The decibel level deafened as the ref's hand slapped the mat for the third time. He signaled for the bell, which the time keeper beat rapidly. Cheers rang through the arena.
Usually, Felix didn't enjoy these types of matches dubbed “death matches”. It wasn't because the announcer was weary of blood. He had been witness to gallons of red pouring from wrestler’s wounds during his thirty years in the business. There was just no good reason to throw guys in the ring with weapons unless the angle built to it. He needed a reason for the men to want to beat each other in such a violent manner. The epic battle he just witnessed had such a reason.
The two men, Jackson Deranged and Dan Popper, rivaled each other for the better part of the last seven years in one wrestling promotion after another across the globe. The most brutal battles took place in Japan, where they had obtained almost legendary status. It is an extremely honorable status for two gajins.
Felix shouted into the microphone, "I've watched several matches between these two warriors and none were as great as the match we just witnessed. This is a classic that we all talk about for years to come." The line would become a piece of wrestling history, marked forever on the high grossing DVD. "I honestly do not know if Popper and Deranged can top this one, but their feud will rage on."
Popper stood in the ring with his hand raised. His opponent's blood smeared across his chest. His light brown hair clumped together in a much darker hue. The capacity crowd cheered, feeding his adrenaline fix like a heroin junkie. These moments are why he wrestled, even though his body told him to hang it up. Twenty years was a long time to abuse one's body in this business. He looked over at Deranged. His face was sporting a fresh, crimson mask as he rose wearily to his feet. In a moment of sportsmanship and respect, Popper held out his hand.
The New York City crowd erupted with a "shake his hand" chant.
The shifty heel checked out the rabid fans. The man knew exactly what he needed to do. Leave them wanting more. He slowly nodded his head in agreement and stuck out his right hand. The two men locked hands. Few people caught Deranged slip his free hand inside his jeans pocket. A smile come over his face as the left hand reappeared with brass knuckles. The left cross hit Popper right square in the temple. The man went down to the canvas instantly, out cold.
The crowd's instantly shifted to loud chorus of "boos" and obscenities as Felix shouted into the microphone. "That no good Jackson Deranged. Even when he loses, the scoundrel comes out on top."
Deranged flipped the middle finger at his fallen opponent and shouted "I hate fucking hate you Popper! You'll never have my respect!" As he glared at the fans, the man knew they were eating out his hand. He would miss this rush from performing in front of a crowd. He exited the ring, paying no attention to anything the fans shouted. He played the role, ignored them, and walked through the curtain.
As Jackson Deranged entered the locker room, the rest of the boys scattered from the television and went over to him. They complemented him on a fine performance. He humbly thanked them and watched the monitor as Popper rose to the feet. He grabbed the microphone and said something to the crowd. By eruption of cheers, Deranged could only guess the speech was about getting revenge. "Time to check out the damage," he said to himself. He went over to a full length mirror and examined the deep laceration which split open the top of his head. Stitches were going to be needed.
The same crowd of guys and girls surrounded Dan Popper when he entered the locker room. After he briefly thanked them for the accolades, it was time to see the doctor. When he entered the room, Jackson already sat on the bench being attended to. Their eyes locked. Dan cracked a grin and smiled. "Brassknucks. Are you fucking serious?"
"The idea just came to me. Forgot I had ‘em stashed," Jackson said in his thick, Virginian slang. "Plus, you gotta leave them wantin' more. Right?"
Dan eased onto the bench next to him. "You said it brother."
"You think that match was as good as everyone’s sayin'?" Secretly Jackson thought it might be their best match. Even better than Puerto Rico, a packed house three years ago watched the match finished in a thirty minute draw. Nearly the whole arena rushed the ring, choosing the side of their favorite. Amazingly both men walked away unhurt by the mob. Apparently the damaged they inflicted on each other ended up being enough to satisfy the mass’s blood lust.
"Hell, I don’t know. It was all a blur. But everything we did out there tonight just felt right."
The two men weren’t out in the ring thinking. The two wrestlers only reacted; to each other and to the crowd’s response.
"I'll drink to that."
"Me too, Jax. After a long, hot shower to sooth these aching bones."
Dan felt the abuse on his body more and more every week. He was forty-one years old and most days he hoppled around like a man twice his age. Something needed to change if wanted to continue working in the ring. Perhaps retirement loomed on the horizons.
In this particular city, many of the wrestlers went to a bar called the Knee-Jerk after the show. The bar was a large, local place where they could unwind and not get hassled too much by the fans wanting to talk, take a picture, or get an autograph. Most of the fans who came here left them alone and treated them normal folks. A decent crowd of woman always hung out there. And the regulars usually didn't start shit with them because of their line of work. Occasionally a drunk got tough and spouted off about wrestling being fake, which is never a good idea to say in front of guys and girls who physically get hit and dropped on their backs for a living.
Fake. Not at all.
Predetermined. Absolutely.
The days of keeping people from peaking behind the curtain were long over thanks to the internet. The secrets of the business were exposed. It changed wrestling as much as any other form of entertainment. Kayfabe died when the digital age became king.
The good aspect of the industry secrets being out in the open was they didn’t have to play the role in outside the ring. They could hang like normal friends. And if any fan gave them shit, Dan would simply say “if the man who beat my ass tonight wants to buy me a drink, then I sure as hell will let them.”
Jackson checked out a pack of women roaming around the bar. "You think they’re all rats?"
"Nah. But I do think a fair amount are out to get fucked tonight. A woman doesn't walk around with her ass cheeks hanging out of cut off jeans and her belly button showing without sending a message."
"A message my friend, aint no a green light."
"You are correct. But it surely is not a red light either, Jax. It’s more like a yellow light. Proceed with caution."
“Try and get some tail then. What do I care? I am, after all, a happily married husband and father.”
The bartender plops two fresh mugs in front of them. "From those guys over there." He pointed towards a table of three guys who barely looked of drinking age wearing wrestling shirts. They tipped their bottles to the warriors. Both men nodded back with a gesture that said thank you.
Dan took a long gulp from the old mug and finished it off. "The only way we're going to top the match tonight is by dying in the fucking ring."
Jackson replied, "The ultimate death match." Both men laughed at the notion.
"There can only be one."
The idea sparked in Jackson’s brain. "We'd sell the shit out the DVD. Remember that old Faces of Death bullshit when we’re younger. It'd get nuthin' on Ultimate Death."
"The fucking blood marks would crave a DVD like that," Popper said as he grabbed the fresh, frosty mug. "There’s only one downside."
"What's that, Popper?"
"Death."
A wrestler would always be remembered if a true ultimate death match was held. It would be legendary and a helluva way to go out, especially if a person had cancer rapidly eating away at their liver. It would be a perfect solution for a person who could never get health insurance because of the risk factors involved with their job. The resolution for a man named Jackson Deranged.
He found out the results about a week ago. Abdominal pains forced him to make a doctor's appointment. He thought maybe an internal injury occurred during a match. The situation turned out to be far worse. More tests were needed for a proper diagnosis.
The tests were taken. Days passed when Jackson received the call asking him to come into the Doctor’s Office. They found a tumor on his liver. The day after, he saw a specialist. The tumor could not be cut out. This doctor estimated Jackson to live around six more months. Options were limited. Chemotherapy could ease the pain and possibly shrink the tumor, which could give him some more time. Jackson declined treatments. The doctor wrote a prescription to deal with pain. Maybe he would look into holistic medicines.
In just a few days the man went from being a thirty-five year old with the world by the balls to being dead with in the year. He had no family of his own, not even a steady girlfriend. He was a man alone, except for a handful of close friends. Jackson told no one about his condition.
The only place he felt alive was between the ropes. The only place where the disease didn't consume his thoughts was inside the ring. He could take the pain but he couldn't handle not having the adrenaline rush from the live audience.
"You'd go over," he said at a barely audible level.
"What?" Dan became confused by the sudden change in tone. "Why would you or anyone want to sacrifice yourself in a real death match?"
"There be reasons. Besides, you got Becky and the kids at home waitin' fer ya. I aint got no one."
Dan couldn't believe the statement. Jackson seemed to be actually serious about the death match concept. This had to be a rib. "Get your head straight. This shit is crazy talk." Dan patted his old friend on the shoulder. "I'm taking a piss."
"Yeah. Crazy talk." He slammed down his beer and watched the suds trickle down the side of the mug. He wondered how much he should be drinking with his condition and his pain killers. Probably none. He waved the bartender over.
Popper awoke in his hotel bed. The time was 10:42am. It sat in the middle of a cheap, little room where the frills were nonexistent. The room had a bed and shower but more importantly was clean and inexpensive. He tried to save money any way he could on the road.
The death match conversation replayed in head. Jackson had never acted in such a joking manner on the subject before. In fact, most wrestlers didn't talk about death. It always loomed about them while in the ring. One wrong move or a person gets slightly out of position or an object moves a different way than expected and instantly your life can change. Serious injury could occur. Permanent injury could happen, leaving you paralyzed. And even death made a stop every once in a while. The men and women involved in violent form of entertainment knew the risks but rarely discussed death.
Knees creaked and backbones snapped as Popper stood up. A few minutes of stretching helped to take out the kinks out.
He dialed a number on his cell phone. "Hey baby...Sore...We torn it down last night...Late this afternoon. But I'll be home by dinner. How are the kids?...Alright. See you soon. Love you....Bye."
A grumble in his stomach informed him food time was near. He called Jackson.
The Waffle House became a popular stop for the friends on the road. The food was nothing fancy but it did the job.
The young, brown haired waitress refilled their coffee mugs for about the tenth time and smiled as she walked away.
Jackson wiped at the last bite of his biscuits and gravy. "Did ya think it over?"
There the question hung thick in the air.
"No,” Dan replied. “I told you last night. The idea is fucking crazy."
"And I told ya there reasons to do the death match."
"Then explain to me what those reasons are, Jackson."
He wanted to tell someone and unburden his soul. As the cancer ate away at his organ, the secret ate away at his mind. Fuck being macho. His mouth opened to clear the air, but a different sentence escaped. "I can't tell ya yet."
"And here I always imagined we were good buddies." He slid the plate away. "Guess, I was wrong."
The words were said in the half joking tone. He knew Dan was attempting to bait the secret out of him. Tricky. "Hold that bullshit right there, hoss. We is the best of budds. Ya know that."
"Then why wont you tell me what's a matter?"
Dan’s eyes locked on him. The stone cold stare always sent chills across his body. "I want to. Really. But now aint the time."
The waitress placed the check down in front of them. "Thanks guys. Come see me again." The men nodded and thanked her. She darted off without hearing the response. Other customers needed service.
"Then the answer will always be no," Dan said.
"What'cha talkin' 'bout now?"
"The match. If you are unable to tell me what ever it is you're hiding, then I cannot accept doing a match with these ramifications. It's that simple, Jax."
"Ya can’t confuse me that way. First we talkin' about friendship then ya reverse the talk back to the death match." Dan wasn't the only who could be tricked and manipulated. Jackson had done a fair share in his day as well. "What if we tweaked the idea a bit?" His friend's gaze didn't turn away. The hook was planted. “Ya know, advertise the same. ‘The Ultimate Death Match', two men enter but only one leaves...alive."
"Sounds a little bit too carny to me."
"Shit, we wrasslers. There’s a touch of carny in all of us who can promote."
"I suppose you are correct."
He had Dan's attention."Anyways, we don't deliver on the payoff....exactly. Shit. Ya believin' I want to die. Ya be the crazy one, Popper. Not me."
"Maybe. It could be our final big, money match. We can finally start teaming up instead of beating the shit out of others. Save some wear and tear on our bodies."
That’d be nice, Jackson thought. Too bad that day would never come around. He slammed the remaining coffee down.
Dan continued, "I'll think about it. And I'll need to lay it out for Becky."
Jackson smiled at his selling job. He knew Dan better than almost anyone. This concept was a hard one to get him convinced.
"But you need to tell me what's wrong. Soon. For now, we must find a promoter and a place to sanction the match."
"I got some ideas on people. Let's continue this on the way to the airport."
The two tossed the money on the bill and started their journeys home.
Dan and Becky lay naked underneath their sheets. Their fluids drying after the bout of lovemaking. The common ritual for the couple after Dan returned home from a trip, no matter if was only day or a month. He nestled her body against his own, stoking his hand up and down her curves. Twelve years and Becky still did it for him. Sure she packed on a few extra pounds these days. Three kids in ten years can change a woman's physique. Him being on the road over half the year couldn't help the situation much either. Always leaving her to raise the children and work her own full time job at a local bank. It'd be a little easier for them once he retired from wrestling. They saved a decent amount of money over his career and lived modestly. He could book a handful of matches a year, go to conventions, and be home more.
He loved this incredible woman with every ounce of passion in his body. He owed it to her.
“Dan," she whispered.
"Yeah baby."
"I've need to tell you something." She looked into his eyes.
He realized whatever she had to say was important. A lump of fear rose inside as the first thought was about one of the kids. Family issues didn’t care how tired you were. They came rapidly at all hours of the day. "Fire away."
Becky hesitated for a second. She took a deep breathe and revealed the news. "I'm pregnant."
He relaxed. Having another child would be difficult but not the end of the world. "How can that be? We've only finished a few minutes ago."
"Your seeds are quick to penetrate." She playfully slapped his scarred chest.
"How far along?
"Over a month. Not exactly sure. I got an appointment this week." After three children she knew the symptoms and a home pregnancy test confirmed.
"Wow. Number four. And here I thought we were finished having kids."
"Me too. But it happens."
"Better schedule myself appointment too. It's time to get snipped. Child number five would put us in the poor house for sure."
"I think we'll do fine."
He kissed her. "I think so too. We'll just make some adjustments."
"I love you Dan."
"Back at you, hon." He thought about the Ultimate Death Match idea until sleep over took him.
"Are you positive?" Jackson couldn’t believe the news. Dan had sworn up and down that he would never have another child. Life sometimes has other plans.
Dan spoke into the phone, "Yeah. It's a good thing Becky has insurance through work. Listen, I’ve thought long time about the match. We need to work out the hook and great finish so fans wont shit all over it.”
“You’re gonna do it? Really?”
“Yes. I’ll do it. My family will need the kind of payout this match should bring."
"Are you on her insurance policy?"
“Of course. I'm a stay at home dad. There’s no way an insurance company would touch me if they knew the truth. At least not without a huge cost."
The two friends were going through with the idea. The plan was coming together.
Jackson said, “I’ll put the call into Ito and see if he's interested. Then Ramirez and do the same."
"Hell, maybe we'll get a bidding war?"
A larger payout would satisfy both men.
"Who knows? But I think yer right. Mexico and Japan be the only places to sanction a match like this and still get a huge crowd. Maybe Puerto Rico, but Lamos won’t pony up the cash."
“I’ll give him a call to see. He’s always liked me. No sense in excluded any promoter. Talk to you later Jackson.”
“See ya bud.”
Takamori Ito ended up with the better offer. Both men were to receive twice their usual booking fee, five percent of the gate each, one percent of the total PPV buys, and three percent of the total DVD sales for the first two years. The payout was unheard of for two wrestlers. Then again the match had a unique spin.
Despite the contract Ito offered the men, even with the fantastic undercard matches he had planned, this show could set the promoter up an easy street.
The advertisements flooded the media all over the globe for three months. The hype machine called the internet built the match. The promo’s each man cut helped to raise the ticket sales.
People really believed they had a serious issue with each other.
The ink dried on the final page of the documents. Jackson Deranged aka William Jackson name scribbled on the line. The lawyer took the document. "It's official now Mr. Jackson. We'll take care of everything as you have requested." He shook the yellow toned hand of his client. "Is there anything else we can do for Mr. Jackson?"
"Naw," he muttered. The tears welled up in his eyes. "My life seems so final now. The endin' close. It be alright if I set in here a spell a collect myself."
"Take all the time you need." The lawyer placed a sympathetic hand on the big man’s shoulder.
"Mr. Douglass."
“Yes.”
"Comin' face to face with yer own mortality is a real bitch."
"I can only imagine, Mr. Jackson. You let me know if you need anything else. Any time of day." And the finely dressed man with graying hair walked out the conference room door.
What was he thinking? The match was less than a month away. He was in no shape to compete. At least twenty-five unwanted pound melted off in the last few weeks. He was always tired and had dizziness. The match was going to suck.
At least his finances were in order. Some went to a sister whom he rarely spoke to and seen even less. Most was going to the kids of John Popper. A college fund to help out his best friend's family.
He knew the money, however, would never help Popper cope with the guilt of the match's outcome.
The day had arrived. The two friends had talked often during this stretch but rarely saw each other. They were only booked on the same show four times during the stretch. They even took separate flights to Japan.
The two warriors stood in the locker room. They sketched out a couple of spots for the match. When dealing with weapons, a wrestler can never actually predict how those weapons will react. A ladder can always fall the wrong way. The steel support of a table can gash the skin. The pieces of shattered glass from light tubes can travel in any direction.
"You look like shit, buddy. And have for about a month. So, I'm just going to sit here and wait for you to tell me what the fuck is wrong."
Jackson owed his best friend an explanation. He promised. The withered man began. "I'm sorry fer not tellin' ya this sooner, Popper. You deserved to know before. I've just been scared is all.”
The two men were as close as brothers. They shared secrets on the road which no one else knew. Dan said, “Don’t get shy on me now. I’ve always been here for you buddy. And whatever you’re dealing with, my stance isn’t changing.”
The man spoke slowly. The moment was far more difficult than he anticipated. “I found out that… I got... well... I got liver cancer."
"Shit.” Dan started piecing things together, Jackson being tired and losing weight and skin pigment discoloration. How could he have been so ignorant not to see the signs earlier? “I hoped it wasn't anything serious."
"This is gonna be my final match. I’m goin’ out on top of my game, with a match to be remembered for the ages." Or at least a moment people would not soon forget.
Dan tried to put a positive spin on the situation, for his benefit and his friend. "No way man. You'll beat this shit. Before too long you'll be back to old rough self."
Jackson laughed weakly. "Naw. It's terminal ole friend. And I aint got a long time left either."
The tears flowed from Dan’s eyes. "You're a selfish son of a bitch for not telling me sooner." He embraced his friend. Two of the most dangerous men in hardcore wrestling let their emotions pour out.
"Why changed now," Jackson said. "I've got a favor to ask ya."
"Name it." If there was a way to help his friend, then Dan Popper would certainly do it.
"I've been planning sumthin fer awhile. I took out a life insurance policy years ago. After I found out about this cancer, I changed the benefactor to be your kids. It aint much, but they can have real future and not bust their ass doing the crazy ass shit we do."
Dan was overwhelmed by the generosity. "I can’t accept that, Jax."
"I know. But I aint got family of my own and yers is the closest thing I got." Jackson loved the ‘bunch of rascals’, the name he gave the collective group of Molly, Simon, and Adam. He’d miss not knowing how they’d turn out in live. So much time was ahead of them.
"Thanks." Words couldn’t express the gratitude.
The time had come to reveal his plan. This would be even harder than telling Dan about cancer. "There's one other thing. In case of an accidental death, the sum triples. There needs to be an accident tonight."
The words took their time soaking into Dan’s brain. He finally realized the connotation. "No. No fucking way. You're asking me to ki-"
"I know what I'm asking. Make it look like an accident. You'll come out clean." Saying the request made Jackson feel even lower than thinking it. “The match has been built up this way.”
"Listen. If you want to go out there tonight and leave it all in the ring, fine. If you want to take out your frustrations on my body, I'm cool with that too. Fuck it. Go out on top and pin me, I could care less. But I am not going to murder you."
"OK. Forget I brought it up. I just thought..."
"Forget whatever you were thinking."
The two sat in silence, soaking in the conversation.
Dan tried to comfort his friend, even though he was disgusted by the proposition. "We get out of here tonight and leave these people talking about another great match. Then Becky, the kids, and me we'll help out in any way we can. Right to the end."
"Thanks." Jackson felt lower than low.
"I'm going to finish getting ready." Dan walked over to his locker and began his prematch ritual.
Jackson sat on the bench, hating himself. If Dan couldn’t do the deed, he certainly understood. There were other ways to make a dying look accidental. One way or another, the match was going to live up to the hype of Death Match.
The crowd waited in anticipation for the main event to begin. This is why they came.
The ring announcer explained the rules to the "Ultimate Death Match". Two men enter the ring and the winner is the man who survives by incapacitating his opponent to immobility or death.
The announcer began the introductions. “From Clearwater, Florida…Dan Popper!”
The intelligent light swirled around as music blared throughout the arena. Popper hit the entrance ramp as the pyrotechnics fired off. He strolled to ring with confidence, wearing camouflage pants and a sleeveless shirt. He bumped fists with the fans as he walked by. He checked barb wire which surrounded the ring ropes. He signaled the crowds. They roared for the fan favorite. He carefully entered and soaked in the cheers.
The ring announcer continued. “And his opponent. Hailing from Richmond, Virginia. Jackson Deranged!”
Deranged bursted threw the curtain sporting cut off blue jean shorts and white tank top shirt. His own music choice blared while moving light spectacle occurred. He’s the bad guy and acted the roll perfectly to the fans. The showed him how they feel with a chorus of boos. He thrived on their screams.
Jackson never took his eyes off Popper as he walked to the ring. He started to climb in, and then changed his mind. He inspected underneath the ring and pulled out a 3'x6' window pane. He slide it inside the ring.
Jackson jumped in the ring; all the ailments are temporarily cured by the rush. The ring is his home. He immediately insulted the opponent, “I’m gonna wipe the mat with your blood, pussy.”
Popper pushed him away, “Just try it. I’m not going anywhere.”
The ref broke up the ruckus to prove he has the situation under control. He signaled for the bell. The wild arena quieted down to a whisper. In Japan this act is considered a sign of respect.
The dance initiated.
Deranged slapped Popper across the face.
Popper slapped back.
Deranged grabbed his opponent in a waist lock, and planted Popper with a Belly to Belly Suplex. He straddled Popper on the ground and threw vicious haymakers repeatedly. Deranged started to flex and taunt the fallen hero. Deranged picked Popper up by the hair and whipped him into the barb wired ropes.
Popper felt the barbs pierce his skin as warm blood trickled down his skin. He screamed. He saw Deranged motoring towards him at full sped. He lowered a shoulder to stop the charging madman. While Deranged was momentarily stunned, he tossed him into the barb wire ropes and followed it up with a short arm clothesline for emphasis. The momentum takes the Deranged to the floor.
Popper slid out and grabbed a steel chair. He placed it into position. Popper picked up Deranged and slammed him onto the unforgiving steel.
Deranged returned to his feet. He connected with the elbow on Popper’s forehead. The force broke open the skin, the hard way. Blood dribbled from the forehead wound. Deranged measured Popper up and dropped a closed fist. The gash grew wider as warm crimson oozed. A razor blade won’t be needed tonight.
Popper mumbled, “That fucking hurt. Tease the wire.”
Deranged lumbered toward him only to be greeted with a drop kick to the knees. Popper grabbed the man and tossed him end over end into the barb wire ropes. The sharp barbs tear tiny pieces of flesh away. Deranged flipped over and crashed to the floor.
The crowd gasped in horror and excitement.
Deranged shook off the blow and decided to find help under the ring. A wooden table got nominated for the job. He placed it against the guard rail. He turned around just in time to see Popper body flying out of the ring. Deranged braced himself for the catch. One body crashed into the other and both men hit the table. It shattered into pieces. The two men lay out on the concrete floor, selling the move.
“Do me the favor,” Deranged whispered.
“Not a chance.”
“I’ll die from being outside the spotlight anyways.”
“Never.” Popper stood up and squeezed his arm around Deranged’s head. He punched the man in the face.
Deranged screamed, pushed him away, and returned the punch.
They punch each other hard, repeatedly, back and forth. They both draw back and simultaneously made contact with their knuckles. The men felt the pain.
They slowly moved back inside the ring. Popper came up from behind and bulldoged Deranged onto the canvas. He covered.
The ref counted. “One.” A hand hit the mat. “Two.” The hand hit the mat again. Jackson kicked out.
Both men returned to their feet. They locked up.
Jackson begged, “I’m tired. Can’t last much longer. You need to throw me through the glass. We need the big finish to deliver.”
Popper replied, “No. We are staying away from the glass.”
“Not if I can move us there.” Deranged whipped Popper towards the corner.
He put on the brakes just before he collided with the glass. He turned around to see Jackson coming full speed. Popper knelt down to attempt a body blow.
Deranged fooled him and jumped in the air for body press. He sailed over Popper. Only his elbow connected with Popper’s face. Deranged managed to twist his body during flight to absorb the impact.
There is no good way to get tossed through a glass.
Deranged feet hit first and shattered the glass. The rest of his body followed. Small portions of skin scraped against the jagged edges. Blood seeped from the wounds. His momentum was halted by the ring post. His body jerked upon impact. His neck snapped back with great force.
A large, uneven piece hung from the bottom of the frame. The sharp glass remained still. It pierced the back of his neck. The force implanted it three inches deep.
Popper rose up. The elbow knocked him silly for a moment. Then he witnessed his friend twitching. Bloody.
Shock and fear fell upon the already silent crowd.
Dan rushed over to help. The ref assisted him.
The twitching stopped.
Medics ran out to help. Mr. Ito and other staff members came out as well.
They were all too late. Jackson stayed motionless. Dead.
Tears flowed from Dan’s eyes. His friend had his final wish carried out. He didn’t cause the death, but he could have done more to stop Jackson.
The night would haunt him for the rest of his life. Both men just performed their final match.
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