I hit him again, putting full hip twist and shoulder into the punch.
Blood, snot and spittle geysered from his face as his head jerked sideways from the impact.
He span almost full circle before going down and hitting the floor, hard.
“Stay down... stay down for Chrissake.” My inner voice screamed silently at him.
He rolled over onto all fours, fluids dripped and drooled from his face and pooled on the floor.
After a couple of seconds his head and shoulders lifted, and he slowly... slowly stood up again.
I found out a few days later his jaw was broken in three places and both of his cheekbones were fractured.
His eyes and nose were so badly swollen it was impossible to tell where one ended and the other began.
And he still kept getting up... and coming back at me.
I knew, I just knew that the only way to keep him down would be to kill him, and I wasn't prepared to go that far.
He squared up again, and I just let him hit me. There wasn't enough force in the blow to do any serious damage, but I took it, then went down... and stayed there.
I would take a punishment beating from “The Boys” for throwing the fight, maybe even broken arms or legs, the syndicate didn't take people like me spoiling their plans with any humour at all, not to mention the money I would have cost them.
They weren't the one doing the fighting. They couldn't see what I could see.
If I had known at the time why the money was so important to him I would have taken the dive a lot sooner.
One of his kids needed a life-saving operation, and that kind of motivation can be impossible to beat out of a man.
©2012 Stephen. J. Green.