Chance Encounter

         It wasn’t a day I wanted to get up on. I would’ve been fine with it if the world ended that day and everyone died. Looking back, I wonder how anyone could be so simple and cold. Nonetheless, it was that kind of day. I finally got up in the evening, because I didn’t feel like pissing in my bed.

          I had every intention of going right back to sleep after I was done too, but as fate would have it, the source of my apathy started banging on my door as soon as I got out of the john.

          “Rent’s due, Mr. Delroy.”

         Wonderful. I wasn’t even worth the time of day to my landlord so he sent his twelve year old to collect.

          “Mr. Delroy?”

          He’d stay there until he got something. I knew the kid all too well. He had no choice.

          “Mr. Delroy, please.”

          “Yeah, gimme a minute, kid.” I opened the door, not thinking.

          “Aaugh!” The kid’s pale face was my official wake up call. I wasn’t wearing a shirt.

          “Oops, sorry kid. Gimme another minute.” I closed the door on Roy and thought about going back to bed. If only that damned kid wasn’t so polite to me, I would’ve. I grabbed a t-shirt and opened the door again.

         “Didn’t mean to scare ya, kid.”

         Roy shook his head. “It’s okay. Did you win?” he nodded at my black eye.

         “You didn’t see the welts and bruises on my chest? I can’t even afford to go to the hospital, let alone pay your grandpa.”

         Roy’s face sunk.

         “I’m sorry, sir. I’ll ask grandpa to-”

         “No, don’t do that. Last time you tried that he beat your ass, didn’t he?”

         “I fell down during baseball practice, sir.”

         “Kid, you lie worse than I box these days. Look, just tell your grandpa I’ll have the money to him by tomorrow morning. If he doesn’t get it by then, I’m dead so don’t bother.”

         “Sir, in your condition…”

         “Didja hear what I said, Roy? Get lost, okay?”

         “Ye-yessir.”

         Damn. Even after I slammed the door, my mood didn’t improve. Now I had no choice. I never lied to the kid before and I wasn’t about to start then. $760. That was about three matches worth. At least.

         Damn.

         I looked at my calendar. Saturday.

         Damn.

         The crazies always come on Saturdays.

         I was a boxer then. Five match losing streak. It’s not that I was bad, but no gym would sponsor me due to my rep and I hated all the rules. That and my primary source of income came from the very place I was going to that night; under the 7th Street bridge.

         Human cock fighting. … Man, why’d ‘cock’ turn from rooster to a derogatory term? Every time someone would ask me, they thought I was some kinda porn star. Bastards.

         Anyway, I fought two or three times a week. Even though they knew I was a boxer, I didn’t want the hospitals asking too many questions, so I usually avoided them and stocked up on band aids and ice instead. That’s why I wasn’t at my best in any matches. I couldn’t just stop going to the bridge, either. Once you’re in, you’re in. There were donors that counted on me. I won matches there for cash. I threw matches too. But you can’t just take your money and go. Then they start to lose cash. That’s when it becomes your problem and your friends and family start to suffer. So yeah.

         The place was packed as I expected. My usual welcoming committee didn’t seem to care when I stepped on the scene, though. Everyone was glued to the action in the pit. I was pissed. A newbie. Fast as hell, too.

         Gates was his opponent, err punching bag. I was impressed. Gates usually got the upper hand against me in the pit and the newbie didn’t even have a mark on his face. I walked up to Brinks. Of all the ‘analysts’, I only trusted him because his greed was solely to see a good fight, not gamble.

         “You lost bad yesterday.” Brinks didn’t take his eyes off the fight.

         “Yeah. Who’s the freshie?”

         “Warren’s pissed. Lost a lot of money on that match.”

         “Huh.”

         “Said you threw the fight. Did you?”

         “Who’s the freshie?”

         “You threw the fight.”

         “I’m here. I didn’t make squat off that match. There would’ve been something in it for me if I had, right? Why else would I be here?”

         “So you couldn’t beat the kid last night and you think you can beat that?” Brinks nodded to the pit. He had this accent. I dunno if it was Irish or Scottish, but it was definitely an ‘ish’ accent.

         “Made a promise. I’m definitely going to win.”

         “Not like that, you’re not. Look, you’re already breathing hard. I can hear it.”

         “Don’t mater. You gonna wish me luck or not?”

         “Go home, York.” Brinks finally looked at me. “Warren’s betting on the new guy. If you beat him by some miracle, you’re gonna get Warren even pisseder.

         “Pisseder? You’re not a native speaker, are you, Brinks?”
Brinks smirked and Gates went down hard.

         “Showtime.” I jumped into the pit before the newbie even had a chance to breathe. Turns out Brinks was right. Warren flashed some cash and pointed to him.

         “This is yours if you kill that sumbitch!” Warren spat, nodding at me.
The newbie didn’t even look at Warren. His eyes were fixed on me. Those eyes, though… They were neon green or something.

         “You some kinda techno punk?” I asked before I could help myself. His expression didn’t change. It soon became clear to me that he wasn’t looking at me at all. No, he was looking through me it seemed. I don’t really know how to describe it, but he seemed to be reading my mind or something. Searching for something. I didn’t have the time or the patience to let him finish so I let him have it. Right in the face. He didn’t even flinch. I was pissed off. My backhand, taken in full force could dent a car door. It has, actually. He had to be on some kind of drug. But I was adamant.

         “Just because you don’t feel it, doesn’t mean you won’t go down!” I accented my comment with a roundhouse, hitting him square in the temple. It was like hitting a brick wall. He didn’t budge and I was the one who fell. His eyes followed me to the ground, but nothing else. He was still looking for it. Whatever it was.
Of course I was too pissed off to realize I have twisted my ankle with that kick. Well, I realized it as soon as I tried to get up again.

         “Kill that sumbitch! Kill ‘em!” Warren’s damned southern accent. In Delaware of all places! Why?! I hobbled to a crouching position and tried elbow smashing his kneecap. Not even a tick of discomfort. I looked around. I’d already lost my pride, having been beaten to the ground by…well, myself, so I took aim for the ‘are you a man?’ test.

          A second before I made impact, he came back to reality and caught my fist just in time. That’s honestly all I can remember from that night.