K R O W E
fighting
The room smelled of sweat, blood and cigar smoke.
"Wrap your hands," Drake grunted, crouching to heft up the punching bag and hang it from the hook hanging from the industrial beam above, the chain clattering and scraping against the metal. He made easy work of the heavy lifting, muscles bulging from beneath his grey tunic, smacking his callused hands together, knocking remnants of lifting chalk from his thick fingers, "Your ma sent you, didn't she?" Keres, who had been eyeing the bare equipment and the boxer's tape sitting on a lone stool, stiffened at the mention of her. Drake didn't seem to notice, patting the leather of the bag, "Now that's a woman."
Keres set his jaw and started taping up his hands, shoulders tense. The look was fleeting, but his lips pursed, as if he had eaten something sour. Through gritted teeth, he asked, "You know her then?"
"She's taken up the bets from time to time," Drake turned and walked to the a locker on the right wall, yanking open the door with a loud clatter, knocking its contents around, searching for something, "She's hell of a fighter."
Keres looked over at the man. He knew his mother had skill in staying alive, but with her pretty dresses and sharp words, he had not imagined her bloodied. His eyes lit with interest, "You... You trained her?"
"Ha!"
Drake's head popped out from behind the locker door, tilting back as he shook a flask and downed its contents. He winced, exhaled a hot breath and pounded his chest, head bobbing. He licked his lips and ran a hand down his scarred face, "To train means to teach," he barked, stomping back to where the younger man still stood, "And ain't no one teaching your ma something she doesn't have her mind already set to."
Keres hadn't met many who knew his mother more than chance encounters and as much as he hated himself for it, he fell back into old habits of judging the man's age, his facial features, comparing mannerisms, "Yeah, well... She's not the only one. I'm not about to waste my time with this," he sneered, as if unable to think of the proper name for it, "place."
Drake smirked, tapping his fingers to his flask in thought, "Stay under your mother's skirts then," he lifted his chin, "Wouldn't blame you. Nice spot to be."
His tone irritated the younger man, who began to bristle.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
Drake gave another shake of the flask before tossing it aside, "I can't best your ma, but I know I can kick your ass from here to the river and back. You're young. Arrogant," he flexed his hands, putting his weight on his back foot, "You need some sense knocked into ya."
Anger flared through Keres, who lunged.
The bulky man was faster than he let on, and a fist soon found itself slamming into the side of the boy's face. Flaring pain, a flash of white as his ears rang and the loss of breath as he was dropped to the ground with a booming crash. He coughed and wheezed, clutching his face and trying to roll over. Drake's shoes circled, and the man crouched, scratching at his bearded chin in thought, "What did we learn?"
Blue eyes looked up in burning hatred, spitting a glob of hot blood at Drake's feet, "Fuck.. you.".
"Wrap your hands," Drake grunted, crouching to heft up the punching bag and hang it from the hook hanging from the industrial beam above, the chain clattering and scraping against the metal. He made easy work of the heavy lifting, muscles bulging from beneath his grey tunic, smacking his callused hands together, knocking remnants of lifting chalk from his thick fingers, "Your ma sent you, didn't she?" Keres, who had been eyeing the bare equipment and the boxer's tape sitting on a lone stool, stiffened at the mention of her. Drake didn't seem to notice, patting the leather of the bag, "Now that's a woman."
Keres set his jaw and started taping up his hands, shoulders tense. The look was fleeting, but his lips pursed, as if he had eaten something sour. Through gritted teeth, he asked, "You know her then?"
"She's taken up the bets from time to time," Drake turned and walked to the a locker on the right wall, yanking open the door with a loud clatter, knocking its contents around, searching for something, "She's hell of a fighter."
Keres looked over at the man. He knew his mother had skill in staying alive, but with her pretty dresses and sharp words, he had not imagined her bloodied. His eyes lit with interest, "You... You trained her?"
"Ha!"
Drake's head popped out from behind the locker door, tilting back as he shook a flask and downed its contents. He winced, exhaled a hot breath and pounded his chest, head bobbing. He licked his lips and ran a hand down his scarred face, "To train means to teach," he barked, stomping back to where the younger man still stood, "And ain't no one teaching your ma something she doesn't have her mind already set to."
Keres hadn't met many who knew his mother more than chance encounters and as much as he hated himself for it, he fell back into old habits of judging the man's age, his facial features, comparing mannerisms, "Yeah, well... She's not the only one. I'm not about to waste my time with this," he sneered, as if unable to think of the proper name for it, "place."
Drake smirked, tapping his fingers to his flask in thought, "Stay under your mother's skirts then," he lifted his chin, "Wouldn't blame you. Nice spot to be."
His tone irritated the younger man, who began to bristle.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
Drake gave another shake of the flask before tossing it aside, "I can't best your ma, but I know I can kick your ass from here to the river and back. You're young. Arrogant," he flexed his hands, putting his weight on his back foot, "You need some sense knocked into ya."
Anger flared through Keres, who lunged.
The bulky man was faster than he let on, and a fist soon found itself slamming into the side of the boy's face. Flaring pain, a flash of white as his ears rang and the loss of breath as he was dropped to the ground with a booming crash. He coughed and wheezed, clutching his face and trying to roll over. Drake's shoes circled, and the man crouched, scratching at his bearded chin in thought, "What did we learn?"
Blue eyes looked up in burning hatred, spitting a glob of hot blood at Drake's feet, "Fuck.. you.".