THE UPPER HAND
Puddles of crimson red penetrated the off-shade white.
Hundreds of fans were cheering but, it wasn’t my name.
They were all cheering for Slick Bill, the greatest amateur
boxer in the world. My head swelled as Bill continued
to throw punches, his blue gloves stained with blood.
And then it hit. Stars raced all around me. My opponent
stood like a tower over my trampled body. I wasn’t strong
enough and everyone was still ahead. The sound of the
bell tore me apart, I had no reason to live anymore, and
I could not go on. My record of zero wins and 31 losses
taunted me, each time I fought, another loss joined the
family. I had to somehow get even stronger.
The thoughts of losing had lived in my head
too long. I remember hearing rumors about a guy who
sold enhancements for amateur boxers. I had to find him
as quickly as possible as my next match was in two days.
I walked into the dark and muggy alley, mold growing
through the gaps between each of the red bricks. This had
to be the place, as it reminded me of a few movies I had
seen as a kid. There he was, all dressed in black, the man
that would give me the upper hand. He stood there with
a distant expression. His scruffy beard and bloodshot
eyes allowed him to pass as another homeless man in
New Orleans. He obviously knew what he was doing. He
looked at me and smiled. He had seen this scene before
and decided that he would let this play out. He saw a
man, with low self-esteem, who was trying to get ahead
of the game without putting in the work necessary. He
asked me in a Snoop voice “What do you need?”
“The strongest thing you have.”
“Here. You are going to want this, but do
not take more than one shot at a time.” And with that
he handed me the vial containing a dark liquid. As I
grabbed the vial, a chill ran down my spine. This was a
bad idea but I had no time to worry about that. I gave
him the crumpled hundred dollar bill in my jean pocket
and ran away from him. I could have sworn I heard him
mutter the words, “Have fun.” I didn’t care, though. I
was finally going to win my first match as a boxer. As
soon as I ran four blocks away from the alley, I grabbed
one of the syringes—the glass cold against my fingers, the
sulfur liquid dripping off the side. I jabbed myself with
the syringe and immediately collapsed.
I awoke, surrounded by all the things that I
knew. My maple dresser, the dirty mirror, the lines of
dietary supplements and the Tiki mask I had stolen from
a Hawaiian restaurant. I was back in my room. How I
got there I did not know. I got off my bed and began my
fight against gravity. I fell to the floor. I felt three times
heavier and a weird noise escaped my body whenever I
moved. I looked down and saw that my arms were made
of diamond and my legs were carbon. Thoughts of doubt
swarmed my head and I now understood what the man
meant. I searched the areas my shadow reached looking
for the flesh that was missing from my arms and legs.
There they were, collecting dust inside my trash bin. I
reached for the flesh with great difficulty as I was not
in full control of my newly-obtained arms. I dressed my
arms and legs with my old skin in an attempt to try to
keep it a secret.
I couldn’t tell what time it was so I reached
for my phone. Friday September 14th 4:05, it read.
Dismay quickly swept my face, my match was only two
hours away. I had been asleep for two full days. That
sulfur liquid lived in my shelf, the box of needles adjacent
to it. Satisfaction, the desire to win, was what fueled me.
Would I be able to beat my opponent today? No. I wasn’t
strong enough, I had to get stronger, grow bigger.
I grabbed the syringe and tried to puncture
my arm. The needle was crushed by the opposing force
of my diamond arms. The liquid splattered all over my
wall. The smell of burning brick oozed around me, the
sulfur liquid had made a hole through my wall. I scurried
across the floor, trying to lick every last drop that I could.
6 Train Volume II: 2013–2014 |
9