$$$$

The bell rang, echoing through the congested hall. The audience shouted, cheering for their side to win. The ref spoke, “All right! I wanna see a good, clean fight. I gave you each your instructions in your dressing rooms so, return to your corners, and come out fighting. This is for charity, so make it good. Let’s get it on!” The fighters returned to their corners, waited, the bell sounded again. They came out to the center. I should never have set up this fight.

—

The bout lasted all of two minutes into the first round. He didn’t have a chance. I should’ve never set up this fight. But, I took the money. Oh, the money. For a fight promoter of losing value, it was too much to let slip. I sat at ring side, watching the spectacle I played a roll in pullin’ off. The others of my kind, fellow promoters, sure as hell didn’t keep their opinions to themselves . “Who the hell would wanna see those clowns duke it out!” Joey Crackers. At the O.T.B. Large gut, big mouth, sweaty, & a cheap suit to boot. He stood in a pile of loosing tickets sprawled out on the O.T.B. floor. My peers, in cheap sweaty checkered suits and ten cent cigars, were listening and laughing. “I mean, he’s a champ, but dis other guy, he’s a fuckin’ weirdo. Who wus the silly bastard that’d set this shit up, eh, eh?” I said, “That would be me promotin’ this thing, and who set this up, was someone with the cash to get those two in the ring."

Joey: “Figures. Who else they go to. None ‘o us I know that. Hah.”
Me: “Hey you can shit on this all ya like, but, money’s money. Right.” If only I believed that. “Look, Pay-Per-View’s on board and so’s Vegas. Look at the bets being laid out. Even if it’s one-sided, people are throwin’ cash at this. Hell, the rest of you guy’s are chompin’ at the bit, layin’ the odds. And the boxing association got their panties in an uproar over the fact that this is takin’ place in their town, and they can’t stop it. It’s turnin’ their very respected (hah) profession into a media spectacle. I ain’t sweatin’ it.” If only the money mattered to me. C’mon, man, remember, keep tellin’ yourself. It’s about the money, always the money.

—

The announcer was just as shocked as the crowd. The place was as silent as a grave yard. The winner danced around, gloves held high, screaming in a perfectly high pitch voice,

“I did it! I did it. (heh-heh) Whoa. Who’s bad, who’s bad.” He pointed to his fallen opponent, “You’re doin’ wrong, you’re doin’ wrong. Gonna lock you up,(lock you up)before too long.”

I sat there. Ringside. Who would have thought it. Lennox Lewis, lost to Michael Jackson. Eight large guys in black vinyl short-sleeved shirts, carrying a medical dolly, pushed the dumbfounded crowd standin’ in the isles to the side. They hurried to the center ring. The announcer, gathering his wits, shakin’ off the disbelief, took the lowering mic and spoke, “Ladies and Gentlemen, In two minutes, twenty seven seconds, the winna, by way of knock-out, Michael Jackson!” I should never have set up this fight.

—

THIS WILL BE GOING INTO MY SELF-PUBLISHED ANTHOLOGY

SO LOOK OUT FOR IT!

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