story by Troy Evitt
illustration by Ashley Holt.
Only in a town like this could a two-bit palooka like me from Hoboken with a busted nose and a slack jaw get a shot at promoting Billy Carlucie, the Soup Kitchen Brawler. The little bastard fought like a caged monkey on opium. He had heart, he had guts. Hell, he had what would've been his identical twin growing out of his left shoulder blade. You'd think there was two of them the way you'd see the little freak roll his eyes and spit. But then, that was the kid's edge. Half the time, the contender would forfeit from the sheer horror of it all. The other half the time, Billy'd get the living shit beat out of him, but he'd still win 'cause the little half-twin thing would push him up before the ref could declare a TKO. Tell ya what, buddy boy, dem was the days.
He had a promising shot at the title. Then one day he gets drunk before a bout with Chicken Willie. It was a real ruckus! Billy went down in the third round. Passed out or knocked out, it was over. After that, he was never the same. He hired some muscle and a mouthpiece to fix his fights. He started letting the little twin-thing drive. Pretty soon, he was letting it box in fixed fights while he signed autographs. Then, one day, they found him dead. no one was sure if he choked on vomit or burned to death.
