice things, early retirement, pretty women, and respect. He had been on the right path towards these things, knocking one hapless opponent after another senseless with his fearsome right hand, which was starting to gain such a reputation opponents were shaking as they entered the ring with him.

  There was only one other opponent anyone even thought stood a chance against him, and that was Oscar Peters. He and Oscar were about the same age. Oscar came from the northern part of Selegania, Righty from the south. They had both claimed absolute dominance in their respective spheres long before their meeting, but the only question was who the champion of all Selegania would be.

  They were each just twenty years old, very young to have risen to such prominence, and the future seemed as bright as the sun for both of them, regardless of which one proved to be second best, because there was a mile gap of skill in between them and third place. Yep, those were the days. That was when he had gotten permission from Janie’s dad to date, and then to marry, her.

  But then came the accident. He had been moving some large furniture inside the house, when it slipped and pulled the heck out of his wrist muscles in the process. The next day at the gym, he noticed his right wrist got kind of tender whenever he gave the bag a gentle reminder of why he was called Righty, and whenever he really lay into it, he could feel bolts of pain shooting through his wrist.

  If he had been patient, he would have taken it easy for a week or two, let his wrist heal, and then continued training. The fight with Oscar wasn’t scheduled until two months from then, and he could have gotten back into physical shape in the six weeks after his two-week hiatus. But he had fame and fortune on his mind, and nothing was going to get between it and him . . . or so he thought.

  By the following week he could barely hit the bag, and when he did it hurt so bad it felt like someone had peeled the skin back, found the most sensitive nerve, grabbed it with a pair of pliers, twisted it into a knot, and then wacked the whole thing with a sledgehammer. Pain forced him into a hiatus that prudence could not.

  He didn’t feel better two weeks after the hiatus began. Or after another two weeks. In fact, as of the night before the fight, he could barely hit the bag without feeling some pain, and he had lost a lot of physical stamina in the interim. He had never liked running very much, and the jump rope irritated his right wrist almost as intolerably as the heavy bag.

  Oscar—or so Righty heard—had become aware of this injury, and although he had been determined to beat Righty before, this had redoubled his determination to win, as it now seemed a possibility—maybe even a probability—whereas before he privately feared Righty was going to give him the whipping of his life in front of everybody and maybe even injure him so badly his career would be over.

  Second place may have been the last rung before first. But whereas first place got you fame and fortune, second place gave you an upper-middle-class lifestyle, one you could only maintain while you continued getting in the ring with savage beasts ready to break their knuckles over your face crawling their way past you to first place. Then, once it was all said and done, you faced so-so job prospects, as it was no secret that years of bareknuckle brawling took away some of your smarts. But a single win at first place was enough to provide comfort for the rest of your life, and several wins at first place could grant you luxury for life and even the respect of the country’s gentry, so important was the sport to Selegania’s national pride.

  Oscar knew this was his chance. He figured that if Righty was hurt as bad as they said he would only have to worry about attacks from Righty’s left side, which were pretty sub-par. Righty’s prodigious uppercuts and hooks with his right hand—on par with the power of an earthquake or lightning bolt—had made it unnecessary for him to master the softer art of the jab.

  Righty preferred brawling, it could be said, over real boxing, but whereas other brawlers would get worn out by a skilled opponent’s bobbing and weaving, that was because they had to go for the head to do any serious damage. That was where Righty stood in a class all his own. He could punch an opponent’s body so hard the bones in the shielding arms would break after a couple hits to the same general area. That left only about two strategies for his opponent. He could try to hurt Righty quicker than Righty hurt him, which was a thorough exercise in folly, or he could try evasive footwork.

  Righty could run down and corner the most elusive opponents with the skill and tenacity of a prized bloodhound chasing down its hopeless quarry. Opponent after opponent had fallen in pain and agony from the devastating body blows he would deliver with his merciless right hand. Those unfortunate enough to get hit directly in the face were often scarred for life—literally and figuratively.

  Righty was nervous before the fight for just about the first time he could remember. He was afraid to hit Oscar full force because if he did, and it didn’t finish him, he would no doubt feel that pesky lightning bolt of pain shoot through his wrist again, and he didn’t know if he could take it.

  When the bell rang, Righty forgot all about the risks of injury. There he was, Old Oskey, as he sometimes referred to him, and his instinct was to kill him just the same as if a wolf suddenly saw a squirrel dart right past him.

  Righty came out swinging. Oskey must have just about had a heart attack because his eyes grew to the size of dinner plates, and he immediately went on the defensive. Righty was swinging his fists wildly through the air as if it were a fifteen-second round, rather than the five-minute round it actually was.

  Oskey was taking a first-rate whipping. Righty was slamming one fist after another into him, but holding back just a little with his right. He was compensating with speed. But after Righty caught Oskey with a good left uppercut to the gut that doubled him over, Righty couldn’t help himself.

  He brought his right fist down full force planning to break Oskey’s jaw into about three pieces, but Oskey saw it coming and executed a maneuver he had planned just for this occasion. He moved into the punch and tucked his chin to his chest, exposing the most solid part of his pate to his antagonist.

  Righty’s fist crashed down onto it with crushing force, cutting the scalp immediately, and causing a stream of blood to come flying out that—to the inexperienced eye—would have appeared the result of a fatal, skull-crushing blow, rather than the ghastly scalp wound that it was.

  Righty’s wrist snapped nearly in half. The pain was so great he almost had an out-of-body experience. Within seconds a mouse-sized lump appeared, and it wouldn’t be long until it was the size of a small kitten. Righty screamed in pain and anger.

  This is where accounts begin to differ, and to those not accustomed to Righty, it is something one would be best off not discussing unless he has first learned the details precisely as Righty recalls them and repeats them word-for-word. What Righty saw was the referee moving towards them in an effort to pause the fight and see if Righty could continue.

  What Oscar saw was First Place—his one chance to knock Righty the Mighty off of his pedestal and into obscurity. Righty was so shocked when Oskey’s fist connected with his jaw that he didn’t even have time to block. But his cat-like reflexes kicked in soon enough, and he launched himself towards Oskey, grabbed him with his left hand, yanked him forward, and prepared to bite the jugular of that no-good cheater.

  The ref, who was not aware that Righty had decided to explore his primal nature’s lowest depths, thought instead that Righty was merely trying to headbutt Oscar, which, while not technically illegal, was frowned upon. (“If we wanted to see headbutting, we’d go watch the antelope,” gentlemen would often say when asked their thoughts on the matter.) The ref put out his hand to block the headbutt and found out the hard way what Righty really intended.

  Bones went crunching between Righty’s molars like dry twigs underneath a hunter’s boot. The ref screamed out in pain and anger that the fight was over, Oscar Peters was the winner, and Richard Simmers was disqualified.

  It turned out that a lot of people f
ailed to see what Righty saw, and the fine gentlemen of the boxing commission decided bareknuckle boxing would be better off without Righty the Shark, as people had taken to calling him, provided Mr. Simmers was believed to be no closer than a hundred miles away from said conversation.

  Thus, boxing days were over, the lumberyard beckoned, and Righty was now just another sweaty, groaning horse toiling away under the hot sun in a job so miserable its sting could only be soothed by large amounts of ale, a medicine of which Righty partook nightly, much to his wife’s detriment.

  His boxing days existed now mostly in his mind, although occasionally his legend would die down just enough that he had to rekindle it in the tavern by knocking a young smart aleck’s face in for a minor infraction. His right hand had healed completely after several months without boxing, much to the dismay of anyone who ever heard the legend and made the mistake of thinking the injury persisted.

  As for his wife, he had never punched her. That, he was sure of, although he did have a hard time remembering what happened after a lot of his drinking binges at the tavern. He noticed a bit of shadowing around her face from time to time, and he admitted to himself during his rather deep philosophical reflections at the lumberyard that he probably was the most likely culprit. But on the other hand, that was small potatoes compared to what she did to his heart.

  He put food on the table. He worked like a dog. And if the only way he knew to momentarily forget the torture of his existence fourteen hours of six days each week was to drink himself until he saw double, that was his business! Usually, by the time he got home from the tavern, he was in quite a good mood, and the only thing he wanted—far from fighting with Janie; he still loved her dearly—was a little lovemaking.

  But she always turned him down, and that was where he lost his temper. For years he had convinced himself it was spite, that she didn’t want to make love to a no-good loser like he was (he suspected she always wanted to be married to “the champ”). But, as Righty had gotten older, his thoughts had become a bit deeper, and it occurred to him that maybe the smell of alcohol emanating from the cavernous interior of his stomach with the strength of stench rising from a decaying carcass wasn’t nature’s recommended aphrodisiac.

  He had managed to get himself sobered up lots of times—that is, if you count two days in a row without drinking “sobered up”—and he noticed she did start to be a little friendlier with him the longer he stayed sober. But then the misery of his job grew and grew like steam in a tightly closed kettle until he determined he would either go drink or go crazy, and he preferred the former every time.

  But, this time was different. He had spent the whole day feeling bad because last night he had hit the kid. Deep down, he loved him. He was a strange, wizard-drawing little runt of a son, but he was his son. Although he often doubted whether Janie still loved him, he never suspected she had had an affair. And Eddie had been born not too long after the good times ended. He knew that twinkle had formed in his eye when Janie still loved him.

  And Righty had been beaten up on enough by his old man to know that wasn’t anything nice. And Righty had always promised that he’d never do that to his kid. He hadn’t hit the kid too many times, although he couldn’t be sure that last night was the first. But this time he remembered it. And that had bothered him all day.

  He realized, insanity or not, he was going to have to turn his back on the tavern . . . at least for a while.

  “Let’s cut her short today!” shouted the foreman unexpectedly. Those words were as soothing and magical to the hapless oxen shouldering their mountainous loads as the question, What would you like for your birthday, dear? is to a young child, and it seemed every bit as rare.

  Perhaps twice, maybe even three times a year, Foreman Steve cut the day short, and not a soul amongst these beasts of labor dared ask the reason for it. There were those that suspected it had something to do with his lady friend, Elma Parkers (she was a real looker too!), while others thought maybe even just watching men perform such arduous tasks hour after hour eventually became as tiresome as the work itself. One or two individuals ventured so far as to suggest Foreman Steve felt sympathy for them from time to time, but this theory had never gained much traction.

  Righty felt a sudden joy pulse through his veins that eclipsed even the ecstasy he normally felt on such rare occasions when his daily torture ritual was cut short.

  “Time to hit the tavern!” a voice yelled, and cheers erupted.

  He almost joined them but at the last moment bit his tongue.

  No, not today, he thought. Today was going to be different. He had some making up to do, and coming home late from the tavern smelling like a distillery wouldn’t exactly be the right approach. A small feeling of willpower and determination had been growing inside of him all day, starting out at roughly the size of an acorn but growing larger and larger each hour of the day.

  The last decade of his life kept playing through his mind like scenes from a play, and he didn’t like what he saw. Drinking, scuffles with Janie that he couldn’t remember later, working all day under the blazing sun, drinking, scuffles with Janie that he couldn’t remember, and so forth until he hated himself down to his miserable, rotten core.

  He wasn’t a man without willpower. He had just been, and still was, a man without a path in life. While rising through the ranks of the bareknuckle world, he had been dedicated and disciplined. No late nights at the tavern. In fact, no time at the tavern.

  He had had his first sip of liquor a month or two after his . . . well, not exactly loss to old Oskey, because anyone who had seen that fight knew he had been cheated. But it had still been called a loss by those pompous, prim gentlemen of the boxing commission who robbed him not only of the rematch that should have resolved that draw (and upon arriving at this word he smiled inwardly for precisely classifying the outcome) but also of his chance as the best boxer this world had ever seen to continue with his career.

  Ever since that day he had no purpose. Liquor numbed his senses and helped him forget he had no purpose, but that was about it. But, today, he realized he had at least one—no two—purposes for his life. Their names were Janie and Eddie, and he was doing one hell of a job of losing whatever tiny fragments remained of their love towards him. But, there was something deeper than that—not to discount Janie and Eddie. For reasons he himself could not have given if a knife were put to his throat, he felt there was something he was supposed to do with his life. Something that didn’t involve working fourteen hours a day hauling wood around like an ox.

  He needed to find himself a goal and stick with it. Maybe there could be meaning to life after all.

  “Comin’ or dreamin’?!” asked Thomas, breaking the deepest reverie Righty had had in perhaps his whole life. Thomas grinned. “I’m buyin’ the first round!” and gave Righty a hearty slap on the shoulder.

  “I’m a little hung over from yesterday still, Tom. Thanks though.”

  If any other man had said that, Tom would have ragged him ragged, but Tom knew whom he was talking to and just said, “Suit yourself,” smiling and walked off.

  Chapter 6

  Janie stood in the kitchen crying. Her right cheek was still tender where had slapped her last night. He had never punched her. Even drunk he had enough sense to know that one punch could crush her skull like an eggshell. But she had a sore cheek nonetheless.

  She had been cutting some ham when she stopped to sharpen the butcher knife, which just wasn’t slicing the ham the way it should be, and she should know, as she had cut many a ham before this one.

  As she caressed the honing steel with the knife in brisk, smart strokes, she drifted off into another world. Whereas Righty’s daydreams consisted of his glory days and how they had devolved into beastly labor, Janie focused on how their relationship had changed over the years.

  Despite his monstrous conduct in the boxing ring, he had always been sweet to her before he started drinking. This wasn’t one of those “typical cases,
” she assured herself emphatically. To Janie, Typical Cases were those scenarios where a mean-tempered brute masked his nasty pith until the third date or so, or until the lady so much as made an untactful comment, and then gave her a beating most muggers wouldn’t dish out, only to thereafter start that endless cycle of beatings and apologies.

  Typical Cases were where the inevitable happened, and the lady was just too blind to get out after the first shellacking. This was different. Much different. If that no-good cheater Oscar Peters hadn’t swung at Richie while his wrist was practically snapped in half and the ref was moving in to separate them, the fight might have been rescheduled, or at least Richie would have gotten a rematch.

  She could have just about jumped in there herself and taken a bite out of Oscar after what he did. Janie was no stranger to Richie’s ability to feel sorry for himself and make up excuses. Ten years of marriage had been a good instructor as to Richie’s expertise in those two tasks. But, in this one case, she knew Richie had gotten cheated.

  And that was where all the trouble had started. She knew Richie was made for boxing like an ax is for cutting wood. It was in his blood, and the eviction from the world to which he belonged had destroyed the very marrow of his soul. Richie had never drunk a drop of alcohol before The Travesty. Nor had he ever laid his hands on her before in anger. In fact, even after The Travesty, he had never once laid his hands on her while sober. It was just when he was drunk. Sadly, that was most of the time when off work.