In This Very Ring
By Dan Stein

          “Ladies and gentlemen!” the announcer bellowed. “It’s time now for your main event of the evening! Introducing first, the challenger: weighing in at 228 lbs., hailing from Battle Creek, Michigan, David Naismith!”

          Dave rose up from his stool in the corner of the ring, arms raised for the crowd. Not a bad crowd, he thought. They cheered loudly, and Dave felt the familiar rush that preceded all of his matches. He felt good; he felt ready. Tonight he was going to hit the big time. Tonight, he’d finally get his shot at the American Boxing League Heavyweight Title. Only one man stood between him and the belt. I’m ready, he thought. It’s just you and me now, Conner.

          “And his opponent: the ABL Heavyweight Champion, weighing in at 233 lbs., hailing from Dallas, Texas, Ryan “The Wall” Conner!” the announcer said.

          Conner jumped to his feet in the opposite corner. Dave took the opportunity to size him up. He’d seen Conner in action before, but this was the first time he’d stepped in the ring with him. Conner wasn’t tall; Dave had the advantage there at least. Weight was Conner’s true advantage. It was only a few pounds, but Dave knew even a pound or two could make all the difference in the world in determining a match.

          Dave could tell a couple of things about Conner immediately just from the way he carried himself. First, Conner wasn’t a boxer; he was a bar fighter. The wide, flat nose was a good indicator that it had been broken repeatedly. Most boxers knew better than to leave their nose exposed. Secondly, he noticed Conner’s flat, dead eyes. No emotion showed in them at all as he waved to the cheering fans. Dave had fought men with eyes like that before. It usually meant they weren’t opposed to permanently injuring you.

          Wouldn’t be the first time I got injured, Dave thought. Ain’t gonna happen now, though. I got your number, pal. I’ve been studying your game. Dave had spent the last few weeks watching tapes of Conner’s title defenses over and over. He knew his opponent favored uppercuts and crosses. He jabbed only occasionally and most times it was followed up with a hook from the same arm. Conner seemed to especially liked body blows. Dave had watched him make more than one of his challengers puke in the ring. Dave felt prepared for these tactics and had developed what he thought were some good counters.

          The referee called the both of them to the center of the ring. Dave stood up from his stool and walked over. The ref went over the rules of the match. Dave didn’t pay too much attention to them; there was never any real variance in match rules anyway. His focus was solely on Conner. He stared into the champion’s eyes, trying to make his own as cold as Conner’s. He was so intent on this that it caught him by surprise when Conner smiled at him, exposing a mouth littered with toothless voids. He’d never seen Conner do that in the ring before. The contrast between Conner’s smile and his eyes gave Dave a sudden chill.

          “Do you understand?” the ref asked him. He mumbled, yes, he did understand. Why the hell is he smiling like that?! Dave thought.

          “Do you understand?” the ref asked Conner.

          Conner held Dave’s gaze for a moment longer, still smiling. Then he turned to the ref and said, “I’m going to kill him.” His voice was calm, like he was discussing future plans with a polite acquaintance. Dave was shocked again. That was not the response you were supposed to give a referee. That’d be a sure way to get one pissed off at you. If Conner had been talking to Dave, he would have understood it. Just a little shit-talking before the match. Psych your opponent out a bit. But, saying it to the ref; that was strange. Conner’s smile and strange words gave him a sinking feeling. Something wasn’t right here.

          The ref appeared not to notice Conner’s glib response. “Good. Touch gloves and return to your corners.” Dave stepped forward with his gloves raised in front of him. Conner did likewise. Dave looked again at Conner while he felt the pressure of contact on his fists. Conner was still smiling. Dave looked into his eyes, expecting the same coldness as before. Instead, he saw was that Conner’s eyes had turned completely white. No pupils, no iris, just white. Then Conner turned and headed back to his corner before Dave could react.

          What the hell was that? he thought. His eyes…no, it must have been contact lenses. Maybe just another mind game I didn’t know about. Maybe I just imagined it. Man, I must be stressing myself out too much. That was weird. Convinced it must be some trick of the light or his imagination, Dave headed back to his corner.

          He sat on the stool and let his manager put his mouthpiece in. “You’re gonna kill him, Davey,” his manager, Stan Freeman, said. “You got this! He’s nothin’! Nothin’!” He’s a bum, Dave thought and giggled stupidly, then stopped himself. He was about to go into the biggest match of his life and he was giggling like a damn stoner. What the hell was wrong with him? Now was the time to focus, not crack jokes. “You alright, Davey?” Stan asked, noticing the out of the ordinary laugh.

          “Yeah,” said Dave. He tried to convince himself that it was true; that it really was nothing but a bit of jitters. “Yeah, I’m cool. This guy’s mine. Don’t worry, Stan.”

          Dave rose from the stool and loosened up one last time. Seconds later, the ref called for the bell and round one of a scheduled ten was underway. Dave tried to push the conscious part of his mind away. He boxed best when he relied mostly on instinct.

          Conner started with one of his rare jabs, coming in from the left. Dave easily avoided it, as well as the anticipated hook that followed. He countered with a right cross, which Conner avoided. Dave saw a weak spot in his opponent’s defense and swayed in with two quick, short uppercuts to Conner’s belly. He felt pounding fists across his back, but continued pressing his advantage until the referee broke them apart.

          Good. Very good start, Dave thought. The ref pushed him back and for the first time this round he looked at Conner’s face. Conner pointed his fist at him and said something he didn’t hear. He was too stunned by what he was seeing.

          Conner’s left cheek was slowly splitting open in a circle. Dave watched the hole widen from the size of a pinhead to roughly that of a soda can. It stopped abruptly and two dark purple, forked tongues snaked out of it. They turned toward Dave as though they were looking at him. Dave dropped his hands in amazement.

          Conner charged then, and brought his right fist into Dave’s jaw hard. Dave was caught completely by surprise and nearly fell backwards. He stepped back, waving at the ref to draw his attention. Dave intended to point out the thing coming out of Conner’s face, but as he looked up, he realized that it was gone. Conner’s face was whole again.

          It was there, he thought. Then, Conner was on him again, seeing an opportunity for a quick knockout. Dave’s instincts kicked in again and he dodged Conner’s clumsy yet powerful crosses. He returned with a series of jabs, connecting with Conner’s face twice. His face came open, he thought again. Did I just imagine that? Like the eyes? Dave began to really wonder what was really going on.

          Conner rallied and Dave no longer had time to wonder what was happening. Conner unleashed a flurry of punches and Dave reacted hastily, back-pedaling. It was wrong and he knew it. Conner pressed in, sensing weakness. He landed several good hits before Dave could get his guard up sufficiently. The bell rang just as Conner was about to connect with a devastating uppercut. The ref quickly separated them.

          Dave looked one last time at Conner, searching for anything out of the ordinary. “Next round, motherfucker,” Conner said and pointed his fist at Dave. Dave heard his voice come again, but Conner’s mouth didn’t move, “Inside there are larvae and lemures.”

          “What did you say?” Dave asked, his voice quavering despite his best effort to keep it steady. Larvae and lemures? What the hell were those? Had he really heard that?

          “I said next round,” Conner said. “You fuckin’ deaf?”

          Dave didn’t answer. He simply walked back to his corner, confused. None of this made any sense. Was he hallucinating? Was there something wrong with him? It’s gotta be stress, he thought. I’m just freaked out over a fight this big or I’m jet-lagged, something.

          Dave sat on the stool as Stan brought a water bottle up to Dave’s lips. “What’s going on out there, Davey?” he asked. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

          Dave wasn’t, but he nodded anyway. “I must not have gotten enough rest last night.”

          Stan said something else, but he might has well have been in another world. Dave turned his head toward the crowd and immediately his eye was drawn to the tall, black figure in the first row. The man-thing stood nearly seven feet tall. It was dressed as a reveler, like you would see at Mardi Gras. It wore a mask that was bird-like with bright green feathers shooting out at odd angles. Why would someone come to a boxing match dressed like that? Dave wondered.

          As he watched the strange man-thing, all sound ceased. All movement ceased. Dave felt time itself cease. The reveler began to walk toward him. Dave heard chanting coming from behind him. It sounded like Latin. Every step that the reveler took doubled the volume of the chanting and the man-thing grew taller and taller until it reached the arena ceiling. Dave watched, unable to move, to scream, to think past what he was seeing at that very moment. No, was the only thought he was able to manage.

          The reveler stood right in front of Dave. It bent down slowly, so slowly. Dave wanted to get up and run away; to get away from this figure that couldn’t possibly exist. His fear induced paralysis made that wish impossible. Drool started to roll down Dave’s chin. Finally the giant bent down far enough so that its mouth was right next to Dave’s ear. It spoke and its voice was like the scream of a dying lamb.

          “Round two,” it said.

          “Davey, get in there!” Stan’s voice came from just over Dave’s shoulder.

          Sound came back. Time restarted. Dave looked around, dazed, not quite sure where he was. “Get in where?” he said.

          “The ring!” a skeletal hand belonging to the voice gestured over Dave’s shoulder. A skeleton, Dave thought, feeling light-headed and more than a bit giddy. That’s kinda weird.

          “Okay,” he said sedately. He got up slowly and wandered into the ring. Lights from above caught his eyes and he stared upward, wondering where they came from. Sudden pain erupted in his stomach. He doubled over, unable to determine the origin of the agony.

          “Dumbass,” a voice came from in front of him. A deeper, more sinister voice came from the same place. “Larvae and Lemures. They cannot be taken. They can only be given. You make them stay. Inside.”

          Dave looked up into the face of a great Beast. It was a Beast that had haunted Dave’s dreams for all of his life. It was horned, red, and monstrous. Blood flowed freely from its every orifice. The Beast’s eyes had four pupils and an iris the color of sulfur. Its mouth held rows and rows of teeth that seemed to move in a circular motion as though not actually rooted in the jaw. The mouth yawned open, preparing to devour Dave.

          “No!” Dave yelled. Instincts he no longer recognized as his own kicked in and he struck the Beast. He lashed out again, over and over. “NO! NO! NO!” a voice was yelling as he straddled the Beast and continued to batter him. A fist (his?) flew (right cross?). Another flung in front of him (jab?). “NO!” the voice said. It seemed terribly upset. Dave wondered if it was the Beast that was yelling. He didn’t care; someone was attacking the Beast and hurting him very badly. Dave, whoever the hell that was, felt serene. He (Dave? Could be) drifted away.

          Somewhere a bell was ringing.

          Standing in the hall of the hospital, talking with a doctor, Stan felt tired and very much alone. The doctor had said it didn’t look good. Conner was in a coma from the beating and Dave was in no condition to explain what had happened last night.

          “It seems to be post traumatic psychosis,” the doctor, Stanz, said. “It stems from severe head trauma.”

          “But,” said Stan. “Conner never caught him that good in the head. Not hard enough to give him brain damage anyway.”

          “It might not have been in that match,” Philips said. “In fact, it’s likely the injury that caused this happened a long time ago. Usually, PTP happens years after the initial trauma. Do you know of any injuries to the head he may have had in the past?”

          “He’s been knocked silly plenty of times,” Stand said. “He’s a boxer; it happens.”

          “It could have been cumulative then,” The doctor looked thoughtful. “Unfortunately for Mr. Naismith, his reaction was very rare and much harder to treat than the symptoms usually found in this condition.”

          “Is there anything you can do for him?” Stan asked.

          “There are some drugs we can try, but considering how disassociated he appears to be it may be years before he understands reality again. To be honest, he may never recover. I’m sorry.”

          “So am I,” said Stan as he looked through the glass into the padded cell where Dave sat quietly, drooling on himself in a world where giants roamed in bird masks and once someone had fought the Beast; someone who might still be struggling with that Beast at this very moment.

          “So am I.”