The Laughter of Strangers (13 page)

Why waste any more time?

I wait until the end of round eight to fake a low blow.

I do my best to act like I’ve been hooked to the groin. X shrugs his shoulders, shaking his head, shouting, “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me!”

This is so unlike me.

Well, how about that—

I can change too.

I do what needs to be done. I have my values but winning is everything. If I don’t win this I won’t be myself anymore.

Distantly I recognize that I have already let that one go:

Being true to oneself.

I would never fight dirty.

ROUND NINE

It’s not over yet. I start with the jab again. X is irritated and annoyed which helps me win on the cards during this round.

This works:

JAB

JAB

JAB

STRAIGHT TO THE FACE

My shots might not be as quick or as punishing as his but X has lost his strategy. I’ve successfully derailed his linear path towards knockout.

Forty seconds left in the round I fake another low blow.

I keel over, mocking him even more as he turns to the audience, shouting “WHAT FUCKING BULLSHIT!”

But I’m not so sure the audience is on his side anymore.

AUDIENCE SUSPICION

WHERE IS IT AIMED?

AT ME?

AT HIM?

I’m okay and the referee makes sure that I’m okay before letting the clock run out on the round.

Spencer in the corner asking me curiously, “You know what you’re doing right?”

He’s calm, an indication that he sees that something working.

The fight isn’t a pretty one.

BUT IT’LL DO

Water splashed over my face as the bell sounds.

ROUND TEN

The fight can stand to look a little dirtier. When I clinch I make it look like X is doing all the clinching.

X goes silent, slows down, pressure placed on the act of fighting rather than the true expression of the fight, renders him confused.

He has never fought like this before. He has never experienced a fight where it isn’t just the cards but rather the weight of each intended block that might turn the fight.

The fight is more or less directionless and yet there will be a winner.

There will be a winner.

I clinch throughout the round, throwing some punches right before to make it look like X is doing the grabbing.

The referee pulls him aside.

A WARNING

Think about what the commentators must be discussing.

I glance over at their table situated at ringside.

They wear straight faces. Very little is being said.

ROUND ELEVEN

This round will go down as the turning point in the fight.

I punch him low enough to hit his groin but high enough so that it doesn’t appear to be an illegal shot. The referee doesn’t see it. The audience doesn’t see it. The cameras don’t capture it and therefore it didn’t happen.

It is legal.

And X falls to the ground.

AUDIENCE SHOCK

I get a nine count.

You get punched in the groin hard enough and it’s stunning, really, to see a man make it in time to keep fighting. I nearly had it won.

Confidence boost.

The rest of the round he isn’t very active. What can he do other than rely upon recently obtained anger?

I toy with him. A clinch whenever he tries anything more than a jab.

The round ends and it’s mine.

Spencer laughs, “Wow, just wow. I don’t recognize you out there. You are fighting as someone else.”

His would-be compliment comes off as a threat.

What does he mean I’m fighting as someone else?

Who am I if not someone familiar?

ROUND TWELVE

X goes all out, flurries of punches and more than a few stun me.

I shell up, mind elsewhere, focus fractured, preoccupied with Spencer’s comment. The round doesn’t end well. Stunned, he gains a knockdown.

I take my time getting back up, eight count.

I stand there, glaring at him, and it’s captured on camera. The look on my face reads: “Not impressed.”

 With a minute left I do my best to send a hook low enough to land another shot.

X applies pressure using a traditionally effective combination:

JAB

JAB

HOOK

JAB

HOOK

UPPERCUT

He doesn’t land the uppercut.

When I see the opening coming, I lean in, letting the jab hit me, and I say to him, “Hey…I know you…”

And this time, I send the uppercut, but not before landing a low blow.

The cameras only see the uppercut, the one that sends him to the canvas.

Saved by the bell?

Not in this league.

The referee starts the count.

THE AUDIENCE IN APPLAUSE

In this moment, I feel content.

I forget what I had to do in order to remain in contention. I feel like myself. I repeat it over and over, “I’m Willem Floures,” while watching part of me stumble around the ring, legs knocked out from under him.

But he stands up.

The referee looks into his eyes.

And that’s the end of the fight.

Not a knockout.

THE VERDICT

We wait for the judges’ scores but already I see it all falling back in on me. I feel a great numbing pain in the back of my throat, unaware that I am biting into my tongue, my molars shredding it, all too consumed with what I know to be the conclusion.

WINNER BY SPLIT DECISION

The name given, it isn’t mine.

“Sugar.”

Figure the X on the marquee paid handsomely for the betting crowd, the warm wads of green bribery handed under the table, passing hands between one opportunist to another, bookie to judge and vice versa.

Who am I to judge the already judged?

What isn’t dirty, what hasn’t been lowered in order to leap higher?

UNDERBELLY

And in this moment, I no longer have any standards.

It has always been personal.

But now—

I will create the laughter.

I will create the momentum.

I will become the exact opposite of everything they know about themselves. I will change what it means to be Willem Floures so much that they will be fighting in a league entirely their undoing.

Not just you X, but every single one of you.

Every part of me will be confused.

I will infuse a new identity, one that is about winning.

For so long, I have taken the personal as professional.

For so long, I looked at myself as a leader, best of the best because there was always something left to reinforce, to further understand and define.

Challenge myself.

Understand myself.

For so long, that was how I treated my career.

I looked for the true identity, unaware of the fact that the identity of Willem Floures was always shifting and changing.

They were applying their own textures.

Well now I change us.

I turn us into everything the world cannot help but watch.

I TAKE IT PERSONALLY

And Executioner,
I know you…

Do you know me?

Because if you did, you would see what’s happening next.

 
THE LAUGHTER I LOVE

This is worth a laugh.
Spencer hugs Sarah, kneels down and, at eye-level, he tries to calm her down, “Why don’t you go back upstairs? Isn’t James supposed to be reading you a bedtime story?”

Sarah looks up at me, “Why is he laughing?”

Spencer tilts his head to one side, “Sometimes people laugh when they are nervous or worried.”

“Why is he nervous?”

Sarah pleads with Spencer, hoping for a sincere explanation, one that he will not give. Try this instead, “He’s nervous about society.”

Sarah, typical inquisitive child, with her rejoinder, “Why is he nervous about society?”

Spencer holds back a sigh, “Society needs a reason, but do you sweetie?”

“Yes,” Sarah whines.

“Oh, go on upstairs. Be a good girl. I can tell that you’re tired. Look at those dark spots under your eyes…”

Sarah frowns but concedes; each step is an exaggerated stop up the staircase. “He’s just nervous?”

“Yes, he’s nervous.”

“Why is he nervous?”

Looking at me, Spencer shouts to Sarah at the top of the stairs, “You know, I’m not so sure.”

SILENCE

I cover my mouth, suppressing laughter.

The sound of a door, opening and closing, the creaking of its hinges followed by the healing silence of the house.

I exhale and the house exhales.

Spencer points at the smile worn prominently across my face, “What? What is this shit, huh?”

LAUGHTER

MY LAUGHTER

Between lapses the house seemingly contracts, clutching every word escaping my mouth, like I shouldn’t be saying this, shouldn’t be having this conversation. I won’t be able to take it back when all is said and done.

This is a conversation not worth having.

This is a conversation that I can’t let pass.

“You…” and a little giggle, suppressed. “You…fucking kidnapped Executioner…”

Spencer doesn’t find it amusing. In fact, he is neither angry nor frustrated. He is calm. “Yes. I did.”

“You kidnapped…the champion…” Choke on my laughter.

Spencer nods.

Nonchalant about it: “I have him tied up in the basement, arms and legs bound and immobile. He won’t make so much as a noise. I’ve made sure of it.”

“What did you do?”

“Oh,” Spencer shrugs, “nothing. His mouth is taped shut. Kept the mouth guard in there too. He couldn’t work the tape free using his jaw or teeth if he wanted to.”

My laughter turns into a long sigh, “Did I say you could do this?”

Spencer walks over to the basement door. He grips the doorknob, “You were the one that said it.” Right before venturing downstairs, he narrows his gaze, “You said it first, remember?”

“I KILLED A MAN.”

“What did you say?!” I follow him down into the basement.

Sure enough X is plastered against the wall with tethers that stretch his appendages in such a way that it looks like it hurts. Duct tape in layers wrapped around the entirety of his face. Spencer left the blindfold off.

So that X may see everything.

So that I will be unable to escape his judging gaze.

Spencer grabs X’s face, “You don’t trust me?”

“What? What are you talking about?”

“
You
don’t trust me.”

“If you imply that I don’t trust him, no I don’t. Why would I?”

Pretending to move X’s taped mouth, “You don’t trust
me
.”

“Listen, this can’t end well. And, really, how did you even manage it?”

“Nurse your wounds. Leave it to me. You don’t need to understand everything.” Spencer punches X in the stomach. X makes little more than a muffled noise.

“This is insurance.”

INSURANCE?

Another punch. That one had to hurt.

“Makes for a good training dummy! Try it!”

Clenching my fists, I stand there, aware of what this means. Willem Floures cannot simply disappear. People will notice.

They might have already noticed.

“Don’t you find that to be a problem?”

Spencer shrugs, “You are the one that killed a man.”

“I didn’t kill a man!”

Switching to the tone he saves for lectures, Spencer steps into the ring with me, “But you said it. We made it so. The media believed it. They believed it. Doesn’t matter if it’s fact or fiction.
They
believed it!”

“They are going to be looking for him…”

THAT’S THE POINT

Let them look.

“You want them to find worse, much worse.”

Spencer leans on the ropes, pretends to shadowbox.

“I do?”

YOU SAID IT

“What did I say?”

Spencer seems to understand something that I don’t and that bothers me. He’s my agent; he is supposed to drone on and keep me in the loop.

“Shouldn’t you, umm, lecture me about it or something?”

Spencer sighs, throws a few jabs, lowers his chin, gets into proper fighting stance, “You lectured me. Don’t remember?”

WHAT?

“What if I don’t?”

Spencer lowers his fists, looks over at X, “He’s here. He’s listening. If he ever gets out, you don’t want him knowing about your ‘big plan.’”

WHAT BIG PLAN?

WHAT IS GOING ON?

“Don’t act so confused, Sugar; you started it. I’m simply making sure it continues.”

Back to shadowboxing. I step in the way of one of his jabs.

It hits me right in the nose, my vision cloudy, causes me to sneeze.

Spencer plays dumb, “You can still take a punch, huh?”

“Just. Fucking. Stop. Moving. Okay?”

Spencer raises an eyebrow, “Don’t trust me?”

The way he says it, it’s like he’s hiding something. He is trying to get me to say something…but what?

I feel like I’m the only one not in on this big joke.

“What is going on, Spencer?”

“I’m not following.” He raises his fists.

I grab one, “Stop. You aren’t a fighter.”

He looks me right in the eye and says:

ARE YOU?

That one hits deep. My stomach knots and I can feel my grip tighten, crushing Spencer’s hand.

This is about the last fight.

This is about the fight before last.

This is about what’s happened the last few weeks.

This is not about me. It’s about him.

I look over at X, who is watching everything happen.