The Fisting Kid

Coach ran his hand over his hairless scalp and bits of dry skin fell to the floor like fine snow. He had hit hard times. His biggest prospect had lost his last six fights and four had been by knockout. It was looking like the Fisting Kid was headed for retirement and this troubled the coach because he had no one else. Added to this was the recent death of his wife. He was not particularly sad about her passing, but the circumstances surrounding it had caused him considerable inconvenience. They had had an argument that had resulted in the end of their marriage. She had attempted to scratch his eyeballs out but he had ducked and countered with a body blow that had sent her to the floor far quicker than any of the times he had attempted to initiate sex with her over the years. After she had gathered herself to her feet she told him to go fuck himself and then she dropped dead of a heart attack. The police questioned him extensively for fourteen hours, pistol whipping him twice before taking him to dinner in an attempt to apologise. But that was all in the past. The recent past, but he really didn’t give a shit about anything but the Fisting Kid.

He went to Doc’s office to talk things over. He was with a patient so he sat in the waiting room and attempted to talk to the receptionist. “You like boxing?” he said.
“No,” said the receptionist.
“You heard of the Fisting Kid?” he said.
“No,” she said.
“Well, you’re fucked,” he said and picked up a magazine. It was a women’s magazine. He started reading an article about the healing properties of positive thinking and earthing when the patient left and Doc called him in. “What’s going on?” said Doc.
“Fisting Kid might be retiring,” said Coach.
“Says who?” said Doc.
“Word on the street,” said Coach.
“Well that’s worth fuck all. Let me look at your skin,” said Doc.
“If he retires, I’m finished. I don’t have any other prospect, Doc,” said Coach.
“We might need to cut this out,” said Doc as he honed in on a patch of skin on Coach’s forehead.
“For fucks sake, Doc. Now is not the time for your collection,” said Coach.
“Oh, come on. There’s a jar with your name on it,” said Doc.
“DOC I AM NOT CONTRIBUTING TO YOUR SKIN COLLECTION,” said Coach.
“Pussy,” said Doc.
“Seriously, what do we do?” said Coach.
“Well, there is one thing, but you won’t want to do that.”
“Tell me.”
“Well, we could put him on hormones. Fight him as a woman.”
“That’s brilliant.”
“I know.”
“I’ll need you to come with me. It’ll sound more authentic coming from you.”
“When?”
“Now.”
“Ok,” said Doc and they left for the Fisting Kid’s house.

The Fisting Kid lived on the outskirts of town usually reserved for those too fucking stupid to live closer to town. The house was so poorly built that the general belief was that he had built it himself because only someone with brain damage could have made something so crap. Coach and Doc got to the front door. Coach knocked on the door and it fell off it’s hinges and smashed into his toes. “FUUUUUUUUCK!” said Coach. A woman came to the door. “What do you two old fuck knuckles want?” said the woman.
“We want to talk to him,” said Coach.
“I suppose you want to cut some of his skin out for your collection you goddamn pervert,” she said to Doc.
“Hurtful and unnecessary,” said Doc.
“We have a proposition for him,” said Coach.
“No more fighting. He already can’t count past 43,” she said.
“Trust us, it’s not going to be like before,” said Coach. The Fisting Kid appeared behind his wife, his hair wrapped in a towel. “What’s this you’re talking about Coach?” he said.
“We want you to fight chicks,” said Coach.
“Can’t do it. I have a cock,” said the Kid.
“No problem, I’ll give some injections and it’ll be fine,” said Doc.
“I’m not giving up my cock,” said the Kid.
“No, you won’t have to. You can be a woman with a cock these days,” said Doc.
“You mean, chicks with dicks?” said the Kid.
“Basically, yes. Well just tell the officials that you identify as female,” said Doc.
“What’s in it for us?” said the Kid’s wife.
“Victory,” said Coach.
“Fuck yeah! Sign me up,” said the Kid. Doc arranged for the Kid to attend his office once a week for the next four weeks. Coach would pick him up, take him to Doc’s and then train him. In the meantime he was to buy a wig. Doc found three patches of skin that he insisted needed taking out but everyone told him to fuck off.

Over the following weeks, the Fisting Kid transitioned from being an average looking retard to one of the ugliest looking women ever to breathe the oxygen so generously provided by the abundant trees that littered the landscape. Coach had not changed his training scheduled significantly but had noticed an overall drop in strength that didn’t match up with his gain in weight. His punches were weaker and Coach refrained from testing his jaw because he was only going to be punched by chicks from now on. Doc continued to monitor the Kid’s health and attempted to cut some skin out of him on thirty-nine occasions and he only gave up when Coach threatened to replace him as the Kid’s cut man. Coach scoured the surrounding towns and found the Kid’s first opponent. Due to the Kid’s hormonal weight gain, he was now a cruiserweight so pickings were slim. A muscular bull dyke that went by the ring name of Raging Flaps accepted the challenge and a date was set for a Friday night fight in a local pub that was run by its 92 year old owner the Old Wound.

Raging Flaps entered the ring as the underdog. Her perfectly maintained flat top and flat chest, the result of an elective mastectomy, were not enough to convince the bookmakers of pricing her at anything better than 250 to 1. The crowd cheered when the Fisting Kid did his ring walk. Coach and Doc trailed behind like flower girls behind a bride. Doc scanned the crowd for skin to cut out. He had been working on his persuasive powers and was now confident he could convinced most people to allow him to cut a chunk of skin out of them. Coach was focused on Raging Flaps’s corner. He recognised neither of them and put it down to the fact that he didn’t know any lesbians. When the referee called the fighters to the centre of the ring for their last minute instructions, the Kid looked at Raging Flaps and with his mouth guard still in asked her what her real name was. “What?!” she said.
“Your real name,” said the Kid.
“Tiffany,” said Raging Flaps.
“That’s a nice name,” said the Kid and they touched gloves. The referee then sent them back to their corners. While they were waiting to be told to leave the ring, Doc rubbed vaseline over the Kid’s face and the Coach gave him some last tips. “Don’t worry about being hit. She’s a girl. Just aim for the head,” said Coach and the bell rang.

The first nineteen punches of the fight were from the Fisting Kid. He moved around with a gracefulness that not only made him look like a girl but gave Coach flashbacks of how much hope he had had in the Kid when he had first met him. Thirteen jabs in a row landed on the face of Raging Flaps followed by six shots to the body that elicited a crack from the heavily padded dyke’s ribs. It was like a favorite song or the sound of a satisfying fart to the Kid’s ears and that’s when he became careless. Like every fuckwit boxer before him he decided to drop his hands and taunt Raging Flaps. With his eyes closed and the shouts from Coach to not be a fucking idiot being all but inaudible over the yells and screams of the local riffraff that had assembled to watch the fight, the Kid had no chance of seeing the right hook that smashed into his temple with the force of a sledgehammer breaking concrete. He was unconscious before he even hit the canvas and Raging Flaps stood there staring in disbelief as his head bounced off the ring’s surface three times before coming to a complete stop. “FUCK!” said Doc as he climbed into the ring. Raging Flaps was lifted onto the shoulders of her entourage. Coach watched Doc slap the Kid in the face several times to wake him up and he knew that he’d never get him in the ring again. He headed to the door and someone called him a loser. Another person called him a poofter and he stepped outside into the night. A stray dog pissed on a parked car and in the distance he could smell the faint odour of shit. He walked home in the dark.

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