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."
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