The two bums circled each other slowly in the dusty, litter-strewn parking lot. Neither was in a rush to bring the fight to the other and frankly, I was growing restless.
“Come on you worthless blights, let’s get this party started!” I shouted, waving a crisp $20 bill in my hand. “Here, twenty bucks to whoever draws first blood!”
My outburst garnered an appreciative roar from the other spectators who had gathered to watch what is quickly becoming this neighborhood’s most beloved tradition: Friday afternoon bum fights. I’m not sure how long they’ve been taking place at this location, but I first stumbled upon them a few weeks ago while en route to my office following a six-martini lunch at my favorite strip club, Boobs-a-Poppin’. Perhaps unsurprisingly, I was quickly hooked.
But enough nostalgia. The more disheveled of the two fighters eyed my proffered bill greedily before taking a solid swat at his opponent. A fine spray of blood and snot rocketed out of the other bum’s nose and landed with an audible sploot on the pavement, causing the crowd to go wild.
“Oh shit!” cried a homely, bloated woman seated near me. “That must be jelly ‘cause jam sure don’t shake like that!”
“Yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah!” yelled her companion, a rather emaciated fellow who wasn’t having any success in masking his obvious meth addiction. Turning to me with his fist extended, he said: “Gimme a bump on that, son! That Jackson lit a fire under that boy’s ass, what what!”
“Look, I have no idea what you’re saying or if you’re even speaking English,” I said, using the very same twenty to light a fat cigar, “but if you’re expecting me to touch you with my bare skin, you’re going to be sorely disappointed.”
“Rude, son!” the meth-head said, but he quickly became distracted by the fight’s increasing brutality.
Indeed, the bum who had landed the first blow was now on the receiving end of one of the most horrific beatings I’ve ever witnessed. By the time it was over, he appeared to have suffered a broken arm, the loss of several teeth, numerous gashes, and a left eye that was a swollen, purple, bleeding mess. Disgusting.
The good news is, I had placed a bet on the winner prior to the start of the match, and wound up making nearly $200 after paying the loser his promised first-blood reward. Better still, I overheard the meth-head and his companion arguing about a similar amount he had lost on said fight, which was music to my ears. After all, a tidy payout from little effort is always nice, but it becomes doubly sweet when it’s taken from the mouths of those who can ill afford it.
Anyhow, as the great Kenny Rogers says, you gotta know when to hold ‘em and know when to fold ‘em, so I hightailed it out of there and headed back to Boobs-a-Poppin’ to pump my windfall back into the economy. By which I mean, paid women from disadvantaged backgrounds to grind their near-naked bodies on my groinal area. The end.