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Season 1 Finale
\ Seattle - 1930 / Hitting the ground as loudly as the crowd is boisterous, Jimmy scrambles to his feet and shakes his head, trying to rid of the daze yet another well-placed strike has left him with. Wasting little time, Arthur steps forward with his hands readied, trying to capitalise on the stir of his opponent by taking another three swings forward, each shot nearing close to its target, but evaded nonetheless. Growing agitated with his missed strikes, a bloody lip-wearing Arthur throws himself forward and shoves his rival back, tossing him off the platform and into the lowest tier of rowdy fans in frustration. Seemingly rooting for the downfall of the brawler that had toppled into their laps, the three spectators shove Jimmy off of them and push him back onto the platform with force, hurling slurs and insults at him as they do so. “Hands to yourselves or you’re out of here!” the official exclaims, his finger aimed at the group of men too worked up to hold much care over the threat, their only intention being to walk out of the warehouse for the evening with winnings in tow. Given a reprieve to climb back to his feet, Jimmy juts his fists through the air and reclaims his composure whilst stepping forward, meeting his opposition in the platform’s centre. Dodging Arthur’s first strike before using his forearm to block the second that comes at him in the form of a body blow, Jimmy thrusts his fist into the wrist his foe uses to block the first strike before sweeping his foot across the ground, taking his opponent to the platform alongside him. “Yes, Jim!” Stanley exclaims from the barside whilst the man’s wife quietly applauds, Jesse’s hunched-forward demeanour remaining unchanged from the fight’s opening bell. Lunging toward the ground, Jimmy delivers a massive strike to his adversary’s jaw, rocking the man that quickly crawls his way free and returns to his feet, clearly groggy from the shot he’d just eaten. “To hell with you, killer!” a member of the audience, whose voice is loud enough to just barely shatter the unintelligible screaming of his peers, screams aloud, earning a passing glance by the taped-fist prodigal son of the event’s promoter. Stepping forward once more, Arthur keeps his non-dominant hand higher than he’d held it throughout the fight, shielding the side of his face he knows has taken more damage than the rest of himself. Noticing this, Jimmy goes on the offensive, drawing closer to the man before taking a quick leap back, dodging a right hook before throwing his leg forward, delivering a kick to his competitor’s calf that brings him to his knee for just a moment. “You fuckin’ crumb!” Arthur exclaims as he hits the mat, quickly bouncing back to both feet as he tries to shake off the pain in his limb. Keeping the momentum in his favour, Jimmy reads his opponent’s body language for a moment before stepping forward once more, seeing the hesitation in his adversary’s approach and opting to see how far he’s burrowed into the man’s psyche. “Ope!” Arthur blurts out as he throws his hand forward, attempting to block his foe’s next strike before taking notice of the second kick that sets forth on its path, feeling the weight of the blow on the inside of his thigh before hitting the ground once more. “Quit going for the f-!” the man exclaims as he hops back to his feet, clearly hobbled before yet another kick strikes him in the lower extremities, this time slamming into the back of his thigh and putting him onto the ground. Both rows of his teeth peering through his lips as he grimaces in pain, Arthur remains on his back for a moment before feeling the weight of his opponent kneel upon him, taking the opportunity to end the fight. “How’s this for a fucking crumb!?” Jimmy exclaims, punching at his rival’s jaw three times before the thrust of the official’s arms push him back, freeing the downed competitor for the chance to make it back to his feet. “Those punches might’ve done it” Norman remarks from above, his words passed off to the wealthy man standing beside him, who shakes his head in refusal. “No, the kicks are going to do it before the punches will” Andrew replies, squinting as he tries to get a better look at Arthur’s exposed visage, “why would one bother trying to knock their opponent out when they can just keep them from standing back up instead?” “One! Two! Three! Four!” the referee calls out, able to see the laid-out competitor’s responsive expression, though refusing to stop the count until he can stand back up. “Five! Six!” the next numbers are bellowed out, prompting Arthur to turn over onto his stomach and try to muster the strength to stand, feeling the vibrating soreness within the leg that sooner or later could prove to be his downfall. “Seven! Eight!” the official continues, throwing his hands out in refusal the moment he watches the now-standing fighter’s second foot centre itself upon the platform, allowing the fight to continue. Having prepared himself for the event that he’d yet to get the job done, Jimmy hurries back onto offence, side-stepping the referee as he hurries back toward his wounded foe, a punch pulled and ready to launch before the wind escapes his sails in an instant. “Oh damnit!” Stanley exclaims as his wife covers her mouth with both hands, watching Arthur strike their friend with a surprise hook that instantly drops him where he stands. Screaming in both horror and glee, the crowd react according to the names printed on their wager tickets as Jimmy hits the ground, eyes wide as his vision grows blurry, feeling the same platform he lays upon be met with a similar impact. The crowd suddenly turned into the sound of united defeat, all the laid-out Jimmy can do from his place on the ground is listen to the curious tone of the audience, which prompts him to use whatever whereabouts he has to direct his face toward the official. Confused as he passes glances between both fighters, the referee appears uncertain over what to do next, visibly lost as he shakily throws his hand up. “One!” the man exclaims, passing a look at Jimmy before redirecting his sights to the same thing that the downed fighter does, watching a pain-ridden Arthur writhe on the ground with his hands wrapped around his damaged leg. “Two!” the official proceeds, unsure of whether or not he legally can, but prepared to count both men out to a draw in the event he reaches ten without a single response. “Stupid fucking crumb!” Arthur exclaims as he presses his forehead against the platform, trying to massage the pain out of his thigh as he struggles to propel himself back to his feet. “Get up, Jim!” Josie shouts from within the crowd, which now becomes quiet as uncertainty continues to loom overhead, all sides now prepared for the possibility that they may collectively end the evening with a loss. “Three!” the referee proceeds again, his count clearly understood by the man levelled behind the weight of a surprising punch, though a reaction has yet to arrive. “Four!” the bowtie-sporting man exclaims, throwing his hands out with four digits held outward on one and a closed fist on the other. Shaking his head and wiping his face, Jimmy turns over onto his side and uses his adrenaline to push himself off the ground, sending his friends and the half of the audience rooting for him into a pleased uproar. “Five!” the official barks aloud, nodding his head in the first fighter’s direction to acknowledge his answer, sights now fully dedicated to the same man the rest of the crowd eagerly await a response from. “He’s fucked up my leg!” Arthur shouts back, turning onto his opposite side to stare directly into the referee’s face, only to be met with the dismissive count the official is mandated to reply with, “Six!” Slamming his fist against the mat, the one-legged brawler pushes himself onto one foot whilst the other remains lifted, incapable of touching the ground to support his weight. “I need to see both legs down, Small!” the referee barks, his declaration immediately met with vigour from both the injured brawler and the crowd in support of him. “I answer your damn count! Keep it going!” Arthur shouts, spit flying from his lip as he hops on one foot, centring his eyes on the uncertain fighter hand-picked by the promoter himself, “let’s do this, crumb!” Visibly disinterested in continuing the fight, Jimmy stands across the platform from the opponent he’s now more sorry for than angry at, both hands placed upon his hips. “Come on, fight me!” Arthur exclaims, unwilling to allow his night to end because of his inability to stand, instead choosing to go out swinging rather than to be remembered as a helpless duck waiting to be put down. “This one’s over” Wilbur remarks, standing beside Kenny a few feet away from the pit’s entrance, watching his prized-fight alongside the undisturbed, older fighter. Remaining silent, the grey-haired brawler crosses his arms and dismisses his employer’s words, keeping his eyes glued to the fight that’s quickly threatened to get ugly amidst its unfortunate circumstances. Hopping forward on one leg, Arthur draws closer toward his opponent and lunges forward, only for his hands to slip across Jimmy’s sweat-covered body as the relatively-healthy man simply steps to the side, evading his adversary’s attempted attack with ease. “Come on you fucking bastard!” the hobbled man shouts, angrily pushing himself off the ground whilst spitting vigour in any way he can, simply trying to either dig down deep to win or accept being put out of his misery. Pacing around the platform to a chorus of boos with his hands on his hips, Jimmy hangs his head and does the little that’s necessary to maintain the distance between himself and his helpless foe. “Fucking fight me, goddamnit!” Arthur exclaims, cutting across the centre of the mat to draw closer to his opponent, who sweeps the man’s healthy leg out from beneath him in a spiteful display of refusal whilst wearing the displeasure of hearing that familiar insult once more. “If you’d finish off your old man, why won’t you finish off me!?” Arthur barks aloud, again throwing himself back to his feet as the referee tries to step in front of him, finding the scene too sorry to greenlight any further. The anger written across his face as he stands at the opposite end of the platform from his rival, Jimmy keeps his hands on his hips and head toward the ground as the insults are levied toward him. Pushing the official off to the side, Arthur hops across the ring to close the distance between himself and his foe once more, only to eat a half-hearted jab from the man that simply takes pity at the man’s conquered stature. Falling back once more beneath a strike nowhere near powerful enough to finish him off, Arthur climbs back to his feet again before immediately collapsing once more, unable to regain his balance as he’s brought back down to one knee. “Small, that’s enough! Stand up or I’m ending this fight!” the referee exclaims, stepping in front of the man no longer mobile enough to move from the kneeling position he takes in the centre of the pit, trying to keep from the night ending any uglier. Hanging his head before pressing it into the platform once more, Arthur simmers with his anger whilst Jimmy watches on, focusing more on the boos that surround him than the cheers that support him. “What is he doing!? Why won’t he end it!?” Cathy inquires to her group of friends, none of whom truly know of a valid answer to provide her with, though she’s far from the only soul to ponder such a wonder. “He could get this over with right now. What’s taking him so long?” Kenny asks in an annoyed tone, arms still crossed whilst the first noise to catch his ear is the tip of his acquaintance’s cane colliding with the cement ground. “It seems the man is one of strong principles” Wilbur replies, a squint in his eyes and an intrigued smirk barely noticeable in the shape of his lips, “this isn’t a fight to him anymore- it’s wounded duck that’d be too easy and pathetic to waste a good bullet on.” Seething, Arthur’s teeth press together as his hands pull at the hair atop his head, face lifting from the ground to allow his eyes to stare daggers at the man across from him. “Is this the revenge you wanted, crumb!? To watch me limp around and just wait for the thing to be over, huh!?” the man barks, looking past the referee that suspends his order over the fight for the moment, allowing the man knelt before him to beg for a real end to the fight. “I wanted revenge, and now I’ve gotten it” Jimmy responds, wiping the sweat from his face as he turns fully toward his conquered foe, “just lie down and let this be over with.” Refusing to reply with words, Arthur pushes himself off the ground and places his feet against the platform, though the lean in his stance makes it obvious only one of them can support his frame. “I’ll stand here for the rest of the goddamn night until you make me stay down!” Arthur shouts back, collecting enough saliva in his mouth to spit at the man that refuses him a dignified defeat. “I’m not laying down for anybody, crumb!” the stiffened, immobile brawler proclaims, both hands hung by his sides as he waits for the man across from him to accept the terms laid out, “-I’m too proud.” “I need the two of you to move” the referee interrupts, aware of the strategy that Arthur’s employing and refusing him the ability to get away with it, knowing what the result of this fight will ultimately be. On command, Jimmy takes one step backward and another step forward, a shrug paid to the official as if to say he’d offered the man what was asked for, though his eyes immediately return to his adversary. “This is not why I brought them here” Kenny quips, a set of words that immediately spark more interest in his employer than the fight’s outcome does. “What exactly did you expect them to do then?” Wilbur inquires, turning to look at the older man from over his shoulders before meeting his eyes, their focus centred upon each other’s, “I know it wasn’t just to prove how valuable of a commodity you could be to me. There must’ve been something for you to gain out of all of this.” Watching Arthur step forward before crumbling back to his knees from their backstage position, the men remain quiet for a moment as their eyes return to the fight, inevitably ending back up on each other. Shifting his tongue around his mouth as he ponders quietly, Kenny ultimately ends up keeping his thoughts to himself, eyes wandering back to the fight for a moment before his body turns away, walking further into the backstage area as Wilbur watches on with a grin. Gasping for breath, Arthur’s chin presses against his collarbone as he mumbles just loudly enough for his opponent to overhear, though the words he utters are unclear. “Just stay down” Jimmy commands, crossing his arms again before turning his head to the side, waiting for the referee to call for the bell. “You’ll never be more than the bastard” the conquered foe blurts out, this time with an increased pitch in his voice, the words managing to strike his rival’s ears just right. As if frozen, Jimmy’s eyes remain glued upon an unimportant section of the crowd and widen, his fingers tensing as they slowly crawl their way together, forming a fist. Lowering his head just slightly and shifting it gradually toward his knelt opposition’s direction, the victory-ready fighter parts his lips to ask one simply question with a heavy and intense groan, “what did you say?” Spitting a mixture of saliva and blood onto the wooden platform he kneels upon, Arthur’s right eye squints as he stares upward, a smirk in the corner of his mouth. “You heard me” the injured brawler sighs back, taking a few deep breaths before lifting his voice into a shout, making certain every word catches his challenger’s ear, “you’ll never be more than the ba-!” Cut off before he can finish, Arthur loses consciousness and hits the floor as Jimmy follows through on the heavy strike laid into the fighter’s jaw, arms spread out at each side as he lays flat on his back. Hearing the crowd’s thunderous reaction varying in both directions, the man that ends the night standing tall peers at the referee and nods, shaking his fist to temporarily rid of the ache within it from the blow he’d delivered. “One! Two! Three!” the referee calls out, beginning the count that Arthur had begged for as the opponent- whose victory was already guaranteed at this point- steps over his opponent’s prone body and steps off the platform, walking for the back as the count continues. “Four! Five! Six!” the official continues, watching Jimmy round the corner of the pit’s entrance and disappear into the back, already aware that the downed brawler will not answer his count. “Seven! Eight! Nine!” the referee continues, his voice gradually being drowned out the further the victorious fighter ventures into the adjacent hallway, paying no mind to the promoter that smiles at him on his way through. Wiping his face of the sweat that falls down his face, Jimmy makes his way for the locker room as he listens to the deafening crowd drown out the final number, only able to certify his triumph in the form of the bell, whose sound violently echoes through the building. *ding* = Seattle Noir is created by Zachary Serra, all rights to the series belong to Zachary Serra and his entity of Pacer1 from the start of Season 1 onward = Sitting in silence, Jimmy leans forward in his chair with a towel wrapped around his hips, the sweat that had damped his hair now replaced by the warm waters of the post-match shower he’d recently stepped out of. “You did great tonight” Cathy mutters aloud, sitting in the corner with her hands in her lap, only able to see her husband respond in the form of a nod. “Seriously, you-” Stanley doubles down from the other side of the room, nodding to himself amidst the pause before settling for the first compliment that lingers on his tongue, “-you were unstoppable.” Watching the droplets of water fall from the soaked strands of his hair, Jimmy turns to look over his shoulder at the compliment-offering gentleman and nods back, visibly appreciative. The third wheel and the most walled-off man within the cramped room, Jesse becomes the entire group’s focus, all eyes other than his own falling upon him. Taking notice of this, the man sits quietly with his thoughts for a few moments as he waits for someone to break the ice first, inevitably finding none willing to do so. “What do you want me to say?” the visibly-irritated pal inquires, leaning back in his seat with hands resting on each thigh, “great fight, I can’t wait to see the next one.” “You’ve got every reason to be mad” Jimmy quickly retorts, silencing Jesse before running his hand through his hair to best free his face for his company to see, “you all do.” Satisfied enough that his attitude is understood, Jesse remains content enough to stay quiet and hear his apparent friend out, keeping to himself to allow the victorious fighter his chance to speak. “What I said yesterday- about being Jimmy Elliott- it was all true. It’s how I feel word-for-word” Jimmy explains, passing his gaze between his friends as his wife climbs out of her seat, placing her hand on his shoulder. “Who I was before I left New Hampshire isn’t the person I was when the two of you met me. By then, I was somebody else entirely” the man continues, speaking to ears that are at least willing to hear him out, “the only person you’ve ever known me to be is Jimmy Elliott.” “Why couldn’t you tell us that you weren’t always Jimmy Elliott?” Stanley inquires, curious toward the reasons he can’t wrap his mind around, “for god’s sake, if you had no choice but to do- what you did- we would’ve understood.” “And I would’ve told the two of you if I thought it mattered by that point” Jimmy rebukes, taking his left hand and crossing it over his chest to place it over that of his wife’s, “but by then, we’d known each other for so long that it didn’t seem like you needed to. I mean for god’s sake, I still don’t know where either of you two moved here from! The only thing I knew about your pasts was that you weren’t born in Seattle. I know about Stan and Josie’s story, but that’s it.” “It’s not really that you didn’t tell us as much as it is the-” Jesse begins, starting a thought that he can’t bring himself to finish, the words evading him right as they try to voice themselves. “The what?” Jimmy inquires after a few seconds of silence, seeing his friend’s face pull off to the side and break the contact of their eyes, “it’s not really that I didn’t tell you as much as it is the what?” Letting free a sigh as he looks back at the fighter that shares a victory on the night, Jesse’s shoulders fall as he speaks amidst it, “as it is that it just feels like we never truly knew who you were.” The words his friend speaks bring a visible disappointment over him, Jimmy’s eyes fall for a moment before a knock emerges at the room’s door, provoking a group-wide stare to centre itself upon the entrance. “Pardon me for breaking up your little group therapy session, but I believe I have a bargain to fulfil my end of” Wilbur remarks, stepping into the room uninvited with a set of envelopes in hand. “I’ve decided that- after the impressive performance- it’d be best if I stayed on the good side of my two little prize fighters” the promoter remarks, handing the first check to Jimmy and the second to Jesse before spinning around to offer Stanley a third one, “I doubt there are better ways of accomplishing that than making sure their friend with the bum wheel- or axle rather- had a way to put food on the table in lieu of his injury.” Obviously eager to see the check contained within his letter cover, Jimmy takes a moment out of his time to look back at the man responsible for talking him into this moment with appreciation. “Thank you, Wilbur” the fighter responds, looking the man in the eyes and earning a respectful nod of approval in return, both men’s attention soon beckoned for by the astonished voice in the back of the room. “Twenty-five hundred dollars!?” Jesse exclaims, his eyes widened as he holds the check in front of his face, “that’s almost two and a half years of pay we would’ve made on the bridge!” “Yes, well the strife the two of you had with your less-triumphant adversaries tonight drew a massive crowd. The people in that crowd have a lot of money” Wilbur replies, watching Jimmy follow suit with opening his equally-large check with equally-wide eyes whilst his wife covers her mouth in awe. “Stanley’s pay is just one hundred dollars in comparison, but he’ll be getting a check from me every week until he’s healed” the entrepreneur remarks, “the two of you get paid per fight.” “We get paid twenty-five hundred dollars a week!?” Jesse shouts in astonishment, his roll cautiously guided to a stop by the open hands of Wilbur. “Well, here’s the thing- a lot of people have signed up to fight in the last few weeks” the affluent gentleman replies, “that’s a good thing for your health in the grand scheme of things. Instead of fighting every week, you’ll be fighting four or five times a year. But as long as you win and your fights make people want to come out and bet- yes.” His mouth incapable of closing, Jesse stares down at the check and remains silent as his friend turns back to continue the conversation. “How do we make people come out and watch?” Jimmy wonders aloud, finally challenging the man’s understanding of marketability, “we don’t have any issues with the other guys you’re bringing in like we did with Arthur and Willard.” Wincing with his pearly-white teeth shown to the group, Wilbur’s head soon bows as it’s made obvious there’s information he’s refraining from sharing. “Alright, before I say what I’m about to, I’d like to remind you that- in addition to making sure your friend is paid until he’s healthy- I just paid the two of you a lot of money” the cane-wielding, tophat-sporting businessman explains, “so when you hear what I’m about to say, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t attack me.” Pulling his head back slightly as the rest of his friends in the room turn their focus onto their guest, Jimmy presses his lips together and keeps the space free for his employer to speak. “On commencement night, where I invited everyone to the theatre to announce the fight club’s debut? Arthur and Willard weren’t supposed to be there” Wilbur confesses, both hands squeezing on his cane’s handle, “the only reason they showed up was because Kenny invited them.” “Kenny? Kenny the old guy?” Jesse questions aloud, the amusement from the sight of his check mostly subsiding at the mention of the man’s name, “how did he know them?” Shaking his head, Wilbur shrugs off the notion of prior-knowledge and admits to what he’d been told. “From what I understand, he didn’t. He invited them because he’d heard around town that they had a problem with James and Stanley” the animatedly-dressed gentleman admits, “he figured it’d be an easy fight to market.” “Kenny set us up to get jumped by those guys?” Stanley questions aloud, his voice breaking through the audible hush that comes over the room before quickly being talked down. “As far as I could tell, he didn’t seem like he’d anticipated a fight breaking out. He just wanted to make me aware that you all had issues with each other and I could use that to get people through the doors” Wilbur corrects, “I’ve got no reason to believe he wanted anyone hurt, but the truth is- that’s what happened.” “So Stan’s in a sling because Kenny wanted to start something between the four of us” Jimmy concludes, staring at the ground to collect his thoughts before voicing them aloud, “why would he do that? Why would he want to help you?” “Because he knew fighters were easily replaceable. If he proved he had an eye for what I could and couldn’t market, he figured- in his mind- that’d make him harder to replace than anyone else” Wilbur answers, shrugging as he leans his head to the side, “and if I’m being honest, he’s not wrong. None of the other fights- even the one Kenny won- got anywhere close to having the crowd as loud as they were for the final two fights. This night might not go as well if Kenny doesn’t get involved.” “But Kenny getting involved got Stan hurt!” Jimmy exclaims as he bursts out of his seat, sending the chair flying backward as he does so, only to receive a calm demeanour in return to the man he screams at. “He did indeed, and that’s why I’m going to give you a chance to get even with him” Wilbur replies, his voice calm and collected in ways that nothing about Jimmy- whether it be his voice or his posture- is. “I haven’t decided the date yet, but in a few months, your next fight is going to be against Kenny. I’m going to market it well, we’re going to hold multiple conferences, and you’re going to main event that show” Wilbur explains, trying his best to keep his prized fighter level headed for the remainder of the night, “so however many issues you have with him- table them. As much as I respect you, if I get any word about you and Kenny getting into a scuffle before then- you’re out of here.” Seething, Jimmy’s balled fists tighten and loosen repeatedly, trying to calm himself from the rage that he’s worked himself into, though his composure is something that evades him at all corners. Having offered his peace, Wilbur turns to leave and steps through the room’s exit, only to stand in the doorway with a thought dawning upon his mind, one that prompts him to turn back and deliver a few parting words. “As much as I’m trying to be on your good side, James- you should really take me up on the offer of getting on mine” Wilbur concludes, trying to ensure the man is aware of the surroundings he’s placed within, “if Kenny’s proving anything, it’s that someone else will if you don’t.” Collecting himself, the triumphant fighter watches Wilbur step off into the corridor and return to his evening, vanishing as quickly as the group’s collective opinion of Kenny had turned. “Honey, settle down” Cathy whispers, pressing her forehead against the side of her husband’s face as she tries to lull him away from the boiling rage that fuels him, her voice accomplishing its intended purpose, though Jimmy’s face remains fixated on the exit, a tense stare held in the vengeance-filled visage he wears whilst his mind counts down the seconds between now and the fixed date and time his revenge lies at the end of, only one option afforded of getting to it- that being to wait. == Seattle Noir ==
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\ Seattle - 1930 /
Tapping his heel against the wooden floorboards repeatedly, Jimmy stares at the table that his hands are coupled together atop in an effort to keep his eyes from staring directly into the spotlight that sits upon him like an angel of unmerciful scorn. With his eyebrows furrowed and shoulders stiff, the youthful brawler hears his name called from one seat to the side, the whispered tone hitting his ear. “Hey, Jim’” Jesse remarks in a hush, watching his friend’s face turn slightly toward his direction, though his eyes remain glued to the table they sit at, “are you alright? You look mad about something.” Before being provided with the chance to respond, both men have their ears caught by the repetitive tapping that blares through the theatre’s speaker system, the obnoxious popping sound only temporary, finding itself replaced by the voice of their employer. “Welcome, ladies and gentlemen. Thank you for joining me in my home for this very special event” Wilbur remarks aloud, standing to Jimmy’s right, though far enough to be incapable of hearing a whisper. “I’m fine” the man answers, turning his eyes toward Jesse amidst the brief pause in the promoter’s declarations, “I’m just ready to get even with these dicks.” “Joining me on the stage are four of the very best that we have to offer- or so I’ve been told” Wilbur proceeds, serving as the middle man between his sets of opponents for the following night, “they will be headlining tomorrow night’s debut show. The other fights we’re promoting have stakes, but this one- this one has motivation.” Lifting his chin just slightly, Jimmy suffers through the harsh white spotlight shining down upon him to look at the set of seats just before him, the audience consisting mostly of those he has no familiarity with, but the three chairs directly across from him couldn’t be more different. “The man on my far left- Jesse Hickman- will be taking on the man to my far right- Willard Morrison in the first of two main events.” Presenting the smallest smile in each corner of his mouth, Jimmy looks past Stanley and Josie to find his wife sitting delicately, looking back at him with her hands coupled atop her lap. “And the fight at the very end of the show will feature the men closest to each of my sides going at each other with revenge on the line” Wilbur continues, the words he utters incapable of breaking the fighter’s eyesight from remaining kept upon his wife, “-Arthur Small and Jimmy Elliott close tomorrow’s show.” Taking his hat off and politely placing it upon the table he now lowers himself into a seat at, Wilbur extends his arms to each side and stares off at the audience, “microphones are located at the bottom of both staircases. If you have questions- now’s the time to ask them.” Though visibly hesitant to do so at first, the occupants of the theatre’s seats begin to slowly rise from their chairs, making for the steps that offer them the chance to present inquiries as of yet unanswered. “Before this whole thing gets started, I know we haven’t talked since that dinner the other week” Jesse whispers once more, keeping his face away from the microphone that sits a few inches away from him, “I just wanted to apologise for crossing the line.” His eyes taken toward the man he shares his end of the table with, Jimmy nods to his friend with an acceptance and understanding, “thank you” he replies after a moment as the first voice from the crowd speaks aloud. “My question is for the guy at the very end of the table over there” a man in a suit jacket remarks, his finger aimed at the man sitting beside Jimmy, “the information card I was given at the door says you give up almost one hundred pounds and an entire foot of height to your opponent. Why should anyone here believe you stand a chance at winning tomorrow night?” With his lips barely parted, Jesse stares at the man whose question had caught his ear in complete silence for a few seconds, his eyes soon guiding themselves toward the man seated at the centre of the table. “You said you were given one of those information cards at the door, yes?” the man wonders out loud, staring at the figure whose question awaits an answer, watching his quiet nod of reassurance meet him, “spectacular. So you know that my name is ‘Jesse’, correct?” “Yes, sir” the guest at the microphone replies, incapable of seeing the point the fighter is trying to get at. “Alright, guy in the cheap coat. I have a name, so call me by it” Jesse retorts, a stubborn tone carried in his voice that prompts a smirk to come over Jimmy’s face, “I’m not ‘the guy at the very end of the table over there’, cinder dick. I’m not some meat puppet that’s going to trade blows for your amusement like a monkey in a circus- I’m here to win.” “It looks like you’re wasting your time then” Arthur quips from the other end of the table, chuckling to himself as he pulls away from the microphone, leaving the space open for his much larger friend to speak. “Let me answer that question for you- you shouldn’t” Willard doubles down, earning the sight of both men at the opposite end as themselves, “I’m not just going to beat the guy at the very end of the table over there, I’m going to destroy him. This will be his first and last fight.” “And speaking from experience, this will be first and last time you ever speak at one of these things again” Jimmy interjects, lowering his chin toward the microphone as he stares at the table’s end, “Jesse will be just fine by the end of tomorrow night, but you’ll never want to open your mouth again. There’s a sort of embarrassment that comes with having all of your teeth broken, and that embarrassment is what awaits you in twenty-four hours.” The spectacle promised by the event’s promoter already proving its presence, the two sides grow more aggravated with each other as the crowd watches on, responding with amusement or intrigue with each verbal barb the two camps trade. “Alright, hold your horses gentlemen. As James has so eloquently pointed out, the fights are still twenty-four hours away” Wilbur interjects, his voice able to bring an end to the countered banter the instant it presents itself. “Fine, let’s hear the next question” Jimmy rebukes, cutting his employer off before crossing his arms atop the table, staring at the other set of stairs just a short distance off to his left. Removing his glasses, the man granted permission to speak takes a glance at the paper foldout spoken of by the prior question-provider, wanting to ensure he doesn’t step on toes accidentally. “My question is for Arthur” the man begins, crossing his arms at his lap with the folded paper grasped tightly, “your friend is quite the specimen, and your opponents were previously hand-picked by Wilbur to fight. As the only person we know very little about, what makes you different from anyone else on stage?” The inquiry, one that few others would think to ask, provokes a sense of self-introspection within the man whose self-description is sought after. Bowing his head and puckering his lips as his head tilts to the right, Arthur stares at the tabletop for a moment as he considers the answers he can offer, unsure right away that he has a valid response to provide. “I’ve spent four years looking for steady work. My mother abandoned me when I was young and I’ve been on my own since roughly twelve years old if I had to venture a guess” Arthur replies, the answer prompting even the faces of his opponents to respectful turn toward his direction, “I’m twenty nine now and I’ve never known the comfort that I’ve been told this opportunity could provide. As far as what I’m willing to do to make this work, there’s no limit I’m willing to stop at.” “Thank you” the man who’d asked the question quickly replies, bowing his head and turning back for the stairs he’d descended upon without another word, satisfied with the answer he’d received. Watching from across the stage as his opponent for tomorrow evening bows his head just slightly- visibly uncomfortable from the apparent vulnerability he’d presented- Jimmy slowly returns his eyes toward his own end of the table as another voice speaks aloud. “My question is for Jimmy” the next man up remarks, prompting the named man’s eyes to take toward his direction, anticipating the inquiry, “as a matter of fact, I’d like to pose that same question to you. What makes you different from anyone else on stage?” From afar, Arthur turns his sights toward the opposite end of the table with his lips puckered in one corner of his mouth, interested to see whether or not his own reply will be matched as far as emotional weight is concerned. “I think it’d be best if we stayed away from trying to get an ‘inside look’ at our fighters’ personal li-” Wilbur attempts to interrupt, holding Jimmy’s potential response at bay with the hope of keeping it from being offered entirely. “No. Not happening” Arthur interjects, a finger raised toward the fight’s promoter as the man of opulence looks toward his direction, “if I had to answer the question, so does he.” Shaking his head in front of the microphone, Wilbur finds himself incapable of speaking refusal aloud, knowing deep within his mind that such a demand is only fair to make. “It’s fine, Wilbur. I’ll answer it” Jimmy speaks aloud, watching the wealthy gentleman’s face take toward him stoically for a moment, a few seconds passing before an approving nod is given from the well-dressed businessman. With an eyebrow lowered, Norman watches from off to the side of the stage, his hands coupled together at his lap as he stares with intrigue, knowing very little of the man that got his shared operation into motion. Scratching the side of his head as he releases a sigh from within his lungs, Jimmy stares out at the crowd as he searches within his mind to find the words to offer, each attempt he makes only drawing his eyes back to the woman he’d ventured out west alongside. Not thinking much of the question, Jesse remains content with his back pressing against his seat, eyes taking toward the floor without much concern over whatever reply is bound to be offered. From within the crowd, Kenny sits with his elbow pressed against the nearest armrest, his chin propped up by the set of knuckles that he holds upright beneath it. Eagerly anticipating whatever words are bound to leave his opponent’s lips, Arthur joins his friend in staring intently at the brawler he’s prepared to fight a war against, whilst Willard dismissively passes an expression that speaks volumes to how little he cares. Pressing his tongue against the roof of his mouth, Jimmy leans into the mic and stares out at the crowd, a grunt to clear his throat preceding the words the silence those looking on. “I killed my father when I was eighteen” the man confesses, immediately earning a wave of subdued gasps and whispers throughout those in attendance. His face carrying the look of shock, Norman’s expression pales in comparison to the reaction of his colleague, Wilbur’s mouth forming a smirk that accompanies his subdued chuckle. From within the crowd, Kenny’s head pulls away from his hand as his eyes widen the briefest amount, partially uncertain if he’d heard his acquaintance correctly. Sharing the same visage as Stanley and Josie, Jesse turns to look at his friend with a look of awe, well aware of what his ears had just heard. Eyebrows rising from his previously careless expression, Willard takes a surprising intrigue in what’s said whilst his friend pulls back in his seat, a brief glance taken toward the crowd out of confusion before both eyes dart back toward his opponent. “I’m not too certain since I skipped town right after it happened, but I’m pretty sure he didn’t make it out of that scrap alive” Jimmy continues, shrugging his shoulders as he proceeds. “I don’t remember a day where he didn’t lay a hand on me. I was his bastard child. But of course, I paid for his discretions. He went sleeping around, took a chance, and it was me who was blamed for it. In fairness, I wouldn’t be alive right now if he were an honest and noble man” Jimmy explains, soon allowing the audience to reclaim his eyes, “but one night was just too much. I fought back and decided that I was going to punish him for what he did since no one else would.” Keeping his glee at bay as best he can, Wilbur revels in how well he can market the young man with the weight of this confession behind him, already able to dream of the lucrative deals that come with tagging him as a killer of the literal variety. “Don’t bother calling the pigs on me, ‘cause it won’t get you anywhere. I’ve erased my past and taken on a new life” Jimmy explains, a brief laugh hidden beneath his voice, “hell, even my name’s a fake one. I covered all my bases.” Staring out at his friend seated just beside the speaker’s wife, Jesse shares a lost stare with Stanley and Josie amidst his friend’s pause, only returning his attention to the fighter once his voice re-emerges. “But the funniest thing is that, even though I wasn’t born as Jimmy Elliott, I’ve spent the last countless years becoming him” Jimmy proceeds, smiling with his head lowered before allowing his eyes to gaze across the vast array of seats. “I’ve spent the last number of years struggling to provide for my wife. I’ve felt like I failed to do right by her. The same struggle you know most of our fighters to have come from- we’ve both seen it” Jimmy persists, confident in the words that he speaks aloud, “but that struggle is what has turned me into Jimmy Elliott. That man didn’t exist before me, but now that I am him, I have made a real person out of that name. So much so that I’ve started to forget who I was before this.” Captivated simply by the gall of the brawler that speaks to them as if they were all his closest confidants, the audience grasps onto his every word amidst a collective silence, wanting to let each word permeate throughout the room. “The man that Jimmy Elliott is? Well, he’s a man that does right by the people that he loves and cares for, and he does right by the people that do right by him” Jimmy continues, his speech continuing to intrigue those littered throughout the theatre. With a squint in his eyes, Kenny couples his hands together as he sits upright in his seat. Still holding onto their collective awe at the revelation they’re becoming privy to just as everyone else is, Jesse, Stanley, and Josie take as much appreciation out of what’s said as they can muster. Unable to fully let go of the murderous implication his brawler’s voice speaks aloud, Norman lifts his chin just slightly with a content look, able to respect what’s said. “The men at the other end of the table? They may have gotten into a fight just as most of us will tomorrow night, but they did more than that- they put my friend’s livelihood in danger” Jimmy declares, voicing his unity with the injured man sitting just a few feet ahead of him, “just as Jesse prepares to fight Willard in his friend’s honour, I’m prepared to fight Arthur for the same reason. And it’s not because I need the money or ‘cause I like a good fight, but it’s because that’s who I am.” Feeling the words of war catch his ear like a gentle breeze upon the battlefield, Arthur’s shoulders ease as he locks eyes with the man speaking his name, allowing him the chance to finish speaking as the gravity of their fight begins to weigh throughout the building. “Jimmy Elliott and myself are one in the same now- the same man” the fighter concludes, turning his eyes back toward the crowd that grows more-intrigued in betting on him, “that same man is going to stand tall tomorrow night.” His peace offered, Jimmy pulls away from the mic slightly whilst the crowd remains silent, watching on still uncertain over whether there’s more to be said. Able to read through his fighter’s remarks, Wilbur smiles at his main eventer for tomorrow evening before leaning into the mic, just as giddy and animated as he usually is, “ladies and gentlemen, are there any further questions?” he wonders aloud whilst his pleased brawler sinks back into his seat with confidence. = Seattle Noir is created by Zachary Serra, all rights to the series belong to Zachary Serra and his entity of Pacer1 from the start of Season 1 onward = “Have you heard from any of them since last night?” Cathy inquires, standing by her husband’s side as he sits on a chair in the back of his small, private locker room. “No, and I’m not going out looking for them” Jimmy replies, wrapping his fists with tape whilst sitting in little more than a pair of running shoes and pocketless cargo shorts, “they just found out that I’ve spent the last seven years lying to them about who I was. I don’t blame them for wanting a little time to let that settle.” Though the room has been fashioned with a locker and a few shelves, the room itself still resembles a cramped office once used for the warehouse manager, the walls thin enough to hear the crowd’s audible gasps through. Bowing his head and remaining subdued, Jimmy refrains from speaking more than he has to as his wife watches on, trailing toward the other end of the space before taking a seat in the corner quietly. “You know you’ve always been Jimmy, right?” Cathy soon wonders aloud, her question prompting the man to casually turn his eyes toward her whilst his face remains held toward the ground, “regardless of what your parents named you- the man you described yesterday is who you always have been.” “I know that” Jimmy retorts quickly, lifting the roll of tape to his teeth and biting off the end that he’d wrapped around his knuckles, “my only hope is that the others come around to thinking that too.” “They will” Cathy reassures, watching the dismissive nod her husband answers with before leaning forward in her seat, “eventually, they’ll come looking for more answers than just what you gave on stage yesterday, and you’ll give them that. There’s nothing for you to be ashamed of.” “I’ll agree with that” Wilbur interjects, turning around the corner and stepping into the doorless locker room his fighter readies himself in, “apologies for barging in so unannounced, but I just figured I could have a little chat with the killer.” “You can have a chat with the killer’s wife present” Jimmy replies, his head bowing and chin slightly turned toward his employer’s general direction, the caveat he provides eventually settled for by the man prepared to sign his check this evening. “Very well” Wilbur responds, resting his cane against the nearest wall before standing at the room’s front, hands coupled behind his back as the married couple take their eyes toward him. “I just wanted to start off by saying that you’ll face no legal issues regarding your little revelation yesterday” Wilbur begins, shrugging his shoulders as his lips pucker, “even if you butchered the man for looking at you funny, there is just too much money I can make with you for me to give you up to the coppers.” “I wouldn’t have worried about that regardless, but thanks anyway” Jimmy replies, sitting back in his chair with his hands resting atop his thighs, “now why did you really come here?” The question bringing a smile over the corner of his mouth, Wilbur rolls his eyes and drags his head around before leaning against the wall, removing the hat from atop his head as his free hand falls into the pocket at his side. “I’m going to tell you the same thing that I told Arthur and Willard the other day. I’d like to think of myself as a man of honesty, even if I put my own little twisted spin on it” Wilbur explains, coming to a rest whilst nodding, “the day will come when I come across people like you- emotional people that have nothing and just need a lifeline thrown out to them- and when I find those people, I will screw them over and throw them away like they mean nothing to me.” Granting the wealthy man the same benefit of the doubt that their friends had given Jimmy, the married couple look on quietly, patiently awaiting the man’s continued explanation. “There’s little in this world more important to me than leaving behind a legacy. No matter how wealthy one may be, death comes for us all. I quite value being remembered after I’m gone” Wilbur proceeds, “and while that day is not yet here, I know as well as anyone does that the countdown to it has begun.” “Are you trying to forewarn us that, while you’re not going to send us faulty checks yet, you will someday?” Cathy interjects, the inquiry prompting Wilbur to shake his head and smile. “Quite the contrary” the wealthy promoter responds, still carrying his smile as his eyes fall fully upon the man scheduled to main event his debut show, “when that day comes, I want you to be on the same side that I am.” With a squint in his eyes and his arms crossing over his chest, Jimmy remains silent, continuing to extend his employer the benefit of patience. “The reason that I wanted you to spearhead all of this so badly is because I want to be surrounded by men with principles when the day comes that all of mine go out the window” Wilbur proceeds, lowering himself to a squat over the ground, “when the day comes that I have more on my plate than just a fight club, I need the right person to take it over.” “And that’s why you have Norman” Jimmy retorts, the finger that’s raised toward him quickly correcting his line of thought. “No. Whatever heights I reach will be equally shared with one man, and one man only. That’s why I have Norman” Wilbur explains, lowering his free hand back to one side, “I know what kind of man that I am, and Norman is the only person strong enough to be an equal counter-weight. And when I don’t know something, the first person I’m going to is him.” Wanting to recap the remarks being paid to him, Jimmy opts to remain silent and pay his employer the continued ability to explain himself. “If I learned anything from my own parents, it’s that being in charge doesn’t mean I have to know everything, I just need to know who does” Wilbur continues, his finger soon pointing toward the man in the chair once more, “and I can- and will- transfer that attitude toward the people that I put in place to replace me in the day-to-day side of things.” “And you’re saying that person- as far as this fight pit is concerned- is me?” Jimmy concludes, watching the tilted head of the night’s promoter answer his question in replacement of words. “You were right when you said that I could just find a group of stragglers back in that hooverville, but I chose not to. Everything I’ve done has been for a reason, and that doesn’t apply to you any less” Wilbur remarks, standing up from his kneel before walking over to reclaim his cane. “That must not speak well of me then” Jimmy retorts, prompting the wealthy businessman to turn back at the implication, “the only reason anyone came here to fight was because you showed up on the bridge that day. I didn’t do anything worth a damn.” Shaking his head, Wilbur stares off at the depths of the locker room with his bottom lip protruding outward, vehement refusal carried in his posture. “That first night I walked up to Old Eddy’s, I figured it wouldn’t be long before someone chose to throw hands with the rich man. But then things changed” the crafty entrepreneur concedes, “I overheard people theorise that I was a hired gun. Instead of being some rich man to swing at, now I was a mystery figure people inherently feared.” Thinking back to his initial days trying to tempt people in provoking him, Wilbur’s face wears the pleasure of recalling the silent power he’d held over the public at his plot’s start. “Once that came around, I realised that whomever was willing to swing at me would’ve had to be incredibly ballsy, incredibly dumb, or incredibly out of touch” the man continues, offering a shrug to his fighter, “I just hoped it would be the first option.” “What did that tell you about Jimmy?” Cathy wonders aloud, earning a bow from the head of the man impressed at the question. “It told me he had little to no fear. That kind of man has qualities that just fascinate me. So, I figured hunting him down and having a chat would clear up some things that the swing of a hand can’t completely get across” Wilbur answers, “after we talked that night, I realised that I’d found the foundation for what I wanted to build. And now- here we are.” “Yes, here we are-” Jimmy replies, pushing himself out of his chair and approaching the affluent tycoon-in-waiting, getting close to the man’s face and dropping his voice in pitch, “-ready to watch me win.” Turning away, the fighter makes his way through the door and steps into the hallway, watched on by Wilbur and his wife before the latter does much the same, following her husband’s lead and marching for the pit whilst the affluent man watches on with a smile. | “The big man might be about to put this one away” Norman quips, turning toward the affluent man watching over the fight from the catwalk above, “I suppose that Dallon family fortune you’ve built can cover this rather poor choice of wager?” With a smirk in the corner of his lip, Andrew Dallon shakes his head and leans forward, pressing his arms against the railing with a bird’s eye view, “you amuse me, Mr. Mountebank.” Rolling onto his side and pushing himself off the ground, Jesse ducks his opponent’s swing before laying in a heavy shot beneath the man’s chin, staggering the brute he’s taken quite a metaphorical bite out of. “Why won’t you go away, you incessant crumb!” Willard grunts, regaining his balance as his foe draws nearer, provoking a second attempt at a punch to leave his side, this one barely missing as he’s evaded yet again. With his feet wrapped in tape around the ankle, Jesse strikes his larger adversary with a kick to the thigh, bringing him to a knee momentarily that renders his height advantage obsolete. “Argh!” the brute grunts, thrusting his kneecap into the wooden platform they fight upon before shielding his face with his forearm. “Ah, you bastard!” Jesse sighs beneath his breath, having missed his chance to deliver a kick to Willard’s jaw, and is now forced to watch the towering giant return to his feet. “You just don’t quit, do you?” the brute groans, shaking the arm he can feel the effects of his foe’s kick lingering within, “you already know you’re done for.” “The little guy’s still got some fight in him” Norman remarks from above, joining his wealthy colleague in leaning over the railing, watching from the luxury of their overhead view. “Please, his name is Jesse” Andrew retorts, lifting his index finger over his lips as he continues to spectate, “I respect the people that refuse to let you forget their names.” “Just stay down!” Willard exclaims, wearing the same cargo shorts uniform the rest of the evening’s fighters sport, though reaching for his opponent’s collar as if there were a shirt to take a hold of. Refusing the giant any leverage, Jesse hops back before swiping his foot at the giant’s leg once more, bringing him into the ground just as he had seconds prior, though refusing to allow this opportunity to slip away. Within the same step, Jesse thrusts his knee through the air as his foe attempts to block it, though his effort proves too little and too late. “He’s down, step back!” a man in a white dress shirt and black bow tie exclaims, throwing his hands against the smaller fighter’s chest to push him backward whilst Willard collapses to the ground, suffering the aftermath of taking a kneecap to the middle of his face. Enraged and bitter, the crowd hurls various grumbles of uninterpretable displeasure at the giant they’d thrown copious amounts of money behind, embroiled in the fury of watching their behemoth favourite collapse to the ground for what would be a loss of epic proportions. “I’m back, I’m back!” Jesse exclaims, lifting his hands into the air as a show of surrender, allowing the referee the freedom to begin his count as the crowd pleads for mercy from the gods of their impassioned gambling. “One! two! three!” the referee begins, the count to ten reaching Willard’s ear the moment it begins, though his brain works through the fuzzy delay to jostle his body upward. “Four! Five!” the referee continues, cheered on by Jimmy and Cathy from off to the side, too eager to watch their friend hold up his end of the fight for them to just remain backstage blindly hoping for the best. “Six! Seven!” the referee exclaims, the second number propelling Willard into action, his hands running over the ground as he turns onto his stomach, trying to climb to his feet before his night can be ended by a ten count. “Oh, he’s getting up” Andrew grunts from above, slightly disappointed, but confident in his gutsy wager’s ability to put the fight away if given one more chance. “Eight! Nine!” the referee shouts, prepared to throw up both hands with every finger lifted before the giant’s set of feet touch upon the ground, his hunched over posture straightening as he barely beats the count. “Fight on!” the official exclaims, stepping out of the way to allow the fighting to resume, the crowd’s roar almost completely drowning his declaration out. “I’m not fini-!” Willard shouts as he stands upright, unable to finish his declaration of war before looking up at his opponent, watching him fly through the air with his fist swinging forward. Rendered silent, the mountain of a man eats Jesse’s blow and slams into the ground yet again, the smaller man’s feet falling through the air and colliding with earth at the same moment that his foe does, yet it’s just the fight’s underdog that ends the night standing. “I’m back!” Jesse exclaims instantly, listening to the crowd find itself deflated as their favoured pick goes down for a second time, this one appearing more finite than the time prior. “One! Two! Three!” the referee counts, his hands thrown up in the air with one digit raised for every number counted. Already considering himself victorious, the ultimate underdog casually steps up to the downed behemoth and stares at him, knowing by the lack of a response in his face- the fight belongs to him. “Four! Five! Six!” the official bellows, keeping an eye on the standing opponent to ensure no cheap attack commences under his watch. “Seven! Eight! Nine!” the referee continues, watching Jesse stand at the giant’s feet and stare off at the crowd, his hand lifting into the air to celebrate before the final call can even be offered, his defiance in the face of the elite that surround him made obvious for all to see. “Ten! This is over!” the referee exclaims, wrapping his hand around Jesse’s raised fist amidst a sea of jeers to declare the underdog victorious, the taunting of them prompting the majority of the crowd- all who’d lost money amidst the man’s victory- to view the unlikely winner as the villain of their evening. “Ladies and gentlemen, the winner of this fight! Jesse Hickman!” a well-dressed man in a suit and tie exclaims into a microphone, the variety of speakers set up throughout the building making such a declaration impossible to miss. “To hell with you!” one of the riled-up men ending his night financially in the red exclaims, another flipping the bird at Jesse to say all the same, though they’re met with the winner staring at them with his hand still defiantly raised in triumph. | “Arthur Small!” the pit-side announcer bellows aloud, introducing the main event’s first competitor as his opponent remains backstage, waiting for his cue to step into the elite’s eye. “Hey, youngblood” a voice calls out, prompting Jimmy to turn back and find Kenny standing in the same corridor he prepares to step through, water dripping down the body of the older man, “your boy won a few minutes ago.” “Yeah, I watched from the audience” Jimmy replies, nodding as he presses his knuckles against the palm of his hand, cracking them audibly as his acquaintance nods on, “how did your fight go?” With a smile, Kenny chuckles and lowers his eyes toward the hand that hangs by his side, lifting the fist into the air to present his co-worker with the bruised and bloody hand he wears like a trophy. “I put the guy to sleep within two minutes. I’m not taking this shot for granted” Kenny responds, jutting his chin toward the young man ready for his turn at combat, “good luck, kid.” Without anything more to offer, the older fighter continues about his journey, heading back for his equally-small locker room as a man steps out of the pit and toward the waiting area, “you’re up, Jim’” he remarks, gesturing for the fighter to take his opportunity at stepping into the arena. “And his opponent- carrying fifty-three percent of tonight’s wagers and the house’s favourite to win- Jimmy “the Killer” Elliott!” the speaker system roars, dividing the crowd into conflicting sides of cheers and boos. Following the guard’s lead to the pit, Jimmy takes his first look at the ascending rows of seats that serve as the audience for the fight he’d been waiting too long for before stepping beneath the large, yellow spotlight that shines upon the wooden platform he’s to battle upon. “Are you sure you want to watch this, Cathy?” Jesse wonders from nearest the makeshift bar counter, arms pressing against his thighs as he leans forward, speaking to the woman with neither malice nor warmth. “Not really, but you’ve spoken highly of his fighting ability. I’m at least confident he’ll be coming back home in one piece” Cathy responds, clearly trying her best to subdue the concern of what’s to come from those that surround her. “Don’t worry, he’s as good as advertised” Stanley replies, his voice carrying slightly more comfort than that of their friend’s, his eyes taking toward the slightly-worried wife, “if there’s anything we know about Jimmy, it’s that he’s not the one in the pit that should be worried about making it out.” Mustering a half-hearted smile, Cathy looks to the injured man appreciatively until Jesse’s voice interjects itself upon her, rendering the smile null and void. “I wouldn’t be so confident in that” the victorious underdog responds, keeping his eyes glued to the men ready to end the night with violence and brutality, “we may not know Jimmy as well as we thought we did.” Paying the man a side-eye that he cannot see, Cathy looks at Jesse with disappointment and slight aggravation before taking her attention back to the ring, hoping for the best outcome that can arise from the fight. Stepping on the one long piece of wood that acts as a step off the pit’s cement surface and onto the square-shaped assortment of wooden boards, Jimmy composes his breathing as he looks across the pit from himself. Sitting on a shin-high stool on the opposite side of the platform, Arthur bows his head and keeps his line of sight clear from that of his opponent, not wanting to catch even the faintest glimpse of him until the opening bell has rung. “For the rest of the evening, the wager counters are now closed! All bets have been placed, and this is the final fight of fight night!” the announcer cries out, evening the split crowd into one boisterous ovation of passionate cheers from the sea of those wanting to end the night on a high note, “At the referee’s discretion, these men will fight with no time limit. The first man to render his opponent incapable of standing by the count of ten will be declared the winner at the referee’s call!” “Who do you have money on this time?” Norman wonders aloud, remaining learnt over the railed with his wealthy friend standing beside him. “I’ve got money on Wilbur’s boy” Andrew replies, clearly pleased with the evening’s outcome, though his expression and the tone in his responses make it seem as though he hadn’t expected to be, “you’ve made him out to be a world beater. I’d like to see if the two of you know what you’re talking about.” “Small, are you ready?” the referee wonders aloud, standing at the ring’s centre with his arms extended toward each fighter’s direction, only receiving a thumb’s up from the man whose head remains bowed. Nodding in acknowledgement, the official soon turns his sight toward the other corner, extending his arm slightly further out to represent the camp he speaks to, “Elliott, are you ready?” Lifting his chin, Jimmy parts his lips to respond before he takes another glance at the crowd, their applause and raucous ovation something different from anything he’d ever seen before. Lips pushing back together again, the fighter lets his eyes wander from one side of the audience to the other, inevitably locating his wife and those he holds closest to him, able to eye the varying different expressions he receives from them, from his wife’s worry, to Stanley’s reassurance, to Jesse’s coldness. “Elliott!” the referee exclaims again, regaining the focus of his second fighter as Arthur’s head finally pulls up, glancing out at the crowd that’ve paid to attend before his eyes finally fall on the other side of the platform, “are you ready?” For the second time, the question is asked and set aside for a moment, the crowd having taken his attention the first time around, though the second time affords Jimmy the chance to look solely upon his foe, whose intense stare perfectly matches his own. “You can’t turn back now!” Jimmy exclaims, his warning shout directed toward the man across from him, though the words he utters do little to shake his opponent in the slightest. “It’s not me that should be turning back, killer” Arthur retorts, shooting out of his seat and marching toward the platform’s centre, his chest pressing into the referee’s arm, “this isn’t going to end pretty for you!” Following his opponent’s lead, Jimmy marches to meet the man at the ring’s halfway point, his own chest pressing against the official’s arm as the man steps between them, intent on keeping them separate until the bell rings. “Killer or not, you’re not leaving this pit before I do” Wilbur’s hand-picked favourite retorts, the confrontation at the platform’s centre sending the crowd into an uproar, their anticipation for the fight at an unwavering high. “Back to your corners, both of you!” the official exclaims, throwing his arms into both men’s chest, forcing them to step back into their respective ends, doubling down on his call as he repeats the process. “Small, are you ready!?” the referee belts out, watching the passionate, vigorous visage of the named fighter strike him like fire. “Ring that damn bell!” Arthur barks, making his readiness effortlessly visible. “Elliott, for the final time- are you ready!?” the referee shouts back, the hand he waves in the fighter’s direction provoking an animalistic instinct over the one-time labourer that finally offers an answer. “I’ve never been more ready in my life!” Jimmy shouts back, his reply’s conclusion immediately prompting the referee to throw his hand through the air, the timekeeper urged to finally send the crowd into a tizzy. As eager as the audience is, the hammer-wielding man swings his hand back in the air and thrusts the metal head into the bell as the opponents stare each other down, their feet steady against the ground as their hands ball into a fist, waiting for the signal to end what only now begins. *ding!* == Seattle Noir == |
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