Bareknuckle Barbarian (Fight Card)

by Jack Tunney

  “You are a jerk, Mueller,” a new player said as he entered. “I didn’t tell you to use my boys to run your errands just because you swung the fight with the shade.”

  The speaker wore a three hundred dollar blue suit over hundred dollar hand-made shoes. He smoked an expensive imported cigar despite wreaking of cheap whiskey.

  His face, beneath a bristle of orange-red hair, was a cartoon of an Irish thug. He had a button nose, freckles and a cruel, fleshy mouth.

  “Red,” Klaus pleaded. “I had to stop the cowboy.”

  “Tony,” Red O’Bannon called out. “Check out Carney.”

  The green fedora wearing Tony came in from the entrance and moved to the fallen black, careful not to cross through the two gunmen’s line of fire.

  ‘Oh, geeze, Red,” Tony said. “He shot Carney in the arm.”

  “I can see that, you idiot.” O’Bannon said. “How bad is it?”

  “Shot him through his left forearm. Looks like it’s broken. He ain’t gonna box tonight.”

  “You done yourself, Mueller.” O’Bannon said. “I let you arrange this match so you could square it for the loss last week, but you’re gonna cost me more money this week.” He nodded toward the quivering horse trainer. “Make it right, boys.”

  “No!” Klaus screamed. “It the cowboy’s fault.”

  “Really?” Red said with a cold laugh. “You shot the local champ and you’re gonna blame it on the hick?”

  “If he hadn’t messed things up last week we wouldn’t need this fight tonight,” Klaus said.

  “But we do, Mueller,” Red said. “I brought in the German from Philly. That cost me money. My reputation is on the line and you just shot the local draw.”

  Moe cocked his pistol and pointed it at Klaus.

  “Let the cowboy fight,” the horse trainer pleaded. “He thinks he’s a tough guy.”

  “And he did take Mike out,” Moe pointed out.

  “He never got a chance to take you on, did he?” Mike snapped at his partner.

  “Shut your traps, you two,” Red snarled. He puffed on his cigar and looked the Texan over. “How about it, hick, can you fight?”

  “If I have a reason,” the Texan said. “But not to make you money.”

  O’Bannon laughed. It was an ugly sound. “A real tough guy, huh?”

  Howard kept a stoic expression on his features, his eyes black coals.

  “I got the lowdown on you, hick,” Red said. “You’re sweet on the frail.”

  “That’s my wife,” Klaus protested.

  “She’ll be your widow if you don’t zip it,” Red said.

  “You have to get a doctor for Big Carney,” Julie interjected. “He’s bleeding badly.”

  Red ignored her request and nodded to Tony. “Get the dame.”

  The tout moved toward the girl. Howard started to intercept, but Moe and Mike shifted their guns to cover him.

  “Tom Mix here will fight fine to keep the frail healthy,” Red said.

  Tony grabbed a stunned Julie. Big Carney made an attempt to stop him, but was too weak from shock and loss of blood.

  The Texan started to move again, but the two guns made it impossible to intervene.

  “Help me!” Julie cried.

  Klaus, stunned by the cascade of events made a whimpering sound and charged Tony screaming, “Get your hands off my wife!”

  Red lashed out with blinding speed, smashing Klaus on the side of the head.

  The horse trainer dropped like a sack of stones.

  The gang boss held up the brass knuckles he had used on Klaus and snorted. “The circus is the right place for you, Mueller, you’re a clown.” He looked over at Julie. Her mouth was now gagged and she struggled weakly in Tony’s arms. Red then made eye contact with the Texan, who was all but vibrating with impotent rage.

  “So, cowboy, you be in center ring at midnight, and you put on a good show till the fourth round. Then you take a dive to the sawdust.”

  “Or?” Howard spat.

  “Or the little lady has an accident.”

  The entourage of thugs left with the now limp Julie in Tony’s arms.

  “Fourth round,” O’Bannon said. “And make it good, tough guy or the deals off and so is the frail.”

  Finally, Howard was alone in the tent with the wounded black.

  The Texan raced to Big Carney’s side, pulling off his belt to improvise a tourniquet for the black’s arm.

  “I gotta get you a doctor, Hoss,” Howard said.

  He moved next to the fallen Klaus but when he examined the fallen blond he gave a deep sigh and shook his head. “He ain’t gonna be hittin no more women,” Howard said. “O’Bannon split his skull with those brass knuckles. He’s dead.”

  “Get Doc Jason,” Carney said with a new urgency. “He can keep his mouth shut. He’s the show’s vet. He can fix me up as good as any hospital. Can’t get no regular doc anyway. They’d have to report the gunshot. Plus, we can’t let them find Boss Klaus. If they do, Red will just take off, and there’s no tellin’ what he’ll do to Miss Julie.”

  “I’ll get Bernie, too,” the Texan said, nodding in agreement. “We’ll need him to know what is going on. You gonna be alright while I find the doc?”

  The black smiled. “Not one hundred percent, but I’ll make it. What we gonna do about Miss Julie?”

  “I don’t know,” Howard said, grinding his teeth in frustration. “But looks to me, whether I like it or not, I got me a fight tonight.”

  ROUND 9

  BIG TOPSY TURVY

  The crowd of over two hundred were all clustered in the first rows of the spectator seats of Madison Square Garden. Mixed among some of the circus folk who were in the know, the newcomers were not just the rowdy sort who Howard had first witnessed on the Bowery. These new arrivals were some well-heeled types, even a number of couples were among the spectators as if the coming bout were a real sanctioned match.

  The field of battle for the two gladiators was to be the center ring on the Garden floor. A square space the size of a conventional ring was marked out in chalk in the middle of the circle.

  Chairs had been placed around this fighting space for the high rollers to observe the fight close up.

  Howard stood with Bernie in the entranceway to the arena, in sight, but out of earshot of Red O’Bannon’s armed goons.

  “That Schmidt has got a bad reputation,” the muscular roustabout said in a hoarse whisper to the Texan. “They say he done a guy in with his bare hands in Chicago. He don’t need to cheat to win like Boyle did.”

  The Texan looked past his friend to focus on the center ring, his mind already clearing a path to the battle to come.

  “Ain’t no goin’ back, Bernie. It’s come down to this.” He held up his fists. “It always has and always will. Man is an animal pure and simple…a barbarian to the core.”

  “I’m tellin’ you, Bob,” Bernie insisted. “That giant is not just gonna fight you. He’s gonna try to kill you!”

  “The word to highlight there, Hoss, is try,” the Texan said with a wry smile. “I ain’t about to make it easy for him. In fact, I suspect, he’s in for a bit of a shock when I don’t shake in my boots just from the sight of him.”

  “But you still have to take a dive by the fourth round,” Bernie said. “So maybe he won’t try so hard to hurt you.”

  “Don’t bet on it, Hoss,” Howard said, “Big Carney and me have been a burr under O’Bannon’s saddle. He wants to make a public show of puttin’ us down. Besides, he don’t know he caused Klaus to be killed, but once he does, he’s gonna know we’re the only eye witnesses.”

  As if on cue Schmidt entered the arena floor from the other entrance hallway across the ring. The German had short blond hair and glared out at the Garden as if everyone in it were his prey.

  He was, like Howard, stripped to the waist, showing off a physique that seemed sculpted from ivory. His pale skin showed off a number of long healed scars, which only served to make his aspect m
ore fearsome. His jaw line was sharp, his cheekbones pronounced, and his eyes set deep beneath an overhanging brow.

  The two men locked eyes across the distance and Howard knew just what kind of fight he was facing.

  “You know, Bernie,” the Texan said. “Society is glued together with a series of I shouldn’t and you’ll regrets…as in I shouldn’t slap down that loud mouthed kid cause I’ll get in trouble, or you’ll regret any violence against me when my lawyer gets through with you.”

  The shorter man looked at Howard with a puzzled expression, but listened with rapt attention.

  Howard continued. “It promotes the illusion of a polite society. When, in fact, it is a frightened society. It’s fear enough to keep most folks in check.”

  Howard stretched his neck and rolled his shoulders in preparation for the combat to come, then resumed.

  “There are those who have none of that fear. They are primal animals, the sort which chew at the glue holding society together. Rats, who scurry through the dark corners, occasionally coming into the light. That fella, Schmidt, there, is one of them. A real barbarian.”

  “You’re scarin’ me, Bob,” Bernie said. “I know I said he’s dangerous, but you make him sound like the devil.”

  “He’s a devil I know, Bernie,” Howard said. “You don’t look for mercy from his sort. He feeds on fear and helplessness. He don’t care I’m supposed to kiss canvas in the fourth. He just wants to see me show fear and pain. I ain’t gonna give him none of that, for sure.”

  “Are we gonna have a fight or what?” Red O’Bannon called as he walked out past his fighter. The Irish gangster led his entourage to just outside the chalked square, where they all stopped. Moe and Mike braced O’Bannon on either side, but kept their eyes focused on the Texan.

  O’Bannon continued to the center of the square, held up his arms and, playing to the audience, repeated in a loud voice, “Are we gonna have a fight?”

  The audience cheered again this time with more volume.

  “Looks like most of Red’s pug-uglies are with him,” Bernie whispered.

  “That’ll make it easier for Big Carney,” Howard said. “We know they didn’t leave the Garden with Miss Julie. We just gotta keep all eyes here.”

  “You still gotta keep Schmidt occupied till Big Carney finds Julie or it’s time to take a dive.”

  Howard grimaced. “I know,” he said. “I’m gonna have ta take a whuppin’ for a while.” He slammed his fist into his open palm.

  “Fighters!” O’Bannon called. “Toe your marks!”

  Schmidt strode from the entranceway with the liquid grace of a stalking tiger. He stopped at a line drawn in the sawdust on the floor and stood stock still like some automaton with only the shallow rise and fall of his massive chest showing signs of life.

  Howard walked to the square with a buoyant step. He came to a stop five feet from his opponent. He kept a poker face, his intelligent eyes locked with the lifeless orbs of the German.

  The two men could not have been more different. Schmidt was several inches taller than the Texan, a perfectly sculpted, lean, Aryan specimen from his blonde hair to his sky blue eyes. Howard’s muscularity was of a burly sort with his dark Gaelic coloring and Texas tan seeming even darker opposite Schmidt’s pale flesh.

  It was mostly the auras of the two men, which contrasted even more notably. It was a Zoroastrian contrast – the difference between a creative force and a destructive one.

  “Okay, gents,” O’Bannon said. “You’re here to have a fight not a dance, so everything goes, but biting and eye-gouging. Got it?”

  He only glanced at Schmidt, but tried his best to intimidate Howard with a hard look.

  “Round’s will be three minutes. The fight will continue until a fighter cannot make a ten count or the bell for the next round. Got it?”

  Howard returned O’Bannon’s stare with an openly contemptuous look, but kept his mouth a grim, straight line. Howard knew the gangster would never follow through on any promise to let Julie go.

  He’s so sure I’ll dive, the Texan thought. Because he knows I’d never let anything happen to Miss Julie. He figures I’m stupid enough to think he’ll let us go afterward. I’d be a fool to trust this sidewinder.

  Howard knew, none of them – not Bernie, Julie or himself – would leave the Garden alive once O’Bannon collected on his bets.

  “Hey, where’s the shade?” the Irish Gangster asked, when he realized only Bernie was accompanying the Texan to ringside. “And where’s Mueller?”

  “Big Carney is feelin’ poorly,” Howard said with enough disgust in his voice to make his statement credible. “Ain’t got no stomach to watch another man take his place. And Klaus couldn’t face this.”

  O’Bannon snorted a laugh. “Yah, likely it’s not gonna be pretty.” He glanced over at Schmidt. “Not pretty at all.”

  The German stood impassive as a statue, his eyes at some unseen point in space.

  “Alright,” O’Bannon called. “Fighters to our corners. When the bell rings come out fighting.”

  Both men went to their stools at opposite corners and sat.

  “Keep watch for Big Carney,” Howard said while he loosened his shoulders. “He’ll show up as soon as Miss Julie is safe.”

  “Sure thing, Bob,” Bernie said. “Good luck.”

  The bell rang.

  Schmidt came forward in a standard boxer’s crouch with a smooth shuffle step. Howard noticed a little light in the German’s eyes, as if the prospect of the unbridled carnage he was about to commit on the Texan had awakened a demon in him.

  However, something was awakening in the Texan’s soul as well – a tingling sensation, which stood the hairs of his neck on end and sent blood coursing through his limbs. Howard recognized his own atavistic urge, the savage he believed at the core of the human animal, coming to the surface.

  I see it in his eyes, Howard thought. He’s closer to that dark animal place all the time and he knows it. There are no limits for his kind.

  The Texan grinned involuntarily. But he’s making a mistake if he thinks he’s fightin’ a civilized man. He don’t know he’s fixin’ to tie into the man what created Conan the Cimmerian from parts of his on soul.

  ROUND 10

  TWO FISTED MAYHEM

  Schmidt’s first attack utilized fast, light jabs as an exploration of Howard’s defenses. The Texan gave ground and deflected the blows with little effort, knowing the blond was testing him.

  It suited Howard’s purpose to draw out the fight as long as possible, yet he knew he could not just run around the ring. He had to put up a fight to keep O’Bannon confident that all was according to the promoter’s plan.

  To that end, the Texan suddenly stopped backpedaling and launched a hard right cross.

  The abrupt reversal caught the blond off guard, the punch slipping through Schmidt’s defenses to glance off his ribs.

  The taller man side-slipped and shot back a quick left jab, which Howard took on his left forearm.

  The men separated as explosively as they had clashed.

  That will teach you to mess with this bull, the Texan thought, with more joy than he should have.

  The exhilaration of combat was heady and the writer had to remind himself there was a larger plan than just a simple fight. He had to stretch the fight as long as possible, making it seem as if he was going to take a dive in the fourth round. He had to give Big Carney as much time as possible to find the girl in the massive building.

  Still, Howard thought wryly, Couldn’t hurt anything to sting this son-of-a-dog a little in the process.

  Schmidt regained his machine-like movement. The hunger for destruction still burned in his eyes, but there was a slight change in his expression. He was likely reassessing the yokel he had obviously expected to be an easy victim. He would have to actually work to pommel Howard into submission.

  “You figured I was just gonna take a beatin’, huh?” Howard whispered. “But what kind of show woul
d that be for the folks?” The Texan smiled. “I think I’m gonna make you work for it a bit.”

  A cold ghost of a smile flitted across Schmidt’s thin lips. He tucked his chin, raised his guard and advanced again.

  This time the blond showed caution, his jabs calculated and not reckless. He left no opening for a reply from Howard as he moved forward with a swift series of blows.

  Howard knew his message had been received loud and clear, and the thought made him smile.

  The two gladiators jockeyed for openings, trading jabs to no effect until the bell sounded and the first round was over!

  “Boy, you showed him,” Bernie said, when Howard took his stool.

  The crowd in the stands was boisterous and the Texan could see Tony’s green fedora moving amongst them collecting last minute bets.

  “Gotta keep up a show,” Howard said, sipping some water. “I’m supposed to take my dive in the fourth round, but if they think I’m slacking or just running the ring…”

  “I know,” the bulky corner man said. “But you can’t just let that sauerkraut eating statue just pound you into the sawdust.” He looked over at O’Bannon and cursed. “That jerk ain’t got a human bone in his body.”

  “I’ll find out about his bones personally when this little tussle is over,” Howard remarked.

  Round two began.

  The two fighters exploded from their corners like shells fired from cannons. Both men were past testing the other. Their blows were now intentioned and powerful.

  The first thirty seconds of the round the collision of knuckles on flesh was like thunder claps in the arena, each fighter giving as good as they got. Both landed solid body shots on the other.

  Then as quickly as the explosion of violence occurred, the two men separated and stepped back two paces.

  He hits like a mule with a bad attitude, Howard thought. He shrugged his shoulders to work sore muscles and opened and closed his battered fists.

  It was hard for the Texan to tell if his blows had any effect until he saw the blond wince and stretch his left side where Howard knew he had landed at least one solid punch.