Hedge Hopping

He's gonna suffer. Not me. Him. It's in my eyes. Within. It burns. Only blows will stop. I spit water. The ugliest possible. A long stream of saliva and dirty water. I open the mouth, full of despise and let go. All of it. He's next. Waits for his turn. He can wait. He can watch. He can wonder.
I clench two fists on the tap. Knuckle against porcelaine. Grey with sweat, fists tight with agonising bands. I lean a bit for the tap hole. Forearms contracted, shoulders tense. All muscles visible. They draw what is to come. I'm ready. He's gonna suffer.
It already started. Here. In the showers. Before the Ring. He's eager now. Yeah just like that. Dance on your feet. One after the other. He can hope. He wants it to stop. He wants to drink. He doesn't want it now. Not yet. Not here. He's gona suffer. For sure.
I haven't finished. There's still to come. I hock up. Loud. He can hear. I've gotta big one. I spit it. Slow. I love it. Saliva and mucus meleted. It's good. Just what's needed. Ugly. It stains. Porecelain is white enough. It's spoilt now. I turn on the tap again. Wash mouth. Another long stream, other tight muscles.
Then I pretend to notice him. I barely look in his direction. I'm off. Put gloves on. Right first. Then left, as far as I can. A punch on one, then the other. I go for my corner, turn around. He's already here.
This time I look at him. A head higher. Obvious quadriceps. Shaved head. Veins running along biceps. Big shoulders. Abs. No doubt: he's a monster. If I get it wrong, I'm dead. But not today. Today he's gonna suffer.
Whistle. Salute. Fists against fists. Tough but not much. And in the eyes. Just in the iris. He wonders. He's asking why? Why all this stuff in the showers. A real beast except that I don't look like it. Not even the face of it. And surely not a big tatoo on the back. Not like him who blows flying kicks like a windmill. But now it's traditionnal. English boxing. My ground. And something's wrong. He doesn't get it. He's gonna suffer.
It starts. I lean a fist. Not even armed. Barely aimed at his head. He doesn't even block, or react. A wimp. I'm a wimp who believes he's tough. I'm sure he thinks so. He's gonna fall. For sure.
But I dodge. I take in. Not too much. He mustn't know. Not yet. My fists are there. I disappear when needed. But I let it go. Let him crush me. I counter a bit. Just the minimum. And of course, had to happen, a receive a good one.
On the bone cheek, under the right eye. He wants to stop. Pretends to worry. I'm already back on guard. And in one of his eyes, on the corner, he smells confidence. It's for now. He's ready. Gotta be good. He's done. He's gonna suffer.
All my muscles. I call them back. I need everything. And I' scared also. He must not see it coming. This is big. In one strike, all must come in one strike. Because I know. Because I saw. And the head also, must stay cold. As in training, facing the mirror, when shadow boxing.
He's back on guard. He still doesn't get it. So he does it again. Like before. Just a bit less. A direct, a feint, a hook. But now I block. And it's tough. He has to feel it. He can't pass. With all these blows, he's gonna bruise his bones. My guard's gonna hurt like rock. The he won't dare. Not as much. He's done. It's all done.
He leans a lot...It went straight and fast. Between the eyes. He saw it coming. He got scared. And it hurts. I know the feeling. And everything stops. I watch him. No feet moving. Still guard. Two red fists on pause. His head goes back.... and forth. Like rubber. Another right, followed by another. Two in less than a second. Same spot. He saw coming. But couldn't block. Scared.
I let my guard off. Pretend to wonder. He can't say no. We're too far. He's done. Trapped.
After that I fight straight. Tough but straight. And he suffers, takes in. He can't get me. Even when he comes back, just as I feared. When he hits hard. I hit harder. Everytime above. Harder. Faster. Smarter. He can't win. Not after that. Not after the sink, the feints, the pity, and the true fighting. Not after noble art.
Me a cheater? Not after what I've seen. Not after the girl he knocked out, or the guy he smashed. And this during training. He doesn't deserve to be here. I hate his pleasure. I hate people who have this pleasure.
So when the techer put us together. I looked at him. I remembered. And there was one thing to do: crush him. One thing to think: he's gonna suffer. And forget the rest.

A very true feeling in Aix-en-Provence, 2000.
Darwin, 18th April 2005.