S1, E9 | A One Way Ticket to the Opening Bell

\ 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.

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“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.

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“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 ==