Damon King
Content Warning: Gritty, Explicit Language
The old and broken gym clock hangs on its lazy angle, pinned against the back brick wall, slightly slanted, forever stuck at two-sixteen. Not a matter though, as the final bell had dinged its last ding many moons ago. Noah ‘Stones’ Kingston, or anybody in the gym for that matter, never did get around to changing those damn double A Flatteries. So begins Noah’s solo pitiful dance down to good old, well-known struggle street. As always, he starts to spit then kick his way past the hypothetical rocks laying at the bottom of his self-hypocritical thoughts and haunts.
With a sarcastic laugh, he opens his mouth and sprays out his whiskey in the air.
‘Nice to see you again.’
Noah Kingston, aka ‘Stones’, to his selected, extremely shifty, but extremely loving and loyal-to-the-teeth group of friends he calls family.
He tries not to pick the pretend rocks up, tries not to throw them all, aided with a pointless attempt to semi-compose his still taped-up daisy roots from his very recent ass kicking. Like a cheeky brat schoolboy, Kingston suddenly harnesses up a smile and screams out loud.
‘Fuck you, bank. I said fuck you, you are bloody heartless pricks’
He is smirking and screaming so damn loud; he wants the whole world to hear and see his rant and pain. He also knows that the only little world that is listening to his feel-sorry-for-me stage show is his pitiless, unforgiving gym world that has been his only safe home for most of his life. A generational, run-down, dodgy boxing gymnasium in the backstreets and shitty slums of London is his closest friend.
A childhood home-away-from-a-very-dysfunctional-home, and a lifetime-long, close-walled-in friend that he has just royally fucked over. His actions are done only to try to save his own dirty selfish but trying skin. Sitting in its own shady shadow, these four isles of wight of the gym and its leaking roof has seen its fair share of sweat and sin. Watching over the decades random champion fists come and go, seeing blood spilt, witnessing the survival of the almost-once-were or never-were.
Kingston didn’t even have a real father figure growing up in this shit hole of a town, except old man Tommy Flowers. Always there, from his first success to his last failures, many bailouts, and prolonged funnrels Tommy Flowers wore the father’s shoes since Noah was a small child and more.
Preparing himself for his cornered, roped-off pedestal, last fall to the floor, he lets out a graceless giggle and a useless, stoned sigh. Kingston yells out in a one-sided conversation toward the dusty display of boxing bags.
The heavy bags hang by their slowly tarnishing chains with their punched-out and ripped leather mouths while hopelessly tapped up. The multi-layers of black and grey industrial tape wrap randomly, embracing the bags like long-lost, bad friends.
Silently swaying in the gym grandstands of darkness, the brown and black bag-body warriors surround the roped-off arena.
They each want just one last, final, good round. As the Kingston family were survivors and always went down swinging. Heavy blood-blue eyes that have given up searching for the ‘whatever’ watch the comet-like cherry bomb swan dive out from its home of a skull-shaped bong. It does a firework free fall, straight down, face first. How ironic. Going down in a blaze of glory all from a tightly thumbed and fully punched cone. The remains of the red, ashy lips aggressively smooch the forever-mumbling wooden floorboards. Just another mark added.
Oh shit, wait for it, here comes the exhale!
Cough.
And yes, again: cough.
Lungs that are no longer immortal wheeze out like a broken kettle. Stones is no longer a semi-functioning temple, nor a raging, unstoppable force not to be fucked with. That once raging bull was getting drunk, stoned, forgetting.
Home sweet Hell, Noah Kingston. Welcome back, old son, welcome back.
The old keys begin to squirm like headless tequila snakes. Standing is no longer an option. Noah’s bruised-up legs come out from beneath him, which very quickly introduces him to the harsh truth: the floor.
Noah would always say, especially after more than a couple of generous neat whiskies, that ‘Having a few real friends and a real, forgiving and loving family, is always better than having none.’
Now, watching his world flatten out like a dead street rat from his sweaty and shirtless back, Kingston stares at the rafters, looking for some soap. Trying to see anything worthwhile through his tearing-up eyeballs and stoned ball slits, he takes a pause for a dazed moment and accepts his fate, as his dance is truly done.
The rough, justified love and guts that these old, red brick walls have mixed uncontrollably through their mortar have just been involuntarily sold.
Done like a dinner, this time, folks, no-one is a winner: oh, the banks are my bad.
Stones has tried his worst and his very best. There is nothing less than a pawned penny of pride to his respected family name. Kingston has lost his last soap and fight: a bad and stupid fight gambling on himself. He should have smelt the bloody shenanigans before he agreed to that bullshit of a rigged fight. He had lost even before a punch was thrown.
‘What the fuck now, hey I should have just let the oversized, steroid geezer finish me off in the first round. FUCK HIM, THE LOT OF ’EM’! Kingston snarls out sideways, from his spit-saturated mouth.
So high, so God damn high and lost.
Noah is down for the final count, and the cash and crowds went home a long time ago. He screams out in a fading passion of strength, his trying arms raised to the heavens.
‘FFFFFFUUUUCCCKK, FUCK YOU, FUCK ALL OF YOU, YOU COMMY BASTARDS!’
Those infamous baby blues, the used-to-be lady killers, now look like a battered and wrapped piece of stale cod bought down the road at the local cheap fish and chip shop. It was his last chance and bet to save himself and the family gym from the gangs of the banks, as they had just done a big Brad Pitt ‘shit’ on his face.
His thoughts brutally remind him of his rigged, outstanding debt: 40 000 squid, not a penny less, to be exact. There is no one to blame for his fucking, mashed-up mess except himself. The future of real happiness has now long gone to the bookies and banks.
In cheap frames, the black and white photos that try to breathe through the painted cracks of a neglected life show the stories of past warriors, and the young, grey ghosts of the present. Noah Kingston feels the disappointed isles of wight shaking their old, boxed-in heads in disgust. Inspirations that have cried, bled, and sweated in this notorious little boxing gym look down upon him. Three generations, proudly passing down the keys and credit, until loser Noah Kingston.
Family, or now the forgotten?
‘Fuck you, what-the-fuck ever, you don’t know!’
Saluted with a possibly broken middle finger, he shouts to the dead, red bricks and pics. They glare down at him as he mumbles through his whisky glass.
Kingston focuses for a moment with sadness on Tommy’s photo. It was the newest addition to the wall of family, fraud, and local fame.
He can feel Father Tommy watching him beg, shaking his stubborn, old head in silence. Tommy Gardens, aka ‘Flowers’: the guru of all corners and cut men: the best in the boxing business, in London anyway. Always respected and loved like a father in Noah Kingston’s eyes, Flowers has been beside Noah since his first win and his last failure; but not this one. Noah would not be still around today if it weren’t for Father Tommy ‘Flowers’ love and guidance. Everybody loved Tommy as one would or could dare not, but no-one loved him more than Noah ‘Stones’ Kingston.
A damn lightning bolt: ‘stroke’ put the stubborn, old geezer six feet under a few weeks back, adding fresh salt and tequila to Kingston’s bruised wounds.
RIP, Father Flowers. I love you, old mate.
Cough!
Cough!
The street weed and cheap booze are not near enough.
The rage and pain still live on, inside and out. He is just now a useless, old battlecruiser.
Kingston tries with a total dead arm and weightless motion to put the smoking gun of a bong down. He cannot even get his sorry, drunken ass up off the floor to take a piss.
‘GOD DAMN IT, MAN!’ Kingston slurs from his dry mouth, undoing his belt and zip.
He can feel the warm moisture seep through his Levi’s as he lies in his own raging and sad sorrow. The glass, skull bong in his left hand, comes down with uncontrollable force, straight on and all over the training mats alongside him. It smashes into a million pieces, spewing stinky bong water all over everywhere. The cone piece rolls out down and away from the ringed chaos, hitting the bottom of the corner, steel pole of the ring. The deafening sound of his final round echoes through the dark.
‘Ha ha, oops. Sorry, Flowers, old mate.’ Kingston carelessly giggles out loud, with broken dreams and no love. He knows the ugliness of it all as he lies there in his broken fortress. It is his for at least another twenty-four hours anyway, which is the only silver lining. He knows the consequences of his past actions and bets; the collectors are on their way. This is the true cost of his out-of-control, selfish gambling and decisions. The banks are the biggest gangsters in today’s world, especially in Old London Town. Noah lays content in his own piss, tears, and sorrow, high as an apple pie with no goodbye.
The silence is abruptly broken.
Bang!
Bang!
Bang!
The forceful knocks wake up the resting dust that sleeps on the wall portrait frames.
‘Go one off with ya cunt, whoever ya are! No one’s fucking home, so jog on, will ya!’ Kingston yells out, as he struggles to sit upright.
Bang!
And again: bang!
‘Fuckin’ alright, alright, don’t get ya fuck’n panties in a twist! I’m comin… Jesus bloody Christ.’
Tripping over weights, skipping ropes, and his own wobbly feet, Kingston stalls just before the door with a glare of confrontation. Stopping only to start laughing, an honest, last, loud laugh, as it is the only thing left for him to do. ‘Ding, fuckin ding, Kingston, final round bruv, you had a good run.’
When the laughter stops, he slurs a whisper placing his hand on the doorknob.
The gym is no longer a safe place —no more soap for Noah.
The lock chain restricts Noah’s perfect viewing of a face that he does not seem to recognise.
‘Are you Noah Kingston?’
‘Who da fuck’s askin’?
‘Again, I say sir, are you Noah Kingston?’
‘Who da fuck’r ya pal, get on ya fuckin bike, ya prick, piss off.’
The suit that is standing on the other side of the door says again, with much more confidence and completion: ‘I assume that you are Mr Noah Kingston, to whom I was personally asked to hand-deliver this envelope at this time, at this place.’
“YOUR LEGACY, STONES” is handwritten on the front. It is written in Flower’s handwriting.
‘So that’s a good evening to you then.’ With a swift turn and a hat tip, the suit is gone to the night.
Ripping into the envelope open without any caution, Noah immediately sobers up.
Tears begin to swell and blur his battered black, blue eyes.
It is a bank cheque. A bank cheque made out to Mr Noah, aka ‘Stones’ Kingston.
It reads: “Forty-eight thousand pounds” Signed,
Tommy ‘FATHER Flowers’ Gardens.
KEY
Flatteries: Batteries.
Four isles of Wright: White brick walls.
Lightning Bolt: Stroke.
Brad Pitt: Shit.
Battle Cruiser: Boozer.
Soap: Hope.
Squid: Quid
Author: Damon King is a mature age student in the third and final year of a BFA in Creative Writing at QUT. Over the past decade, being an artist of mixed media owned and dominated the creativity side opposed to my writing. Street art and graffiti was the starting point, then came multiple exhibitions, studios, and showings on professional levels. Artwork being purchased and commissioned from all over the world while building up a healthy presence on social media and travel-got my name out there. My writing has just re-discovered itself in the past few years, and it has been an exciting ride so far, so I am very interested to see where this takes me… @skullcapper @5kullc4p @johnnymahogany F.B Skull Cap (Brisbane artist)
Artist: Damon King
Edited by: Mia Paton and David Uptin