The gamblers hands fly up with cash ready to place their
wagers as the fighters peel their layers of clothing off.
Jack scans the crowd until he spots Destine. Jack nods at
her. She nods back. Kieran doesn’t like it.
Bad Jack smiles. He is the cock of the walk and knows it.
Jack crosses the ring to Hammond.
Care to make a wager, Englishman?
Bet you three hundred I win.
Piss off, Jack.
Think I’m gonna win as well, do ya?
You English are soft as bread.
Bad Jack backs up to his corner loosening up. The referee, a
white bearded old timer with leather skin, steps in and draws
a chalk line in the center of the ring.
This is the Champion of America
facing the Champion of England so
let’s get the rules straight. When
both fighter’s have their foot on
the line, the round begins. When a
fighter goes down the round ends
until both fighters again toe the
line. No hitting a downed opponent.
No head butts. And Jack, no
punching the balls for fuck sake.
Now toe the scratch!
Bad Jack’s playful manner quickly transitions to focused rage
as he puts his foot on the chalk line. Vincent follows and
THE FIGHT IS ON.
Hammond throws first, but Jack bobs and weaves away from the
punches. Hammond chases Jack in circles unable to connect.
I knew you were slow, but come on.
Jack plays it up to the crowd, but finally stops and sticks
his stubbly chin in the air.
BAD JACK (CONT’D)
Hit me you slow mangy sodomite!
BAM! Hammond whacks him good with a right cross, then gets in
close to land body shots.
Jack throws Hammond over his leg to the ground ending the
first round. Hammond quickly rises and puts his foot on the
scratch ready to start the second.
Bad Jack licks the blood from his lip. Like a morning shot of
whiskey to the alcoholic, the blood gives Jack his FIX.