Coda Novo

Don't fight him, the thought to himself. He'll wear himself out. Play the rope-a-dope; when he can't breathe he'll be all ears. The punches landed quietly on his arms and elbows, and he pulled his abdomen. He could hear the quiet roar of the lights, the silky sweat and vaseline and the taste of metallic wax in his mouth. Not so bad for now. Soon enough it will be time. They can't go on forever. Forever passed and he could sense that the bull of a man was unsure of his work. The natural confidence fed him security. That security was a lie.

"I'm a razor," he claimed. He slid right and hooked the cocky bastard in the temple. Bouncing back off the rope, he outstretched a pissed off right. Naturally he gave him a left in the side and pushed off of him and around. Now he was free, light, and fast. He tapped the elbow and as the body spun around clockwise he wound counterclockwise. He connected with a leading chin and knew with the cleanness of the snap that his opponent was neutralized. Somehow the brain let the rote reaction through and the equal rode the spell through. He was tired, and drunk from that blast and had misspent his ferocity on the wall the razor had made.

The razor was in a surreal realm of his own. That wall wasn't without it's price. His organs, though purged of their routine duties by adrenaline were making desperate negotiation with each other. The mind of the razor knew his heart and allowed it to lead for a while. The bell rang and he shuffled over to the southeast corner. His ears rung and echoed the bell. The towel served to even out the silk, saturated and soft. When the time was up, he was going to end this thing. "Just be -you-!" Bill told him. Bill knew who was in charge of the fight.

Time and he walked calmly to the spot. Glove and back off. He let his man sink himself. Around and around he trotted. It was the easy move. It let them come back, recenter, and bank some energy. Geometry was prominent in his pummeled psyche. He saw the triangle of the shoulders and sternum and pushed around to tap it. In being too nonchalant, he caught two quick lefts and missed his fish. Never underestimate, he remembered, but do what needs doing.

His man got bold and aggressive and the razor let a big right swing past and brought his own into the center of the chest. He could feel the air leaving as he pushed his fist through and he sprayed bloody spit as the energy echoed up his own frame. Quick enough it was back where he needed it and his left let the man know it was time to try again. He saw the pain and anger in his eerie blue eyes and closed them with a well constructed right. The man went down on his ass. The fight was over.

"You are going to lose big if you keep that bullshit up," Bill scolded him. He smiled. "I'm trying to tell you something, man, and you think it's cute! You'll end up on the wrong side of it. Believe me, I'm serious."

The shower felt cold even though he knew it was hot by the steam. The oil would take like 3 days to come out. They had some nice soap in the bag though. Some nice smelling soap. The smell made him think of hay and saffron. Like some kind of curried grass that was washed in the ocean. He felt satisfied. His body hurt. The blood made the back of his throat itch. He shot out bloody clots from his nose.