Round Zero (Son Of Flesh)

I am standing in my corner, shrinking inside laced Nike boots and red shorts splashed with garish, yellow stripes. 'I don't want to be here', I think to myself. I tried talking myself out of it but cauliflower ears make you deaf after a while; however I hear just fine tonight.
The crowd cheered me on to my current sponsor padded roost and my manager has been kind. I see him down there at ringside talking to the judges and promoters. I was broke before I met him; so poor that even my shadow got sick of me and left but now I own a five bedroom home isteaed of a stingy three and even have a diamond encrusted wristwatch (although the second hand impresses more than the jewels.) Add to that the 'Go Get 'Em Kid!' encouragement of my trainer and I reckon I'm on a winner.
The trainer has assured me that this time next year I will even have my named stamped on the back of my dressing gown, maybe even tabloid columns. I bet the other chap across the ring tonight isn't promised such things. In fact my handlers tell me he is a loser but that I must fight him to draw the goldfish and rough looking terriers to my circus.
Nevertheless he looks in great shape tonight and without that Hate-Em-All expression hanging from his chops this fighter would be quite handsome, a proper looker. Bet his mother is a middle class lady who married a labourer for the sheer hell of it and now her son is looking for the same wreckless excitement. I don't want to fight him or damage him in any way, I just want to talk quietly and sink a few beers with him.
Thats not what the rowdy mob want; they want bruises and blood, teeth smashing like iron on glass, they want rabid and raw. If I listen closely I can hear growls of 'Go On! Mureder Him Son!' and 'Tear His F**king Head Off!' They ought to be up here where I am. Its not so easy being brave when its YOU behind the bell.
There are young, blonde women to be found too. Head to painted toe in make up and handbags they sit close to their gentlemen friends like parrots, clapping their flabby wings after each punch and smiling at anyone who can afford to keep champagne beneath their up turned beaks. I must admit these shallow, veil thin tramps are way out of my league. My fine lady is at home this evening, dressed in black and carpet mules, reading tarot cards with her crow painted friends. She's not searching for my pugilistic victory in those cards either; that simply wouln't be 'cosmic'.
She doesn't mind me boxing, as long as she doesn't have to mop up the blood herself. (Being vegetarian has given her a comical irrational fear of flesh and weakened her.) I love her mind. I wish she wanted children.
Out of nowhere the bell has shrieked and is shaking the ring epileptic. Time to work, time to pile the green stuff on the silk topped table at home. It is showdown with the chiselled man opposite and I must beat him, thrash him, turn him into a messy pulp that his mother would shy from. I must try to cripple those strutting legs and utterly break his spirit.
I'm happy that my parents won't be seeing this drama; they are long under the earth. Mum was a devout Christian with a soft spot for chaos, while father worked hard digging graves for them both. I wouldn't have wanted them to see me perform under this bloodthirsty spotlight. Rest In Peace dear Ma n' Pa!
My finely toned opponent is advancing slowly toward me, his entire body glinting with sweat and ink. Cheers rise high into the showbiz rafters and suddenly my name is no longer audible.
My eyes drop to the squeaking of my rivals boots on the canvas; he comes closer and I see the beauty of anger on his face. I like him. I like a lot.
My heart is seething in my chest and I feel as if I'm standing on stilts. This is it! Trigger the fire alarm! Flood the arena! Rip out the seats! Go to the restroom for a better view!
I sink deeper into my stiff boots. I am too gentle, too modest for this bonanza. Rewind life in a flurry of punches and start my soul again.