November 11, 2019. Logan Slim Stadium, Northern Province, Malabor.
Tale of the Tape: Joshua vs Wilde #JOSWIL
Brought to you by RapidK.O Promotions
‘Who do you think would win? Both men in their prime. Tyson or Ali? asked the fat man seated in the V.I.P box, at the biggest boxing match of the year. Joshua vs Wilde was to be preceded by the undercard match, Mawkins vs Marcelo, and so it wasn’t surprising to find the rest of the seats empty. Another reason for the sparseness was that he’d bought out most of them. He didn’t like the complaints about his smokes, they put him in a murderous mood.
His plaything; a boy of seventeen at the most, did nothing but stroke his beard in response. ‘How much do you want to make tonight? Enzo asked again. The boy who was seated on Enzo’s lap, leaned in close and whispered in the deepest of tenors, ‘A fuckload’, and the fat man giggled like a little girl.
The boy continued, ‘I don’t care really, I just think whoever hits the hardest deserves to win, and not just in the ring.’. He then drew a line with his finger from the gold, neck chain, down along the open chest area, and onto the top of his lover’s pot of a belly.
Enzo leaned back on his chair smiling. He nodded and turned to one of the two bodyguards by his side. ‘Put down fifty for me and a twenty for the sweetness. I’m feeling lucky tonight. I think he is too. Then, get a suite prepared for me. Also, get my wife on the phone and tell her I’ll be there tomorrow. Tell her it’s a minor hang up on this end, or find a suitable excuse, Go.’
‘I’ll grab us a brandy and some more ice’ said the young man before getting up. Enzo grunted, then slapped his bony ass as he sashayed away. Almost immediately, the announcer’s voice rang out though the massive, sixty thousand seater arena.
‘WEIGHING IN AT TWO HUNDRED AND SIXTEEN POUNDS, FROM SANDE, MALABOR, with a total of sixteen fights, fourteen of them being wins by knockout. Having drawn and lost just once, the man who asks his opponents to set aside one day for the knockout, Michael ‘ONE DAYYYYYYYYY’ Mawkins.
The titan of a man appeared at the dugout, tapping his red gloved fists together and throwing multiple combination punches at the air. He was at least six feet, with a bald, oblong head that seemed to be a muscle on its own. His shoulders had mini shoulders attached to them. The biceps told tales of brute force waiting to be unleashed on an unlucky opponent. His sparkling robe added to the grandiose effect of the fiery props and hard hitting entrance music.
The crowd’s applause for the second boxer was even louder. Enzo took out a pen and bet slip from his front pocket and began scribbling something down on it. He kept raising his head to watch the approaching Marcelo, and then returning his gaze to the slip.
Upon his ascent into the ring, Enzo raised his neck for the last time. The second enforcer quietly slipped a fiber wire over the exposed tree trunk of a neck, and pulled tightly towards himself. The Ögaboss of the Elema dropped his pen and slip. His eyes bulged and began to redden in his struggle for oxygen. He grasped unsuccessfully at his killer’s fists, but each wriggling movement only served to turn his face more purple. The final sounds echoing in his head amidst the roar of the crowd were the words ‘The Arrow is not your mate.’