by Jinx, Hondo
What was she doing?
After half a round of fierce struggle, Millie finally sighed. The bed squeaked, and he heard her tiny feet sprint across the floor. The bathroom door shut. “Okay, sir.”
When Johnny entered the room, his mouth dropped wide open. Once again, Millie’s uniform—lingerie included—lay atop his unmade bed. But this time, his rope curled among the discarded garments, its thick length tied into various knots and loops.
Johnny couldn’t help but wonder what Millie had been up to in there. Was she crazy?
He didn’t have time to ponder the possibilities. The southpaw was already at the gym, waiting for him.
He grabbed his gear bag, called goodbye to Millie, and hurried out the door even as she cried out her shame and thanks.
Freddie fought again, outhustling a 19-5 fighter for a close yet unanimous decision and taking her record to an impressive 7-0.
Phyllis Fischer did another short piece on Freddie for the Fight Town Tribune, calling her “the Ward’s hottest prospect.”
“Gotta say Phyllis Fischer is right,” Johnny said, eying the photo they’d included of Freddie. “You look super hot!”
“Thanks, dork,” Freddie said, and sipped her cult coffee. One cheek was a bit swollen from the fight. “But once you beat Stevenson, you’ll dethrone me as the Ward’s top prospect.”
“I don’t give a shit about that,” Johnny said. “I just want to beat his ass.”
“You will, babe. I know you will.”
Freddie constantly pushed him, constantly cheered him on, constantly voiced her faith in him.
He loved their daily routine.
He didn’t even mind the run anymore. The miles peeled away, and when they sprinted, his toes skipped over the pavement like a speedboat skipping up a river.
Every other day, they ditched chess and started taking their coffee to go in order to have more time to study classic fights. They focused mainly on fights and fighters who would help Johnny develop the style and skills he needed to defeat Stevenson.
They watched and rewatched more of James Toney, discussing the way he adapted to his opponents as he defeated Barkley, Jirov, and even the great Evander Holyfield, gaining more weight with every bout but never losing his incredible balance.
That balance was key. Toney’s agility score of 95, unheard of among bigger men, permitted his phenomenal performances.
Johnny wouldn’t second-guess his choice to up his endurance—that move had made all his hard work and rapid improvement possible, after all—but he sure wished his agility was higher, too.
Most mornings, Lennie the night owl pulled the covers over her head and grumbled while they watched the fights, but usually joined them before they were finished.
Despite—or perhaps because of—Freddie’s complaints, Lennie quit even trying to cover her ass. She’d slip out of bed in panties, pop onto her tiptoes, and stretch her arms overhead, lifting her cut-off t-shirt until it exposed the lower curve of her bare, wobbling breasts.
Then she’d pile onto the bed beside Johnny, pressing into him and stealing his coffee.
Needless to say, Johnny spent more and more of his life living up to his ring name: Rock Hard.
When Lennie left for another training camp in the mountains, the room seemed too quiet.
“She’s a pain in the ass,” Freddie remarked, “but she’s also my twin. I hate it when she goes away. I love her and miss her.”
“Me too.”
Freddie grinned at him. “You love her?”
“I meant I miss her.”
Freddie quirked a brow. “You know she broke up with Steve.”
“She did?”
Yeah, two months ago, right after the bar fight and all that. Right after you two met.”
“Good. She deserves better than Steve.”
Freddie nodded. “She really does. Like I said, Lennie’s a pain in the ass, but I love her. No matter how much it pains me to admit it, she deserves the best.”
They watched Marciano, early Tyson, Smokin’ Joe Frazier, and Johnny’s favorite, the amazing Henry Armstrong, a study in perpetual motion, head movement, and unrelenting brutality.
Johnny analyzed every second, hashing it out with Freddie, and then did his best to apply these lessons to his own style at the gym each night.
One week out from the fight, his weight hit 175.
He’d been in good shape at 190. Now, his entire body, washboard abs included, was as hard as sculpted granite.
In his gut, he knew he would be fighting Apollo Stevenson. He was sure of it, official announcements be damned.
Everything was coming together.
His only concern, other than putting it all together and winning the fight, was Vicarus.
He hadn’t interfaced for two months. He still hadn’t avenged his loss, still hadn’t fought a real bout, still hadn’t gotten physical with Freddie.
Which had apparently lost him some Vicarus riders.
The question was, how many?
And then, finally, on the night before the fight, he got his answer.
“I’m not going to say this is do or die,” Paul said sourly, “but this is do or die, Johnny.”
“It’s true,” Annabelle said. “You have to win your fight tomorrow. Luckily, your riders are fiercely loyal. They love you, Johnny, and they love Freddie, and they respect your hard work. They believe in you.”
Paul nodded. “But even their faith has its limits. You gotta win this fight, or they’ll bail, too. Everybody loves a comeback story, but nobody wants to be a loser.”
“The good news,” Annabelle said, “is that your true fans have been blowing up the Vicarus boards, sending shockwaves across the web-mind, supporting you, building buzz, luring people over to your perspective.”
“That’s awesome,” Johnny said, feeling real gratitude toward his supporters for sticking with him and helping spread the word. It felt good to know they believed in him, and he knew without them, he would be nothing. Literally.
He would reward their loyalty and give them the ride of their life.
“With the big fight tomorrow,” Annabelle continued, “a bunch of subscribers have signed up. Which brings us to the good news… you have some credits to spend.”
“Spend them wisely, dude,” Paul interjected, “or we’re all screwed! Game over!”
In the Vicarus store, Johnny learned he had 1000 credits to spend.
Seeing that number, he felt a surge of excitement—and another surge of gratitude toward his supporters, who were cool enough to stick with him through thick and thin.
He needed every edge he could get to beat Stevenson, especially since the Wolf Town fighter was benefiting day after day from wearing juice bling.
“Could I see my current juice stats before spending my credits, please? It feels like my juice has gone up.”
“Certainly, sir,” Fiona said.
* * *
Fighter: Johnny Rockledge
Age: 21
Height: 6’0”
Weight: 175 pounds
Reach: 76 inches
Total Juice: 523
Total Juice minus Heart: 423
Agility: 57
Chin: 82
Endurance: 71
Heart: 100
Power: 77
Speed: 66
Strength: 70
* * *
Johnny whistled, happy to see that all of his stats—except heart, which had already maxed out, and strength—had gone up naturally over the last two months… in some cases by a few points.
He was a whole different animal than he’d been when he’d sparred Stevenson. Thanks to his hard work and his last visit to the Vicarus store, his endurance had gone up by a whopping 13 points.
The real surprise, however, was chin. It had gone up by 3 points… naturally.
“Not that I’m complaining, but how did my chin improve? Isn’t that natural? I mean, isn’t that mostly your nervous system and stuff? How does trai
ning help your ability to take punches?”
“You are correct to a point, sir. The ability to take punches, much like the power of one’s punches, is largely mystical in nature. One simply takes a good punch or does not. But you have improved your chin stat through strengthening your neck muscles and by sparring, where you’ve learned how to take punches. Also, your general juice cultivation has improved, and that also boosts your chin.”
“Outstanding,” Johnny said then turned to the business at hand.
He considered each attribute, imagining how any given boost would help him beat Stevenson.
It only took a moment. Several times a day for the last two months, he’d weighed his theoretical options while visualizing a return to the Vicarus store for an opportunity like this.
He just took a minute, making sure his naturally improved stats didn’t change his conclusions.
They didn’t.
“I know how I want to spend all 1000 Vicarus credits, Fiona,” he said confidently. “Boost my power by 1 point, my speed by 3, and put the other 6 into agility.”
Chapter 51
They piled into Marvella’s beater at seven in the morning and drove across increasingly rougher neighborhoods until they reached the Northeast shithole known as Wolf Town.
Everyone on the buckling streets and sagging porches—and there were a lot of people out, many of them drinking forties and smoking weed even at this early hour—were wolves. Seeing Johnny peering out the window, wolves flipped him the bird and shouted, “Get the fuck out of Wolf Town, human!”
After some kids threw rocks at them, Marvella told Johnny and Freddie to roll up their windows.
The Fang was a massive old arena that reminded Johnny of the Roman Coliseum.
They parked and went inside.
Even security—wolves one and all—practically snarled at them.
Marvella, who was as irritable today as she always was when Freddie fought, knew her way around and led them into the basement and through a labyrinth of twisting hallways. “I fucking hate fighting here. Fucking wolves.”
“You are a wolf,” Freddie laughed.
“Don’t fucking remind me. These fucking assholes and their pack pride, all that shit. Who the fuck would be proud to hail from the asshole of Fight Town?”
They came to a door marked Weigh-ins and went inside.
Amateurs don’t usually do face-to-face weigh-ins like the pros. Also unlike the pros, amateurs have to weigh in the day of the fight.
A lot of fighters were already there, getting their weights certified so they could rehydrate and have their first meal in a day or two.
Johnny tipped the scales at 174 and felt great.
“You stick with this game, we might have to move you down to 165,” Marvella said.
“Really?” Johnny said, trying to imagine how he could lose another nine pounds.
“Yeah, really. Some of these assholes’ll gain five, six pounds this morning just rehydrating. They cut down as far as they can. You get a guy sucking down from up high, he’s got big bones, big power. They’re hard to hurt. Like punching a brick fucking wall, you feel me? You get hit by them, it’s like getting kicked by a fucking mule.”
“Yeah, but maybe we ought to talk about that later, huh?” Freddie said.
“You’re right,” Marvella conceded irritably. “Come on.”
They retreated to a corner and sipped cult coffee and ate some food Marvella had brought along. “That’s enough coffee. From here on out, it’s just water. The novice bouts start at noon. It’s good to be a little hungry in the ring.” Marvella grinned. “Besides, that way you get hit in the gut, you won’t puke up your lunch.”
Fighters came and went.
Johnny saw no sign of Stevenson. He hoped nothing had happened to the guy. Fighting anyone else at this point would be a major disappointment.
“You nervous?” Marvella asked, pointing to Johnny’s knee.
Johnny hadn’t even realized he’d been bumping his leg up and down. He shook his head. “Nah. A little tense, I guess. Restless, maybe. My body doesn’t want to just sit here. It wants to fight.”
“Well, tell your body to go to hell. Because we are going to sit here. And quit bouncing that knee. You gotta conserve your energy. Besides, restless is good. Means you’re ready, you feel me?”
Johnny nodded.
“I always get cold before a fight,” Freddie says. “Like I got an ice ball in my gut. You want to play chess?”
Johnny grinned at her. “You got a board?”
Freddie slapped her backpack. “Hell yeah. Let’s play.”
They found a little table and set up the board and played while the weigh-ins wrapped up.
A short time later, with Johnny ahead by two pawns, a commotion across the room interrupted their game.
Freddie pointed. “Looks like they posted the fights over there.”
They crossed the room to where a group of trainers and fighters gathered around a sheet of paper taped to a concrete pillar.
Johnny scanned the list.
He was on fourth against none other than Apollo “The Alpha” Stevenson, Wolf Pack Boxing (3-0). Theirs was the last novice bout before the open-class fighters ramped up the crowd for the night’s pro bouts.
Some official had highlighted Johnny’s bout. Beside it, blocky handwriting noted feature bout.
With a thrill of anticipation, he pumped his fist. “Yes.”
He had no illusions concerning his opponent. Stevenson had wrecked him in sparring. The Wolf Town fighter had remarkable speed and agility and enough power that you couldn’t just grit your teeth and walk through his shots.
Beyond that, he was skilled and experienced.
And confident.
But Johnny was confident, too.
And despite his opponent’s advantages, he was genuinely pumped to be fighting him again.
This time it was for keeps.
Something inside Johnny tightened down hard, locking his mind, body, and soul to the task before him.
“Well, you got what you wanted, kid,” Marvella said.
Johnny nodded.
“Good,” Freddie said. “I can’t wait for you to beat his ass. In front of his home crowd, no less!”
The fighters split up and went to separate locker rooms, red corner fighters to one, blue corner fighters to the other.
“We’re in the blue corner,” Marvella said, leading them down the hall. “This is what you’ve been waiting for, kid, what you’ve been training for. You know what to do. All that’s left is doing it.”
Johnny nodded.
The next couple of hours, he almost went nuts. After all this anticipation, the hardest thing was waiting.
He kept getting up to pace, and Marvella kept sitting him down, telling him to conserve his energy.
The other fighters and trainers were similarly anxious and subdued. Everybody sat around whispering and tense, not moving much, little bursts of forced laughter popping off from time to time, reminding Johnny of funerals he’d attended.
Like his dad’s.
He remembered his brother Jesse, always the family comedian, cracking a joke about burying dad in a big whiskey bottle and how they’d all laughed even though they were sad as hell and it wasn’t even funny.
He thought about his brothers back in the real world. He supposed they were all dead now, since he’d been awakened a century after his own death.
Somehow, he couldn’t conjure grief.
It wasn’t that he didn’t love his brothers. He did, despite the constant fighting. He couldn’t grieve them because none of it seemed real.
To Johnny, they were still alive, alive and young with their whole lives ahead of them. And that was just fine.
The same went for his mom, who if she was here probably would have issued some weird, highly specific warning like, Never box a Wolf Town fighter the day after a juice boost.
Weird, hypothetical warnings aside, Johnny was thankful to his riders
for the last-minute juice boost.
He felt the difference when it was finally time to warm up, after he’d changed into his trunks and tank top and was moving around beside the bench, shadowboxing.
The agility bonus made every move smoother, more natural. His punches, head movement, and footwork aligned like never before, maximizing the hard work and training he’d done in preparation for this fight.
The ref came in and talked to the fighters, going over the rules, asking for questions—there were none—and telling them he was firm but fair.
After the ref left, a gray-haired guy with a paunch tapped a pen against a clipboard and went over the fight order and the logistics of the show, stuff like how much gauze and tape they could use, wrap and glove checking, and ring entrances and exits, all stuff familiar to Johnny from cornering Freddie’s bouts.
Marvella sat on the bench and had Freddie bring over a folding chair for Johnny.
Johnny spun it around and sat down.
“Hands.”
Johnny laid his arms over the back of the chair and stretched out his hands to his trainer. Suddenly, his heart rattled like a speed bag.
Because now, just like that, everything was real.
This was it, the moment he’d been waiting for, working toward, dreaming about; his chance to avenge his loss, reward his riders, and kickstart a career that could not only save him but also provide a better life for Freddie, Marvella, and countless others.
Johnny grinned at Marvella. “Make them hard. Rock hard.”
Chapter 52
Marvella went to work, wrapping a full roll of gauze back and forth over his wrist and hand and between his fingers.
The whole time, she cooed instructions. “Gotta disrupt him. Can’t allow him to tend that gap.”
She gathered the gauze on his palm together and sealed it with a strip of tape, forming a little bar, like a roll of quarters made of gauze and tape.
Meanwhile, Freddie tore additional strips in half lengthwise and stuck their ends to the back of Johnny’s chair.