“The Ukraine?” Dan Prince could swear the Bedlamite was trying to play “When the Saints Go Marching In” by yanking hard enough at his sleeve.
“Scuzzy’s from Bucharest.” Viddi kept rattling the moveable jewelry store on Dan Prince’s person.
“And where do you hail from, Mr. Gunnerson?”
“In my day I was a contender in Lilleby, in Norway.”
“Professional boxing isn’t allowed in Norway.”
“I had to go all the way to Finland to beat guys into meatballs.”
“Also illegal in Finland.”
“It’s okay for Norwegians to box there, in the north.”
“Mr. Gunnerson, please go away.”
“Yumpin’ yemeni. Want to project your ham-and-eggers from m’boy, be my guest.” Viddi’s dramatic exit was somewhat foiled by his missing the door by seven inches as his dark glasses allowed for limited view.
All heads, bare and geared, Alpine and native, turned at the muffled explosion and flurry of strange curses followed by a soft hiss.
“Not again,” sighed Dan Prince.
Mambo le Primitif found himself unable to retrieve his gloved hand from the other side of the sighing boxing bag as he waited for some of the sand to sift out.
“Third bag this week.” Babycakes McGee, the trainer, yawned.
“About time he came out,” said Dan Prince softly.
“You’ll have to fly someone in from Touristown. Word’s spreading and no one east of Palookaville would be stupid enough to take him on.”
An angelic smile lit up Dan Prince’s face like all the votive candles at St. Peter’s, a portent he was about to make or save money. “Oh, Mr. Gunnerson. Wait…”
Joe, the owner, was none too happy to see the Katzenjammer Kids saunter into The Palooka Bar like an invading horde. To date, he had profited little from his acquaintance with Knold and Tot, the grandsons of the infamous Torsten “The Hooch” Jones-who spent the last fifty years of his life in Sing Sing after killing off a whole Elks Lodge in the Catskills with a batch of homemade brew labeled The Tallahassee Twister. Knold and Tot tried to slide inconspicuously towards the bar, no mean feat for the identical albino twins, Knold limping on his left leg and Tot on his right.
“I’m still in court because of that Elderberry Nectar.”
“Vintage stuff that. Chap had a defective immune system.” Tot did not take kindly to ingrates casting aspersions on their skills at the family trade.
“Check this out,” whispered Knold, affecting a conspiratorial glance.
“We call it ‘the Alabama Mama,’” hummed Tot softly but proudly.
With stealth, Knold opened his Tasmanian Devil bomber jacket, revealing a plain quart bottle. “Scentless as a Methodist altar. Go on the town and the missus won’t smell a thing.”
“And you can tipple all you want while you do the racing forms at work,” added Tot. “It’ll sell like tutti-frutti ice cream in hell.”
“I’m still using your ‘Hiroshima Hummer’ for pest control,” objected Joe.
“Keep it as a free sample,” offered Knold. “The rubes’ll be crying out for more.”
“Dying for more, most likely,” retorted Joe.
“Just keep it away from heat. It’s got a kick,” warned Knold.
Joe offered neither remonstration nor resistance as Knold thrust the bottle into his arms, seeing he was out of paint remover.
At the round table, Scuzzy and Mercy Beaucoup had waited for over an hour, the match slated to start at any minute.
“Why no one let Viddo near boxing square?” wondered Scuzzy.
“He gets kind of…involved,” explained Mercy Beaucoup. “Say, want another Bud, Scuzzy?”
An inexpertly wrapped package under his arm, Viddi dashed in with a lot of Golbranson determination and the boys flocked over.
“Did you get the belt?” asked Beardy, shooting Viddi a glance harder than an algebra test.
“A slight snag. Had to make one myself.”
“Told you we shouldn’t hock our Babe Ruth cards,” wailed Rhino
“With Rollo going on the lam, was I supposed to say goodbye to my own flesh and blood for who knows how long, the constabulary on his heels, without giving him a proper send-off? Am I not my brother’s keeper?”
“But the cops always pick him up at Barbie’s,” objected Shadow.
“Got to get cracking.” Viddi turned away from Shadow abruptly.
Beardy took Shadow aside and placed his index finger over his shoulder. “Take it easy on Viddi. Rollo was an ace safecracker before he devoted himself to the potato juice. Could’ve amounted to something.”
“Word is this Mambo dude’s been pulverizing boxing bags,” injected Joe.
“What is ‘pulverize’?” queried Scuzzy.
“Two of his sparring partners are sucking eggs in Hoboken.” Joe looked Scuzzy in the eye as he spoke.
“Not to fret. Like Joe Louis, I see something.” Viddi pointed to his eye as he gave Joe the famous Viddi wink. “Scuzzy’ll take him to the woodshed.”
“Man, ten minutes to showtime,” exclaimed Hulk.
At this, the boys darted out. Viddi ran straight into Joe, tearing the bottle of Alabama Mama from his grasp. “Thanks for the water, Joe.”
“Hold on a dadgum-”
“I’m on the beam.” Viddi was out the door before Joe could utter another syllable.
With Viddi sunglassed and chapeau’d proudly by his side, Scuzzy strode into The Banana Ballroom with his newfound YMCU championship belt, which consisted of a weightlifter’s belt sprinkled with glitter and adorned with tenuously glued-on Diet Pepsi tabs, antique French postcards of questionable taste, fifty-cent imitation Red Army medals, and, inexplicably, Elvis Presley and ABBA cards hooked on with safety pins.
“…making his professional debut from the People’s Independent Democracy of Saal-Am-A-Bu, Mambo le Primitif,” clamored Morty Buffet, the ring announcer. “In the opposite corner, the YMCU supermiddleweight champion of the world, the uncontested, undefeated, unmolested Bucharest Brawler Dimitri ‘Scuzzy’ Sciatscu.”
“Viddi, what exactly does a cutman do?” queried Beardy.
“Moral support, mostly. Hotter than hell in August here,” added Viddi, taking a swig from the bottle generously supplied by Joe.
“Where’s helmet? I’m Olympic boxer,” complained Scuzzy.
“Welcome to the U.S. of A., land of the hard-asses,” snapped Beardy.
“Yeah, this ain’t Ruministan, bub,” explicated Hulk.
Going nose-to-nose, Viddi crouched in front of Scuzzy, looking his protégé square in the eye. “First, do a bit of the Ali shuffle, then take a few on the kisser to lull him into complacency.”
“Who is Ali? What is complacency?”
“Next give him a Reykjavik roundhouse, coupled with a haymaker.”
“What is haymaker?”
“Then some love taps, eine kleine Schubster. You with me?”
“No.”
“Before the bell tolls, go south of the border when the cyclops is winking at the rubes.”
“No border. No have green card.”
“Seconds out,” bellowed Referee Thorndigger.
Referee Emil Thorndigger, tough as nails, old as the hills of Kilimanjaro, and brooker of no nonsense, motioned the two warriors forward to face off. As he stepped between the two fighters, Thorndigger found himself facing a smiling Viddi. “Get back to your corner.”
With his one eye, Thorndigger glared at each boxer as hard as a Quaker at a brewery. “Your show, not mine, so don’t make me rain on your parade. Keep it clean and defend yourselves at all times. May your God be with you.” As the bell chimed the first round, Mambo cannonballed out of his corner with all the fury of hell, whereas Scuzzy lumbered to the center of the ring as if taking out the garbage against his will. Within three seconds, the Bucharest Brawler was splayed across the canvas. Bopping up and down, Viddi held on to the ropes, shouting lofty encouragements to his fighter. “Get up, you bum. We got the farm riding on you here.” At the count of nine, Scuzzy stood up, uncoiling languidly as Mambo gazed in awe upon the rising Lazarus and Thorndigger tried to ascertain whether the fighter was in a coma or simply not overly interested in the matter at hand.