Four Years Earlier
The fight was taking place in the metropolis of Grand York. Grand York was notorious for being overrun by organized crime. Sometimes these crime organizations liked to involve themselves in the underground boxing circuit that stretched across the city. The crime families would pay boxers much more for fighting under their name than they could make fighting independently. Often if a boxer lost a fight the family used that as an excuse to force the boxer to join their mob and work for them or else get killed. This particular fight had a lot of tension behind it. Each fighter was sponsored by one of the two the largest crime families in the city, who just happened to be the two families who hated each other the most.
José shifted his weight back and forth between his feet. His head rolled around over his broad shoulders. He was preparing himself mentally for this next fight. José was fighting for the Linguini crime family. They paid well and he had fought for them before. He wasn’t worried about the consequences of losing. He was good. Some hailed him as the best. He stood alone in a back room of the warehouse where the fight was to take place. Armed mobsters stood outside the room. Then there was a knock on the door and a second later Mr. Wallace, José’s long time trainer and good friend stepped into the room.
“How you doin’ kid?” he asked.
“I’m doin’ just fine,” José replied.
“I just thought I’d let you know, there’s a lot of heat in the crowd tonight. If you lose, things could get pretty ugly. Hell, even if you win things are probably gunna ignite,” Mr. Wallace informed him. José nodded in acknowledgement. “I’ll see you out there then,” Mr. Wallace said and then he walked out.
There was another knock at the door, except this time no one came in. Only a voice was heard. “Ya got one minute.”
José took a deep breath and then walked over to the door and pushed it open. He walked out past the guards towards the boxing ring. There were a lot of people watching this time; more than usual. And José could make a safe bet that all of them were members of the mob, one side or the other. There would be a lot of bodies if anything happened, the likelihood of this unnerved José, but only because there was a chance he could be one of those bodies. As he approached he saw his friend Mr. Wallace standing next to the ring. There was no sign of who his opponent was. It was unusual for the boxer not to be informed about his opponent. He hopped up onto the boxing platform, separated the ropes and stepped into the ring. He took in his surroundings as he waited anxiously to see who his opponent might be. There were many wooden boxes on the ground in the warehouse in a seemingly random order. Many of the mobsters sat on top of these to get the best view of the fight. Some of the mobsters looked relaxed, taking long drags on their cigarettes. Others looked uneasy, as if the slightest sound would tip them over the edge.
The sound of a door getting slammed shut echoed through the warehouse. José’s head turned in the direction of the sound. What he saw was a gargantuan form of a man flanked by two armed guards moving toward the ring. It seemed as though with each step he needed to exert himself to lift each of his massive legs. The man was built like a tank, a really big tank. The image of all the layers of fat and muscle would almost lead one to believe that he was impenetrable to bullets. The behemoth of a man had big mutton chop sideburns hugging each side of his big meaty face; a face that stuck fear into lesser men. The man looked up at José from the ground below the ring.
“Hello. My name is Daniel Wosikov, and I’m going to kill you tonight,” he said with a very heavy Russian accent.
José just stared back into his big beady Russian eyes, saying nothing, feeling nothing but power building up inside him, ready to put this opponent down as he had put down so many others before him. José looked to his left and saw the heads of the opposing crime families having what looked like a very unfriendly little chit chat. The exchange ended with both men walking away in frustration with one another. José looked back over to Wosikov and was surprised to see that he was now in the ring with him.
“Start the fight already!” a heckler in the crowd shouted.
“Shut the fuck up asshole!” a visibly tense Mr. Wallace shouted back at him.
Five minutes later the referee showed up. The referee was essentially useless in these underground matches anyways; they never made any calls or stopped any illegal actions by the fighters. The referee was met by each of the crime lords who each gave him their own little warnings and then he stepped into the ring with José and Wosikov. Moments later the match had begun and José and Wosikov started moving in slow circles around the ring as the crowd cheered them on. Wasikov made the first move, taking a thundering step toward José and swinging a might right hook in the direction of José face. But José was to fast, he dodged out of the way in time to see the wrecking ball of a boxing glove fly by. José was quick to counter this with a left hook of his own, slamming his gloved fist into Wosikov’s side, sending ripples of fat flowing across his body. That seemed to be the only effect it had, as Wosikov barely even flinched, he just smiled back at José. Oh shit, José thought. Whoosh! Another avoided blow from Wosikov, followed by another ineffective counter by José. This back and forth pattern was beginning to irritate José, and from the sounds the crowd was making, it was irritating them too. He decided to make a bold move. José mustered up all the strength he could and wound up to deliver a big blow that he hoped would strike home on this mammoth of a man. He brought his right fist far behind him to get as much momentum behind it as possible. Just before he let it fly at his opponent, Wosikov took advantage of José’s temporarily let down guard. He let loose a furious sucker punch to the gut, nearly lifting José off his feet. José’s stumbled back into the ropes, out of breath. The crowd erupted, half with excitement and the other half with outrage. Wosikov shot a look at the referee making sure he wouldn’t throw a penalty on him, or else suffer the same fate as José.
Wosikov slowly moved towards José, who stood panting, leaning on the ropes. José took his weight off the ropes and got back into his fighting stance. Seeing that José was wearing down fast, Wosikov delivered a hard blow to the kidney nearly knocking José over. Not one to give up, José let loose on Wosikov with everything he had left, throwing lefts, rights, uppercuts, and jabs. This sudden volley of attacks took the big man off guard temporarily. Wosikov was getting fed up with all of these punches and decided to end it. He brought his huge had behind him and threw it into the side of José’s face with a speed that José didn’t even see coming. The blow put him on the floor.
José stared up at the lights hanging from the top of the warehouse, they were bright and out of focus, accentuated by dampened sounds of the riotous crowd of mobsters. He knew the fight was over for him. He couldn’t get up; he was having a hard time holding onto consciousness. One of the lights shining on him went dark, blocked out by a large form of a man now standing over him. Fuck fuck fuck, José screamed in his head. Then he heard a strange noise, it sounded like a mix between a tyrannosaurus rex and a wet jet fighter. He then realized what it was, through the muffled filters his ears were now plaguing him with the sound must have changed. He knew that if his ears were working normally, he would be hearing the sound of someone gargling a massive amount of spit in the back of his mouth. I’m gunna fucking kill this guy if it’s the last thing I do. José promised himself. And then a cannonball of spit landed on his upper lip followed by the crowd’s reactions filling the air. José tried his best to prevent the disgustion from entering his mouth but he could do little more than roll his head back and forth and try and blow on it. Futile. José was fading out of consciousness. The rest of the lights in his field of vision went dark as Wosikov now stood right over him. José could tell Wosikov had his back to him. God help me. José pleaded inside as he saw the large man lower his boxing shorts to expose his massive ass. The last thing José remembered before losing consciousness was the sensation of being between two butt cheeks and the sound of a gunshot. 
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