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    Originally published in Unlikely Stories, back in March 2004, one of three pieces they took of mine that time around (they took a couple more later as well). Pleased to see they’re still alive and kicking.


    Dig, dig, dig. That’s what I do. Dig the body as hard and as fast as I can, until it falls. And the beauty is, I don’t get in trouble for it. I get paid. Yeah, paid.

    I’ll never see the fat paychecks, even though I’m 18-2. Body killers don’t get the same press, the same hoopla that the head hunters get. But I don’t care. The head’s easy. The body’s hard. And I like to kill it.

    I’m short for my weight class, 5’6″. Most of the guys I fight have three inches of reach on me, easy. But I don’t care. I go in and plant, like a fucking tree. Cement my feet to the mat and just start digging. Bam, bam, bam. I want the internal organs. Other guys, they like to SEE blood. Not me. I want ’em to bleed a long, long time, and they bleed longer when it’s internal.

    When I see my opponent, I see everything I hate and I want to make him retire, to get the fuck out of the ring. Especially when they’re pretty, when they’ve got style, when they’re on their way up. Yeah. Kill thosefuckers. Bleed the kidneys dry, crush their ribs, make ’em hurt.

    They all go for my head. It’s an easy target. I don’t even try to cover it up. I’m too busy digging. You get hit in the head, you maybe get dizzy. You maybe even fall down. But I’ve not faced the guy yet who could make me stay down to a count of ten. You get hit in the body, it hurts. And that’s what I’m after. Did I say that already? Fuck you. It’s my mission, my life.

    First loss was a guy pissed me off. I got a rep as a dirty fighter, but I’m not dirty, never go below the belt. But this poof had his belt just south of his nipples, no joke. And the ref didn’t make him bring it down. So I kept killing his body and the ref kept warning me until I had enough. If I was getting warnings, getting points taken, I was gonna earn it. So I cracked his jewels and walked away. I knew it was a DQ, but I just didn’t give a fuck anymore. Guy hasn’t fought since and I’m glad. Pansies like that don’t belong in the ring.

    Second loss was on points. The fucker wouldn’t go down. Was a real up-and-comer, a golden boy. I was shocked to even get the fight. Real money guys don’t wanna fight me. Body hunters make golden boys look bad, even when they win. And this, for me, was a fat paycheck. But I couldn’t put him down. He had me on the mat six times. Six! Guy had fucking horseshoes in his gloves, heaviest hands I ever felt. But I got up every time. Every time. You don’t put a guy down when you’ve got six 10-8 rounds, though, you’re gonna lose. And I did.

    But the thing is… at the end of the fight… when they raised the kid’s hand… he could barely stand. I swear to God I hurt that kid worse than anyone I ever fought before. But he had a heart. A big fucking heart. Like I never seen. And he went the distance.

    Now, though? I hear he’s dying. Eight ribs broken. Both his kidneys stopped working. Can’t even find his spleen. I completely killed his body. There’s nothing left. And even though that’s my life, my mission…

    Fuck you. These are NOT tears. Body killers don’t cry.

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