Chapter 1
The
little notebook began: I'm
writing this for your own good, and thats more than you deserve.
Moe
Biggie, more monument than man, would lean like the Tower of Pisa
when he fished for the book in the deep of his pant pocket, down
where the mop water couldn't stain it.
He couldn't recognize
the handwriting, it wasn't his own, but there was a familiar
directness to the punchy prose so he trusted it.
I'll
keep this dirt simple, so even your dim wit can get it.
It continued, disdainful but obliged. First
off, keep this book to yourself. Don't let no body no about it. Keep
it your secret, Biggie. So don't get seen with it, and lie if you
do.
Every
time Moe read this he would straighten, like a Greek column being
raised. And take two glances over his broad shoulders, and peer out
in front of him as if he were in a dense fog.
He read on. You
was wronged, Biggie, and so was I. So I'm writing this down for you
so you cant forget it. You cant let yourself forget.
"What
the hell! Moe! You reading that goddamned book again?" The words
were interrupted by a shrill call.
Moe violently stuffed it
back in his pocket. He forgot that he was on the lower floor and the
guards watch from above. He noted tiredly that he needed to remember
to include a glance above him when checking his whereabouts.
don't
get seen with it...
"What's
in that little trick? You got some girls phone numbers in there, Moe?
You got your mamma's number in that thing? You better not have my
mamma's number in it."
...and
lie about it if you do.
"You
got my mamma's number in there, Moe?" demanded the gaurd in an
unnaturally squeaky voice.
"This is my prayer book."
said Biggie, with solemnity.
"The hell it is. You've been
checking it like its got naked girl pictures in it. If I catch you
reading that dirty little book again, I'm gonna take it from
you."
Moe nodded with agreement like a Mac Truck piston
head.
"Damn it, Moe. You ain't a bad guy. You do what
your told here, and I respect that you were somebody once. You know I
could make life a lot shittier for you if I wanted to though. So why
you go and test my patience by lying to me. Do you think I'm a stupid
man, Moe? Do you think I'm dumb like you are?"
"No
sir, I don't" Moe replied politely to the pale skinny man,
talking down to him. He now held the mop in his fearsome right
hand.
"That's good, because I'm a lot smarter than you,
so you know that much at least. But you understand that I'm being
your friend right now by letting you keep that book."
Moe
was losing his concentration, starting to forget why this bottle
necked man was squeeking down at him. He still held the mop in his
hand, and surveyed the floor. It was clean as a dinner plate up to
where he was standing, near the corner of the holding cell block #1,
but dead rat dirty around the corner of the last cell and beyond it.
No point in starting from the beginning he figured, and drown the mop
head in bucket water.
Step
lively, don't be a lead foot,
said someone in the back shadows of his battered brain.
"Hey
Moe Biggie!" screeched the scrawny boy-sized-man above him. "You
got bum ears also? I said if you tell me what's in that book, I'll
let you finish early."
"What book?" Moe asked
with genuine interest, but without missing a beat with the push of
the mop.
Left,
Left, Hold, Right Hook, Light's Out!
"You
know damn well what book. You know DAMN WELL WHAT I MEAN! I try to be
your friend, Moe. To help you out a little. and you FUCKING LIE TO
ME!"
The noise was like a cave of scared bats. Moe leaned
the mop on his chest and covered his ears with his saucer pan hands,
and screwed his eyelids shut. Except for the ringing in his head, he
found almost perfect silence. He didn't hear or see the warden
enter.
"What the HELL is going on in here NOW?!"
asked the warden through a beet red, folded dough face, and a shoe
polisher mustache. There was a thick slur to his speech, and anyone
with adequate eyes could see the alcohol in his amber breath.
"I'm
sorry for the noise warden, but I saw Mr. Biggie here with a book of
naked pictures and I was telling him to get rid of it."
"Fredrick,
you are a king sized ass of a pint sized man." Freddy snickered
at the word pint. "What do you do for an
ack-ack-actual...emergency? Do you pop your cap and spill over the
railing?"
"Ask him, warden. Ask him about his little
black book of mamma numbers."
"Shut your fool mouth.
Just keep it shut for once IN YOUR LIFE." The last words from
the warden were rushed together. He glared up at Freddy and then
staggered toward Moe.
"Do you have some kind of nude
pick-pick... pitcher book, do ya Moe?" asked the warden with an
obvious tone of sympathy for the giant.
"Wish I did,
sir."
They both laughed, then the warden came to tears
and buried his rouge face in Moe's shoulder.
"I know your
drunk warden. I know you are, but he's lying to you." whimpered
Fredrick helplessly.
The warden contorted with renewed anger
that flushed his face an even deeper shade of red.
"This
man here is a champion fighter. He's in here 'cause of laws I won't
soon understand; it's not my place to understand them. But show some
damned respect for a former champion."
The last word
sounded like champagne to Freddy, and he snickered again and said
"he's dressed like every other deadbeat prisoner in here. What
say you, Moe? You some kind of prize fighter?"
"I
am?" asked Moe with wonderment.
Freddy exploded with
raucous wails of laughter. Even the warden looked embarrassed for
Moe. He shook his head in frustration. "Just finish mopping up
and stop giving him reason to mock you." Then he stumbled toward
the door, falling upon the inside near the hinge so the door did not
immediately open, but eventually gave to the weight of his numb body,
dropping him through to the outside of the room in a disgraced
manner, leaving Moe to face the laughter, alone.
You
cant let yourself forget.
Chapter 2
In
the low light of the jail cell, after hours, Moe Biggie was reclined
on the gunk gray concrete, moving through his fitness routine. Now it
was one armed push-ups. With only his tiptoes and right palm
grounded, he heaved his massive weight parallel to the floor with the
ease of a well oiled derrick.
He had recently cleared 50
reps, but Moe wasn't counting, he was fixed on the little notebook he
set in a spot on the floor where he could read it through the full
tilt of his head.
The book was turned to a page with the
bittiest fold at the top corner; Moe had the page marked to resume
reading during exercise, when he could focus best.
You
screwed up big-time, Biggie. And for what? To beat a nobody cheat
with trick gloves?
Sure, you gave that smartass Junior one
hell of a final! Damn nearly killed the guy. Hes more a wreck than
you are if you can believe it. They checked his body into St. Jude
Hospital after the match. Those cheat gloves didnt help him much --
you savaged him like you was a cornered animal. But that wasn't the
deal, Moe.
We lost everything in that fight. Everything. Just
look at you. Do you remember how to hold a spoon?
Everybody
knew you was a wreck before the fight, you had shit for brains long
before you got in the ring with that punk. Everybody gotta fall
sometime, that's what made the whole thing believable. It was a done
deal.
TURN THE PAGE ->
The
writing ended and there were dollar sign figures in the margin that
Moe skipped past incuriously as he turned to the next page with his
free hand. Letting the side of his body lay on the floor for a
moment, he rested there, pinching his eyes closed and straining to
remember the match.
He could hear ringing from punches
landing on his head, like the sound of a hammer hitting a crooked
nail. No visual, only darkness. He opened his eyes so he could see
the book again.
Then he threw his body upward from his right
palm like a catapult bucket and landed flatly on his left hand and
resumed pumping without pause. His gaze still fixed on the notebook.
It continued...
Damn
you Moe Biggie. Why couldn't you have remembered to take the fall? At
least for old Pike? I made you, Biggie. I lost a lot more than your
deal. I had all the bookies in on it. All of them -- its the
truth.
But you can't remember shit so none of it matters now.
Go ahead and forget it. Leave the spit bucket to me, like you always
did.
I got a new strategy, Biggie. This is to settle the
score. You took care of Junior, but Rene tells Junior when to piss.
When you sent Junior to the ER, Rene took a train somewhere. We both
did. The law got involved like they said they wouldn't. Can you
believe it? Same guys placing half those bets now want us shut down
cuz of one cheap fight. Its only a matter a time till they find Rene.
You know I got the important screws in my pocket so forget about me.
Forget the whole mess. You just gotta follow my next words exactly. I
mean EXACTLY. Find a rat hole in that swiss cheese mind of yours and
you put it there so you know what to do. Its okay, Biggie. You are
gonna train with it so you don't got too much to remember.
TURN
TO NEXT PAGE ->
Now
Moe fell back on both palms and took a seat before the little book,
crossing his mammoth legs, stooping his back, craning his thick neck,
and bulging his eyes to spot every punctuation mark in perfect
splotchy detail. Although he had read these words dozens of times
before, he arrived at the next page with the zen of a beginner's
mind. He meant not to memorize, but to become each concept. He began
to read...
1)
Understand that you are a giant moron. Face it Biggie, you were a
halfwit before. Now you are a no-wit.
Moe
breathed deeply. He didn't feel stupid, but he couldn't seem to
remember anything he knew.
2)
Look around you,
Moe
straightened his back and swung his neck from side to side, then
returned to bent posture for more instruction.
...this
cell is your ring now, you fight here. The bars and walls are the
ropes, the floor you stand on is the mat.
Moe
hesitated for a moment, trying to decide if he should be standing to
read more.
3)
Now listen to me. When you hear the bell you start swinging. Go at
any punk who is standing in your ring. Go at your own shadow if
theres no one in with you. Got it? It don't matter if that person is
the king of france or a dead rat, you hit em with everything you got
left.
4) you don't stop hitting em til the lights go out. I
mean the real lights. You probably wont get a chance hit them once
they go down so you gotta get em against the wall.
5) Remember
to move those lead feet of yours.
Finally, keep this damn book
your secret. Read it every day so you know what to do this time and
you dont screw up like before. I mean it Biggie, you train with this
in mind.
STOP READING AND TRAIN.
Biggie
trained every day. He kept himself fit and deadly. Since he arrived
in this jail cell he had never heard a bell ring. He wasn't sure what
bell the writer was talking about, if it existed. Nevertheless, he
was ready for it. At this point in his life the sound of the missing
bell was all he had to look forward to.
Chapter 3
It was a god-awful piece of work,
in Fen's opinion. The back-board was cheap maple. The gaudy brass
ticks were uneven. The antique paint on the face wasn't bad; the
image depicted a rowdy audience, standing in ovation, some pumping
their fists wildly into the air, big white toothy grins on a few
(nobody makes a face like that, Fen decided). Another smoothed piece
of wood was glued in the center, shaped like the body of the worlds
skinniest heavy-weight and painted like the stupidest (not a winning
bet). Two more sticks of wood were pinned in the middle of the
boxer's small shoulders, giving the carved figure a posture that was
anatomically improbable. Worse yet, the frail arms wore over-sized
gloves, each entirely round, offering little indication of what time
they were pointing at. Below the boxer's knobby knees was a bulbous
ringer paired with a thick metal hammer -- it looked damn loud.
I'm
gonna get headaches from this,
the warden predicted. He held the clock in one hand while the other
made lazy circles with a drip of brandy at the base of the bottle. He
would look until he couldn't stand the sight and then turn his
attention to the gamely envelope of money that lay flat on his desk.
Then he saw a note pinned to the back of the clock.
A
Gift For Moe Biggie, so he can remember lights out. Note to sender,
please set 5 minutes ahead of that hour. See below.
Below
the nail hole on the back of the face, the warden saw a little black
gear box with two small ridged wheels, each with painted white
numbers, the larger of the two labeled 1 through 12a, the other had
the minute marks in increments of 5.
"Christ Almighty."
groaned Fen, with no detectable motivation to follow the
instructions. I'll
get Bullfrog to do it,
he smirked. Then he turned his full attention to the envelope smiling
weakly from the desktop.
He strangled the last drop of brandy
from the bottle neck and tossed it in the waste bin near the office
door. Then he pinched up the envelope with two thick fingers and
thumbed through the row of ten dollar bills. Fen counted 25 of them.
He probably burned
another fifty on the junk clock for Biggie,
Fen mused sourly.
He tugged the cash from the envelope,
sending a slip of folded yellow paper fluttering to the ground. It
landed between the warden's numb legs.
He stared at the slip
for five round minutes, then he slouched low in his chair and dropped
an arm down the leg to sweep for it. He grunted as his hand pawed at
the dirt caked floor tiles, brushing the note farther and farther
away from him.
The warden muttered some profanity at the
note, then he slid out of the chair and crashed to his knees to find
it. In doing so, the clutch of tens escaped his fist and tumbled
joyously through the air like parade streamers. The warden enjoyed
the effect of falling bills until he noticed the mud brown tile grit
they were settling in.
Fen cursed at the money, then
apologized to it as he sifted around for the note. When at last he
found it, and unfolded the paper and raised it before his
disapproving, bloodshot eyes.
Dear
Mr. Barstowe, I realize this does not fully restore your losses, but
see it as a first of two installments towards a sizable sum. In
return I ask for a simple change in housing procedure for the cell
designation of Mr. Maurice Biagio (Biggie) upon the capture of wanted
criminal, Rene Vanguard. I ask that the two be placed together.
Fen
choked at the suggestion, and shook his head in disbelief. The brazen
note continued.
I
understand the risk this poses to you professionally. I promise to
make it worth your while. The outcome of that match came as a blow to
several bettors of status and power, names i cannot disclose but you
would surely recognize. Understand that I am not alone in this
request and make it with the knowledge and favor of one or more of
these unfortunate gentlemen. Please follow through with this simple
request for my sake and theirs.
Respectfully,
Thomas
Pickens (Pike)
Fen
sank lower to the floor, kneeling in the dust of ages, still holding
the note while ironing the stress from his brow.
"Drink.
I need a drink," he moaned.
Seeing the bottom drawer of
his desk was within his desperate reach, he flung himself towards it
with open arms and grasped the handle as he flopped down. He ignored
the sharp pain from his stunt and eased open the drawer. Inside was a
brigade of liquor bottles, one of every color, creed, and
constitution, ready to serve. He surveyed his company with a mix of
pride and regret.
"Something... Something old," he
said to himself. "Old and cheap, and in poor taste like Pike's
gift to Biggie. Aha, there we are, 'The Commodore's Finest' -- a
honorable discharge of rum."
He sped the cap from the
neck and flew the drink down his gullet until he was choking it from
his lungs. It was acidic to taste, but the warden didn't care. The
numbing effect of it was sweet enough.
Now stunned from head
to toe, he rolled limply to his side like a wounded cow, rearing his
head occasionally to spit excess rum through his dusty mustache.
In
his last moments of consciousness, he thought about the situation.
Seeing that he was presently piss drunk, laying on a dirty floor
littered with bribe money, Fen realized the last thing needed was
scrutiny for his job performance.
Maybe
Pike is bluffing about his connections?
Fen thought it possible but didn't like the odds. After all, he was
placing bets on inside tips himself and Pike knew as much.
Cellmates
with Biggie?
That's a sure way to get killed. Then again, the guy probably can't
remember how to throw a punch...
No,
Fen amended, Biggie
can't change what he is, 100% wrecking ball. God love him for it. Old
boy just refuses to quit. Junior comes at Moe, no padding in his
gloves, and Biggie sends him away on a stretcher. That's a true
champion.
Fen
trained his sight on the blurred clock balancing on the edge of the
desk above him.
What
he really deserves is a trophy,
thought the warden.
"Give him a trophy" Fen managed
to say with a swollen tongue. Then, after urinating uncontrollably,
he passed out cold.
Fen never heard Freddy's stifled
snickering when he came snooping into the warden's office. He
couldn't even hear when Freddy burst with unconstrained laughter. He
couldn't hear or see or feel a thing. The deadness spared him from
the shame of it all.
End
of Round 1.
About the Author
Hi, I'm Pete Simon, I'm a writer
and illustrator. I hope you enjoyed 'Round 1.' If enough people do, I
will continue with 'Round 2.' Meanwhile, visit petesimonblog.com
for more original writing and imagery. Share your thoughts with me
there or via email (petesimon.blog@gmail.com)
and thanks for reading!
Cheers,
Pete Simon
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