Cricket

Nothing brought home a failed idea like a punch to the face.

The Pelican was a dive bar through and through, open late and roaring in the heat of a weekend night. The inside smelled like spilled beer and was dim, but the parking lot was walled off and lit up by hanging lights. Everything else around here was closed and done except for the circle of people out back in the gravel, watching the guy and girl beating the shit out of each other. After the fight someone would sprinkle down sawdust before the next one.

His follow up hook made her stumble, but she didn't quaver, setting her stance and getting back into it. Lawson worked up at the fridge plant and hit like a truck, but the woman was giving him a run for his money. They knew she called herself Blake and that was it, because she wanted it that way. No jokes, no greetings, no stories about the scars all over half her face, just flint-eyed drinking until it was time to fight.

She jabbed and followed up with a series of blows, circling to his right; the last one glanced across his eyebrow. She swung her hips and kicked out, the ball of her foot almost connecting before he tried to grab her around the waist and take her to the ground. She sprawled reflexively, levering his arm off and then punching down onto the side of his head, the two struggling for position before she backed off. The two of them glared at each other, Lawson furious, her sneering like a coyote bearing it's teeth at a gun.

She didn't hear the yelling around her, it wasn't important. What was was closing in and slapping a punch away like she was parrying before wrapping her hands and forearms around his neck, forcing his face down- right into her knees. She threw four or five, making them count, waiting for the moment Lawson was knocked out; when his body slumped, she let go with one hand and twisted her whole body, getting ready to drive a fist so hard into his face it would push his nose flat-

People had grabbed her arms, and she threw them off, but more hands kept her from finishing him. The second she saw she couldn't get at the unconcious man she relaxed, going cold in a second like a switch had been flipped.

"What, you trying to give him a seizure?!"

"He knew what it was. Let him sleep it off. Where's my money?" The bartender looked at her like she was speaking French. "I won. Where's my money?"

They shorted her, but it was the principle of the matter, not the amount.

Standing outside the circle and smoking a cigarette, she wiped blood off herself with an old rag. The lights brought out how fishbone pale she was, like someone who never saw the sun. Her body was weird- under her black tank top, her muscles stood out like driftwood, but there was almost no fat on her, and it left her gaunt. The scars down the right side of her face, most of her chest, and her right arm stood out like rope burns. She took another long puff and looked up at the moon.

It told her she'd done a nice job. The night was proud of her. She didn't smile, just crushed out the smoke and splashed her face with water, waiting for the next fight.