Some pulp fiction for Twelfth Night

Our septuagenarian sage puts his tongue in his cheek and offers his loyal readers something different for Twelfth Night - a bit of pulp fiction... 

As he sat in his basement penthouse, Joe Sleaze was a worried former manager (licence cancelled by the Board - actually, torn up and ritually burned along with an effigy of Joe). His business card still said “boxing impresario” - yes, I know the spelling is wrong but what you expect when you get cards printed on the cheap?

He was urgently in need of some money. With a Mercedes, a wife, a mistress, three ex-wives (divorced, marriage licence torn up and Joe burned in effigy) and the Taxman (the bastards) to keep “happy”, what Joe needed to get him out of trouble was a big attraction, a piece of Money Pacquiao, an employees' pension fund to raid, a compromising picture of the Duchess of Cambridge (or her sister with the nice...manners), a friend in the banking business, or any combination of the aforementioned, (cancel the banker - even Joe has his principles).

He reviewed the various methods of making money that he had tried in the past, and which had given him such excellent training for his role in boxing. Second-hand car salesman, mugging senior citizens, three-card trick artist, selling mortgages and running a sleazy bar. The first four had proved good background for dealing with boxers and the last for dealing with the press, with whom he was really upset as no one had tried to hack into his phone for ages.

He needed to get a TV date somehow, and a fighter to appear on it. He did not have a slush fund to pay backhanders, overseas holidays, expensive gifts or other legitimate bribes, or even a get of jail free card for Flood Maynotweather. If he could not get onto the money train via the little guys then his only choice was to go after the Cashcow brothers, as they were out of opponents. They had beaten all of the heavyweights, even those with ten good toes, and after the last fight between Vitally -or was it Voldemort - and John L Sullivan (Sullivan almost failed the medical - the Doctor said he was just as fit as the most recent of the Cashcow’s opponents, but there was a problem with his heart - it was beating!) there was now a hint of a desperation in the search to find another opponent.

Joe reminded himself that he had once produced a world champion. George had from the first seemed different to any other fighter Joe had handled. With his looks Joe was sure that George would build a huge fan base with the ladies, and so he did. After a few poor fights, Joe had judged that George was going nowhere, but then a remarkable change came over George. He seemed a new person and went on to win a world title - as Georgina. He seemed such a nice chap too.

After that he had made sure that his next fighter was a testosterone loaded male chauvinist. He got just the guy, but even that plan went wrong. The guy is still serving a sentence for assaulting a ring card girl. It was just as well that the interval between rounds was only one minute and they had a bucket of water handy, or it could have turned very nasty. Typically TV had wanted to interview them both in the ring and could not understand why the girl dodged the question of a rematch. A little tasteless, even for TV.

Enough of the past, right now Joe needed to wrack his brain. He needed to find a heavyweight to put in with the Cashcows. Someone big, ugly (no more Georginas), stupid, trusting, unemployed, under 70 years old (optional) and above all - cheap. Unfortunately the Police Vice Squad still had his scrapbook, and the Fraud Squad had his accounts (he was sure one of the bastards had stolen his genuine gold Rolex which he had bought in Turkey for £20 (instead of making this all a work of fiction I have used personal experience for that part of the story).

Nothing for it, he would have to rely on his memory to come up with something. His two remaining brain cells were awakened from hibernation by an urgent, echoing, knocking noise, and given specific instructions that sent them scuttling through the dark recesses of what had once been a brain capable of adding two and two and then subtracting his 95% all in a matter of seconds. From Gore-Tex to Gore-Tex they rushed through his brain, dodging the mountains of pornography and the great big sign saying “Avoid travelling to this Effigy place - they burn people there", they finally reached what was left of Joe’s memories. They looked in the file that said, “If this guy rings I’m out, and if he comes to the office then run like hell”, which was the likeliest place to find Joe’s former clients.

Unfortunately every name in that file still had a brain cell, so they were out. Deep in the darkest recesses, just past the pictures of young ladies with large “assets” and no knickers, they came across the name of Richard Head. A quick check showed that he possessed the exact qualities Joe has specified, and the file was so old that Mr. Head would have forgotten how Joe had screw…, sorry, managed him.

The delighted cells rush back to their allotted place in the sewer and pushed the file into Joe’s consciousness. Joe glanced at the file and then shouted angrily at the poor two cells “Dick Head!.

“You must be joking. The only time I ask you to do anything in the last ten years and you come up with this?"

Only desperation made him look at the file, and the more he read, the more feasible it began to appear. Dick was big - ok, fat - but people would have forgotten that his nick name had been “Moby” Dick. In any case, he was a heavyweight, and fat has always been fashionable with heavyweights. No one expected them to even be able to spell mobile. That went out of fashion with Muhammad Ali.

Now, how to find Dick? Joe started the normal search routine for boxers who had entrusted their money to him. He came up blank at the Salvation Army, Prison Records Office, Probation Office and even underneath the arches and on cobblestones (royalties paid to Bud Flannigan and Reg Connelly). Eventually he found the address through the records of the mental homes.

The address was in a tough area. Cabs did not go there as the kids were so fast that they could have your four wheels off faster than the Red Bull pit team. Joe knew how to handle the situation. He sorted out the biggest guy with the biggest Kalashnikov and tipped him to watch over his Mercedes. He knew he had cracked it when he heard the rattle of gunfire as he entered the high rise building. As he climbed the stairs he stepped over comatose drug addicts, used needles, condoms (some in use at the time) and could hear the theme music of a reality show blaring from a TV somewhere. Listening to reality shows, always the sign that ambience of a neighborhood is rotting away.

He found Dick’s door and kicked the door twice, listening to the melodious tone of famous rap artist Heroin Headbanger Percy giving out with “Let’s light-up the Christmas tree, then the house, then the cars and then the neighborhood, mug old ladies and loot Tesco”. It had always been one of his favourites, such great lyrics.

It would be such an emotional moment to see his old fighter again. Joe could hardly wait, so he kicked the door a dozen more times. The door finally opened and there stood the figure of Dick Head. His huge figure filled the doorway, the hall and most of the kitchen. Choked with emotion Joe said, “Dick, it’s me your old manager Joe. You remember me don’t you?” Due to that choking feeling Joe was unable to speak for a while, but six neighbours, four policemen, a fire brigade crew, and a passing flasher subdued Dick and finally loosened his fingers from Joe’s throat.

Once Dick had been sedated and tied to a chair Joe commenced to convince Dick that he had come up with a great idea that could make them both rich, with just a minimum of effort (on Joe’s part). The public were tired of the Cashcow brothers ruling the roost for so long. What they wanted some new blood, erm, or rather some new faces. A British heavyweight who did not have a china chin or china toes, and TV would grab at the chance to usher in a British world champion. The fight would generate millions and Dick would get the largest part of the purse - after Joe had taken his 95% plus something for training expenses, hospital fees, TV executives' bribes, bus fares (although Dick could use his senior citizen's pass), and sundry other things listed in the small print.

Dick would be a Greek drachma millionaire (that’s in the small print of the contract). It was heady stuff. Slowly it all came back to Dick. The hoots of derision from the crowds, the sight and taste of blood (his own), the caressing feel of the resin-covered canvas on his back, the scrape of needle on bone as the Doctor stitched his cuts, the broken shower, the cupboard sized dressing room, and the walk home - from Newcastle to London. How could he resist?

The deal was made there and then with only a handshake (the fool) and to show his “good faith”, Joe wrote out a check to Dick for the full 1 Million drachma dated for the day after the fight.

Convincing the Cashcows to take the fight was easy. They had beaten all of the legitimate challengers, and a few less deserving but well connected souls. The fight would be in Britain as they did not want to be kicked out of Germany for fighting “Devastating Dick”, as Joe was now billing him.

Getting sanction for the fight was easy. Joe got out his copy of Yellow Pages. Under Sanctioning Bodies there were five pages to choose from. He ignored the ones with big entries, and went for the small print. East Cheam World Boxing & Women’s Institute Association Organisation Council Federation looked just right. Their advert for a small fee offered a world title, a title belt (extra at £5), a price list for spots in their ratings and Nectar points.

It took Joe only seconds to contact the august body and do the deal-cash only, in a brown paper bag, left in a litter bin on the corner of xxxxxxx (sorry this information is still current and to publish it would be a betrayal of the trust of this highly regarded body - and would end up with me getting both legs broken).

Joe then asked about the medical requirements. The shocked representative of the East Cheam body assured him that there were no medical requirements to pay a sanctioning fee. You just stuck the money in a brown...

Joe decided to have Dick see a Doctor anyway. The Doctor was appalled. He declared that Dick was obese, totally unfit, was positive for hepatitis A, B, C minor, and numerous other diseases which I can’t print here. However he did offer some hope indicating that he had a miracle cure for all of these ailments which took the form of an injection - of cash into his pocket.

Even then Dick almost failed the eye test. When the Doctor asked him to reads the top line Dick said that Zxispqgski was a Polish middle weight and could not understand why his name was on all of these charts. The Doctor finally cleared him but said that at 5’8” (that’s about 172cm for those of you work in decimals) and 305 lbs or 158kgs (that’s 25 stone for people of my age who insist on sticking to a British weight scale that no one else in the world understands)the Doctor said that he should stay away from bowling alleys as someone might stick two fingers up his nose and a thumb in his mouth and use him as a bowling ball.

The East Cheam outfit also fixed the officials (perhaps an unfortunate choice of words) but it almost fell apart over a misunderstanding when Dick insisted they must all be neutered.

The venue was a bit more difficult. The Oh Too arena was proposed, but Joe said if they could not even name the place properly it was out. I mean Oh Too, Oh Too what? Oh too be in England now that April’s there… Just laziness and penny pinching. Probably did not want to pay to put the whole Browning poem on the sign. Joe did a deal with the local Council to use their hall. He had to promise the ring card girls would be from socially disadvantaged racial minorities, that at least one of the judges had to be gay, and every effort made to ensure the name of the loser was not given out so that the did not feel any trace of shame from coming second.

They almost fell out over the subject of a trainer. Joe wanted Freddie Trout, but he was too expensive and already training 1,296 other boxers. He suggested to Dick a French trainer they had used before. Dick refused totally. He said “No way am I having that Mark E. Desaid guy. Last time he made me do sit ups on a bed of nails. Very embarrassing, every time I took a leak everyone behind me got soaked ‘cause I pissed out of 100 evenly spaced holes in my back.”

TV coverage was easy to fix. Apart from the usual backhanders, Joe promised them full access to the dressing rooms, the corners, toilets, showers, and hospital emergency room, plus a sickening blood bath, which would have the complaints flying in, and boost their audience share. Again Joe’s principles shone through as he insisted out of fairness that one of the tabloids have access to the autopsy report. In fact he was not expecting any trouble form the press. He was going to hold the Press Conference at 10am making sure none of them would be awake by then, and would not be supplying any free booze or food. He was not too concerned about the internet guys - like all good promoters he just banned them.

They got through the weigh-in okay. The Cashcow brother (still can’t tell them apart) weighed in at a trim 240lbs. Dick weighed something, but no one was quite sure what, as his gut hung so far over the scales that no one could read them.

They decided not to put any “substance” on Dick’s hand wraps. Joe had an unfortunate experience with one of his flyweight where they got the conc...ahem substance wrong, and when he missed with the first punch he threw, he went head first through the ropes and finished up in the third row. The thought of Dick going through the ropes and wiping out 25 rows plus the Press and TV was too big a risk.

Finally fight night came and somehow they got Dick through the dressing room door, up the steps and through the ropes. The preliminaries were over. The referee had given his instructions, and the bell went.

Dick threw a wild swinging right hand which landed flush on the jaw of one of the Cashcow brothers. The champion went down like a collapsing building - in stages - and was spread-eagled on the floor.

The place was in uproar. The referee was counting-one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine...and the bell sounded. The Bell! They were only 11 seconds into the round!

It was robbery, it was cheating, it was disgraceful…….it was the alarm, and Joe woke up from a wonderful dream...