The leader swings, connects, and I relish the pain as my head snaps around. My bearings on gravity become a jumbled mess of color. I feel like a fuckin’ Rubik’s cube in the hands of some world record breaker—left, right, over, under. I just hope it stops soon so I can keep this fight up a bit longer.
We throw fists in quick succession for what feels like an eternity. Blood spills, he spits a tooth, and the hipster behind the bar wanders over to shut the front doors.
Turns out nothing sobers a man up like a few rounds with an opponent. Knuckles on flesh, blood on the ground, copper on my taste buds. Heaven.
My breath staggers; a swift knee to the ribs will do that to a person. The unforgiving tile floor bites at my flesh, and I wonder in this moment of clarity if I even have any blood left to shed. Most people in my position would be terrified, crying for a break.
But not me.
I’ve been searching for this end, this fitting punishment for my crimes, for an age. And finally, finally I’ve found it. As King continues to bend and break my body in ways I never knew possible, I welcome the concept of death by brawl.
I tried years ago to end my pathetic existence and failed. Since then, pulling the pin on my life has seemed like the quitter’s way out, and I don’t fancy going like a coward. But in a fight? What better way to meet your end than at the hands of another man, doing what men do best?
The stark ugliness of the human race has never looked so beautiful.
I give up blocking his blows, and spread my arms wide. His fists collide with me, but each strike comes slower than the last.
Don’t give up now.
“Quit it!” some female yells from not too far away, giving my opponent the excuse he needed to lay off.
I curse at whoever they are, angered that once again I’m so close, yet so far away still from finding a suitable exit from this shitty world.
The guy backs up, and I lift a mangled hand to my face to tentatively feel out the swollen eye, and split lip I’m sporting. My breathing comes in short, painful pulls. Broken rib? Punctured lung? Whatever it is, it’s not enough to kill me and that’s what grates the most.
“Fair game, dude,” the kid pants.
“I’m . . . still . . . alive.” I stagger words through my vain attempt at finding air.
With a great deal of effort and a shit-load of luck, I manage to find my balance again. My pal Jack and his cousin Johnny have done a fine number on me tonight, happily taking my last dollars and turning them into a less-than-memorable night. I curse the brewers who made those faulty bottles and pledge to try harder next time.
I’ve been drinking every night for more months than I can count now, trying my best to find the level that causes my liver to pack it in whilst steadily working my way through the meager savings I’d set aside in the hope I would some day find Alice. I built that bank account up in case he ever needed his old man. But the lonely years and radio silence have done nothing other than confirm he’s doing fine without his father.
The blonde thing moves past Blue-Balls, shirking his grabby hands, and steps up to our friend, King. “I think the man’s had enough, don’t you?”
So, she was the one who put a stop to it?
“Fuck off, Ramona,” King snaps.
She turns and walks away like the dutiful club whore she is.
Fuckin’ bikers. Their cocky we-own-everything attitude grates on me. Strike me dead if I ever consider buying a bike.
The kid straightens out and arches his back, grimacing as he pops out the kinks. “How about a drink then, old man?”
“Fucking parched.”
He laughs, and walks over to give me a hearty slap on the back. I almost puke after the exertion I’ve just displayed on an empty, alcohol-lined stomach.
King lifts his fingers to the hipster, and gestures for two more. The guy looks at his watch and then at the kid, before shaking his head and pulling out fresh glasses.
I amble across to a stool, and slump my ass down before I pass out. The kid already looks as fresh as a daisy. Fucking babies and their fast recoveries. Sweat beads on my temples, and