Chapter 56: Broken Pride
The prizefighter came in with his chin tucked low behind a crisp, textbook boxing guard. He fired a fast, double-left jab to test Arthur’s range.
Arthur slipped the first jab to the right, letting the leather-wrapped fist brush past his ear, but the prizefighter suddenly snapped a low, dirty front-kick directly toward Arthur’s lead shin.
Arthur’s eyes caught the movement in time. He checked the kick with his shin, stepping back half a pace to reset his stance.
"Textbook boxing," Arthur smirked, wiping a spot of sweat from his forehead. "With a cheap boot thrown in."
The prizefighter circled, his wrapped hands weaving in tight, rhythmic circles. "It’s a street fight. Whatever works!"
He lunged forward again, throwing a heavy right cross aimed straight for Arthur’s nose.
Arthur didn’t cover up. Instead, he fought deceptively—shifting his weight with a strange, fluid rhythm that looked almost like a dance. He threw a wide, heavy right feint that made the prizefighter duck instinctively. The moment the prizefighter dipped his head to avoid the big blow, Arthur pulled the heavy punch back mid-air and snapped a blindingly fast, light left jab flush into the man’s nose.
SMACK.
The prizefighter’s head snapped back. Before he could recover, Arthur threw another big, telegraphed left hook. The prizefighter raised his right guard to block it—only for Arthur to convert the hook into a razor-sharp straight right that slammed straight into the man’s exposed cheekbone.
"Fuck!" the prizefighter spat, stumbling back two steps. He wiped a streak of blood from his nose with his wrapped knuckles, glaring at Arthur with rising frustration. "What kind of messy, dirty style is that? You throw feints like a coward! Did you ever win a proper match in a real ring fighting like that?"
Arthur let out a quiet scoff, circling smoothly to his left. "There are no referee whistles on the cobbles, pal. A win’s a win. Like you said, it’s a street fight."
A few yards away, the sound of iron clanging against metal rattled through the dark avenue.
Tom and young Simon were circling the iron-pipe thug like a pair of hungry hyenas. Tom was darting in from the right, snapping his weighted sap stick against the man’s ribs, while Simon ambushed him from the left, swinging his metal stick at the man’s knees.
The pipe-wielder was forced into a desperate, frantic defense, swinging his iron bar wildly in circles just to keep them off him.
"Two on one?" the pipe man yelled, his voice cracking with exasperation as Tom’s sap stick stung his arm. "That ain’t fair, you bastards!"
"Imagine complaining about fair in an alley ambush!" Tom shot back with a bloody grin, stepping inside the man’s wild swing to deliver a hard jab to his stomach. "Simon, cut his legs!"
Simon leaped in, cracking his weighted stick across the pipe-wielder’s thigh, making the man let out a sharp howl of pain.
The prizefighter glanced over at his companion getting overwhelmed by Tom and Simon, then turned his bloodshot eyes back to Arthur. "Is that how your crew operates? Two against one?"
"Like I said," Arthur smirked, his posture completely relaxed. "No rules on the cobbles."
The prizefighter growled, losing his composure. He lunged forward again, throwing a wild three-punch combination.
Arthur bobbed beneath the first two punches, his footwork deceptively light. As the prizefighter committed his weight to the third punch, Arthur suddenly drove a heavy, bone-crunching low leg kick directly into the side of the prizefighter’s right thigh, an inch above the knee joint.
THUCK.
The sheer impact of Arthur’s boot against the nerve cluster sent a violent shockwave up the prizefighter’s leg. His knee buckled instantly, his right leg going weak as he stumbled onto his side with a sharp gasp of agony.
"God damn it!" the prizefighter snarled, pushing himself up, now limping heavily on his right leg.
Blinded by fury and humiliation, the prizefighter abandoned his textbook boxing stance. He saw Arthur raise a light left jab and foolishly assumed it was another feint. He lowered his guard, lunging inside to tackle Arthur by the waist.
Arthur’s smirk broadened.
As the prizefighter dived in, Arthur pivoted his hips to the right, stepping out of the direct line of attack. He folded his right arm tight against his chest, driving his point-blank elbow straight down into the prizefighter’s exposed jawline.
CRACK-THUD.
The brutal elbow strike landed with terrifying precision. The prizefighter’s jaw snapped sideways under the weight of Arthur’s momentum. His eyes rolled back into his head, his body instantly going limp as he crashed face-first onto the cold, wet stones, completely unconscious.
Arthur stood over him, taking a single, deep breath to settle his lungs. He rolled his right shoulder out, unbuttoning his vest collar to let the cool night air hit his neck.
A few feet away, Tom and Simon had completely disarmed the iron-pipe thug. Simon had kicked the iron bar out of his hands, while Tom held his weighted sap stick pressed firmly against the man’s bloody throat. The pipe-wielder was backed up against a brick wall, his hands raised in total surrender, breathing in shallow, terrified gasps.
Arthur walked over, his heavy boots clicking on the cobblestones. He looked down at the pipe-wielder, then at the three unconscious bodies lying scattered across Greenwich Street.
"Alright," Arthur said softly, his voice carrying calm, absolute authority. "That’s enough."
Tom lowered his sap stick, stepping back beside Simon. Both boys were bruised and bloody around their noses, but they were grinning from ear to ear.
Arthur gestured toward the three unconscious men on the stones. "Take your friends and don’t ever let me see your mugs near our wagon again."
The pipe-wielder didn’t argue. He frantically nodded, dropped his hands, and immediately knelt down to start dragging Alvin and the prizefighter toward the shadows of the alley.
Arthur, Tom, and Simon turned back toward the black spring-wagon.
Simon wiped his bloody lip with the back of his sleeve, looking up at Arthur with newfound, wide-eyed respect. "That... that was incredible, Arthur. You took down a real prizefighter!"
"He had good hands," Arthur admitted, climbing onto the driver’s bench and picking up the leather reins. "But he let his temper make his decisions. Remember that, Simon. In a street fight, the moment you get mad, you lose."
Tom jumped onto the bench beside Arthur, wiping his bloody nose with his handkerchief, while Simon climbed into the rear seat.
Arthur gave the leather reins a light flick. "Hah! Get up, boy!"
The black draft horse tossed its head, its heavy hooves striking the wet stones as the spring-wagon rumbled forward, resuming its night delivery route down Greenwich Street.
Behind them, the iron-pipe thug was dragging his last unconscious companion out into the street. He looked up at the receding black wagon, his face contorted in bitter, humiliated fury.
"This ain’t over, dandy!" the pipe man screamed into the dark street. "Next time we see you... we’ll meet you with thirty men!"
Arthur Murphy sat on the driver’s bench, a dry, mocking smirk touching his lips. He didn’t even turn his head.
Without looking back, Arthur reached into his vest pocket, pulled out a crisp ten-dollar bill—the exact amount of his side-bet with the prizefighter—and casually tossed the paper money over his shoulder.
The ten-dollar bill fluttered through the night air, landing flat on the wet cobblestones right at the pipe man’s boots.
"It’s not all about numbers, pal!" Arthur called out over the rumble of the wheels. "That ten bucks is for your trouble!"
The pipe-wielder stared down at the crisp ten-dollar bill lying in the damp street—a final, devastating insult that completely shattered whatever remaining pride his crew possessed. He ground his teeth in pure, helpless rage as the black wagon disappeared into the dark.