Fight Town: Inspiration

by Jinx, Hondo

  Both envelopes held money.

  The first contained a dollar. Paperclipped to the bill was a note in his own handwriting reading gym dues.

  Another obvious clue. Fight city plus gym dues equaled direction.

  Point taken, scripted game world, point taken.

  The other envelope held three crisp dollar bills, a quarter, and half a dozen dimes.

  That was it. Johnny had a sweatbox of a room, two cheap suits, and just shy of five bucks.

  In 2019, five bucks would have bought lunch. At McDonald’s. If he’d stuck to the dollar value menu.

  Hopefully, it would stretch farther here. Based on this room’s monthly rate of thirty bucks, he guessed it probably would.

  Johnny shucked his suit jacket and dress shirt, then squashed the cap on his head, stuffed money in his pocket, and left the room wearing suit pants and a white tank top.

  Beside the empty pool, the motel manager stretched out on a lounge chair in an orange one-piece and enormous sunglasses, sunning herself and smoking a cigarette. Next to her, the tan pug panted in the shade of a thatched umbrella.

  “My fan’s broken,” Johnny told her.

  She grinned up at him and took a drag off her smoke. “Broken, huh? I got an idea. Why don’t you go ahead and fix it? Then I can charge you an extra dollar a month for a room with a working fan.”

  She burst into rasping laughter that rapidly devolved into a coughing fit.

  Johnny started to walk off but turned when a voice said, “Lucinda, when are you going to fill this pool?”

  “As soon as I hit the lottery, sweetheart, that’s when. Where’s my pie?”

  A smiling blonde in roller skates and a pink waitress uniform handed Lucinda a pizza box that read Papa V’s. Floppy dog ears jutted from her blond hair, and a fluffy golden tail jutted up behind her. Beneath her pink miniskirt and lacy apron, her legs were long and toned. Probably from all that roller skating, Johnny figured.

  Lucinda handed her two coins.

  The girl thanked her, made change, noticed Johnny, and smiled. She skated over, her blue eyes twinkling and her shaggy tail waggin. “New in town, mister?”

  He nodded. “Brand new.”

  She stopped a few feet away. “Just passing through or sticking around?”

  “Sticking around, probably. At least for a bit. Figure I’ll give the place a shot.”

  Her smile widened. “You a fighter?”

  “Me? No. Not really.”

  She skated in a circle around Johnny, looking him up and down. “I thought you must be a fighter on account of those big muscles.”

  “She’s fishing for tips,” Lucinda said through a mouthful of pepperoni pizza.

  The blonde rolled her eyes. “Daddy says the customer’s always right. But you’re wrong, Lucinda. I’m just being friendly to this nice man here.”

  “Fishing,” Lucinda repeated, tossing a slice of pizza to her pug, who gave up panting to gobble it down.

  “Best pizza in Fight Town,” the girl said. “You don’t believe me, come across the street and try it, mister.”

  “Call me Johnny.”

  Her smile brightened. “Okay. Come over and see us, Johnny. I’m Sylvia.”

  He tipped his cap, feeling only mildly ridiculous. “Nice to meet you, Sylvia.”

  “Nice to meet you, too, Johnny. You want to put those muscles to work, the gym’s just across the street. I’ll bet you’d be a terrific fighter. Just make sure you ask for Marvella.”

  “Marvella?”

  Sylvia nodded enthusiastically. “Best trainer in Fight Town. Can you punch?”

  “I can punch.”

  Sylvia shivered then did a little pirouette on her skates. “I’ll bet you can. Look at the size of those mitts. But hey, if you can punch, Daddy might even sponsor you. Handsome guys who can punch sell a lot of tickets… and pizzas.”

  She said goodbye and skated off.

  Lucinda watched Johnny watching Sylvia, then shook her head with disdain. “Fishing.”

  He shrugged.

  Lucinda held open the lid to the half-eaten pizza. “Want a slice?”

  His stomach growled. “Actually, that sounds great. Thanks.”

  Lucinda tossed another slice to her dog and slammed the lid shut. “You want a slice then get out of my hair and go get a fucking job, buddy. I already told you: there ain’t no free rides in Fight Town.”

  Chapter 4

  The motel sat on the corner of 8th and Frazier.

  8th was a busy street paved in cobblestones and flanked with wide sidewalks where street vendors hawked goods in front of shops and restaurants. Cars rolled slowly past, looking like they had driven out of an old movie.

  People looked that way, too. Most of the guys dressed square, wearing suits and hats that reminded Johnny of the 1940s or 1950s. Not surprisingly, given the men’s attire, most of the women wore dresses. Around half of them had tails and animal ears, mostly resembling those of cats and dogs.

  Which Johnny, strolling down 8th, took in stride. After all, once you realize you’re in a simulation where anything goes, tails and ears are no big deal.

  The prevailing energy of the place, however, seemed more unified. This world had a cheerful, hardworking, “can do” feeling Johnny associated with the World War II era, and the happy bustle and seeming wholesomeness reminded him of movies from the so-called “good old days” of the1950s. Only judging by the folks he saw, these good old days appeared to be far more diverse than the 50s.

  But here and there, things didn’t fit.

  The neon signs, for instance. There were a lot of neon signs. Like the bright green sign buzzing in front of his motel—The Oasis—and two signs that stood out on the other side of the boulevard, Papa V’s Pizza in bright pink and the glowing blue 8th Street Gym sign affixed to the uppermost floor of the three-story, red brick building on the corner.

  Another anomaly came jogging past Johnny then.

  Four young women in yoga pants, spandex sports bras, and sneakers ran past, ponytails bouncing. Looking like they’d run here from 2019, they wove through kids and vendors and men and women coming and going in their old school suits and dresses.

  So he’d landed in a mashup of Mad Men and Blade Runner… with yoga pants.

  Well, thank God for small favors, Johnny thought, watching the quartet of fit-looking girls jog across the street and disappear down the alley beside the 8th Street Gym.

  “Fresh apples!” a boy cried from beside a fruit stand. “Ten cents a pound!”

  Remembering the prospectors’ advice to stop and smell the roses, Johnny did just that, stopping at a florist’s cart to smell the vibrant bouquets.

  “Roses for your wife?” the florist, an old woman with a great smile asked.

  Johnny shook his head. “Not married.”

  “Oh, come on,” she said. “You’re not fooling me. A handsome man like you must have at least three wives.”

  He laughed and walked on, scanning the storefronts. Fight posters hung everywhere.

  Come out this Saturday and support the neighborhood! one prominently displayed poster announced. Featuring the Ward’s very own “Hammering” Hank Harper!

  A middleweight with a record of 204 wins, 43 losses, and 11 draws with 127 wins by knockout, Harper would face “The Pride of Deer Park,” Sammy Prince, in a ten-round rematch. Prince had won 198 fights, lost 50, and drawn 7, racking up 65 knockouts along the way.

  Johnny reread the poster to make sure he hadn’t misread their records. Both guys had over 250 fights? That was crazy…

  The bouts were being held Saturday at someplace called The Arena. The doors opened at noon, and the main event was slated for ten at night. Admission was fifty cents.

  Well, one thing was for certain. Johnny had landed in a fighting game.

  That was all right. He’d never boxed, but he could fight. And landing in a boxing game sure beat getting dropped into a war zone or the middle of a zombie apocalypse.

  So he
needed to go to the gym and look for this Marvella person. Because again, why would Vicarus have Sylvia mention Marvella if he wasn’t supposed to seek her out?

  But first, a bite to eat.

  He took off his hat and went into Lou’s Diner, a bright clean place with lots of chrome. People chatted happily at little tables. A jukebox played upbeat swing music.

  Johnny took a stool at the lunch counter, laid his cap on his lap, and ordered his favorite meal: a cheeseburger, fries, a Coke, and a beer, all for 75 cents.

  The food was awesome. The cheeseburger was juicy. The fries were salty. The beer was crisp and light and cold. Remembering his mission statement, Johnny took his time and savored the meal, then pushed a dollar across the counter to the middle-aged red-haired waitress whose name tag read Patty.

  “Keep the change, Patty.” The Vicarus prospectors had given him a lot of advice, none of it about being a good guy, but Johnny had always done his best to help others, and he figured most people would rather ride along with a generous tipper than Ebenezer Scrooge.

  “Thanks, mister,” Patty said. “What are you, a fighter?”

  Johnny grinned and shook his head.

  “I figured you must be, tipping like that.”

  “Actually,” Johnny said, pointing to the help wanted sign on the mirror behind her, “I need a job.”

  Patty called over the owner, a whip-thin old guy with a crooked nose, cauliflower ears, and heavy scarring around his snowy eyebrows.

  “You have experience?” Lou asked.

  Johnny shrugged. “In a restaurant? Not so much.”

  “You wash dishes?”

  Johnny smiled. “Every time I eat.”

  “A comedian, I do not need. A dishwasher, that’s what I need. And maybe a busboy. Who knows, maybe even, if he turns out to be a good worker, maybe even a delivery boy or server. That’s what I need. Can you do it?”

  “Sure.”

  Lou hooked a thumb toward the kitchen, where waitresses bustled, shouting to line cooks through a haze of fragrant steam. “Prove it.”

  “What, now?”

  “You think maybe I’m scouting for next year? Yes, now. I need a dishwasher. You want the job or not?”

  “What’s it pay?”

  “A dollar an hour and one meal per shift. Not surf and turf. A sandwich, I mean, or maybe the daily special unless it’s prime rib night. That, I sell out of every week.”

  The wage was a punch to the gut. Laying brick, Johnny made twenty-two bucks an hour. But then again, back in 2019, you couldn’t get a beer for twenty-five cents, so…

  “I’ll take the job.”

  They shook on it, and eight hours later, Johnny emerged from the diner soaked to the bone and smelling like coleslaw but eight dollars and several friends richer.

  Had taking the job been a mistake? Had he already lost his Vicarus riders?

  Probably not, given the cute and flirty waitresses. The dudes were cool, too. Pretty much everybody asked if Johnny was a fighter.

  Over the shift, his answer evolved from no to I’m going to check out the gym.

  Washing dishes might be good, honest work, but a single shift left Johnny hungering for better work. According to everybody, fighters could make good money.

  Besides, if he fought well and got more Vicarus riders, he could earn credits for bonuses.

  What would those look like?

  Remembering that bright white world between worlds, he wondered if he’d be able to use credits to increase his stats, which seemed to be based at least loosely on his real-life attributes.

  If so, where would he put his credits?

  He had a solid chin and good strength and power, but his agility and endurance were only average, and his speed was nothing to write home about.

  Maybe speed, then?

  But with only average agility, he wouldn’t land many punches, no matter how hard or fast he threw them. Of course, if he didn’t build up his endurance, he’d either stop his man early or run out of gas in the first round and take a beating.

  Pushing these thoughts aside, he squashed his cap onto his head and looked around.

  It was dark out now. Or at least as dark as it could be with all this colorful neon. The vendors had packed up and gone home, but the street remained busy. Music, laughter, and good beery smells poured from street corner bars.

  Guys roamed in packs, talking loudly, eyeing packs of girls all dressed up and trailing perfume. Couples strolled arm-in-arm. Some guys escorted more than one girl.

  Which made sense here.

  Because Fight Town clearly had more girls than guys. There were two or three times as many women than men.

  Again, thank God for small favors.

  Johnny started for home, hating the feeling of his wet shirt and pants. But as he drew close to The Oasis, he noticed lights still burning on the third floor of the 8th Street Gym.

  People were still working on a Wednesday night at ten?

  Maybe take a look, he thought, already crossing the street. Just go up and see what this is all about.

  He followed signs down the alley to a dark parking lot and went through a plain metal door over which a faded sign read 8th Street Gym, Home of Champions.

  Chapter 5

  On the other side of the door was the steepest set of steps Johnny had ever seen. The old stairs creaked as he climbed them, going up and up and up, gym sounds leaking through the door high above. Thumping and squeaking, muffled voices, the ding-ding-ding of an electronic timer.

  The air grew hotter with every step.

  By the time he reached the top, Johnny was out of breath. Not gasping or anything like that, but he took a second to calm his breathing as he read the sign on the door.

  8th Street Gym, Home of Champions. Pros: $1 / week. Amateurs: 50 cents. CITY CHAMPS TRAIN FOR FREE.

  On the other side of the door, the bell sounded again. Someone yelled “Time!” and the racket started up all over again.

  Johnny pushed through the door into an explosion of sight and sound.

  The gym was packed. And this was no white-collar boxing club aimed at edgy soccer moms and dudes battling mid-life crises.

  No, this place was clearly legit.

  Fighters—boys and girls, men and women—strained and sweated, skipping rope, shadowboxing, snapping jabs into punch mitts and heavy bags, and striking speed bags in a blur of motion.

  Loud music was playing somewhere—a James Brown song, Johnny thought—but he could barely hear it beneath all the other sounds: the whirring skip of a dozen jump ropes; the sharp, animalistic exhalations of the shadowboxers as they punched; trainers shouting as gloved fists thumped heavy bags, making chains jangle overhead; and over it all the constant ratta-tat-tat machine gun chatter of speed bags in motion.

  To the left, mirrors covered the wall. That’s where people jumped rope and shadowboxed. Fight posters and old photos plastered the walls. Here and there, motivational banners weighed in with philosophical tidbits and advice.

  Champs never quit!

  You are stronger than you think.

  Winners train. Losers complain.

  Stay hungry.

  Are you training harder than your next opponent?

  No pain, no gain. Shut up and train.

  Rhythm is everything.

  Work now, win later.

  There is no “i” in “fighter.” If you disagree, quit reading posters and get back to work.

  A line of heavy bags ran across Johnny’s line of sight then turned and spanned the length of the place to his right, hanging just this side of the speed bags covering that wall.

  Most of the heavy bags were stout, black or brown leather cylinders or formerly white canvas now gray with time and grime and sweat. Many were misshapen and bandaged with duct tape.

  A stocky fighter stood before a spherical bag hung at chest level, pummeling it with uppercuts and low hooks, while his trainer looked on with an expression of mild contempt.

  Looking around, J
ohnny saw similar looks of disgust and impatience on all the trainers’ faces, including the hard face of an eye-patch-wearing wolfwoman leaning on a cane and watching a girl with quick hands circle a ball suspended at face level by black bungee cords that ran from the floor to a beam overhead.

  At the heart of the gym, fighters sparred in three full-sized boxing rings. Frowning trainers stood on the elevated ring aprons, leaning against the ropes and watching fighters in headgear jab and feint and surge ahead, throwing combinations.

  “Yo,” a voice called, and Johnny turned to see a squat, jowly man in a baggy, blood-spattered Cuban shirt approaching. On his big graying pumpkin head between floppy dog ears, the guy wore a con man smile and a white straw fedora that looked about two sizes too small. “What’s up, buddy?”

  Johnny nodded.

  “Pro or amateur?” the guy asked.

  “I’m new.”

  The guy smiled. “New, huh? Hey, welcome, my friend, welcome.” He turned and gestured to where a cluster of old guys surrounded a busty blonde leaning against the wall. “Gloria! Hey, Gloria! Come say hello to this kid!”

  The man smiled at Johnny and bounced his silver eyebrows up and down. “That’s Gloria. She’s my wife.”

  Gloria glanced at her husband but kept on talking to the other guys.

  The man smiled at Johnny again. “Hold on just a second, kid. What’d you say your name was?”

  “It’s Johnny,” Johnny said, wishing the guy would just leave him alone so he could scope out the gym.

  “Johnny, huh? You any relation to Johnny Jakes, the welterweight? No? Hey, I’m Rico, all right? Hold on, kid. I’ll be right back, okay? You just wait here and take it easy, and I’ll be right back. We’ll get you fixed up real good.”

  What did Rico mean, get you fixed up? Did he own the gym?

  Just in case, Johnny waited.

  Rico walked a few steps toward his wife and hollered, “Gloria, come on! Get your ass over here already! I want you to meet my friend, Johnny!”

  The blonde rolled her eyes and came wobbling over with an expression that reminded Johnny of the trainers’ faces. She towered over Rico, a full-figured woman with a broad face and lots of makeup, a sparkling black dress, and high heels that seemed wildly out of place in the gym.