BOJACK
"Come on kid. You can do it!" It felt like a lie; Cold as it fell from his lips. West had been the champ for two years running and Sanders was just getting by, just missing every blow by inches. He was good, but how good? Jeesus it's hot in this gym, he thought. And the lights are so fuckin' bright.
Above head the multiple halogen bulbs glared down on some sixty people surrounding a white padded mat and two figures. There wasn't a huge turnout for these preliminary rounds. Stephen Sanders, a rookie to the Bloodsport Arena had been matched up against Travis West; West had been champion two years previous to this year's tournament. All in all as Matthew Cunningham weighed it out in his head the kid looked fucked. Sanders was one helluva' scrapper, fast as a ferret and damn good for a rookie. Those piece of shit judges had rigged it so he'd be gone in one round. . . I always knew Taylor was crooked as a crowbar. Cunningham thought. Sanders was the one closest in blue trunks and the buzz and West was on the far side wearing red and sporting short-cut black hair. They were near the same size at 156 pounds in Stevie's corner and about 165 in West's. "Keep those arms in close. . and watch yourself in there. He ain't a pushover. I have faith in ya Stevie." He clapped the boy of nineteen on the shoulder. "Now go get em."
The bell sounded.
They both had a hodge podge style of all varieties. Stevie mostly focused on his boxing but he'd spent the last four years studying Tae Kwon Do under a master Dong while West was a grapple and pound type. West knew what it was like to get kicked in the face most importantly, Cunningham noted, thinking back to the time he'd popped Stevie in the jaw and he crumpled. Unseasoned, he thought, but still had faith.
Sanders lunged in, faking to kick with his back leg while instead kicking with his front. West was ready. The two dueled for several minutes, neither taking but one or two blows, both studious in their art. The trick was to recognize weaknesses, openings. Before long West had done this. Sanders' guard was a little wide and his ribs and diaphragm were vulnerable. West saw it just as Cunningham could see he could see it. "Keep the arms in damnit!"
Sanders heeded the advice for many attacks, held West off and even landed one particularly nice kick to the solar plexes. When he kicked the tissue that should've been soft it thrust back off his blow like a good punching bag. "Yeah!" Cunningham had shouted when it happened, and then grimaced. West rolled back, a fist punching air just above his nose, rolled to his left side and came out with the momentum behind his fist. All fluid. Like clockwork. Instead of striking the muscle directly West thrust his two knuckles into the gap, just where the ribs met and flexed everything he had. He felt the cartiledge rip. Sanders made a rough heaving sound like an intertube punctured and his face turned white.
"Oh fuck. No." Cunningham muttered to himself. "No, not again. . Stop the fight!"
****
The ending!
West grabbed a handful of throat, squeezing the soft matter like dough. His index finger and thumb dug deep into the forbidden points and as he did so looked at Sanders eyes. They were bloodshot and life was fleeting in them. Still there was something missing. . . that fear. Yes, that was it. The look in those eyes was one more of. . . fullfillment? Suddenly West felt his flesh punctured just above the beltline and then slice from one hip to the other. You die too, mother fucker. The eyes had said.
