Michael Seidlinger - The Laughter of Strangers

Willem Floures vies for the title he held for over a decade.

Willem Floures faces his toughest opponent yet :

HIMSELF

And by that I mean, I’m not quite sure about my corner. I can pay for a cutman and all the other crewmembers, no problem, but there’s the issue with Spencer, how he refuses to be in the same room as me. If I walk into a room, he is on his way out; if I need to speak to him, I only get my messages, my texts, my words, repeated back to me.

It seems I have to go at everything alone.

It seems I can, I will, I have already begun.

I CAN SEE YOU FROM WHERE I’M SITTING

That’s the first text message I get from what I hoped would be just another anonymous hater or fan — there tends to be one or two as long as you are worth talking about — but I quickly found out that the fight for the vacated title had already begun and Black Mamba got the first attack.

I text back, “Who is this?” like an idiot.

I know who it is.

YES, LIKE AN IDIOT

And then a phone call which I ignore, not recognizing the number, but I listen to the voicemail moments after the prompt reads:

ONE MISSED CALL

NEW VOICEMAIL

Black Mamba calmly stating, “Hello, Willem. It’s Willem. Been awhile hasn’t it? It’s getting a bit weird, hmm? Seems you can’t help but step on your own toes, retracing your steps from one event to the next. What was the deal with the tattoos? Aren’t you too old for body modification?” There’s a pause and then, “Anyway, I’m always just around the corner. Don’t you make too many mistakes. We have to make this fight interesting.”

End of message. End of common sense.

Questionable if I ever had any.

After listening to the voicemail for a second time, I wander into the basement bathroom. I look at my face, “This is my face, I guess.”

I check my arms, “What does he mean by ‘modification?’”

I take off my shirt and I discover designer scarring combined with a multiple color tattoo wrapping around my chest and back. When did I get this?

But I guess even Black Mamba is unsure.

THAT’S ODD

Shirt back on, noticing that the tattoo isn’t sore, it has healed over, the scarring looks to have been something done long enough ago to be complete. The scarring, I can’t imagine when I could have gotten the work done.

Hasn’t it only been a few days?

IT HAS BEEN A FEW MONTHS

It has? Who said that?

IT’S WILLEM. YOU ARE READING

TEXT MESSAGES RECEIVED

I look around the basement. I see that X isn’t looking well. I wander over to him and notice that although he looks malnourished, someone has been cleaning him. There is no smell. New clothes, the chaffing against wrist and ankle have been treated. Executioner is being slowly executed, tortured by deprivation of food and nutrition.

I mutter, “But even he isn’t alone…”

There are three more of me, tied up, taped up, and watching, judging, worrying about what will become of me. They all have nametags:

We already know about X.

WHO ARE THE OTHERS?

That’s what I want to know.

‘Rattlesnake.’

‘Breakneck.’

‘Big Boy.’

With everyone tied up and left side by side, the sight of them hurts my head. I get dizzy, the kind of reaction and altered vision that comes from a particularly bad concussion.

A “BEAT UP THE CHAMPION” MEDIA EVENT

WILL DO THAT

I’m again searching for not only a response but also a reason. What the hell happened? No answer. But I check for any soreness; I find a particularly alarming bump on the right side of my head. With a single touch, I feel something that is probably pain.

I get another phone call.

Mamba.

For some reason I pick it up. When he speaks to me it’s like he’s a voice in my head, “Don’t be an idiot. You can feel pain. I’m going to make sure you never feel one hundred percent again. This fight will be your last!”

He hangs up but I keep talking into the phone, not letting the call end:

“What the hell are you talking about? When did this happen? When is the fight? Wait, what?”

Read into the fact that I am talking into the receiver long after the call has ended. I am not talking to anyone.

YOU ARE TALKING TO ME

“Wait, what?” I look over at them as if they’ll be able to explain what’s going on to me, all taped up, starving, parts of me dying slowly.

How much of me is dead?

How long does it take for someone to completely die inside?

EVERYTHING YOU SAY, I HEAR

EVERYTHING I HEAR, YOU DREAD

What to not read into: I am not afraid.

THAT CHARITY EVENT DIDN’T GO SO WELL

Suddenly feeling a surge of anxiety, I punch one of them in the face as hard as I can. My knuckles crack upon impact.

What to not read into: I am not in pain.

I shout his name, “Spencer!”

I can sense that he heard me from upstairs.

Laughter. I do a double take, listening for the source. It isn’t me. It isn’t them. I silently wander the perimeter of the ring, until I see that someone has left their phone, it’s playing out a video sequence where I am front-and-center, talking to a large crowd like I’m confident.

Like I don’t have issues with public speaking.

Like I am on my own, no Spencer to be seen.

Like I’m not worrying about that, about the fact that Spencer can’t be seen in either media and my memory. What is he up to?

I can’t answer that question until I’ve figured out what I’ve been doing.

YOU KIND OF COME OFF AS A FOOL IN THIS INTERVIEW

WHAT WERE YOU THINKING?

I pause the video, I replay the part where I threaten a celebrity I’ve never met. What was I thinking?

“You talentless hack! If I could fight any celebrity in the ring, it would be you!” Again with the laughter.

That is at my expense. It is always at my expense.

Pause. Rewind. Replay.

It seems I’m late to every realization.

THE FIGHT IS IN TWO DAYS

I try to call the number.

The phone pauses the video and reads:

Incoming call, Loser.

Vacated title means a vacated venture where I’m the slowest reader of them all. Happenstance is intentional and Black Mamba’s threats hit real close.

“Spencer! Where did these guys come from?”

They watch me. They are all younger than me.

Have been training, it seems; they have the make and conditioning of a primetime fighter. Boxing the best, a bunch of Willems.

I tell them, “This is your future,” while holding a handful of flab from my stomach, pinching it to the point where it feels like one of those foam tubes used as floatation devices in swimming pools.

NICE ONE

Attached to the text message is a picture I’ve seen before but for some reason don’t remember. It is a screen-cap of an online article discussing a certain sort of madness, yet again at my expense.

The author apparently spoke to me about my career and I proceed to act so humble and selfless, praising every single accomplishment that can’t be linked to ‘Sugar.’ I talk about how I intend on a few more fights but retirement is likely a possibility.

I talk about being an organ donor.

I talk about a few charities.

The article reads well except for when I make a racist comment towards the end, the screen-cap image being a zoom in of the exact line; it went viral, spread like wildfire across social media.

It seems I missed another call.

It’s…you know who it is.

“Willem, you really know how to get their attention. You take whatever you can get. Bad publicity still gets you places.”

End of message.

I delete it only to see that I have a number of saved messages.

Different numbers, that all too familiar voice.