Chapter 55: Fight Night
Time seemed to freeze in the dark lane as Alvin, the leader with the wooden baseball bat, reached his right hand out to grab the wagon reins from Arthur.
Alvin’s mouth was open in a greedy, arrogant grin, fully believing Arthur was surrendering the horse, the wagon, and their stock. But before his fingers could touch the leather straps, Arthur moved.
Arthur’s arm snapped out in a flat, sharp open-palm chop straight into Alvin’s windpipe.
CRACK.
Alvin’s breath exploded out of his chest in a choked, ragged wheeze. He dropped the wooden baseball bat, clutching his throat with both hands, stumbling backward over the wet cobblestones with wide, terrified eyes.
"Alvin!" the iron-pipe thug yelled in shock.
"You bastards!" shouted the broken-glass man.
As the baseball bat tumbled through the air, Arthur reached out, catching the thick wooden handle in mid-air with his right hand. Without breaking stride, Arthur planted his lead foot and swung the bat in a tight, vicious horizontal arc straight into the side of Alvin’s jaw.
CRACK-THUD.
The sheer force of the wooden bat against bone rattled Alvin’s skull. His head snapped sideways, his eyes rolling back into his head as his consciousness vanished instantly. He crumpled onto his side onto the cold ground, completely out cold.
Before Alvin even hit the stones, Arthur whirled and hurled the wooden bat across the ten-foot gap straight at the thug holding the broken glass bottle. The heavy bat struck the man square in the chest with a dull thump, knocking the breath out of him and forcing him to drop the jagged glass bottle onto the cobblestones where it shattered into useless fragments.
"Get ’em!" the pipe-wielder roared, his face contorted in fury as the three remaining thugs charged.
Tom and Simon surged forward from behind the wagon, pulling their black weighted metal sap sticks from their wool coats as Arthur led the charge.
Tom leaped toward the thug with the rusted iron water pipe. Tom swung his weighted metal stick in a wide, whistling arc, but the pipe-wielder raised his iron bar horizontally, blocking the blow.
CLANG!
The sharp, metallic ring of iron against steel echoed down the quiet street. The pipe-wielder held the block, a sneering, arrogant smirk spreading across his dirty face. "What’s the matter, dandy? You swing like a silly little girl!"
Tom didn’t hesitate. He pulled his sap stick back, his gray eyes glinting with fierce, competitive fire. "Imagine getting put down by a silly little girl!"
The pipe man countered with a fast, horizontal side blow. Tom threw his left forearm up to block it. The heavy iron pipe slammed into Tom’s arm, sending a dull, throbbing sting all the way down to his wrist. Tom gritted his teeth, pushed the iron bar aside, and drove his weighted stick hard into the thug’s lower right ribcage.
THUCK.
The thug let out a sharp gasp of pain, stepping back three fast paces to protect his side. He quickly brought his pipe back up, and the two of them fell into a rapid, rhythmic cycle of blocking, parrying, and exchanging heavy blows, both of their noses bloody, both grinning like manic street fighters.
Meanwhile, on the left side of the street, things were going horribly wrong for young Simon.
Adrenaline was screaming in Simon’s ears. He had charged the fourth thug—a broad-shouldered man with dirty white canvas strips wrapped tight around his fists. Simon panicked, swinging his weighted stick in a wild, telegraphed hook.
The wrapped-fist man didn’t even flinch. He ducked under Simon’s wide swing with the smooth, practiced ease of a veteran fighter, stepped inside Simon’s guard, and threw a textbook straight left jab.
SMACK.
The punch caught Simon flush across the bridge of his nose. Simon gasped, his vision swimming as his head snapped back. Before he could recover, the wrapped-fist man drove a heavy front kick straight into Simon’s stomach.
"Ugh!" Simon choked, doubling over as the breath rushed out of his lungs.
The thug stepped in, threw a crushing right uppercut to Simon’s chin, and tackled him hard onto the wet stones. Simon crashed flat onto his back, dropping his sap stick. The wrapped-fist man mounted Simon’s chest, raining down heavy, rhythmic punches while Simon held his forearms up in a sloppy, desperate guard, taking the brunt of the blows against his arms and face.
On the other side of the road, Arthur Murphy was moving like a hurricane.
After disarming the broken-glass man with the thrown bat, Arthur leaped forward, throwing a heavy right punch. The broken-glass thug ducked to the right, dodging the blow, but Arthur seamlessly shifted his footwork, bringing his right elbow around in a tight, brutal reverse-thrust that caught the man lightly across the cheekbone.
The impact rattled the thug, giving him zero room to counter. Arthur immediately threw a fast feint hook to the right. The thug instinctively bobbed left—sliding directly into the path of Arthur’s crushing left hook.
BOOM.
The strike caught the man square on the point of the jaw. His head snapped around, his knees turned to wet rubber, and he dropped face-first onto the damp cobblestones, completely unconscious.
Arthur stood over him, taking a single steadying breath. He flicked his eyes toward Tom. Tom was exchanging fast, clanging blows with the iron-pipe man, both of them bleeding from their noses, trading banter while maintaining a tight, equal duel.
Then Arthur looked over at Simon, who was getting mauled on the ground beneath the wrapped-fist thug.
Arthur didn’t waste a second. He took three long strides, cocked his right leg back, and delivered a heavy, driving kick straight into the wrapped-fist thug’s ribs.
THUD.
The force of Arthur’s boot lifted the thug right off Simon’s chest, sending him rolling flat onto his back across the wet stones with a loud groan.
Arthur stepped up, extending a heavy, calloused hand down to Simon. "Up you get, kid."
Simon grabbed Arthur’s hand, breathing in ragged, shallow gasps as Arthur hauled him to his feet. Blood was trickling from Simon’s nose and lip, but his eyes were wide and alert.
"Go help Tom if he’s struggling," Arthur instructed, pointing toward the pipe duel.
Simon wiped his bloody mouth with his sleeve, scooped up his weighted sap stick from the floorboards, and hurried over to back up Tom.
Arthur turned his attention back to the wrapped-fist man.
The thug rolled over, pushing himself up from the wet cobblestones, breathing heavily. He wiped his jaw, shaking out his wrapped hands, and stepped back into a tight, crouched boxing guard.
Arthur stood his ground, folding the left cuff of his dark wool coat back over his forearm, his eyes analyzing the man’s stance, his balanced feet, and his wrapped knuckles.
"You’re a prizefighter, aren’t ya?" Arthur asked smoothly, a dry, confident smirk touching his lips.
The thug spat a streak of red saliva onto the stones, his chest heaving. "Used to be. How’d you know?"
"It’s fucking obvious from those wrapped fists and the way you step on your toes," Arthur chuckled. He stepped forward, slowly circling to his right while keeping his hands loose at his waist.
The prizefighter kept his hands high, his eyes tracking Arthur’s every movement. "Say... I take it you gamble on prizefighting?"
"I fight," Arthur smirked, his posture completely relaxed despite the battle around them. "And then I have my brother bet my silver on me. To this day... I’ve never lost a bet."
The prizefighter let out a cold, raspy laugh, circling opposite Arthur. "Well, if you bet on yourself tonight.. it’s gonna be the first time you lose your silver."
Arthur’s smirk broadened into a razor-sharp glare. "Why don’t we bet on it right now then? Ten dollars flat."
The prizefighter’s eyes glinted with greedy amusement. "You’re really willing to give me ten bucks for free?"
"Why don’t you come try and take it?" Arthur scoffed.
Both men planted their boots, lowered their heads, and charged each other in the middle of Greenwich Street.