El Presidente - A Short Story (Part 2)

This is the second part of the short story I entered for publication in a literary magazine. I edited my submission to only include the first part of the story since I had initially gone over the word count. On that note, while this part of the story was not submitted, this is how I wrote the ending.

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The first bell rang...

It was Marcus that charged right at Lewis, shocking the crowd into a collective gasp. He threw every punch he had with deadly force, establishing intimidation. Lewis tried to back off, but Marcus blocked his getaway in a southpaw stance, tossing body shots to slow him down and prepare for blows to the head.

It didn’t take long For Lewis to reply. Fighting with his back against the spectators, Lewis slammed Marcus with his right hand, his movement interrupted by a powerful uppercut. Marcus’s legs wobbled, and he retreated with his head covered. His hearing began to fade as Lewis rushed in. Marcus just managed to duck under a hook, and he clenched, pushing Lewis back and buying precious time. He stepped forward again quickly and confidently. It became clear that whatever the outcome of the fight would be, there would be a clear winner and loser. The crowd continued shouting in awe.

The two men, after some hesitation, exchanged blows, neither one willing to back down. Marcus grazed Lewis with his left, who countered with another uppercut. Stepping backward, Lewis threw a slippery cross, remaining on his toes, but Marcus slipped under the cross, switching his stance, orthodox again. Lewis was now exposed, and Marcus took his chance to sling a lead hook at his head. His eyes widened as Lewis ducked, and he reared back.

It was Marcus’s turn to duck; he had overcommitted and was left off-kilter, giving Lewis a temporary advantage. A fist flew at his face, but Marcus, shifting again his stance to southpaw, got the stability he needed to weave under Lewis's punch, landing a hard right to the ribs. Lewis crowded him, preventing him from throwing any more powerful hits. He then backed up and eyed Marcus hungrily.

Unnerved, Marcus charged again. At first, each boxer's defense was impenetrable. As the seconds wore on, however, the sound of gloves against skin began to ring out across the room. Lewis shifted backward, still throwing every punch he could, but Marcus drove him toward the corners with an aggressive jab. Marcus knew that Lewis liked to move, and if he could just trap him against the crowd, his defense would dissipate.

Marcus finally herded Lewis into a corner, and Lewis began to throw his hand over his face in lieu of Marcus's relentless punches. He timed Lewis’s head movement and caught him as he bobbed up. At such a close range, Lewis's height left his body at a disadvantage. Marcus, still driving forward, didn’t expect the next two hits, two hard rights on his arm. Lewis had miraculously stepped out of the corner, the crowd practically pushing Lewis forward. With Herculean effort, Marcus turned his right arm into a missile, connecting and causing Lewis to stagger back into the hands of the people watching, their shouts becoming more aggressive.

The bell finally dinged, signaling the end of the round. Cheers erupted all over the room as they retreated to their corners. Marcus sat down, breathing heavily.

“Damn, kid!” Ted cried as he rushed forward, rag in hand. “You got yourself a nasty cut.” He pressed the towel to his head, which Marcus leaned into. “That round was dynamite! That had more action than whole fights I’ve seen. If either of you hesitated for a moment during your close hits, it could have been the end.”

Ted squirted a water bottle into Marcus’s mouth, leaning to his ear. “You’re not in his head yet, but he’s gotten to you. Lewis has been shaken, but you haven’t knocked him down. You’ve been stopped before, and he knows that, but you took him by surprise with your stance shifts. He’s watching for it now. Keep fighting him in the corners. He can’t hit with no room to breathe.”

Marcus got up slowly. Swiveling his head around the crowd, he noticed a familiar pair of glasses reflecting the dim light of the room. Marie, nestled among the crowd, glanced over at Marcus, and her mouth drooped as she saw the gash across his head. She tried to compose herself but didn’t take her eyes off him. Marcus moved forward as the bell dinged again. The second round was now underway.

Lewis made sure to distance himself this time, dancing away from the jabs Marcus led with. Lewis threw fewer punches at the beginning, but when he punched, he found his mark. Marcus noted, as he moved forward and attacked his guard, that Lewis’s deadliest weapon, his right hand, was tucked away at his side, only sporadically attacking. Suddenly, Lewis stopped moving, sneaking that tucked hand forward, and surprised Marcus with a haymaker. His body tensed, and he moved just out of view of Marcus, bouncing from one foot to another. Marcus began watching his chest instead of his feet, realizing that the last few punches he threw had missed entirely.

As the round wore on, Lewis’s movements seemed to be lackadaisical. He strung together a wild and unbalanced combination, connecting another uppercut and ducking underneath a punch, unfazed. Marcus shook his head and steeled himself. Both fighters missed their next few punches. Marcus adjusted his footing once more and, with no warning, slugged a right cross, smashing into Lewis’s jaw. Lewis reared back, but Marcus shifted again, narrowly avoiding what could have been a knockout punch. Just inside Lewis's line of vision now, Marcus used all of the strength in his hip to slam another blow into the side of his opponent’s head. For the first time in the match, Lewis began to falter, the onlookers sensing the change and beginning to stand on edge.

Marcus pressed forward before the bell suddenly dinged. He pulled his punch and quickly withdrew, watching Lewis do the same. He was still looking in his direction, and across the room, he could see the faintest of daring smiles on Lewis’s battered face. Marcus sat, suddenly feeling the weight of the blows he had received. At once, everything swelled: the noise, the emotions, and the unbearable throbbing above his eye. He shouted for Ted and a rag.

“Is it bad?” Ted treated the wound again. “Worse,” Ted replied. “I’ll fix it up the best I can. This ref better not end the fight because of it.”

Ted looked up at the ref. “This better not end like the San Francisco fight. You can’t keep scaring the refs like that or else they’ll never let you fight again.” He laughed, then leaned down close to Marcus’s face, motioning at Lewis. As they looked, they watched his coach slip off his right glove and inspect his hand. Lewis’s face was stone, yet Marcus could see a hint of pain flash across his eyes. Ted pointed. “Broken. I’d bet all my money on it. He’s compensating with all those jabs he was throwing at you and those Muhammad Ali dances.”

Ted leaned down again. “If you keep fighting with that cut, they might stop the fight. Lewis is too prideful to admit his hand is hurt. You need to stop this fight now before it’s stopped for you.”

All trace of levity was gone from Marie's face as she looked at Marcus, panting, sweating, and bleeding. As they locked eyes again, Marcus saw the same fear that he harbored in his heart, which beat to the drum of the crowd. They were children again, unfamiliar and overwhelmed with the sights and sounds of their environment. His eyes darted from Marie to Lewis, to Ted, to the suspenseful spectators, to the ref, and back to Marie, trying to grasp some sense of comfort or familiarity. He could not tell his legs to support him as he tried to get up, and he slumped back.

The ref hurried over and knelt into his face. “Look at me.” Marcus strained to focus. He held up his gloves to his face at the ref’s command and nodded when asked if he was still able to fight. The ref raised his eyebrows, which Marcus responded to by nodding more noticeably. He couldn’t lose this fight without one. Energy came back to his limbs as he stood from the bench, and the crowd grew louder as the third bell rang out.

The two men met for the final time. Marcus quickly rushed at Lewis and, at the last second, pivoted on his toes to strike at Lewis’s weak side. Jab after jab came from Lewis's left, with even less movement from his right. Sensing this, Marcus feigned a hook to his left, which caused Lewis to instinctively raise his right hand to counter. That was the fatal mistake: Marcus hauled a left hook with all of his strength, connecting with Lewis's ear. Shouts emanated from the corners as Marcus landed another headshot, and another, and another. Lewis managed to throw a weak jab, missing entirely, when the ref rushed suddenly in, separating the two. He then cornered Marcus, pointing to his forehead. Marcus wiped his forearm across his temple, which came away with a copious amount of fresh blood. He stiffened and signaled to the ref, not breaking eye contact, that he was still able to fight, lifting his gloves. Reluctant, the ref stepped away, and Marcus took a stride forward, baring his chin and with his guard down. Lewis ducked under a right hook, and Marcus bobbed in kind, away from a jab. Lewis’s sweat fell in drops to the floor. 

It was now or never. Marcus shifted his left fist forward as quickly as he could and hit Lewis with an unsuspecting, perfectly timed right hook. Lewis was shaken badly as he tried to stay on his toes, dancing around Marcus, attempting to disorient him. The crowd roared as Marcus chased after him, catching him again just as he began to turn. Yet again, Lewis tried to escape, and Marcus missed a left hook. He gathered all of his energy into his legs for a final furious fist. He swung, and Lewis’s head jerked to the side as the strike connected. He stumbled backward, then, losing his footing with a final look of disbelief, crashed to the floor, defeated.

The cheers were deafening. Ted and Marie both rushed into the middle, their heads held high and their arms excitedly holding Marcus up. Ted put his arm out to stop the crowd from rushing in and guided Marcus to the ref. The ref grabbed both fighters’ hands, Lewis still stumbling. Marcus’s hand was raised, as was the victory cry.

“Ladies and gentlemen, by way of knockout..."

* * *

A knock sounded on the door to the executive suite. It was now just after midnight. As Ted opened the hotel door, Lewis’s frame blocked the light as he stepped in slowly, gingerly holding his right hand.

“Come on in.” Ted motioned to a chair on the other side of the room. Marcus emerged from the corner, nursing the gash on his head with an ice pack as he opened the blinds again. Lewis didn’t take his eyes off Marcus, but there was no warfare left in his gaze. His face was softened, and every step he took was calculated, careful, as not to disturb a fly. He nodded in approval. 

“Congratulations.”

Marcus smiled. “You had me worried all month. You gave one hell of a fight.”

“You didn’t think I was stressing?” Lewis chuckled and sat down. "Man, you’re already destined for greatness. I don't know anybody that can fight in both orthodox and southpaw. Unheard of.” There was a pause. “You could go pro, you know.”

“What if I did?”

“Then I’d follow you.” Lewis rubbed his hand. “We’re worthy rivals.”

“You should. You’re a mountain in the ring."

 "And you're like a little badger. I can't catch you, and I sure can't intimidate you."

Marcus sat down on another chair, across from Lewis. "How’s your hand?”

“Swollen." He waved it around gently. "My coach says it's broken. I got it wrapped for now. But, I'll tell you what: if I had this…” Lewis raised his wrapped hand to  Marcus, grinning. “…you’d be on the next flight home.”

They both laughed. The cityscape rose before them through the window, the lights from the late-night transit and the neon glow from distant skyscrapers illuminating the room in a kaleidoscope of vibrancy.

“You know what I love about boxing?" Lewis continued. "After all is said and done, there’s only respect. Fighters can speak curses all day long, but after a few beatings, both sing each other’s praises. There are no mortal enemies, no fated meeting. It comes down to two hungry boxers looking to make a name for themselves. We all play on the same team.”

“What team is that?”

“Humanity,” Ted interjected. “It's like we have to prove to others like us that we’re not as different as we seem.”

"Since when did you become a philosopher?"

"Hey, at least I remember something from those church sermons."

"Got anything else to lay on us, Grandpa?"

“Ha, I'll get you later. Well, here's something my old coach taught me: beneath the training, beneath the gloves, we’re more similar than we think. But we’re different enough to learn from each other. That’s how it keeps your attention.”

Marcus looked out the window, spying the market across the way and the clerk closing up shop through the faded fluorescents. “What made want to fight?”

Lewis shifted in his seat. “There’s always been something competitive in me, looking for a fight, but I think I started boxing to one day provide for my family. There's a lot of money if you can get good. You?”

Marcus did not take his eyes away. “To prove something to myself, that I’m not the mild-mannered kid everyone’s made me out to be all my life.”

The two men stood up. “I respect you, man.”

They made their way to the door and shook hands. “I’ll be watching for you in the pros.” 

“I’ll see you there.”

THE END

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-JDH