Just Like a Boxer

Wendell B. Winchel disappeared five years ago. America’s most loved billionaire did not show up for a charity ball he had organized one night and was not seen again. The police could not find one person known to have spent any time with him in the preceding three years that could give any clues to where he was.

The British fighter in the ring with Junior Dugan, great boxing has-been, didn’t even really know anything about Mr. Winchel and his often-hilarious, always-generous efforts to make America more livable. Reporters lucky enough to get two minutes with Winchel, before he disappeared, used to say to him, “Mr. Winchel, all reports indicate that if you keep launching projects like you’re doing these days, you’ll be broke in a few years.”

To which, Mr. Winchel liked to say, “Oh, I’ve got this sideline that keeps bringing in a little. I’ll be okay.” The sideline was the world’s most profitable machine tools factories in the world. Building them was a  feat, considering American business had gotten out of machine tools decades before and left them to the Japanese. Winchel had a new spin on them and they did so well he never had to locate a factory anywhere but on U.S. soil. Not a region of the country didn’t host a Winchel factory.

Did this matter to Worthington Watson, the venerable British pugilist on the card with Junior Dugan? It did not matter. Watson had grown up working class like a lot of fighters, but he put himself through Oxford with his fists and kept at it into the Olympics. Now he fought for money and read Freud at night, but he’d never been a headline fighter. Not good enough.

Junior Dugan had been the best, ten years before. Junior Dugan had paid Watson a lot of money to hop the Atlantic and spar a bit. Millions were watching. Watson didn’t care what happened to Winchel. He cared what would happen to him if he didn’t win this fight. If he didn’t win this fight he’d stay second string and probably not quit the ring with enough in the bank to cover retirement.

What the fuck would he do when he couldn’t fight anymore? He didn’t know. Worthington was a mute. Always had been. He sure as hell couldn’t be a mute trainer. Not for boxers these days.

The bell rang and the fighters came out at each other. Watson had expected Dugan to come at him like a bull, and at first he did. Then Dugan stopped out of reach and cut right like he was playing soccer. Watson had come hard, too, and took a face of empty air. Dugan scored him a body blow in the kidneys that hurt. A tag that made it clear he wouldn’t fight like he had in his Sports Illustrated videos. Dugan had to reconnoiter fast. He’d practiced for something else. Watson danced back and made Dugan close on him. The Brit feinted around with his fists. Taunting the older man, mostly with little lefts. Dugan didn’t care, though. He was not so impatient anymore.

Watson began to ease forward. Pretty boring fight so far, but luckily Dugan eased forward with him. They started a few little test jabs at each other. Not really even punches. Just checking each other out. Then Watson let loose with a fast flurry of jabs close in that Dugan mostly dodged. Watson went on and on like that. He left his body wide open to see if Dugan would bite but Dugan didn’t. Dugan must have thought that was what Watson wanted but then Dugan was surprised by a shattering left hook that sent the old fighter staggering for less then a quarter of a second, enough time for Watson to deliver three punishing jabs to Dugan’s face before the man could reestablish footing and block.

Then Watson saw the temper flash in Dugan’s eyes. Perfect, he thought. Perfect.

And the lights went out.

In fact, the lights just went out on the ring. The low house lights stayed on. The lights on the cameras stayed on. The caught the darkness fall. Watson saw the cameras were on right away. That’s where he looked when the light dropped. What Watson needed from tonight was a win, or, at worst, a good showing. What Watson needed was an invitation back to the States. For another big U.S. of A. purse. The sort of purse he could nurse a while.

Watson felt hands on his chest pushing him to the ropes. Small hands. The ref’s, he thought. With no light it made enough sense, so he didn’t resist. He found him some rope and waited. Dugan did the same on the other side.

Then the lights came on again. In the center of the ring stood Wendell B. Winchel, America’s Favorite Billionaire. “Fellow citizens,” the old man said on the microphone that had dropped back down from above, “It’s good to see you all again.”

Winchel had on the clothes of one of the venue’s technical staff. A rope hung from the ceiling. Winchel had rapelling gear around his waste and a mask was at his feet. How long must he have worked here to do this? America’s favorite billionaire a stage tech?

“Fellow citizens, crime after crime after crime is committed against you in this country. I have gone out for the last several years to investigate the multitude of injustices that the rich and the slightly rich have committed against you all, and come with this report…”

Winchel was not holding the microphone. He just let it dangle. In one hand he held the face of a little girl and with the other he held a .22 Colt Revolver to her little head. The little girl looked all cried out.

Winchel continued, “The worst crimes, I have decided, are that of the owners of the major media outlets that make no effort to discover and report on the crimes of fellow millionaires and near-millionaires. That’s why I hold in my hands the oldest child of the owner of the very network that launched the pay-per-view broadcast of tonight’s events.”

Now, Winchel was standing in the ring with three others. The ref and two heavyweight boxers. All he had was a .22. Little more than a BB gun. Wendell B. Winchel had to be insane. A gun was a gun, but the odds were against him here. The three of them all looked at each other. It would be risky, Watson thought, but they could bum rush this nut and save the girl. Get on with the night. Or not, realized. It wouldn’t matter.

Watson would be a hero, in fact, if he lived. He’d have a contract for a bigger purse before the next dawn. Oh yes, he would do it.

Winchell took a deep breath and looked at the two others in the ring. Winchel should have at least waited until he and Dugan felt a little tired. Even the chubby official looked pretty spry, this early in the round. They all got their footing. They each gave the other two a glance and they started to move.

Pop! Pop! Pop!

Twenty-two’s barely make a sound as they fire. The three bullets smacked the three men right in the forehead. The referee had made it the closest before he took his bullet, but he still had a good two yards to go.

Pop! Pop! Pop!

Winchel put three more bullets at the base of each one’s spine.

“As I was saying, fellow Americans…” he continued. The little girl was bawling now and every viewer in the nation could hear it. “Crimes! Crimes against…”

The cameras had never gone off. They caught it all live. They caught all three men take their bullets and go down for that little American girl. Worthington Watson got the attention of the country that evening, all right. He sure did.