Fogwell's Gym
Hell's Kitchen, New YorkI went to the back of the place like I always do. I don't need to echolocate. I've walked in and out a million times before.
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◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉
◉◉◉◉◉◉◉Who◉filled◉the◉punching◉◉◉◉◉◉◉
◉◉◉◉◉◉◉bag◉with◉mildew?◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉
◉◉◉◉◉◉◉150◉pounds◉of◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉
◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉decades◉old◉sand◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉
◉◉◉◉◉◉◉Windex?◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉
◉◉◉◉◉◉◉Ripped◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉
◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉torn◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉
◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉
◉◉◉◉◉◉◉Rotting◉from◉the◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉
◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉inside◉out◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉
◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉
◉◉◉◉◉◉◉Definitely◉molded◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉
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I taste the tang of greatness punch into the air as my fist hits the bag. Is this what Tony The Tiger smells like?
Wet leather and darkness. The phalanges in my hand smoosh together as my palm cruises into the weight like mud down a mountain.
dont be like me son dont solve your problems with your fists youre a smart kid you can do better than i ever could stay in school be a lawyer you can make the world a better place i know you can mattie you can do whatever you set your mind to i believe in you kid youve got the murdock blood in you as strong as any of us ever had itMy father said a lot of things. I can see that now. The older I get, it's harder and harder to parce what he actually meant. He told me not to fight with my fists. It's not that he didn't want me to fight. He didn't want me to fight with my fists. He wanted me to fight with
the system, so I could always have the freedom to take a knife to a gun fight. Deconstructing his arguments never really gets me anywhere, though. He made rent, or at least he tried, by fixing his fights and shaking down debtors until the cost to his pride outweighed the cost to his bank account. He was a lost man, an alcoholic, a washed up boxer by the time he was my age. Actually, scratch that. He died before he was my age. I'm now officially older than my father was when he died. Guess I'll have to break out the champagne.
mattie im so sorry you were never supposed to see that i know what we talked about and im trying my best son but i dont know how to do better thats why i need you to stay away from this life if anyone can do it its you my only son my beautiful boy i cant wait to see who you become when you grow upI remember the first time one of the kids pushed me down at school. All of the boys wanted to have a stick fighting war, myself included, but I couldn't stop looking over my shoulder, afraid I'd see Battlin' Jack Murdock there to set me straight. I was so busy worrying about upsetting my father that I stood stock still when a dry branch tore across the bare goosebumps on my arm. To this day, it's the darkest shade of red I've ever seen.
hey what happened to you tell me which one of those punks at school did this and ill straighten this out faster than you can say i love you dad its that one kid with the sweatervest isnt it his dads a real prick ill show him whats what have you disinfected yet let me get you a towel kiddo thats nastyI begged them to stop. I'd pleaded with them, pointing out how pissed my dad was gonna be. But they just kept poking me and smacking me until I was too afraid to open my eyes. Every time it'd stop, one of them would pitch in with "Come on, Daredevil," and then someone else would join in and so on and so forth until the entire class was smacking me like a Hungry, Hungry Hippo, all until their parents came to pick them up.
youre just too smart for them you listen to me young man when you see them tomorrow you ball up your fists puff up your chest look them in the eyes and let them know that you mean business and that they are going to stopBut that's what he didn't understand. Violence isn't the result of a lack of communication. Violence is the language of the willfully catatonic. No matter how long you go to school, no matter how many books you read, how great you are at speaking dead languages in front of public officials, no matter how much you beg them to stop, some people will only understand violence. That's why when he used his words to tell The Fixer that he was done throwing fights so he could split the proceeds from gambling, he ended up bleeding to death in his own dojo. Not ten feet from where I'm standing. This bag I'm punching, that's his bag. I can still smell his sweat on it. That odious miasma, that's what the human spirit smells like after after twenty years. That's what blood sweat and tears amount to when they were all you had.