Warning: Contains Strong Language. May not be suitable for all.
Copyright © John Cullen 2017.
“So.... I’ve decided to take my work back underground. To stop
it fal ing into the wrong hands....”
The Prodigy – Music For The Jilted Generation. 1994.
00: An Introduction: Ground Zero – Bones And Space....
There aren't many out there, who know what really goes into making a major, heavyweight, boxing bout happen....
I found out – First hand. And it changed me forever...... And not for the better....
My thirty or so years as boxing promoter, slash manager, turned me into an animal; I was obsessed with money and prepared to do whatever it took to get my hands on as much of that wonderful
green paper as I possibly could – It's what makes the world go round after all.....
I, was in awe of the power of the dollar; I loved all the fringe benefits that money could bring: Fast cars and good pussy; bespoke tailoring and the finest dining; mixing with the social elite of Los Angeles and all the other beautiful people who ran this great country of ours that I had lived in all my life and loved so dearly....
I thought I had it all.... And – For a time – I did.....
One fateful night however, would change my life forever.... My life would never be the same again –
A terrible cliché, I know, but so very true.....
That very night, I lost everything that was really important in life.... The things money can't buy: Religion and god; sanity and goodwill to other men..... Hope for the future....
I, would be reborn back into a dark world that I had previously lived in, but had never truly seen at it's ugly, face value....
My eyes, for so long, had been closed to the reality of my surroundings......
My eyes are still, to this very day, closed....
I was in bed with my girlfriend when I got the phone call....
The clock read: 4:24am.
An anonymous voice on the line mumbled something like:
"We've got a problem.... There's been an accident at The Beast's apartment.... Getcha shit together.
Head over... Now...."
The Beast was a heavyweight boxer that I happened to be managing at the time – He was called The Beast for a reason......
Before I had time to respond or even ask a question, the line clicked off...
I showered quickly, jumping into the convertible as my girlfriend slept; the beast lived nearby in the hills....
It still haunts me.... I could have turned back at any point as I drove to The Beast's apartment..... My life didn't have to change......
The third time I rang, I was I buzzed inside; the beast lived on the top floor of the building, the penthouse....
I took the stairs instead of the elevator – My subconscious was trying to buy time it seems now in retrospect....
If only I'd turned around and left the building.... Gone back to bed....
The door of the apartment was already open by the time I reached the top floor. I was greeted by a sinister looking mob-type in the unlit hallway.
"He's really done it this time," he said laughing. "The cocaine makes The Beast go nuts......"
He was right – It did. We had already paid an escort somewhere in the region of two million dollars in damages after he had sexually assaulted her in the VIP section of a downtown Manhattan
nightclub – The Beast was known to both the NYPD and the LAPD as a serial rapist who had managed to evade conviction due his powerful attorney and celebrity status; the press had already been
warned there would be severe repercussions for any libellous stories printed. The Beast's crimes were known to many, but existed as mere rumours.....
The bedroom door was closed, but I could hear hushed voices behind it. The Beast was long gone; I could not feel his presence in the apartment and I doubt he would have invited me inside had he been there – The Beast had been plotting with his rotten attorney to have our contract terminated; The Beast felt my cut of his earnings were too high – I didn't warrant the fee....
The Beast was in collusion with a rival promoter. Both parties wanted my head on a silver platter –
The world of boxing is just as savage as the world that exists outside of it......
The reality of what was about to happen hit as I stood in the hallway.....
A painting hung just outside of The Beast's bedroom – A large canvass that housed a multitude of different shapes and colours: Swirling blues and greens intertwined together in a sea of cold water; orange and yellow brush strokes created the sunlight that reflected off the water's surface; the grey, thick brush strokes created the small boats crossing the vast ocean beneath them...... I knew
whatever lay behind the door was bad news......
The longer I gazed at the painting, the more I could feel myself becoming lost in it. I was transfixed on the image, sinking and deeper and deeper into it; I could feel myself being consumed by the
canvas, and willingly. If a Genie had appeared from that painting at the very moment, I would asked to become one with the oil paints hanging before me; I would have gladly become one with the
artist's creation and fled the oncoming horror.
“You gonna stand there all night?” Asked one of the mob goons, opening the bedroom door. “The
real art is in here.”
I could now see the extent of The Beasts evil. A young girl lay flat on the bed. What remained of her face was looking upwards towards the heavens; she was naked as the day she was born....
I tried to compose myself and make some sort of sense of it all; I tried to figure out a reasonable explanation for what might have happened.... There wasn't one.
To this day I can still see the blood smeared across the walls and the telephone; I can see the teeth scattered across the bedside cabinet; I can still see the burns to her legs and lower abdomen.
A voice from behind me said:
"We'll dispose of the mess..... The fight has to happen. Gino will send The Beast the check for all this.
Make sure The Beast understands one thing: You don't pop one of our call girls unless you got the go-ahead first. Okay?"
I floated out of the apartment, down the long staircase, lost......
............ As I drove back to the valley, I ran through some stop lights without thinking – I was completely numb.......
I made a sudden stop, opening the door, spilling outta the car, collapsing onto the roadside.... I puked. I was on my hands and knees like a dog.
A passing car ground to a halt, the driver checking if I was ok. I wasn't........
"You look like you've seen ghost!" He shouted as he pulled away. He was right. I had.......
Over the next few weeks, I changed beyond all recognition – I lost ten pounds, leaving my apartment and girlfriend behind; I threw myself into my work and switched off all thoughts of the past. None of that mattered now.
When a major heavyweight bout is about to take place, nothing will stop it. Not even a dead call girl.
When millions of dollars are at stake, nothing will stop the fight.... Nothing whatsoever....
That's what it takes to make a major, heavyweight boxing bout take place....
The next three years seemed a blur – I developed a bad cocaine habit, spending weekends staring out of my apartment window, gazing up into the night sky and the stars that hung above me. All I could do was think about the dead girl. I would weep thinking of her poor mother; waiting and
wondering; hoping her dead daughter may one day show up; dreaming of a lost child she had
brought into this world and cherished. Wondering......
Wondering where she was... And I knew; she was sleeping on the bed of the pacific ocean......
The contract between myself and The Beast was terminated – A mutual agreement. I severed my
connections with him for good.
I, would once again cross paths with The Beast – This time on my terms.....
I, at the time, represented a top prospect; the kid, Dynamite Jordan, was on course to become the new heavyweight champion. Like all future heavyweight champions, Dynamite had to fight some
tomato cans along the way – Journeymen; The Beast was now a tomato can and sorry looking son of a bitch. Couldn't have happened to a nicer guy.....
The Beast was a mess – His alcoholism was now consuming him and he’d blown most of vast
fortune – He had sold the apartment and the painting.....
Those swirling colours now sit in a bank vault – And that's where they will stay. Until I pass.....
At the press conference for the fight, The Beast threw insults at Dynamite. And me......
"This guy's a joke!” He laughed. “He couldn't hold a candle to me!”
I replied:
"At one time..... But now is different. Time can be a cruel mistress......"
The Beast didn't like that remark and he scolded me:
"God! I remember how much of a weasel you were! And look at you now! Some things don't change, huh Gustavo?"
I nodded, and the beast continued to mock me:
"You make me laugh, you know that?! Guys like you shouldn't be in this business! Guys like you should be working on Wall Street! Makin dollars hustlin' punk businessmen! Spending your
weekends on a golf course doing stoopid shit with a bunch of assholes!”
The beast laughed:
"You ain't a killer...."
He was right – I wasn't a killer...... I didn't want to be one either...
Dynamite Jordan sent The Beast to the emergency room after the third round. I can still remember The Beast looking into my eyes as he hit the ropes, right before his eyeballs rolled back into his skull as he hit the canvas.....
Victory was so sweet, and yet, so hollow.... The damage had been done. My life wouldn't be any
different – Regardless of how bad The Beast had been beaten by Dynamite.
The show must go on..... And it did......
I, continued to make large sums of money – Every year – More than I could ever hope to spend. I married a beautiful, young model who enjoyed spending my substantial fortune and was able smile in public as she held my hand – The good wife. None of it bothered me. I was past caring......
At some point in our life, we reach ground zero – The point where you realise there is no point. The stars simply align and reality suddenly drops like a boulder from the skies....
Nothing really matters.... And guess what? It never did in the first place. It was all bullshit. We're born alone, and we die alone. End of discussion....
Except it's not. If only......
I can remember one hot summers day – A Sunday, at my holiday home in Colorado; I was sat alone
on the veranda, looking out into the woodlands that faced the cabin directly. In the vast space that surrounded me, everything seemed to suddenly click into place. I had the complete picture. I could now see it all very clearly........
We are born to die......
We start from nothing and eventually we fade into nothing......
We are all just energy that exists at a certain point in space and time......
Think of it this way: The planet we exist on is one giant chess board – The white squares represent light, the black squares represent darkness. There is no heaven or hell. Just an ever continuing universe that we aimlessly float through. Alone......
We start at one side of the chess board, and we fight and battle our way across to the other side.
All of it for nothing.....
Why?
No reason. And that's the tragedy of it all. There is no reason. There's no reason for any of it.....
Except reality for what it is: Bones and space.......
Nothing more..... Nothing less.
As we float through space, slowly, we start to decay; death is approaching and our journey on the board can only last so long. Even in victory, our fate is always there.... Loitering.... Waiting.
When, and if, we reach the other side, we merely drop off the board and fall. We can fall forever as we decay and rot. Beams of light pass as we sink deeper into the darkness......
And there you have it.......
I cannot take your hand as we all make this journey alone. All I can do is make an empty gesture by wishing you the best of luck on this journey.
Walk the board with your head held high.
....... And when you fall?
Just simply fade away as we float through space and time...... A slave to the universe and it's masters........
Gustavo Reyes
CEO and founder of Oxblood Gloves Entertainment.
01: First Round Of The Brawlers Cup.
“We’re not your monkey. And so what?”
That's what I told this goon over the phone at the Palm Hotel; Gammon was running late an’
couldn’t make the fuckin’ drop. Cunt.
The Arab bastard behind the desk complimented me on the quality of the blow.
“Very good,” he said. “Keeps the girls up all night. They can work the mattress nicely you know....”
Whatever.
Outside, Gammon was waiting with the boys in the van; the cunt had fuckin’ time to jump in the van alright.
Billy Wirral stuck his big, ugly head outta the window:
“HEY YA’ WIDEBOY! YA’ KEEN FOR THE SWEDGE?!”
I told the Scottish mugg to keep his fuckin’ voice down; you never know who could be listening.
Billy makes me want to puke. He has about six teeth an’ he’s a fuckin’ alcky; cunt shouldn't be behind the wheel of a van if you ask me; he was assigned to us by those cunts who run The Brawlers Cup.
Billy knows his fuckin’ place alright. I tanned his fuckin’ jaw a couple of weeks ago. He fuckin’
embarrassed us all in the Manhattan Steak House, over in Longview. We were havin’ a catch up,
makin’ plans for this seasons Brawlers Cup, and that cunt Gammon goes an’ invites the Scottish
prick. The fuckin’ place was packed, wasn’t it. We were waiting in the bar area, getting a few drinks.
Billy has a problem with his guts; he does the most horrible fuckin’ farts you’ve ever smelt in ya’ life.
We were waiting for fuckin’ ages an’ Gammon reckons the staff were mugging us off. Gammon goes
an’ eggs Billy on to start fartin’ the place up. So he does. When the stench hit, this specky cunt comes out from behind the bar an’ tries to kick us out!
“The bar is only open to customers who are eating in the establishment,” he says to us, like we’re fuckin’ scum or something. I told the cunt we were waiting for a table. It was embarrassing. People were looking.
When we finally got a table, Billy says:
“That’ll teach ‘yers! Ya’ clever bastards! Next time have a fuckin’ table ready for me and the lads boyo!”
The cunt flashed all six of his teeth. People were looking at us. I followed the cunt to the toilet an’
clocked the fucker. Bam! Cunt didn't know what hit him. Gammon thought I'd been rough on him an’
that. I wasn’t. People were looking.
Back in the van, I've told the cunt to turn his head around an’ keep driving; it's his job to drive the fuckin’ van an’ that’s it. Nobody values his opinion. Old cunt.
The boys are already in their boiler suits an’ I’m trying to put mine on. Last year we had these plain, navy jobs. This year we got these jet black ones with a crushed skull on the back and our squad name is in big yellow letters:
Our mugs don't matter cause they blur them out; means the coppers can't identify us or nothin’.
That's the way I want it an’ all. Don't want every Tom, Dick an’ Fred on the street clockin’ me, wanting some sort of fuckin’ conversation or something. That’s how the cops catch ya’, when
mouthy cunts spout off in public.
Last year, we were favourites to win The Brawlers Cup. We got to the semi finals and these Jew
bastards from London fucked everything up; their captains this cunt called Tobias. I was stompin’ the little queer an’ embarrassin’ the cunt in front of all an’ sundry; he was on the floor lookin’ like a right prat; his boys were all smeared across the concrete like the soft cunts they are. We had it fuckin’
won! Then the cunt did something stupid, didn’t he. Pulled out a can of mace an’ blasted me right in the fuckin’ canister; fuckin’ blinded me! The weapon was undeclared so they got disqualified, ‘cept we were out too! You can’t progress to the next round in The Brawlers Cup without a clean win.
These cunts called The Flatliners won by default. They got the loot an’ everything! Mind you, they’ve disappeared of the face of the Earth; nobody has seen the cunts for dust. Gammon reckons they got snuffed out for the cash; I'd love to see someone try that shit with me; once we win the loot this year, it's mine, no matter what any cunt says.
Anyway, if we’re lucky, we’ll get to stomp The Stamford Hill Mercenaries again. And I'll get to sort out some unfinished business with that Tobias. Jew cunt.
Robbie's got his black mans curse out; he's rollin’ up a reefer as usual; dunno how he can smoke that stuff before a rumble. These Rasta cunts are cut from different cloth; they smoke that shit for breakfast. Ever since Jamaica’s economy tanked five years back an’ they became part of the United Kingdom, we've had tones of these fuckers turn up. Mind you, we sent over all our old cunts; s’like gods waiting room in certain parts according to Robbie. The cunt taps me on the leg, tryin’ to pass me his poison:
“Widebwoy.... Widebwoy....”
And I’m just shakin’ my head; he’s passed it over to Stephen:
“Small bwoy.... Small bwoy...”
And I’m tryin’ not to laugh aren't I; Stephen hates it when Robbie calls him that. He don’t mean no harm by it, he's just being protective. The dopey cunt just shakes his head an’ keeps staring at the floor.
Stephen had this girlfriend, Becky. The mong was a miserable cow; she was always whingin’ an’
moaning an’ makin’ Stephen unhappy. She went an’ hung herself from a chandelier inside her
parents house. She fuckin’ did him a favour if you ask me! She's from this filthy rich family an’ she's still fuckin’ miserable! Lost cause she was. And now Stephens a lost cause. I thought the cunt would get over it, but he's only gotten worse. I have to wind him up, just to get him to fight.
“’Ere, Robbie.... That stuff stinks almost as bad as Becky does now...”
So Stephens jumped up an’ the cunts yellin’ in me face:
“YOU FUCKIN’ CUNT! YOU GOT NO RIGHT! NO RIGHT! WHY’DA ALWAYS HAVE TO BRING HER UP?!
IM GONNA FUCKIN’ DO YOU WIDEBOY!”
Dunno how that cunt can get so emotional over a bird, especially a dead one; her family didn’t even like him ‘cause he's half a spade.
Stephens fuckin’ blazin’! And Robbie's holding the cunt back; he's tellin’ him:
“Save it for the fight Stephen! Save it for the fight.”
Robbie's lookin’ at me like he thinks I've done something wrong, but what else am I supposed to do?
Cunts no good to man or beast. He needs to be in killer mode. I've done my job as the captain. He’s ready now.
Billy's puttin’ his foot down as we enter the old town; I can't wait until they tare the rest of this fuckin’ dump down. The Brawlers Cup is filmed in the old town ‘cos there's no cunt here now, so there's no cops. There's no lights either so it's dangerous as fuck. Fuck knows what they’ll do when WestPoint is finished. Where are they gonna film the fuckin’ fights?! It will probably have to move somewhere else; they can film it in some other shithole town.
Makes no difference to me. I'm glad that The Old Town is nearly gone. I'm looking outta the back windows an’ I can see all the shitty old shops on the beach front. I fuckin’ remember those shops from when I was a kid; they were filled up with shitty, cheap plastic shit an’ they were run by these rotten bastards with no teeth; cunts with trampy fags an’ dirty, cheap shoes; even as a kid, those cunts made me wanna fuckin’ puke. Dirty cunts. Old Town cunts.
And I need to keep the Scottish cunt on his toes:
“Where we goin’ Billy? Where have they sent you?”
“To the school down yonder boyo,” he says. “Just round the corner from the auld bingo hall.”
And this is it. First round of The Brawlers Cup. Gammons swigin’ outta his whiskey bottle:
“All you cunts ready, eh? Ready to stomp some pussies?!”
And now Billy's turnin’ into the old school, up the service road; The Brawlers Cup security team is signallin’, tellin’ us to stop.
Showtime.
We’re all dropin’ our weapons into the bag. You have to drop a weapon ‘cause that’s how the fight ends. Mine's this cut throat razor; it has Some Dutch bird in clogs on the handle an’ she’s bent over, hiking up her black dress, showin’ her knickers an’ fat arse off. I found it in a draw at The Birdcage, the strip club where me an’ Gammon work. Security. If I had a penny for every cunt I've sliced with it......
And now we’re being led to the back an’ the place is lit up like a fuckin’ Christmas tree. Billy says good luck an’ I tell the cunt to fuck off; he's a fuckin’ embarrassment.
The two white lines are already down on the pitch an’ Tweakin’ Tommy Rotten is doing his thing; Tommy's the coke head commentator; he's screaming into the camera:
“WELCOME YOU BLOOD THRISTY MOTHERFUCKERS! ITS BEEN A LONG COLD WINTER GIRLS AND
BOYS! AND HERE WE ARE: THE BRAWLERS CUP! LET THE GAMES BEGIN!”
The muggs we’re fightin’ are already stood behind their white line; can’t see ‘em yet ‘cause the security goons are blockin’ the fuckin’ view. They've upped the number this time; they must have really made a packet last year. Maybe it was those cunts who snuffed out The Flatliners; I wouldn’t put it past any of those bastards.
Stephens lookin’ biscuit arsed an’ Gammons laughin’ and jokin’ around with Tweakin’ Tommy; I fuckin’ hate when he acts the clown when we’ve got business to attend to. Cunt needs to keep his wits about him. Anything can happen here.
Robbie's finishing his black mans curse; he holdin’ it up the air, tauntin’ the fuckers behind their white line:
“I’M GHONNAAAH BUUURN YOU SMALL BWOYS! BUUURNN YOU LIKE THIS SPLIFF!! IM GONNA
CUTCHYA FOOKIN’ HEADS OFF YA’ SHOULDERS BLUD!”
He’s right an’ all.
It’s Showtime. Time to stomp some-
Look at these cunts! Dressed up in these black an’ red football shirts; you can spot these cunts a mile off. This is the sort of shit you get in the early rounds of The Brawlers Cup. You know the type: They've had a few barnies in nightclubs an’ they've outnumbered and stomped a few pussies;
they've never lost any brawls ‘cos they always outnumbered the cunts they were beatin’ up!
Someone's gone an’ put the idea in their head:
“You lots are fuckin’ mustard! You know what you need to do? You need to enter The Brawlers Cup!
You’ll fuckin’ wipe the floor with all those arseholes.”
So what have they done? They've gone an’ got themselves a bunch of tools an’ some stupid fuckin’
football shirts with a load of numbers on the back. They've gone an’ got themselves a team name, something stupid like ‘The Headcutters’. They've gone an’ told every tart in the local nightclub that they’re gonna be in The Brawlers Cup; and you can bet every one of those slags has given up the fanny nice an’ easy for ‘em; these slags think they’re suckin’ on the cock of some celebrity gangster type. They've seen the lads beat up a load of pussies an’ old drunks; they've seen broken noses and geezers on their arse spittin’ their teeth into the gutter at kicking out time. They think they’re getting fucked by gangsters; top dogs; geezers. And these cunts are lovin’ every minute, talkin’ about what they’re gonna do an’ what's gonna happen; they’ve told every cunt to tune in an’ watch the fight.
Then I come along. Geezers like me creep up when these cunts aren’t expecting it. Now these cunts are gonna have to pay the fuckin’ bill, get their receipt. They’re gonna look like fuckin’ idiots in front of all the local slags an’ all their muggy mates an’ their whole fuckin’ family..... Cunts.
Even their names on the back of their shirts has the marks of a bunch of mugs: D. WILLIAMS; D.
SEEDORF; M. SHRUB an’ J. SHRUB......
What kinda fuckin’ names are those? SHRUB?! Shrub, like some sorta bush? Round my way, a bush is pussy, a fanny. And that would be about right. A bunch of little pussies. First round fodder. Like I said, you can spot these cunts a mile off. This won't go on for two long. I guarantee it.
The head ref is spoutin’ off a load of bollocks about the rules; you can write the rules of The Brawlers Cup on the top of a fuckin’ pinhead. Now the cunts countin’ us in:
“ONE!”
I’ve been waitin’ a long time for this......
“TWO!”
And I don’t even hear the cunt say three; I've already got one of the Shrub cunts in a headlock. I'm twistin’ him an‘ spinnin’ the fat cunt around in a circle, making the fucker dizzy; once they’re dizzy,
you lay the boot into their bollocks like a fuckin’ savage. The cunts got fuckin’ trainers on; this is another sign these muggs are fuckin’ amateurs. Once, then twice in the fuckin’ bollocks, the cunts yelpin’ like a dog when you tread on their paws; yelpin’ like a dog in front of all the cameras! Yelpin’
like a dog in front of all his muggy mates! Yelpin’ like a dog in front of some of those tarts who gave him a bit of fanny ‘cause he's supposed to be a hard bastard! He yelpin’ like a dog in front of millions of people watching at home. Fuckin’ idiot. Cunt.
Robbie is on the other Shrub cunt, swedgin’ it out with him; looks like he's getting the best of the cunt. M. Shrub. M. Pussy more like!
Gammons crushin’ the life outta the D. Seedorf bastard; his arms are squeezin’ the life outta him; cunts tryin’ to scream out:
“PLEEEASE STOP!! FUCK! SHIT! PLEEASE STOP! I CAN’T BREATHE! CUNT! PLEASE STOP!”
Cunts outta breath an’ he’s wheezing like a burst football, makin’ mum and dad proud. Cunts melted like butter on the fryin' pan. I’m having fun here.....
Ol’ J. Shrub havin’ a bad day at the office, isn't he; he’s all disorientated an’ confused.
“What the fuck?! What the fuck is this?! Where am I?” He says, all fuckin’ googely eyed, fuckin’ spit d