The Pugilist

Chapter 1

Standing in front of the epitaph, in the back spread of the cemetery, Dempsey Cadieux read the inscription aloud to himself “Here lies Albert Bruce Coldfield; He lived, He fought at the very least, he tried.”

It had not been a lengthy fight. Both in the heat of battle as in life Butch, as he was christened in the street fighting circuit, was known for attacking voraciously against all opposition. He was one of quiet physiognomy whom out of a result of endless toil and personal hardship, along with his unnatural physical prowess, was able to transform into an absolutely monstrous boxing opponent in contrast to anything Dempsey had expected from the man. Dempsey considered himself to be taller than what seemed to be the average man in Fikeland and looked very similar to the rest of the population of Knettlefield but Butch was taller than he by almost a foot.

Dempsey had been forewarned by the amateur combatants that coming up the circuit Butch had used some slightly underhanded tactics to secure victory, especially when Butch seemed to have been cornered near the perimeter of whatever stage was set for the match. Dempsey had also used similar tactics coming up the ranks years ago and bets still held reguardless. These fights had mostly occurred in the lower district of the harbour during some of the more recent thunderstorms of the previous month. The storms helped to deafen the sounds of the sport and its often boisterous spectators.

Butch was a rather large human being to have even needed to resort to underhanded efforts in a fight but it spoke more of his lifestyle that in these situations he felt accustomed to use anything to his advantage in a seemingly vulnerable situation. Most likely he had been cornered many times by street tufts as a youth living in these back alleys and causeways. The trick he was most accustomed to employing was a step onto the nearest wall to which he used to propel a fainted left jab at his opponent only to switch to a devilishly crushing right cross that even if it did not land completely was still able to knock his combatant off balance. In some of the locals where these fights had been held, Butch would also resort to jumping on crates or stacks or material in an improvised technique similar to the wall jump previously mentioned.

He was not the smartest or most inventive fighter in the circuit but when it came to raw instinctual fighting he was the most ruthless and effective that the city had seen in almost a decade.

Dempsey had already heard of Butch in a small tavern just outside of Knittlefield. Once in Knittlefield proper he only needed to enter the most contemptible district he could find to hear more about this Butch fellow in detail.

A couple of adolescents were speaking about him near a bench in the industrial park “Butch is a bear of a man! I just saw him down by the market. What’s odd is he looks just as innocent as a cocker spaniel walking with his head down like that.”

“Yeah but that innocent cocker spaniel will rip your arms off if you’d step in the pit against him. I saw him bloody up the Panther last week! Blood was gushing out his broken nose an everything! I heard he even broke the Locksmiths jaw a few nights back when that old man wanted to give it a go.”

Dempsey visited a number of basement taverns and shady pubs around the most decrepit areas between the Harbour, where the fights were said to be staged, and the industrial district. The streets in this area were filled with a consistent fog made denser by the smokestacks of industry on the horizon. The night before he met the bookie, the haze made it so difficult to navigate the twists and turns off these cobbled roads that Dempsey resigned himself to an anonymous stoop where he sat and waited. Unable to see past 3 feet from his face he slumped over and fell into a half sleep waiting either for the rays of tomorrows sun or the cloak of intense fog to lift.

Dempsey now likened the fog in the cemetery he was currently in to that very night waiting on the porch. He could smell the faint scent of roses linger in the air, likely from the catacombs having much more adored members of society resting in peace nearby. He walked about the grass towards the stone path to which he discovered a surprisingly welcome wooden bench. He sat down. With a deep sigh of frustration he pulled his hands up, rubbed his face and temples and slumped back with his head resting on the back of the bench. He began to recall again the night of the fight, it was just last Friday actually. Even on this ugly Monday morning it seemed like the memory was whirling around his conscience.

“I’m not going to feel guilty about this, goddam it. He had a chance just as much as I did. I mean even though he was just another amateur he was built like a bull.”

When Dempsey stirred from sleep on the steps of the porch there were many people walking in from the market street. Most likely they had been held up by the fog as well. It was in that throng of underprivileged faces that he spotted the man he had been searching for; the bookie freak. His head was a dead giveaway. The way those stumps on his head pushed up the hair giving his overall appearance a distorted visage only a mother could love. This philanthropist also had an unmistakeable gait to his stride signature to those of his repellent race. Satyrs, at least Donny had the decency to wear trousers and cut those wicked horns from his head. It was almost necessary since after the war that any Satyr living among a human population to have his/her horns removed. The sight of them often haunted some of the elder men in the city given to post traumatic stress.

Donny, despite his racial handicap, was still a decent enough guy. Dempsey, of course, still did not want to risk a reputation with him openly in public but for the time being it could not be avoided. Dempsey was broke and needed a fight. He had eaten just a few meals since arriving into the Knittlefield and each meal had been worse than the last.

Dempsey strolled up next to Donny mid stride. Donny was unaware of his presence until Dempsey spoke up just enough that only they could hear in the din of the crowded sidewalk.

“There you are you goat face curse.”

Without a change in his step Donny quickly understood the situation and matching Dempsey’s tone he said, “Awe curse, when did you get back into town?”

“About a week ago, took me too long to track you down this time.”

“Haven’t had a good go of it either from the looks of you. Slimmed down a bit, I hope you’re not looking for a fight.”

“Perceptive as always, just came from training overseas. Looking to test out a few things... How are your recruits? Do you got anyone worth a damn these days or have you been slacking on talent?”

“Curse you, what a load of curse; you’re looking for a purse. You smell like all curse, haven’t shaved or bathed in weeks, you probably haven’t eaten more than broth and crust for a few days and now your beating my brow looking for some poor curse to fight! You’re pathetic Dempsey. I hate even thinking about putting you in but gods curse it I have a guy that no one wants to fight right now.”

“Ho! Don’t tell me it’s this Butch guy?”

“Had your ears to the ground eh?”

“Yeah, I heard he broke the blacksmiths nose. Gotta be pretty unnerving to get away with that and not be worried about the blacksmiths wife afterwards.”

They walked a good pace in silence as the crowd grew denser around the bakery they passed. Dempsey could smell the fresh baked biscuits sitting on the window of the shop. His stomach ached and growled audibly. Across the cobblestoned street a medicine store had a line out the door. Men and women down the road had gathered around a string trio playing in the middle of the roundabout. Hardly any traffic drove passed in this area of the city. A horse carriage was sitting outside a 2 storey flat next to the bakery with the coach wavering in sleep on the driver’s chair.

The two men cleared the mob of the bakery as Donny said, “Look don’t embarrass yourself mate” he pulled Dempsey by his arm into a narrow alley between the bakery and the next house over.

“Damn it Dempsey, I need to get this straight. When you left last year I lost a lot of cursing money! If I could I would slug you right here!”

“Ha I bet you would you dirty curse!”

“God I can’t stand your racist curse! I hate you. But for curse sake I need you right now. Nobody wants to fight this guy Butch! He’s a dumb curse himself but curse he can fight like hell. Knocks every curse I send his way. Mongoloid.” Donny trailed off in thought.

“I’ll be the judge of that; this city hasn’t had anyone good for ages. Actually, since I was here.”

“They aren’t all students of the art like you! Damn but it would be easy. Look, how ‘bout this, why don’t you just open some school here in the harbour. I can front you the crowns to get started. Teach these little curses how to do it the proper way?”

“I hate kids. Also, stop cursing around and let me fight the big dumb curse already! I don’t have time for this. I’m cursing starving right now!”

Donny grabbed his hair with his gloved hands, pulled as hard as he could, and let go finally with a snort of exasperation.

“Fine, curse it, curse it to hell! Come next Friday night to Hopper Lane in the back of the glass warehouse. Here, five crowns, get yourself a decent meal before you get there. Curse I hope he cleans your clock you rat curse!”

Dempsey's whole face transformed into a menacing grin “that-a-boy, I knew you could be reasonable despite your lack of human decency. What time?”

“Ten o’clock. Don’t make me regret this. The fight’l start right before midnight if the feds keep out.”

“Awe curse yeah! You bill it big Don! I’ve got some new tricks!”

“Just show up this time. I need to get going now, I’m going to be late, and some nobleman’s coming in for some business today. It has to do with a lost dog or something.”

“Oh yeah, that sounds appalling. Let me get 5 more crowns off you. I need to get some leathers.”

“No. Get out of my way.”

“Come on Donny Boy, I’ll pay you back after the fight.”

“Fine curse you, here are another 15 crowns. Get yourself into shape and be on time. I hate waiting. Also, when you get there, don’t talk to anyone will you, at least not until after you lose. I just don’t want you ruining the mystery I’m going to try and set up for you by opening your stupid mouth.”

“Yeah, talk to everyone, got it. I can do that. Just bill it BIG Don. Big, you hear me. I want to clean out these pockets. You hear me?”

“You’re such a curse, you know that. Goodbye!”

Donny spat on the ground and emerged back into the bustling street from the alley. He hurried in the same direction he had been walking and only paused to pull out a pocket timepiece from his vest before resuming in haste towards Finnis Yard the midtown borough north of the slums.

Dempsey, still standing in the alley, smiling viscously in the shade, counted the crowns in his hand. “Sixteen, seventeen, eighteen… that dumb curse shorted me 2 crowns. I swear you can’t trust those horn faced bastards!”

He pocketed his coins and he too disappeared back unto the bustling street. For the first time he observed his surroundings in detail. Down the street where the string trio had been playing near the fountain there were now a small group of street urchins energetically splitting a small loaf of bread. They were all in tatters and moccasins jumping on the ledge of the fountain and chasing each other. The street was lined with tall, thin two-storey homes, many of which had the bottom floor converted into shops of a variety of wares. Some sold liquor and wine, others sold trinkets and Knittlefield souvenirs, and others had a variety of food stuffs lining the walls that could be seen through large glass window panes from the sidewalk. Dempsey cleared his head, rubbed his knuckles and headed for the bakery once again.

He arrived at the harbour on the night of the fight about one hour before midnight. He had no trouble finding the glass warehouse on Hopper Lane. Large A-frames held many large pieces of glass and every step he took from the beginning of the street to the entrance of the warehouse crunched with glass fragments under his shoes.

Inside the warehouse it was maybe three storeys high and a little less than 100 meters across. There were three main rows of glass at the far end of the warehouse and 2 loading bays near where Dempsey had entered. One of the loading bays had been cleared of carriages and was currently holding a fight between two young street tufts. They seemed to be evenly matched in enthusiasm and as the small sweaty crowd around them jeered the two men on, the tufts seemed impressed to throw greater effort into the tussle.

Dempsey surveyed the crowd. There must have been a little fewer than fifty spectators in total and a small group of men huddled together by the far left wall. In the middle of that small group of men was Don. Hovering about Don was an extremely large man in overalls, no shirt and small gold rimmed glasses that were perfect circles around his squinty eyes.