
Bottom’s Up
By: Kenneth M. Kapp
Hype for the fight started six months out. Tom B. Topus and Will T. Snod were in the top ten of heavyweights. Both had impressive records, winning more than 70% of their fights by knockouts. People were surprised they had never met in the ring on their way up. Everyone agreed that the winner would be given a title shot within a year.
The weigh-in the day before the fight came with the usual posturing by both fighters, strutting back and forth in front of the cameras, flexing oiled biceps and slapping their six-pack abs. Both managers told reporters that this would be the fight of the century. “Two rounds, and that goon is down!” “They’re not even taking bets on this one.” “That clown will never hear the third bell.”
The glistening fighter came out front and center, positions clearly marked on the floor with red masking tape. Their managers pushed arm-candy in front of them, the models standing on either side, bending over with a little twist. Their lips were planted on cauliflowered ears by the time the photographers finished, “One, two, cheese.”
The sold-out fight was on pay4view TV.
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Tom marches down the aisle, his robe designed in Paris, his eye-candy barely wrapped in matching material. Then in struts Will, waving his hands overhead as if he’s already won. His denim fighting shorts are complemented by a cape with the kind of emblems usually found on cars at NASCAR rallies. His eye-candy wear a couple of the leftover patches stitched round with denim basting. The packed arena goes wild.
First bell. Both fighters are out of their corners like hungry lions. Fists of fury: left-right-left, then right-left-right. The crowd is on their feet. And so on it goes for the next six rounds. These guys are heavyweights and you can hear the punches land in the far corners of the arena. You can see they’re getting tired – the clinches are getting longer. Someone yells, “Stop the kissing, kick some ass!”
Round seven. You can feel the determination as the fighters converge menacingly from their corners. The crowd, sensing it, is muted. Tom and Will cautiously circle one another, dancing clockwise, then counterclockwise. Then suddenly a blur of fists flying. They clinch and sway – arms locked around muscled torsos dripping sweat, then stagger apart. Abruptly their knees buckle. Both fall to the mat.
The referee swallows and starts counting: “One, two, three,” then drops to his knees to see if they’re breathing. “Four, five, six.” A thumbs-up.
But neither fighter is moving.
“Seven.”
Tom rolls onto his stomach.
“Eight.”
Will turns his right glove to the side.
“Nine.”
Tom tries to rise, pushes his bottom up. The crowd goes wild.
“Ten!” The bell peals.
Tom collapses back on the mat.
The referee scratches his head, takes the mike and declares, “Draw folks. Bottom’s Up don’t count.”
The crowd starts jumping and screaming but quiets down as the word goes round that this fight was never going to end in a PUNishment; there was some mix-up, an anagram: Will T. Snod is still down, and Tom did manage to get his bottom up.
But you figured that out by the fifth round, didn’t you?