Death of the Extremophile

by Stuart Parker

Upon this very stage Harry Houdini had once thrilled the crowd by making a ten thousand pound elephant disappear. Boxing, it occurred to Hope, was a similar exercise in illusion: in moving left when the feet were sliding right, in punching forward when the body was retreating backwards, in taking a blow without acknowledging its effect. Deception and victory were tight bedfellows, and Hope knew it, and could have boxed for a living. Although he was smaller in stature than the hulking Hammer, he was on top from the outset: it was part of the illusion.

  The crowd was vocal, but they seemed just as confused as Hammer, cheering blows that missed and barely seeing the ones that hit. With the misses so near it was impossible to know how the final points might tally - especially with the average judge’s scoring card as straight as a punch drunk roundhouse. Not that Hope would ever let it come to that. If the fight went the distance, it would have already been lost.

  He waited until the sixth round, when the bout had fallen into a routine exhibition, before he began his taunts.

  ‘The hundreds in the crowd are for me. They’ll watch you go down and they’ll tell all their friends. The newsmen are for me too. They’ll write their stories, take their pictures and tell the whole world about your beating with rip roaring adjectives. That will turn the hundreds into thousands.’

  Hammer pushed him away and took a wild swing. Hope sidestepped and lunged into a clinch.

  ‘But the one is for you,’ Hope spat into his ear. ‘The girlfriend. Alison Shipton. I got her ringside seats. She’ll see your ugly mug getting even worse and she’ll hear your whimpers.’ He held on tight a moment longer, despite the referee’s best efforts to pry them apart. ‘Any affection in her distant memories of you will be spat out like a bloody mouthguard.’

  Hammer really pushed him this time. The blazing lights overhead caught the toxic cocktail of fear and fury upon his face, the perspiration sitting heavy like a basting of cooking oil.

  Instead of raising his guard, Hope smiled. ‘The stupid bitch.’

  The punch coming at him was a moon covering the sun in a total eclipse. In the blackness he thought he was still on his feet. but the floor pressing hard against his back forced him to reconsider.

  The crowd was roaring rapturously. Although they were not in the vip seats, they were not too far away. One punch was all it had taken. The Hammer still had his name.

  And then the eclipse was passed; a blurred image of the referee waving a hand at him as he counted slowly took form. The numbers were not clearly audible, but while they were still in single digits, Hope had to decide if he was satisfied with his training. He started to pick himself up, for the answer was a resounding no.

  The crowd roared some more, urging him to his feet in a boxing equivalent of an encore call. The referee stepped away and kept his counting to himself. Hammer replaced him in a flurry of blows.

  Hope’s knees were too straight and his back too bent, but his guard was up, not letting the blows land at his head this time. His senses were rebounding quickly and he summoned them to know how the rest of his body was traveling.

  Hammer’s flurry was diverted down to his ribs. Immensely powerful shots, desiring of damage. The anger and hatred of crooked cops and Reikers prison was being unleashed in a frenzied moment. Hope took it until satisfied and moved his arms to block the heat - the slaps against his biceps were echoing off the back walls. Hammer was punching his way out of prison, out of a failed life and at long last he was winning.

  The bell rang to end the sixth. The referee had to step in to pull Hammer away. Hope stood his ground, gathering himself. The air he was breathing was a hot steam. He moved shakily to his corner stool where Bobby Carpets was waiting anxiously with a bucket of ice.

  ‘I’ve climbed my share of mountains,’ murmured Carpets, ‘but never one that punches back like that.’ He pressed a chunk of ice wrapped in a towel against the swelling on Hope’s cheek. ‘It’s the same as being caught in an avalanche.’

  ‘Yeah, right,’ Hope gnarled, shaking his body loose as best he could. ‘It’s not as bad as it looks but I’ve had enough. Once you’ve finished bothering me with your towel, I want you to throw it in.’

  Carpets paused and his voice grew quiet. ‘You mean quit? Are you sure? You were doing quite well at the beginning. And you never know, he might get tired from hitting you.’

  ‘I’m sure. I’ve got other plans for the evening.’

  Carpets chuckled despite himself. ‘You are a crazy son of a bitch. If I can’t talk you out of climbing the flagpoles of skyscrapers without a safety harness then I’m not even going to try here. In fact, I’d have probably pulled you out myself while your head is still planted on your shoulders.’

  The pretty girl in a silver blouse and shorts was back strutting the ring, as usual with a beaming smile and the next round placated in the same glittering silver. Carpets pulled the icepack off Hope’s face, patted his own forehead before letting the ice drop into the steel bucket.

  ‘Sorry, darling,’ he called out as he tossed the towel at her stilettoed feet.

  With so many eyes ogling her, the signal did not go unnoticed. Gasps and roars erupted though the hall. The referee hurried over to confirm the decision to concede.

  ‘Yeah, we’ve had enough of this fucking place,’ Carpets yelled.

  The referee went to a confused looking Hammer and raised his arm into the air. There was a mixture of applause and jeers from a crowd that was now in no doubt as to what had transpired.

  Hope met Hammer in the centre of the ring with a congratulatory embrace. He noticed that Hammer’s attention was lost to the crowd, his eyes flittering about rapidly.

  ‘Relax,’ said Hope. ‘Ms Shipton is not in the audience. At least not on my account. I’m no matchmaker, although I must admit I’ve arranged for a manager or two to come take a look at you.’ He let go of him but for a hand on his shoulder that tightened its grip. ‘Whatever happens next, just remember you don’t owe me. You get dead trying to pay back debts. I mean it. It’s always too late to know when you’ve been overcharged.’ His remaining contact slipped away. ‘The girl you are looking for, go find her for real. Her father won’t be in any position to stop you.’ He rubbed his bruised and swollen cheek. ‘If the way you want to look after her is the way you throw a punch, she is going to feel very special indeed.’

  The announcer was in the ring now, microphone in hand. As he begun to thank the sponsors and the crowd for their support of the polio campaign, Hope leant towards Carpets. ‘Go climb something real for a while,’ he murmured. ‘A mountain with clear views.’

  ‘What will you be doing?’ Carpets sounded concerned.

  Hope smirked cruelly. ‘Mountains with clear views.’