Chapter 7

The Cameras flash. The arrival of the champ at the coliseum.

First, the trainer and the manager emerge from the middle seat of the limo on their own, smiling and waving to the crowd, livid in the intermittent glare of the flashing cameras.

Then, the chauffeur (Rufe, hut who cares?) opens the door.

And Cynthia emerges, her face occluded by her dark glasses, her K ly sinuous, flashy in the satin of her evening gown.

Clearly, she is ready dressed for the victory celebration.

And this is not lo-I on the media, on the gathered crowd.

"He ain' won yet lady!"

"Whut choo be clebratin', white meat?"

"Where's da champ?"

But she ignores it ill-the flashes, the noise, the crowd.

She smiles and waves.

As a roar goes up from the assembled spectators.

And the champ emerges from the limo, tuxedoed and grinning.

So that he confirms her message.

The first blow h; is yet to be landed and already he has won.

And, according t; the experts, this is true.

He is far and away the favorite.

And there is very little long shot action on the street.

So that the principal fascination, the main draw is the presumed fact of the knockout.

It is not a question of who is going to win, but of how much punishment his opponent can withstand.

The ancient Roman roots of tonight's action are very much in evidence.

Not will the lion win, but what will the victim do during the destruction by way of satisfying the crowd's vicarious blood lust?

And behold now the lion himself.

Moving very quickly inside with his entourage.

The rest of his crew-handlers, assistant trainers, additional security-await him in his dressing room.

To which Cynthia will ostentatiously accompany him, before being escorted to her seat in the front row, where she can clearly see the fight and the cameras can clearly see her.

A dead man.

Teddy looks at Spike and that is what he sees.

He does not hate him.

He is not even angry with him.

Rather, he is looking at a man who is about to do a fatally foolish thing. like looking at a picture of a person about to jump to his death from building or bridge, caught the moment before the leap. like seeing a racing car driver talking to his crew moments before he will pull onto the track, accelerate, and crash fatally into a wall.

Yes, he looks at him and he sees a dead man.

Because, even now, his fists, inside the gloves, are metamorphosing.

He can feel them turning to steel.

He can see the metalizing as it spreads to wrist and forearm.

And this fool, glaring at him, trying to stare him down, is about to stick his head into a meat grinder.

He is about to but his gleaming black skull into a whirling circular saw blade.

And so psyched is Teddy that he wonders why this madman would want to do such a thing?

Why does he want to hold his face up to a jackhammer?

Indifference and incomprehension have once more taken possession of Teddy's mind.

Even as he feels it, feels the steel taking over his body, turning him--it-into a deadly automaton, an invulnerable robot programmed to destroy any organic matter which attacks it.

Organic matter.

As in a man.

As in a pile of shit.

Because it is not a bout, not a contest. It is mere mortal against a special purpose, deadly machine.

Spike may land a few punches or he may not. It makes no difference. Because Teddy will not feel them. Nor will he allow his puzzlement at this fool's suicidal decision to face him distract him.

Because, at the first bell, the metal will reach his brain, turning it into a computer, its analyses electric.

So that, with the speed of light, he will be programmed to respond to his opponent's moves. Because that happens too.

So that now, at the first bell, Spike appears to go into slow motion.

There is no way he will block this jab, that combination.

And he does not.

And yet, the crowd roars, becomes excited once, as Spike lands a series of resounding blows.

And only the television cameras pick up the fact that they have been caught, all of them, on a forearm, which is a steel form, seven inches thick.

Spike is energetic, well trained.

So that the computer mind is kept somewhat occupied, most of the time, in defense.

So that the steel hammers do no more than open up a cut here, cause a deep bruise there.

So that the fight can continue into the second round, provided that Spike's trainers are good enough with cotton swab and coagulants.

They are.

"Go Champ go!" Willy shouts at the TV screen.

As Ginny Mae, flanked by Willy and her mother on the couch, smiles complacently. Her man is going to win, no question. Her man.

The father of her child. He could be, after all.

How does she know that he did not, despite her precautions, succeed in impregnating her?

So that Willy's efforts were actually superfluous.

And she could not swear with hundred percent certainty, now that she thinks about it, that she did not actually feel pregnant when she left the training camp.

The free clinic has confirmed her pregnancy.

So that a smiling Willy was able to deliver the form attesting this fact to lawyer Farley, slapping it down on his desk with a, "There, tole ya so!" after Farley's many requests that he produce this vital evidence, this evidence of a new vitality in the world.

Willy waited until today to do this.

And now, he and Ginny Mae have an appointment with Farley in the morning, for the purpose of finalizing their initial requirements of a soon-to-be victorious Teddy.

After which, Farley will file with the court for a hearing date and issue the appropriate summons to Teddy.

As he explained, Farley has every confidence that Teddy's lawyers will not allow the suit to come to trial.

Which means a very fast initial settlement.

As Ginny Mae's mother, bemused by it all and assuming all along that her daughter has been pregnant, and made so by the champ, goes on about her daily business, not believing in the reality of what Ginny Mae, pushed by Willy, is doing.

So that she sits there, indifferent to the match on the screen, not really caring which of the figures who touch gloves at the beginning of the second round does in the other, not fully understanding what all the excitement, all the fuss is about.

Hers is a simple world.

You work, you get paid.

And the work is hard and the pay is small, but those are the rules.

And boxing champs' salaries, like movie stars and glamour and fame and wealth in general, are pieces of another world, of a separate reality in which she has no part, where she does not exist, and to which you can't go from here.

Spike's luck runs out.

Unless one could consider it lucky that he makes it through the second round. As Howard Ruff, the network announcer, clearly does not.

"You see here, ladies and gentlemen, a perfect argument for the outlawing of this vicious and dangerous sport.

"If I could, I would throw in the towel for Spike.

"Very clearly, he is in no condition to continue.

"But such is the greed, the blind self-interest, the cold indifference to health, to safety, to life in today's society that he will be forced to his feet at the bell."

And sure enough, Howard has spoken the truth.

Because the bell sounds and a shaky Spike totters to the center of the ring, touching gloves with the champ.

It is as though Teddy is a spectator.

He has the best seat in the house.

If one goes for such spectacles of carnage, that is.

As Teddy does not, really.

Because there is an incongruity, an absurdity, an almost comic sense in seeing some clown present his face to a huge, rapidly advancing steel hammer.

And it all happens in slow motion.

The idiot has lots of time to duck, Teddy thinks.

But he does not.

And Teddy can only watch as bone and tissue cave inward, all around the edges of the high-powered club end in its ridiculous, meaningless glove, somebody's idea of a practical joke.

And Teddy supposes that there is a kind of humor in it as the weapon is retracted, to reveal a face flattened as though by a steamroller, like in those cartoons on TV.

A funny face, looking like a combination of black and Chinese, with its tightly slanted eyes and inscrutable expression on an impossibly flat, black visage.

But there is nothing funny about it now, as he watches the face snap back to an impossible angle against the thick neck, the bulky, sloping shoulders, surrounded by a halo of atomized moisture.

And now, Teddy feels it, the steel rods and levers becoming flesh again as he stands there, the referee pressing on his chest, moving him back, out of the way as he continues to stare, eyes now glued to the unmoving body.

And he sees the ridiculously over-dramatized antics of the referee as he counts Spike out.

And grabs his arm, raising it to the shouts and applause and camera flashes, acknowledging him the victor, confirmation ensuing scant moments later as the ring announcer, in tuxedo and (appropriately) red boutonniere, proclaims, "The winnah by a knockout an' still heavyweight champion of da world-Teddy Robinson!"

And Teddy, robe hastily thrown on by his handlers, dances around the ring, gloves raised.

As the stretcher crew removes the body of Spike Johnson.

And Teddy knows.

It has really happened, as it was bound to, one day.

He does not heed the doctor's official determination, the findings of the medical examiner as to cause.

A man has placed his face in the path of a working pile driver.

And one need not be a genius to predict the inevitable result.

Time for the late news.

And Willy and Ginny Mae are watching.

Mother has already retired for the night. She has to get up early to go to work next day and needs her rest.

"This just in from our newsroom.

"Heavyweight contender Rudolph 'Spike' Johnson died tonight, the result of massive trauma to the face and head sustained in his bout with the incumbent champ, Teddy Robinson.

"Stay tuned to this station for a special edition of Nightwatch with Howard Ruff, in which Howard will examine the current state of the sport of boxing.

And Willy laughs and laughs. Ginny Mae looks at him, puzzled.

"What's so funny."

"The price tag on de bun in de oven jus' wen' up, babe."

And he pats her on her abdomen. "I don' see-"

"Hey. Man's a vicious killah, babe.

"We dealin' heah widda ruthless indivijool, y'see.

"Gots ta talk wif ma man Farley tamorrah 'bout de feah factah when dis fuckin' monstah done kep' y'all up theah fo' all dat tarn as his sex slave."

Ginny Mae says nothing.

""Samattah, babe?

"Cat got yo' tongue?"

"Is that any way to be talkin' 'bout the fathah of ma chile?" she asks.

He looks at her a long moment. Then he grins. Then he chuckles.

Then he rolls around on the couch, holding his belly, shaken with roaring guffaws.

He slaps his knee, convulsed into silence with the intensity of his laughter.

Finally, he catches his breath, with a rasping intake.

And gets up off the couch, wiping the tears of laughter from his eyes as he heads toward the bedroom where Ginny Mae's mother is asleep.

"You sumthin' else, babe," he chuckles as he retreats.

Ginny Mae looks after him, puzzled.

And she shrugs, turning off the TV with the remote and turning out the lights before heading toward her own room.

"It wasn't your fault," Cynthia says, a lacquered nail tracing the center line of his chest as they lie in bed together, naked.

"I know that."

"Then why did we have to leave the victory celebration so soon?"

"We didn't leave the celebration, babe-we are the celebration.

"All you got back at the hotel is a buncha parasites, hangers-on.

"An' all thinkin' the same thing.

"Which is that they gotta put on a happy face an' ignore what actually went down tonight.

"Bes' thing we coulda done is get the hell outta there.

"That way, they don't gotta strain their faces lookin' like nothin' happened.

"They don't hafta pretend this was just another fight, you know. Because that's exactly what it was."

"What's, what's ... going to happen?"

He shrugs.

"They gonna change the rules. Or not.

"Nothin' ta do with me."

And he turns over on her, taking her in his arms, adding, "Or us."

And his hands are all over her, exploring her, arousing her.

And thinking, We are indeed the celebration.

We are what it is all about.

Because what is fame, what is fortune, if not a making possible?

He is black, she is white.

But who they are transcends this distinction, even while preserving it intact.

So that this difference becomes an exotic feature of their relationship, and one which enables rather than disables.

It enables them to be together thus, to have and to thoroughly enjoy a strictly physical relationship, free of restriction or prejudice, their own as well as those of others.

They are above and beyond censure, all condemnation unheard or unheeded.

Not for them the rules and strictures of those below.

Which, at the moment, includes just about the whole world.

So that their freedom, freedom within themselves, freedom mirrored within each other, that inspires them, above and beyond raw physical attraction.

So that, in that sense, there is more to them than the strictly physical.

And yet, for their freedom to be real, it must be so in the physical sense.

And thus they are led in a circle, right back to their bodies.

Which have taken on meaning to each other which their minds do not comprehend.

Because how can it be, after a month of being together, that there is still more to explore, to discover in each other?

Surely they have gone through every permutation and combination of sexual activity.

But still it persists, the fascination, the desire, the raw lust.

His for her, hers for him.

So that they have come to question if anything that they do is truly repetitive and is not instead a new experience, unique each time.

Because it seems to Teddy that each time is better than the last, a deeper, more profound experience, even on the strictly physical plane.

Because Teddy feels himself getting better and better.

And her body, her presence brings out the best in him.

So that, since that is always changing, always improving, so is their sex.

He has not only become stronger day by day as a result of his training, he has become sexier.

So that what was said in jest as he began his adventure with her has turned out to be nothing more than the simple truth.

What Tony does for him professionally, Cynthia does for him personally.

So that she and Tony have in fact become a team, devoted to servicing him.

And his sensual development has proven to be no less satisfactory than the progress in his professional prowess.

For the first time, he actually feels happy, almost contented.

Despite Tony's warnings.

"Don't get too comfortable, kid.

"Because all that means is that you're in deep shit and don't know it."

What does Tony know anyway?

A lot about the fight game, but beyond that, zippo.

And Teddy grins at the memory of Tony's clumsy efforts to get into an area he doesn't understand. Fucking Ginny Mae.

He got out of that one easily enough, probably because Tony was paying her.

Hey, that made her a whore, right?

So that, without knowing it, he made the correct move dumping her over the fact that she was getting an attitude.

Even though he felt pangs of guilt before he found out she was on the payroll. Some face. Some bod.

She had a lot going for her, but she couldn't get over her black ambition, couldn't see beyond their physical proximity to what he was.

Which was not just some handsome, well built black guy.

Because even in bed, he was, is the champ. That comes with him.

So that, with Cynthia, one of the great things is that she would not even be here with him if that were not the case.

And it is not something to get below, beneath, behind, beyond.

That is not something to be overlooked, bypassed.

Not ever.

Because that comes first.

Before he is black and young and handsome, he is the champ.

And Ginny Mae was a stupid bitch for not understanding that.

Tough shit for you, Ginny Mae, he thinks.

She should have left well enough alone.

But she didn't even have enough sense to do that.

But enough of dwelling on the past.

Goodbye and good luck to you, Ginny Mae.

And, this said, she is gone from his mind, as though she never was.

And he loses himself in Cynthia.

Because it is safe to do so.

As they open their bodies up to each other.

And it is as though they are melting together, merging into a sensual unity.

So that she becomes an attribute of him, his feminine aspect.

As her body responds to the pressure of hands and fingers, to the squeezing, the kneading, the probing and caressing.

As she yields herself to him, surrendering, giving over, relaxing her mind, forcing it to empty out, to become a blank, a receiver of pure, physical sensations.

And his body rubs up and down against hers, their heat making their contact slippery smooth, each movement a silken thrill.

As his cock becomes massive between them as it throbs to full erection.

And he squirms on her, feeling the pressure on top and bottom of his meat monolith as it is imprisoned between his abdomen and hers.

And he feels her soft bush rubbing his balls, large and loose in their thin-skinned sack.

And it is but the work of an instant, a minor adjustment, one handed, for him to enter her as she spreads her legs and raises them, bent at the knees, to accommodate him.

And he sinks into her hot, juicy depths, the pressure of her cunt on his turgid shaft exquisite and total.

And her hands explore the musculature of his body, even as she feels its power, the protruding boulders of his buttocks flexing and relaxing as he shafts in and out of her.

She has waived all claim to him, to any part of him, to anything except his physical presence, his company.

But, having relinquished all, she has gained all.

Yes, she possesses him, in the way that one body may possess another.

He is hers and she is his.

In rhe strictly physical sense, as agreed.

And yet, it is more than what was agreed.

Because the total absence of any over-riding social factors, social pressures, social obligations has made their physical joining a wholeness, a completeness which leaves nothing more to be desired.

Because there are no relationships to he cemented, no points to be worked here.

There is only two hot bodies, two perfections in relationship to each other.

What you see is what you get.

And it is also all there is to be had.

And it is enough and more than enough.

As the magic communication, body to body, sensation to sensation, works within them, filling them with its tingling warmth, with the electricity of sexual excitement.

So that now they are climbing the rainbow together.

Onward and upward, as they approach the peak, as they reach their capacity for the intimate, lascivious sensations that have built from delight to ecstasy, from ecstasy to rapture.

Up, up, up-

And away!

As the pleasure beyond pleasure seizes them, takes them over, jerking them this way and that, rendering them now paralyzed, now frenetic, as they come, again and again, the spurts of his hot jism alternating with the spasms of her multiple orgasms.