Horror - Sucker Punch

 

 

Clyde (The Phantom) Gotterman had been a cruiser-weight fighter all his amateur and professional career.  He’d hovered around the 190 pound mark so was a little light for the class, but he was quick as hell. However, he had two problems that held him back from championship bouts. One was that although, for a right-handed boxer, he had a pretty good right hook, his left jab was seriously weak and that whole arm could really only be used to parry blows and land the occasional clip on someone’s chin. If he was lucky.

The second problem was that the cruiser-weight division was packed as hell, and the ladder was steep and tough. His manager, Corky Milhouse, was less than enthusiastic about his client Clyde because he knew that he would probably never get a shot at anything other than being a stepping stone for other better fighters. Clyde didn’t mind Corky much although he disliked Corky’s unpleasant habit of lining up fights between two fighters that he owned. This led to tension in the gym especially in a division packed with so much talent. Still, Corky was the only manager Clyde could get so there you go.

Clyde hadn’t heard from Corky for quite a while and had decided to go down to the office the next day and demand a match, but was beaten to the punch, as it were, when Corky showed up at his apartment door with a bottle of whisky.

“Howdy, Phantom,” a cheerful and ruddy faced Corky said.

“Well, hi, Corky. Slumming? What you doing in this part of town?” Clyde replied.

“Got something I want to talk to you about Clyde. Can I come in?”

“Sure, I guess. I was gonna come and see you tomorrow anyway.”

“That’s grand!” Corky said and pushed past Clyde into the apartment. Corky had never been to Clyde’s apartment and Clyde could tell by the look on his face that he was less than impressed. Clyde went over and swiped some magazines off the easy chair in the corner.

“Have a seat,” he said. “What’s up? You got me a match?”

“Not as such, no,” Corky said, settling down into the frayed armchair. “You got some glasses?”

“I guess so,” said Clyde and went to get a couple of tumblers from the kitchen, “What’s this about Corky? You dumping me?”

“No, no. Nothing of the kind my boy. I have come with a proposition for you. But let’s have a snort first.”

“All right,” said Clyde returning from the kitchen.  He put the two glasses down on the coffee table and sat down on the frayed couch. Corky opened the bottle and splashed two shots into the glasses.

“Slante!” said Corky and quickly downed his shot and poured another. Clyde sipped at his. He was in training. Why he didn’t quite know.

“Okay,” said Clyde, “let’s hear it.”

“Okay,” said Corky, serious now. “Here it is. Do you remember that weirdo scientist from the university that came to the gym that day last fall?”

“The egghead? Sure. You never did say what he wanted.”

“Aw he just rattled on about this new kind of steroid that he’d come up with while he was researching new ways of improving muscle tone in folks with atrophied limbs. But what he came up with, or so he claims, is a sort of super-steroid. It improves muscle mass and tone almost instantaneously.”

“What are you talking about. Nothing can do that,” said Clyde.

“Well, he claims it does. But here’s the catch. It only lasts for about an hour.”

“Then what?”

“Then you go back to the way you were.”

“How’s that?”

“Yeah, for about an hour you’re superhuman, and then you go back to whatever you were like before. Same weight, everything.

“Okay, whatever. What’s this got to do with me?”

“Here, have another shot Clyde,” said Corky pouring them out two more.

“Come on Corky, spill.”

“Okay, here it is. The egghead, Dr. Julian, wants someone to try it out on. He can’t go to his regular group of volunteers because, strictly speaking, it isn’t quite legal. So, I thought of you. Maybe, just maybe, we can set something up so that you take the potion on a night I set up, you win the fight and bingo, your career can re-hatch.”

“Aw, go on,” said Clyde.

“No, seriously. One thing, though. You’d have to put on a few pounds and fight heavyweight.”

“Why do I have to do that?”

“Because there’s just too many palookas in the Cruiserweight. I’d never get you a reasonable bout. You know, to justify the risk.”

“The risk?”

“Well, every new scientific advance comes with certain risks.”

“Like what?”

“Well, there might be… unexpected reactions or something like that. What do you say?”

Clyde thought to himself for a minute as he sipped on his drink. What had he got to lose? He wasn’t going anywhere the way things were and it wouldn’t be hard to bulk up a bit. He downed his drink.

“Okay, Corky. I’ll give it go.”

“Ah, excellent, my lad!” Corky shouted. “That’s the stuff. It’s all the way to the top now. You can count on it.” Corky got up and walked to the door. “I’ll get it all set, and we’ll get you into a class fight. Yes sir, a class fight!” And with that he was gone.

***

About three months later a crowd was gathering at the Junction Hall in Cincinnati to watch the much anticipated match between the up-and-comer Clyde The Phantom Gotterman and Morgan Delaney, third in line for the heavyweight crown.

Clyde was in his dressing room, nervous as hell because he knew that Delaney was a good fast fighter and also because of the possible ‘unexpected reactions’ to the drug. It had been decided that he wouldn’t use it until the night of the fight because they didn’t want to let the cat out of the bag and have someone tip off the authorities. But Dr. Julian had said that it had been tested several times on some apes and there were no specific issues. Still Clyde was worried.

Corky entered the dressing room with the doctor who was carrying a small black bag.

“Well, this is it, my boy. The big night. How do you feel?” said Corky.

“Okay, I guess,” Clyde replied. “You sure this is going to work, doc? I don’t want to get my bell rung tonight. This guy is tough.”

“I assure you, Mr. Gotterman,” said the doctor in his thick German accent. “You have nothing to worry about. Mr. Delaney won’t know what hit him!”

“That’s if I get any punch in at all. He’s very fast.”

“Not as fast as you’re going to be sir. I guarantee that. Are you ready?

“I guess so,” said Clyde

The doctor opened his bag and took out a syringe and a vial of brownish liquid. He punctured the vial with syringe and drew about 20 ml into the glass.

“This is very exciting, isn’t it?" said the doctor.

“Just get it over with, will you?” said Clyde

The doctor smiled and pushed the needle into Clyde’s upper arm. Clyde didn’t feel anything for a couple of seconds but then he got a warm rush over his entire body. He yelped as he looked down at his legs. They were actually growing! The muscle mass was increasing at a ridiculous rate and when he looked at his arms, the same thing was happening. Then it stopped.

“Well,” said Clyde, “that was weird. And yeah, there’s a lot more mass, but not that much.”

“It’s not just mass,” said the doctor. “it’s also the dynamic tension that it has created within that mass. See that punching bag over there? Give it a go.”

Clyde got up and walked over to the bag and gave it a tap. Everything felt as usual.

“Give it good one,” said Corky. “Let’s see what you can do.”

Clyde pushed the bag away from him and when it came back, he gave it a jab. The bag went flying back into the cement wall and split in half, the maize filling running down onto the floor. It hung spilling for a second and then the rope broke and the whole bag ended up on top of the maize on the floor.

“Holy crap,” said Corky.

“Holy crap,” said Clyde.

“I knew it! I knew it would work!” cried the doctor.

***

Twenty minutes later, Clyde sat on his stool in the corner of the ring sizing up Morgan Delaney who was smiling at him evilly. Delaney ran the thumb of his mitt across his throat and Clyde realized that he wouldn’t have much time to get this done.

The announcer finished his introductions, and the bell rang out to the full-throated roar of the enthusiastic crowd. Round one had started.

The two fighters advanced towards each other and circled slowly, each waiting for the other to make the first move and commit themselves.  Clyde’s plan was to let Delaney make the first punch, parry it as best he could and then deliver his patented upper cut. Hopefully he could catch Delaney unawares, get the first hit in and with his new strength get a KO right away. He didn’t know how many of Delaney’s meat grinders he’d be able to take if he didn’t get him quick.

Clyde had guessed right. Delaney wasn’t waiting around. He came charging and took a wild swing at Clyde with his left hand and quickly brought his right hand in and caught Clyde in the stomach. Clyde staggered back and Delaney advanced, that same wicked smile on his face. Delaney took a lazy jab from Clyde’s weak left and almost laughed as he wound up for a killer overhand. But Clyde’s left hand was a blur as he parried the tremendous blow to one side. Okay, thought Clyde, this is it. And with a great shout, unleashed a lightning upper cut to Delaney’s face.

Then it was like slow motion as the crowd gasped and was silent as the light went out from Delaney’s eyes. There was a horrible tearing sound and a gush of blood as Delaney’s head separated from his shoulders and went flying into the crowd.

People were screaming and trying to get away from the spinning head as Delaney’s decapitated body flopped around on to the canvas like a hooked fish. Clyde stood there staring at his glove which was covered in blood. The glove had ripped down the middle, exposing his hand which had been smashed to a pulp from the blow. He screamed as his trainer came over and quickly wound his bloody hand with a towel and helped him to the corner. He vaguely made out Corky’s pale face before he passed out from shock and saw the medical team arrive in the ring and start to cover Delaney’s body.

***

Three weeks later in the hospital, Clyde was still recovering from the smashed hand and the shock, which was only just beginning to fade. He lay there, under the blankets, with the heart monitor beeping and the police officer sitting in the corner as usual, reading a newspaper.

“Well, they caught him,” said the officer.

“Caught who?” muttered Clyde.

“Corky Milhouse. They got that quack Julian, too.”

“Where?”

“Trying to get out of the country by plane. Milhouse was killed in a shoot out. Pulled a gun.  I didn’t see that coming.”

“Unexpected reaction, I guess,” said Clyde, rolling over.