Michael Seidlinger - The Laughter of Strangers

I hadn’t noticed that he was recording me saying the words.

“Does that sound like someone who killed a man?”

Of course not.

Spencer sighs, “We either do this or we don’t. Tell me now, what is it going to be?”

So someone that knew me would probably say that I’m not acting like myself. I have never been the type to go soft on something sinister; I am not a moralist. Not at all. I used to enjoy the way it felt to punch someone in the face. You might know me well enough to see that I haven’t been myself since the first chapter. Then again, was that me, or just a permutation, some kind of performance? Where do I look, what do I find when I look in the mirror?

Willem Floures, I hear, has always been a bit of a rebel.

He goes against the so-called grain.

In addition to being a fighter, he used to be the calm and brooding being in interviews, the one that barely spoke but said more with his silence.

He was all of these things, but not lately.

Or, maybe, he’s changed. He certainly fights using familiar signature moves and combinations. Depending on where you look, he’s a young prodigy, a journeyman looking to redefine, or an old mainstay, rambling to himself, turning to sensationalism and big lies in order to maintain the audience’s attention. Odds are that’s him. Willem Floures.

When he says:

I KILLED A MAN

He should mean it.

He shouldn’t cower behind morality and other sorts of principles.

He should stop talking in the third person; he isn’t that kind of stylist.

Yeah so I say it twice more, for Spencer’s sake.

Each time it feels easier, more innate. Give it a little while longer and I might actually believe it.

Really though, I just want to rest. I want more painkillers.

I want to spar for a few rounds. Maybe fight through the pain long enough to feel nothing at all.

“I killed a man,” and it sounds like something said at face value. I killed a man and tomorrow everyone will know about it.

SILENCE

I get to talking about something else, about the house.

“You should think about repairing the roof.”

Spencer shrugs, “Who’s got time for that?”

Upstairs we hear a loud crashing.

Alarmed, I sit up.

“Relax,” Spencer rolls his eyes, “it’s James.”

“Wait a minute, are you for real?”

A grin. Spencer says, “What do you think?”

“I thought it was just some imaginary friend of Sarah’s.”

He laughs, “Guess.”

“I haven’t a clue.”

“I could be lying,” Spencer narrows his eyes, “but it could also be true.”

He says it again as if this is all one big lesson:

YOU CAN LIE ABOUT THAT

“If you can’t tell the difference, maybe it doesn’t matter.”

These are a trainer’s words. He is trying to build me back up, trying to beat down all of the doubt that’s boiled to the surface. And I’d thank him for it, but somehow I am still not certain that this will result in something we won’t regret later. However, at the same time, I don’t see how we can stop now.

It’s already too late.

This is round two in a fight that probably never ends.

We fight until winded, and then we fight some more.

He’s wrong about one thing.

You can’t lie about that.

Can’t say it’s a fight you win because I’m not so sure anyone can win this particular fight. The opponent is time and its punches change you until they send you to the ground, six feet down and dead, the last brand of light isn’t limelight, it’s the bright light of the bare bulb hanging from above, the mortician tending to your body.

Somewhere in there, I feel like I’d still remain.

Unable to understand if I had died or not.

Win or lose?

SILENCE

Neither of us says anything.

I keep my eyes closed. I listen to the house in pain, mimicking my own groans, the ache of each joint, the cuts and bruises that still need a lot of time to heal. I inhale, hold, and exhale before asking:

“Do you think I can go spar for a few rounds?”

Spencer looks up from the laptop, expression as if saying:

WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU THINK?

It’s a no-go.

And probably better that I just rest.

What about the painkillers?

I want to ask but all of a sudden it feels like an impossible question to pose; the silence of the house lulls me into a self-conscious cocoon.

I want to keep, and obey, the silence.

For awhile, it feels like I’ve escaped the world.

SILENCE

PERFECT

SILENCE

But it ends around the same time Spencer starts typing again, and I can only imagine what else he is planning.

Whatever it is, you’ll hear about it in the morning.

As part of the plan, I keep my silence. I keep my silence despite having been more or less silent throughout most media events that have involved any part of me. Media events of silent intrigue and steady enigma. But silent especially now as I reach a new plateau of distance, carrying along a grimace, maybe a frown if it calls for it, favoring facial gestures that fit the design of the headlines around the time word got out.

And word certainly got out.

Stuff like:

‘SUGAR’ WILLEM FLOURES MURDERS HIS PAST

And:

BAR FIGHT GONE AWRY FAMOUS BOXER SUSPECTED OF MURDER

I maintain my silence.

Spencer keeps me updated on all media requests.

We remain at the house, laptop against laptop, kitchen table our office, as I ease off the painkillers and frequently hide from the steady current of suspicion with a few rounds in the ring Spencer installed in the basement.

My own private gym.

When your name is Willem Floures, you really can’t afford to be seen in public gyms. Not because I’m smug (I’d never claim to have much of an ego; I’m too self-conscious to be egotistical) but because of the fact that the others like the same kind of gyms, same sort of equipment, same towns, cities, everything. For example, ‘Buster’ Willem Floures lives next door.

He is Spencer’s neighbor. Neither party planned for it.

It just happens.

Seems ‘Buster’ liked the quiet, slightly rundown little suburb too.

I mean having my own private gym means everyone has their own private gym and only the media really suffers.

No media day workouts.

No public sparring sessions.

No open calls for opponents.

No surprise challenges.

Everything is under wraps. A shroud.

But they will do what we say if they want to be partners in news-stories and spectacle of the likes of SUSPECTED MURDER.

I can’t say that I want it to fall into their hands, but then again who really has control over the media? Many claim they do and have the dollar signs to prove it; however, just so often a paid-for event hits public awareness. Something unexpected, like some nugget of information from a dark past resurfacing. In this case, I have killed a man that does not exist.

The media hears from the original source, Spencer posting under one of his longtime message board handles on boxing forums (boxing aficionados are some of the most vocal people around; they’ll debate for dozens of pages about fight patterns, the dynamics of the power punch, and famous boxer career choices), mentioned this particular dark nugget from my “past.”

It didn’t take long for it to spread.

Spencer did more, of course. He had photos, doctored documented proof (medical records?)—

He had something.

I know he did. Kept me in the dark for obvious reasons.

1) I didn’t want to know about it.

And—

2) I am supposed to plead ignorance/innocence.

I CAN LAST THREE ROUNDS