Fighting Rematch Fight Story
Ok, let's start
at the beginning. In August, a guy claiming to be Bumps Murphy (a character in
my stories about Rusty's Gym) calls me out. In September, I agree to meet him
and we fight in what he calls "the old style": no ref, a line of tape across the
center of the ring, whoever gets knocked down toes the line before the fight
continues. He knocks me out four times: at least that's all I remember, because
I end up unconscious for a couple of days at Mercy General. In October, I post
"My Fight with Bumps" because he's threatening to beat me up again if I don't.
Go back and read that story if you want all the details. Personally, I'd rather
forget it ever happened.
After he responded to that story, I expected him to keep after me. He'd said I
could be his friend or his punching bag. Frankly, I didn't want to be either.
Not that I didn't find him sexy--those intense blue eyes, the easy unforced
strut that let his muscles pop beneath his tight clothes, the slender but not
exactly ripped build, and that voice...that sexy, husky whisper, a bedroom voice
really. But the details that tied him to the character I'd created freaked me
out a little: the boxing glove tattoo on the left pec, the ridge of bumps over
the eyebrow. The whole thing is too complex to be coincidence, and any guy who'd
go through surgery to get the right look has to be a bit warped. Good or bad, I
expected him to stick around and bully me some more. And part of me--a very
small part of me--kind of liked the idea.
But he just dropped off the radar.
Sure, I thought I'd seen his black convertable in my rearview mirror when I
drove down Skibo Road, and once I thought I saw him lingering in the parking lot
next to my office building. I'm sure I saw him, that he wanted me to see him.
But no contact. No phone calls. No notes on the windshield of my car. No
challenges to fight again. I thought it was over. I started a new series of
stories, one that would introduce Arch Dobbs' stable of fighters. That way I
wouldn't even have to name Bumps again, since that's what got me in trouble the
first time.
I decided I had to be in better shape, just in case Bumps ever got in my face
again. Don't get me wrong. I didn't expect to develop a six-pack before summer.
As I've said before, I've always been a hefty dude. The gut isn't going away
that easily. I did drop some weight, but not much. I started working my abs
more, trying to toughen them up as much as possible. I also started
shadow-boxing a few rounds every other day. No boxer really forgets how to
fight--they know the moves until the day they die. I remember the moves, the
combinations, but it's my mind that remembers, not my body. I'm getting better,
though. I still look like a football coach, but my posture's improved, and my
reflexes are sharper. By December, I felt pretty good.
Then Bumps gave me a Christmas present. I come out to my car, and there's a CD
under the windshield wipers. The word "pics" scrawled on it. I get home and pop
it in my computer. It's all shots of me sprawled out on the canvas in about six
different ways: flat on my back, face down, slumped in a corner--you get the
idea. Then there's a few shots of me bare-assed with a used condom stuck on my
hip. Then me in the hospital. In the last shot, Bumps is in the bed with me, his
hand on my crotch, his tongue licking my lips.
Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year.
For some reason, I had trouble posting stories for a while. From what I can
tell, everybody did. I wrote a story on Manny Arguilla, the guy who helped Stone
Bradford train for a rematch of sorts with Arch Dobbs. I posted it, but it never
showed up. I'm thinking, this might be a good thing for me--if I'd never posted
anything, Bumps never would have found me.
On an unusually warm January day, I spot this guy at the gas station. A short
guy with really nice arms and a tight butt. Right there, right as I'm pumping
gas into my car, I start fantasizing about him beating me up in a controlled,
sensual way. I figure I'll try to post a short piece. A poem...and this becomes,
"I saw you...hurt me." As was the case with the story about Manny, the poem
doesn't go through...but then it does, and Bumps responds, and I respond to him,
and on and on it goes until I agree to meet him again.
Friday, February 21st, 6:55 p.m.
I'm sitting in my car in the parking lot outside the gym where Bumps beat me
into a short coma. What kind of lunatic am I? The black convertable is here, but
the top's up, probably because a cold front's supposed to bring rain tonight.
There's maybe 6 or 7 other cars. I go in. Bumps is in the ring, standing in the
corner that faces the door. He's already got a light sweat going. He's in blue
boxing trunks, the color of Rusty's Gym in my stories. He's taking this whole "I
am the character you created" thing a bit too far. His blue eyes lock on and
draw me in.
"You're late, Doc." He cocks his head to one side.
"We said seven"
"We said we'd start at seven."
"No, I said--"
"You tryin to piss me off, bitch?"
A couple of the guys working out on the heavy bag pause their routine and look
me over, size me up. Great. I have to respond to Bumps' challenge or I'm fresh
meat--I can see it in their eyes. I walk up to the ring and drop my gymbag on
the floor. "I said seven." I stare him down. Well, I try to, but I jump a little
when the guys start hitting the heavy bag again. Bumps just sneers that sneer of
his, lets it spread slowly.
"Get dressed, punchin bag."
I change and glove up. The tape's out like before, but there's no need for him
to explain it this time. When I go down, I've got to stay away from that line.
We pop in our mouthpieces and start circling each other.
No sudden shots from me this time, just a strong attempt to stick to the basics
and hope for accuracy. Pop the jab out, tuck the chin to the shoulder as the jab
flicks out and back. Keep the head down. Don't get lost in his eyes--watch the
torso. Bumps slips the first couple of jabs, then that sneer spreads even wider.
I just want to smack it off his face, but I wait. Bumps starts clowning around,
leaning back so that his chin is just beyond the full extension of my jab. His
hands come down to his sides for balance. I hit his gut as hard as I can. The
force of the punch and his off-balance stance send him back a couple of steps. I
follow in tight and keep my attack steady and hard--a couple of body blows, then
a couple of head shots, constant pressure. He's still fighting the guy he beat
in September, and I want to take advantage of that for as long as I can.
Finally, he pulls his elbows in tight and tries to go into his shell. My hooks
and crosses don't get through. All I can hit are his arms, so I aim for his
elbows, hoping to hit the "funny bone" and open the shell. It works--he shakes
off the effect of my right, so I double up the punch with a cross to the jaw
that hits behind his ear. He goes to his knees.
Now I'm aware of the sudden quiet. The guys who were working the heavybag are
gone, and the rest of the crowd's about half of what it was. A few of them are
watching. I back off into the opposite corner and wait for Bumps to toe the
line.
He's down but not out. He's still on his knees, steadying himself on his gloves,
pulling in deep breaths to clear his head. Then that husky whisper of a voice
comes out with, "You been trainin for a rematch, ain't you, Doc?"
I don't answer.
Bumps looks up, and I get caught in those blue eyes, those hypnotic, bright
flashes. "Ok. Play time's over." He stands up and paces on his side of the tape,
still getting clear, still holding me with his stare. When he toes the line, he
keeps coming towards me.
At least I get out of the corner. He lunges in a couple of times, but it's only
a feint. I'm back to popping my jab, but that doesn't amuse him now. The third
or fourth time I throw the punch, he lets it slide over his shoulder and fires a
hook deep into my left side. He follows that with a glancing right to my chin.
I'm in trouble. I throw another left, mostly out of my shadow-boxing routine. He
rocks to his right, then bounces back with a hook. I see the punch coming, so I
take a step back, and his punch falls short. I pivot to my left and launch a
right to his temple. He slumps to the canvas, face down. And he stays there. No
lie.
At first I just stand there, breathing heavily, ready for him to get up again.
But he doesn't move. I hear a light clicking sound behind me. I look towards the
noise. It's the heavybag guys, fully dressed, their hair damp and plastered to
their scalps. They've both got cameras. They're the only guys I can see, but I
can hear the showers running.
I go to a corner opposite Bumps, which brings me closer to them. One watches me,
the other stays focused on Bumps. So that's where the pics came from. Twisted. I
ask, "So how long do I wait for him to come to? Maybe I hurt him."
One of the guys laughs. The other says, "Right."
"But he's out cold."
"Not exactly" says that husky whisper. Before I think how stupid it would be to
just blindly turn around, that's exactly what I do. WHOMP! WHOMP! WHOMP! His
punches force me into the corner. Then he launches the guns into my gut. He gets
in close, his left shoulder against my chest, and he wings uppercuts one right
after another. I do my best to grab his arms and wrestle my way out of the
corner, but he just readjusts his position and resumes his attack from a
different angle. Suddenly, he stops and pulls in so that we're chest to chest,
his rough cheek against mine, his mouth at my ear. He whispers, "Guess you like
this as much as you say you do." He grinds his crotch into mine, and we're both
hard by now. He licks my neck, then pushes off and loads up the headshots.
WHOMP! WHOMP! WHOMP! WHOMP!
When I come to, my arms are numb. I'm on my back, facing up. My left arm is
pinned under me--I can feel the glove against my lower back, but I can't quite
feel my arm. It could be worse, I guess. I'll be fine if I just roll to my
right, but I can't do that. Bumps is laying next to me, and my right arm is
caught under his left side. When he starts massaging my gut, I realize he's
taken off his gloves but kept the handwraps on. He's not finished, and this is
definitely not the "old school" toe-the-line fight we started with.
His mouth is next to my right ear as he says, "You been a bad boy, Doc, trainin
on me like that. I train everyday, bitch. You ain't gonna catch up." With that,
he hits the center of my gut with his ungloved right fist. Since my left is
pinned under my lower back, there's a secondary impact there. I grunt with the
force of it. "Time to learn your lesson, Doc. You shouldn't piss me off." He
hits me a few more times from this position. Then he gets up and keeps my right
arm beneath his left knee. He punches straight down with both fists. The pain
grows with each punch until the sensation blurs into a growing burn. I try to
move, but both my arms are numb. My only remaining defense is to draw my legs up
and in. Bumps lets that happen, then forces his way between my legs. He pulls me
forward onto his lap and changes his attack--hooks deep into both sides now,
each blow forcing the air out of me in grunt after grunt. I can barely breathe
in more than shallow gulps. I get a slightly metallic taste in my mouth. Bumps
backs off a little--just a few more shots. Then he rolls me onto my left side.
My knees curl up towards my chest. My right arm tingles as it "reawakens," but
my left is still numb. The metallic taste fades a little, but I'm pretty sure
it's blood--maybe he split my lip earlier. I don't remember when my mouthpiece
came out, but it's gone. My gut throbs with the pain. I can't quite fight off
the dry heaves as the muscles contract and spasm on their own.
I have no idea where Bumps is until a towel lands on the canvas next to my head.
"Wipe your face. Clean yourself up," he says. My right arm is functional now. I
pull the towel in and wipe my face. There's some blood, but just a small patch.
I wipe my face a second time before I realize the blood comes from inside my
mouth. I probably threw some up on the canvas, but I don't look for it.
As I'm putting this together, I feel a strong tug at my shorts, then those rough
hands force cool lube into me. Of course that's next. I try to--I don't
know--crawl away, but my stomach muscles won't support movement just yet, and my
left arm's still in the "pins and needles" stage. Bumps isn't too pleased with
this attempt of mine. He pushes my shoulders and legs apart until there's an
opening, then slugs my gut hard three more times.
"You gotta learn. I'm gonna do what I'm gonna do."
He gets behind me and forces his cock into my ass. I have no idea how big he is,
but it feels like a foot and a half long--that can't be right, but it hurts like
hell. Between the ache in my gut and the pain in my ass, there's no good move I
can make. I grab the towel, put it in my mouth, and bite down hard. He keeps
ramming into me, almost like he's punching his cock through me. He slips his
right arm under mine, then slides his hand up around the back of my neck. Then
he uses his body weight to move me until I'm face down again. My abs scream as
they're forced to stretch out, but I can't resist. He's on top of me, his chest
and abs against my back. I can feel his muscles moving, the sweat between us
helping his thrusting force him deeper and deeper into me. The pain starts to
feel a little bit...good? He pulls out and arches back when he shoots his load,
then collapses on top of me again.
He licks my neck and says, "You don't wanna call me out again, Doc. I told you
before, we can be friends or you can be my punchin bag. Your choice. Doesn't
matter how much you train--you ain't ever gonna be good enough to beat my ass,
so you might as well forget all about that. Stick to your stories."
"Whatever you say, Bumps. But you kind of called me out first, didn't you?"
Mistake. Wrong thing to say. I can feel his body go tense. But he gets up and
goes away. My body's not ready to move much, but I manage to roll over onto my
back. Now I can see that all the gym lights are off except for a couple over the
ring. Just like last time. I'm considering the possibility of sitting up when
Bumps forces me down and straddles my chest. He's gloved up again. Great.
"Learn when to shut up, bitch." WHOMP! He lets me get clear. "You made me do--"
WHOMP! "--don't want to--" WHOMP! "--like some twisted f--" WHOMP! WHOMP! WHOMP!
WHOMP!
When I come to, I'm alone in the dark gym. The only illumination comes through
the windows from the parking lot lights. I no longer have the gloves on. My
street clothes are in a pile next to my gymbag. I manage to get dressed and out
to my car. It starts to rain, just a light drizzle, but it feels good. While I'm
considering whether I should go to the emergency room at Mercy General, I see a
note under my windshield wipers. I don't want to read it--I've had enough of
this guy, and there's no way I'm ever coming back to this gym. But I decide I'd
better read it and get it over with.
The rain has dampened the paper already, and the ink has run a little, but I can
still read it: "My mama didn't name me Bumps. She named me Billy."