The Other Side Of Nirvana
by Nom D. Guerre


Chapter Thirty

The Other Side Of Nirvana
Part A 

Discovery Call

	'For the world, which seems,
	Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,
	Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain.
	And we are here as on a darkling plain;
	Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,
	Where ignorant armies clash by night.'

								Matthew Arnold - From: 'Dover Beach'

	For the first time during that mid-May evening did the police radio
sputter to life.  "Jackson, check in."
	The driver had already been on duty for a half-hour and all was quiet.
With a sense of anticipation he picked up the radio mike and responded,
"Jackson here."
	"Sam, there's been a report that some men were seen half carrying a Blonde
woman from the auditorium at the Scottish Rite Center.  They just drove
away in a couple of cars.  Maybe there were three or four.  Anyway, there's
some sort of convention scheduled there tomorrow; an all day Friday affair.
 I think it goes straight through the weekend.  But nothing's happening
tonight.  Better check it out and make sure the place is secure.  You copy
that."
	"Roger, Pete.  I'm on my way."   He immediately flipped on his right turn
blinker and headed for an off-ramp to exit the San Diego Freeway.  Traffic
was light and he quickly was able to head toward the center of the city
that the freeway he was leaving was named after.   
	After a pause the dispatcher added, "You be careful now, Sam.  Don't let
that black ass of yours get all shot up."
	The driver chuckled as he replied, "You can count on that, Pete.  Over and
out."  Then the smile faded as he became reflective.  For it was not a
bullet into his ample rump which forced him to be in his present employ; it
was one to the shoulder.  His thoughts went back two years when he was a
member of the California Highway Patrol.  It was on a night similar to this
and about the same time, nearing ten o'clock, that his career with the CHIP
came to an abrupt end.  The San Diego dispatcher's request to check on a
building was routine, as was the time he stopped a car on a Los Angeles
freeway for going 11 miles per hour over the speed limit.  That night his
hands were routinely full, ticket book in his left hand and flashlight in
his right.  Through the driver's open side window of the stopped car he
found himself staring at the killing end of an automatic pistol.  Without
hesitation the patrolman leapt sideways toward the rear of the car just as
the pistol discharged.  Instead of a 9 MM bullet into the face it whammed
into his left shoulder, its impact spinning him around and down onto the
freeway pavement.  Blocking out the pain in his useless left arm, he pushed
off with his right hand and rolled onto his back.  Because he was right
handed, his own personal service revolver was holstered on his right hip;
which was immediately withdrawn and cocked by his good right hand and aimed
at the vehicle's opening door by his good right arm.  When the driver
exited the car to finish off the patrolman, he was literally stopped dead
in his tracks by two Colt Python .357 caliber magnum bullets slamming into
his chest in rapid succession.    
	Surgery pretty much repaired the damage to his left shoulder, while
extensive physical therapy eventually resulted in his regaining full use of
the arm.  Full use, except for the fact that he had lost most of the
strength in the upper part of that arm.  By this time he had slipped into a
deep depression and decided to accept a discharge from the Highway Patrol,
the decision helped in great part by the payment of a generous monthly
disability check.  He already had a degree in criminal science from
California State University at Los Angeles, and was promised to be re-hired
by the Patrol and given a desk job if he changed his mind about returning
to the force.
	All to which he said, "Thanks, but no thanks."  A short time later he
accepted an offer made by a San Diego private security firm to join them as
either a day guard or night patrolman.  He opted for the night shift, which
made the job relatively easy; besides the income supplemented his
disability pay and the position was relatively safe.
	And safe is what he most desired.  Although Jackson had lost some of the
nerves in his shoulder, he had lost all of the nerve in his head.  And of
the heart.  Facing that pistol had literally scared him out of his wits,
and it was that part of his persona which he had not regained.  During
those long months of physical recovery he concluded that he had not
recovered emotionally, and to make matters worse he had become cowardly.
In the main it was that judgment which drove him into his depressed state.
In losing his wits he had lost his nerve, especially in regards to danger -
be it real or potential.  Either way, he most desired to not confront a
firearm of any sort aimed at him.  Which would be a normal desire by any
sane individual, however at the time he wasn't thinking normally.  	
	He once had a great deal of courage, however he believed that it had left
him.  True or not, that was his perception, and such perception became his
reality.  He was a man of absolutes, the whole loaf of bread or nothing.
Because he perceived that he had lost all of his wits he would not be
satisfied in regaining half of them, for that would only classify him as a
half-wit.  That would not do, he needed time, vast amounts of time,
especially time alone to sort things out.  In his case he found the body
could heal a lot faster than the mind.  
	The depression also caused him to withdraw from any sexual or social
intercourse with society at large, and females in particular.  Emotionally
he had slid into becoming a loner, and right now being on the night shift
suited him just fine.  He was reviewing all this in his mind when something
ahead caught his attention and broke his reverie.
	It was a lighted marquee in front of the Scottish Rite Center that
announced: 'Women's Wrestling Convention'. Under it had been added in
smaller letters: 'An Exhibition of Women's Boxing To'.
	He grunted, "Dumb shits, should have spelled To as Too."  Jackson knew his
English - He had been to college.  He parked the patrol car next to a side
entrance.  Prudently he wasn't about to open the main door and announce his
arrival.  It was the side door for him.  He took out his heavy flashlight,
which he did not intend to use for illumination.  He brought it as a
weapon, allowing that other weapon, his .357 Colt Python to remain
holstered.  In his other hand was the key to all of the auditorium's outer
doors.  
	When he closed the door behind him the security guard decided to leave it
unlocked.  If he needed backup help then it could come right through that
door and not be slowed down by being in need of a key.  Above the door was
an 'Emergency Exit' sign.  Its red light gave off an eerie glow to the
passageway which led directly to the main auditorium.  He walked down its
length and when he reached the end noticed a locked switch panel on the
wall.  The door key also opened the panel, revealing several rows of light
switches.        
	The guard closed the door without flicking on any of the switches.  He
decided to keep to the dark.  From such darkness would he seek its help to
cloak his movements.  Likened to the stealthy planes built by Lockheed, he
regarded stealth as the best defense.  He stood still until his eyes
adjusted to the lack of light.  There were a number of those illumined red
emergency exit signs along the outer walls, and in combination they added
some light to the building.  
	Then he saw what was to be the center of attention for tomorrow's
convention.  And centered it was.  Smack dab in the middle of the
auditorium's floor - A full size boxing ring, surrounded by row upon row of
folding metal chairs.  However, from the outside sign's announcement, it
would primarily be for wrestling, with boxing secondary.  For a moment the
patrolman stared at that ring, for what it represented engendered emotions
and rankings in him that were quite the opposite of the sign's
pronouncements.  From past experience he regarded boxing as life itself,
while he considered competitive wrestling as mere play.    
	"Well, I'll be damned," he mumbled.  "I've been there."  'In deed' he had
stood within such ropes a number of times when he was a teenager.  
	For those who have never slipped between a boxing ring's encircling ropes
it is only a place of brutal fascination.  And physical terror.  They who
have not been there, and whatever the compelling reasons, they will never
enter inside that altogether other world of canvas and ropes.  For those
who have occupied that area within the ropes - They know it for what it is,
and was.  What it is represents now; and to reflect on now becomes
nostalgia.  To reenter the past and relive the overcoming of the fear, the
gut wrenching fear, of facing a nearly naked opponent whose sole purpose
was to render you unconscious.  
	Well served by the ignorance of youth was the Pain God, as he watched
young men advance to center ring and make known to one another the carnal
thud of gloved fists slamming upon face and into body.  The clash of two
wills, each seeking to overcome the other by leather encased fists.  The
shared confusion, the boundless energy of driven youth, flailing away at
each other in desperate struggle.  Each to give and receive a succession of
landed punches, of such depth and force that they would gave new definition
to: Hurt.  Stinging punches coming from all directions, landing on all
parts of the exposed body and face.  Their ferocity, their sheer magnitude,
would create an extensive vocabulary, giving voice to describing the
various degrees of pain and endurance.  And their beyond.  For there are
such things.
	Eventually there would come that time when every fighter would experience
a pain so deep that the only escape was to take flight; and then it can
only be backward.  To hear the alarm bells sounding inside your dazed brain
as the skin on your back informs that you have been backed into a corner.
To blink away the salty sting of sweat in the eyes, to see with blurred
vision an adversary approaching, relentlessly closing the distance, a
nightmare made real, this thing, this it - Seeming to possess some
omnipotent power, malevolent gloves at the ready, all too soon to lash out
with a ferocity that begged comparisons with almighty hell.
	Simply put, a battle zone.  And no place to hide.  Backed against the
ropes, yet still in possession of a mighty pride.  A pride most deep, its
depth bestowing the necessary strength to fatigued legs to continue to
stand.  To stand, knowing full well that in such continuance would they
insure their fall.  And in that fall to the waiting canvas would there come
the blessed end.  For there is always the welcoming floor of a boxing ring,
receiving all those who are spent, exhausted in strength and desire.  A
place to lay a head battered into unconsciousness, and in that unique sleep
of a fallen boxer to dream of a triumph now slipping away.  Ten seconds
away.  To finally know the full meaning of the expression:  To be down and
out. 
	But oh the glory to be the only one left standing.  Achieving total
control, purchased by the power of the fists and resolution of the will,
all working in brutal concert in order to bring another to total
subjugation.  To view them lying prostrate at your feet, now impotent,
unable to rise and further challenge your rule, your realm of the squared
circle.  
	Then to go on, to move forward, seeking new conquests.  Only to find in a
subsequent match the roles reversed, now unable to rise and give challenge
to he, still standing square upon this harsh canvas.
	To have won and lost.  To know both sides now, all now made past to a
distant then.       
	Jackson had once been part of all this.  Until that one evening, an
evening of pain that seemed to be without end.  But end it did, and end it
came; in merciful blackness and utter defeat.  After he regained
consciousness, a Negro 18 year old teenager became a man that night as he
arose from the canvas to regain his feet, and with unsteady legs walked
away from the squared circle; to never again enter its realm of pain.
Without regret nor a backward glance.
	Until now.  

Chapter Thirty

Part B

Savior

	'He will bring me forth to the light.
	And I shall behold his righteousness.'
											Micah 7:9  KJV

	In the arena's darkness he faced his now.  And in the dark Jackson saw the
light.  For he realized that he was at peace with himself - At least for
the moment.  But it was a start.  A good start.  From such serenity he
found the strength to look back.  Which he commenced to do. 
	Viewing that boxing ring now brought forth a surge of youthful
recollections flooding up from the back recesses into the front lobes of
his mind.  Vivid memories and stark emotions, to go beyond first-hand, to
know first-fist the fire and ice of triumph and defeat.
	The ex-boxer shook his head in order to put all such memories aside, to
regain his mental focus so that he could concentrate on the job at hand.
To that end he headed straight toward the boxing ring in a brisk manner;
walking down an aisle created by the absence of chairs.  Then he stopped
short, frozen in mid stride.  For out of the dark he heard a faint sound.
A groan actually.  It seemed to emanate from the proximity of that squared
circle.  Then he heard the same groan again.  He quickly walked up to the
edge of the ring and in the gloom was able to perceive a body stretched out
near the center.
	"Oh, Jesus," he gasped as he turned and sprinted back to where the light
switches were located.  He snapped one on and as luck would have it was an
overhead light that was attached to the ceiling, directly over the ring.
"That'll do," he thought as he rushed back to ringside.  He saw that it was
a woman, who was flat on her back in the very center of the ring.  There
was no mistaking her gender, because her large chest was fully exposed.
And breathing.
	The floor of the ring was less than three feet high so he was able to roll
onto the canvas covered floor and under the bottom of the four ropes which
enclosed this squared ring of pain.  For pain had a face, and fully
disclosed was it upon this woman.  Her face was a red mask of pain.  
	As he walked toward her he saw that she was wearing Everlast boxing
trunks, the like he had never seen before.  The material was normal enough,
a shiny white satin topped by a one inch wide black elastic waistband.
Centered in front of that waistband was a prominent white square with the
word 'Everlast' in bold black letters.  It was the cut of the trunks that
was so radical.  What she wore suited her well, for 'It' was styled like a
woman's short-shorts.  However, the sides were slit, all the way up to the
bottom of the encircling waistband.  A great V of material had been
removed, pretty much exposing the outer part of her upper leg.  The apex of
the V started at the bottom of the waistband and continued downward,
forward to the front of the trunks where the inner thighs met, and rearward
where they met again.  He shook his head in wonder about how clever the
design was, for it allowed a woman's fuller thigh and hip a greater freedom
of movement.  It exposed without being immodest.  He smiled too about how
that inverted V of an opening up the trunk's side also allowed a man's eye
an equally greater freedom to observe a lot more leg than from normal gym
shorts.
	They were also narrow, riding low on the hips, fully exposing the fallen
woman's navel.     	      
	The only other covering were Everlast ring shoes on her feet and Everlast
boxing gloves encasing her hands.  The gloves were brown, about the shade
of the woman's skin.  Which was also liberally covered with a color of
different sort, the red of blood.  In fact the skin of the face and body,
as well as the gloves and trunks were splattered with blood.  A lot of
blood.  He had no idea how much was hers and that of her opponent, but it
had obviously been a bloody affair.
	He knelt down beside her and said, "Be still, I'll take care of you."  She
nodded a silent reply of understanding. With that he unwrapped the tape
around the boxing glove's cuff, exposing the tied laces.  In turn he untied
the laces and slipped off each one the gloves.  He noticed that they were
only six-ouncers, the smallest regulation boxing glove allowed in
professional boxing matches, and then restricted to only the lightest
weight classes.
	No lightweight, she.  He guessed her height at about five feet eight and
weight around 160 pounds.  "Open your mouth, dear."  She complied and he
ran his fingers across her upper teeth.  "No mouthpiece."
	She spoke for the first time, "We wore mouthpieces.  Guess it was removed
while I was still out."
	"Seems to be the case."
	"You know what you're doing."
	He smiled, "Yeah, where you are, I've already been there."  Then added,
"Used to box as a teenager.  Strictly amateur though."
	"This was for money.  Serious money."  She wasn't smiling.  
	He turned serious, "From the look of things, it was blood money.  Literally."
	She give him a slight smile, "Yeah, I gave at the arena.  It's all mine.
Bloody nose.  Flowed like a fire hose."
	He felt her nose; she winced at the pressure.  "Easy hon.  I see it's kind
of tender.  But it's not broken."  Then added, "Better get you cleaned up.
Can you move?"
	"Yeah, let me try to get up on my own."  She rolled over onto her side.
Now her bloated breasts were hanging down, and that is when he noticed that
a thin red fluid started dripping from each nipple.  
	"My god, you're breasts are bleeding."
	She looked down.  "I'm not surprised, considering the pounding both took."
 Then she got up to her elbows and knees.  Positioned as she was both
breasts were now hanging straight down.  All that pressure was forcing the
red fluid to drip even faster.  That is not what concerned her.  "Oh hell,
I can't get up."
	"What's wrong?"
	"I've got a splitting headache for one, and no strength left in my arms or
legs for another."
	"Well, some aspirins will take care of one and time will restore the
others." He put his arms under her armpits and brought her to her feet.
Without further words he helped her through the ropes, down the small
ladder and got her to the only dressing room in the arena.  He helped her
onto a rubdown table and removed her fight shoes, then the soaked socks.
The socks were the only things she was wearing that didn't have Everlast
printed on them.  
	"Can you help me to the shower."
	"Of course."
	"Would you remove the trunks.  I don't have the energy, and it hurts
whenever I move."  When she saw that he was hesitating she added, "Don't be
embarrassed.  I've had all the modesty beaten out of me.  As well as
everything else."
	"Okay.  Here goes."  He gripped the waistband and peeled the bloody boxing
trunks down her legs.  Underneath she wore a thoroughly sweat soaked cotton
thong panty.  It was so brief he had no trouble pulling it right off.  
	In the harsh glare of the revealing light, Jackson was able to observe the
stricken women 'In toto' and saw that she was a classic mulatto.  Her skin
tone was medium brown and her puffed bloody nose was rather straight.
However, what really held his interest, although only momentarily, was her
pubic bush.  For it was a true bush, a perfect V of jet-black luxuriant
hair.  Not the curly close cropped pubic hair of the darker Negroes.  He
tried to not smirk as he thought of what he called the 'steel wool'
surrounding his own private parts.  Exposed as she was, no parts of her
were private.  Then he was all business again as he helped the Negress onto
her feet and got her under the lone shower.  Now pelted by hot water
instead of Everlast leather, she asked for her gym bag.  Jackson took the
incentive to extract what she needed from the bag - Soap, shampoo, a
washcloth, and a large towel.  
	As she reached for the soap and washcloth, she murmured, "I think I can
handle this.  Thanks."
	"I'll be right back.  I'm going to get some aspirin."  Jackson left the
bathroom and went to his patrol car.
	Just as he was walking back a rented car drove up and a man, who looked
about fifty, and also looked very concerned, got out.  
	"Who are you?" snapped Jackson.
	"I've come back to get the girl."
	"That's right kind of you," growled Jackson.
	"Is she all right."
	"No, she isn't all right.  In fact she's a goddamn mess.  What the hell
was going on in there?" 
	"A private boxing match that got out of hand."
	"I should say so.  You bastards abandoned an unconscious girl.  What the
fuck was going through your heads?"
	"She agreed to it."
	"Then she's a damn sight dumber than you.  If such a thing is possible.
Look, I'll take care of her for now.  In fact I think it would be a good
idea if you get the hell out of here."
	"Okay.  Looks like you've got everything under control.  One favor though.
 All of the boxing gear belongs to me.  Could you retrieve it for me?"
	"Even the foxy Everlast boxing trunks?"
	"Yep."
	"How about those skimpy thong panties."
	"Afraid so."
	Jackson burst out laughing.  "Jesus, you are something else."
	"Try thorough."
	"Thorough.  I'll give you thorough.  All right, stay put and I'll get your
gear.  Including the panties."  He spun around and went back to the
dressing room.  By now the woman was slowly drying herself off.  "Who's
boxing shoes and socks are these?" he snapped.
	"Mine." she snapped in reply. 
	"Fine.  Here's the aspirins.  Limit yourself to two.  Be right back."
	"Thanks.  By the way, what's your name?"
	"Samuel Jackson," then countered, "what do we call you?"
	"Try dumbshit."
	"Right on.  Miss Dumbshit."  He gave her a sympathetic wink, gathered up
all of the boxing gear, then headed to the parking lot.
	When he approached the waiting man Jackson was stopped short by an odd
question.  "Are you into art at all?"
	The patrolman quickly recovered and replied, "If you mean do I paint,
forget it.  Picasso's safe from the likes of me." 
	He laughed, "Same here.  Actually the painter I was thinking of was George
Bellows."
	"Ah, now I know where you're coming from.  His paintings, 'Stag At
Sharkey's' and 'Both Members Of This Club.  Classic works on boxing."
	"Then you've seen them."
	"Not in the flesh.  Only in a book of his paintings.  How is it I suspect
you've viewed the originals."
	"As a matter of fact, I have.  But that isn't the point I'm trying to
make.  Around the turn of the century boxing in public was illegal in New
York City.  Consequently a West Side saloon named Sharkey's operated as a
private club when they put on prize fights in the back room.  Bellows
painted a moment from one of those fights and it is a masterpiece.  Now
hangs in the Cleveland Museum Of Art.  Prize fighting is a powerful elixir,
both on the fighters and the observers.  Wrestling is nothing compared to
the intoxicant of a hard fought match.  The bloodlust a total knockout
generates is frightening.  An absolute K.O. is about as close to death as
you can legally get in the contact sports."
	"Well, you guys snuggled up to it real tight this night.  When I first saw
her she looked like death."
	"How is she now?"
	"She'll be fine.  I'll see to that."
	"I'm sure she shall; you looking after her.  In this you have my heartiest
thanks."
 	"Don't mention it."
	When all of the boxing gear was placed in the trunk of the rented car the
man handed Jackson a sealed envelope.  "Make sure Susan gets this."
	He took the packet and placed it in his pants pocket.  "You can count on it."
	"Thanks."  The man then got in the car.
	Jackson tapped on the driver's side window, which was immediately rolled
down.  "One question though.  What's with all this custom made Everlast
gear?  That girl has the company name Everlast plastered everywhere on her
except branded on her ass."
	He replied matter-of-factly,  "In point of fact, I did mention to her
about the word Everlast being tattooed in large white letters on her left
breast."  
	For a moment Jackson was stunned into silence, trying to figure out if the
driver was serious.  Then he thought about how the answer was phrased and
realized what his profession was.  "You're a goddamn lawyer."
	He was surprised by this response.  "How could you tell?"
	"They always give themselves away when they start talking.  'In point of
fact' was a dead giveaway.  Say, do you work for the Everlast Company or
something?"
	"No, I don't have any legal affiliation with the company.  With the
possible exception that one of the members of the board of directors is a
golf partner of mine.  No, I work for a soft drink company in Atlanta."
	"Ah, now I understand."  Which he did; for Jackson instantly realized that
he was talking to a wealthy lawyer who had powerful connections, both in
New York City and the Coca Cola crowd in Atlanta. With that insight his
tone of voice and attitude changed.  "Well, Don't you worry, I'll look
after Susan."
	"I believe you will.  In fact I think she is in good hands.  Would your
name be Allstate?"
	"Not bloody likely.  I think you better get moving so I can attend to
business in there."
	"Right."  Then as an afterthought the driver added, "Listen, I really
appreciate your cleaning up the mess we created."
	"Don't mention it."
	"I hope you don't."
	"Don't worry.  I don't like journalists any more than you do.  What
happened here tonight isn't going anywhere."
	"Thanks again."  Then added, "By the way, I was kidding about the tattoo
on her chest."  He thought for a moment then parted with, "Then again, it's
a thought."  With that he gave the patrolman a wink of mutual
understanding, or conspiracy, Jackson wasn't sure which.  Then rolled up
the window, and without looking back, quickly drove away.
	When he got back to the dressing room 'Miss Dumbshit' was outfitted in
loose sweatpants and equally loose sweatshirt.  "Could you see your way
clear to putting my shoes on?"
	"Sure thing."  He slipped on a fresh pair of socks, then tied on a pair of
regular gym shoes.
	As they were leaving the arena he asked, "Hungry?"
	"No.  Just beat."
	"In more ways than one," he replied in a flat tone as he opened the car
door for her.
	As she slipped onto the right front seat she realized that the reply was
not a put-down, only a statement of fact.  "Yeah.  I was beat.  Real bad."
	When he got behind the wheel he asked, "Really, what is your name?
Besides Susan."
	"How'd you know my name was Susan?"
	"Some white guy returned to the scene of the crime to get you.  The codger
said your name was Susan."
	"That must have been Mark Phillips.  He's the one who accompanied me from
Atlanta."
	"You're from Atlanta."
	"Yeah, just arrived in San Diego today."
	"And ready to fly back tomorrow."
	"Not really.  All I want to do is sleep through forever.  However,
tomorrow will do.  Oh yes, the last name is Clarke."
	"Well, Miss Clarke, do you trust me?"
	"With my life."
	"I didn't do that much.  That bastard Mark was intending to take care of
you."
	"He's no bastard.  What happened to me I had coming.  It wasn't his fault,
I agreed to everything."
  	"This I have to hear.  But right now I'm taking you to my apartment.  It
has a spare room that I use as a den.  I have one of those sofas that
converts into a bed.  However, you are going straight to my king-sized bed
to conk out.  Then I have to get back to work.  Are you sure you don't want
to stop and have something to eat?"
	"Looking like this."  She pointed to the red stain that was spreading
across the front of her sweatshirt.  "My tits are so filled with fluid that
I can't get my bra to fit over them.  Looks like I'm going to be leaking
all over your sheets."
	"Not to worry, I'll spread some big towels on top of the sheets."
	She ruefully responded, "My bloody tits are the stark reality of my udder
defeat."
	Both laughed at the same time at the pun.  Then he replied, "You talk like
a college girl."
	"Yeah, graduated from the University Of Georgia.  Degree in English
Literature.  Had aspirations of becoming a writer.  Novelist actually."
	"How'd it go?"
	"I became a pugilist.  How do you think."
	"Too bad."
	"Sam, let me tell you, I'm a hell of a lot better boxer than a novelist.
God, what I wrote was dreadful.  For the world of letters it's best that I
say away from writing." 	
	"Seems you have no regrets."
	"On leaving literature to others, no regrets.  Concerning tonight, I have
plenty."
	"You'll recover."
	"I hope so.  To change the subject, as you know, in English and in
mathematics you can have a double negative and it will equate to a
positive.  However, in English if you have a double positive, it won't
equate to a negative.  Isn't that interesting."
	Confused about what she was driving at he snarled a reply, "Yeah, right."
	She gave him a punch on the arm, "Well you certainly disproved that theory
right fast."
	He thought for a moment about what she meant, then realized that his
positive 'Yeah' and 'Right' taken together was a double positive, and yet
was meant as a sarcastic negative reply of disbelief.  To this he laughed
uproariously.  She had led him down the primrose path and he had blithely
walked into her verbal trap.  He suspected that in her own way she had been
led down a similar path this night.  In her own obtuse way she had let it
be known to him that by the combination of logic, cunning and appeal to
pride (all directed toward her by various men) was added her own lust for
money and the arrogance of omnipotence.  All this was rather deep and
certainly not the time to discuss it further.  He let it pass and kept to
the subject at hand by replying,  "You're all right.  For a Georgia girl."
	"That's me, a real Georgia peach.  Only right now I feel like the pits."  
	By now he was bellowing with laughter and finding it hard to drive in a
straight line.  "Susan, that's enough for now.  I don't want to be pulled
over for driving all over the road."
	"Fine, I'll keep my split lips closed."  With that both fell silent during
the short drive to his apartment.


Chapter Thirty

Part C

Perhaps

	 As they were walking up the stairs he asked, "What do you do in Atlanta
when you aren't getting the shit beat out of you?"
	She hooted with laughter at this, and replied, "I'm a cop with the Atlanta
Police Department."
	"No shit," was his astonished reply.  I used to be an officer with the
California Highway Patrol."
	"A CHIP"
	"Yeah, you might say that."  He unlocked the door and she entered first.   
	She got a puzzled look on her puffed face, "You said, 'Used to be an
officer'.  Am I right about that?"
	He closed the door behind him and replied, "Yeah.  Took a 9 MM in the
shoulder.  Left me with a gimpy left arm."  He motioned the way to the
bedroom and she followed without hesitation.  Both were silent as Jackson
flung back the covers, then went straight to his bathroom, quickly emerging
with a number of large terry-cloth towels.  He spread a number of them on
top of the bottom sheet.  "Get in."
	She sat at the side of the bed, "Sam could you take care of the shoes?"  
	"Your wish is my command."  He quickly slipped off the shoes and socks.
	"And the sweatpants and shirt."
	"Consider it done."  Under the yanked off pants she was wearing a pair of
fresh panties which remained on.  When the sweatshirt came off she slipped
under the covers and lay on her back.  He placed the last towel across her
exposed chest, then covered her up to the neck with blankets.
	"Very cozy."  
	He sat down on the edge of the bed next to her.  "You go to sleep now."
	"First let me ask you a personal question.  You don't seem to be disabled
to me.  You slung me around pretty good, and I'm a pretty hefty girl.
	"On the pretty hefty, I'll put the emphases on pretty."
	"Oh sure.  I must look a sight.  I'm one walking bruise.  Not to mention
my puffy face and grossly bloated breasts.  However, that was nice of you
to say I was pretty.  For the time being, let's stick to hefty.  I'm over
155 pounds, with a lot of it in my chest and ass."
	"I'm not complaining.  I saw both in the flesh.  It all looked pretty good
to me." 
	She felt it was time to change the subject.  "Could I have a drink.  I'm
dehydrated as all getout."
	"Sure."  He got up and headed to the kitchen.  "Water, coke, orange juice,
milk?"
	"How about bourbon."
	He stopped and turned around to face her.  "Are you serious?"
	"As serious as can be.  Helps to sanitize and heal the various and sundry
cuts inside of my bloodied mouth."
	"How's Jack Daniel's sound."
	"Sounds like heaven.  Double, on the rocks; bartender."
	"One double coming up."  He made the same for himself.  When he handed her
the glass she took a big swig from its contents.  
	As she swished the bourbon around the inside of her mouth she flinched and
grunted a "Ummm" as the alcohol bit into the numerous small cuts inside her
mouth, inner lips, and gums.  
	After Clarke took that first swallow she brightened up.  "How much time
have you got?"
	"Take as much as you need."
	"Thanks.  I feel like talking."
	"Shoot."
	"I know curiosity is killing you, so here's what happened.  When Mark and
I got off the plane he rented a car and we drove to the hotel to drop off
the luggage.  Separate rooms by the way.  There's no hanky-panky between
us.  Then straight to the house of the promoter who's putting this three
day shindig together.  Primarily the convention is featuring female
wrestling, the submission type, none of that rehearsed professional crap.
To be supplemented with a smattering of women's boxing.  That is what I was
recruited for.  I and a couple of my girlfriends on the force have taken up
boxing in a serious way.  Tonight I was offered serious money to fight."
	"And seriously you paid for it."
	"That I did.  	Anyway, it was at the promoter's house where I first met my
co-sponsor, Jake Dooley.  He's the guy who was putting up the money for my
airfare and hotel room.  Mark, whom I've known for some time, was taking
care of the rental car, the $ 50.00 entrance fee, and food.  As well as
Seaworld, when we had the time.
	It was at the promoter's house where we met the contingent from Germany.
All of them had arrived a few days before.  There were three women boxers,
all in different weight classes, and like me each had a sponsor.  All of
whom were also in three weight classes.  In this case financial weight,
like rich, fifty rich, and beyond belief.  Well, we all get to talking, and
I mean those Kraut sponsors could speak good English; the British accent
highbrow stuff.  The English that the three girls spoke was orientated more
toward Americanize.  Anyho, all of them were at various German
universities.  One of these gals was about my height and weight; I found
out later it was 160 pounds and five nine.  Naturally the question came up
of who was the better fighter.  I sized up this Blonde Nordic Viking and
said I could take her."
	"Big mistake."
	"You got that right, Sam."  She took another gulp of whiskey and then
continued.  "Jesus, she was a looker.  And being German, I figured that
said Blonde bombshell was of the Valkyrie persuasion.  She sure as hell
could make tell my ancestry - Slave.  Well, the Valkyrie's sponsor asked if
I was interested in earning a little money, instead of fighting for free.
Naturally I inquired about what a German's definition was for 'a little
money'.  He said a thousand bucks to the loser and five grand to the
winner.  All in one hundred bills.  I immediately informed him that where I
came from that was considered serious money."
	"Bet there were conditions."
	"There were conditions, Sam.  Oh yes, there were conditions.  Those guys
were determined to get their moneys worth.  The bout would be that night,
in private at the Scottish Rite Center.  Three minute rounds, one minute
rest period.  It would continue until there was a knockout, or one fighter
could no longer continue.  There was to be no hitting below the belt, but
the waistband was considered as the trunk's beltline and we could hit
there.  Later, with an additional financial inducement, namely ten grand to
the winner, I agreed that we would fight topless and punches to our exposed
chests were permitted."
	"Probably even encouraged."
	"Especially encouraged.  And we would wear the smallest regulation boxing
gloves permitted."
	"Which were those Everlast six-ounce gloves.  Ouch."
	"Ouch is right.  Fool that I am I asked my sponsors if it was all right
with them.  Needless to say, Mike and Jake thought it was a great idea, as
long as they could watch.  Which was fine with the Krauts.
	When the original deal was offered I thought, 'What the hell, if I
couldn't take her early on, I'd let her tag me in the face and lay down for
ten seconds for one grand of tax free money.  That's a hundred dollars a
second'."  Then she added, "On the other hand, if I could put this Blonde
Viking to sleep, I could make five thousand bucks.  Again tax free."
	"From the sound of it, it seems we're all fighting the IRS one way or
another."
  	"That we are, Sam."
	"Susan, you took a real beating.  What the hell happened?"
	"Good word hell.  I now know it's full definition.  Believe me. I'm ready
to go to heaven, because I've already spent my time in hell.
	"I know the feeling.  I've been there too."
	"You're getting shot, I can well understand.  Anyway, to answer your
question, it was avarice, my friend.  The lust for money will do it to you
every time.  I've got to hand it to those German's, they are fucking smart.
 They knew what I was going to think before I even knew what was going
through my thick noggin."
	"Such as?"
	"Such as; they waited for me to accept the first offer.  The private
match, five grand to the winner and one to the loser.  They knew my
opponent would go for the deal  After I said 'Yes' one of the other Germans
adds a suggestion.  Just a suggestion, mind you.  A suggestion that both
fighters have to agree to.  If either opponent says no then we fight under
the previously agreed to terms."
	"I think I see it coming."
	"Sam, I didn't.  It was the classic double or nothing offer.  If we fight
topless it's ten grand to the winner, el zippo to the loser."
	"And you took the bait."
	"Hook, line, and knockout."  She rolled her puffed eyes toward the ceiling
for a moment.  "It wasn't only avarice that got me in this fix, it was also
arrogance."
	"The old double A.  It will get you every time."
	"AA - Avarice and Arrogance, that they did.  I've had ten amateur fights,
won every one of them.  Almost half by TKO or KO.  I'm one tough bitch."
	"Seems you met a tougher bitch."
	"In the end that was the case.  But for four rounds I gave as good as I
got.  Right now I suspect that her very ample and very smashed chest is
oozing blood the same as mine.  My brown skin will hide most of the bruises
to my boobs.  Not so the Viking.  She's fair haired and faired skin, and
tomorrow her tits are going to be two masses of black and blue bruises.
She won't be fighting anytime soon."
	"What puzzles me is why did they leave you alone like that?"
	"You have to remember this - Although Sigmund Freud was an Austrian, he
thought and spoke like a German.  And those Krauts knew their psychology.
If both of us accepted the double or nothing match, we had to agree that
the loser would be abandoned for the night.  She would be left where she
fell."
	"Terror is a great inducement to continue to the bitter end."
	"As is helplessness, Sam.  When you're wearing boxing gloves that are tied
on tight with laces, and then the laces are taped over with surgical tape -
You're damned helpless.  All you can do is walk out into the center of a
boxing ring and pound on someone else's head and body.  Your corner-man or
woman takes care of everything.  You can't even tie your own shoelaces, let
alone wipe your ass.  Between rounds they take your mouthpiece out and put
it back in.  They hold the water bottle for you, other unencumbered hands
do everything for you, except hit your opponent.  That is the one and only
mission for you and the gloves encasing your hands.  And you can't get the
damn things off on your own.  They wrap that surgical tape around the cuffs
to keep the laces from flying about.  Boxing gloves are on for the
duration.  It takes others to remove them."
	"Susan, you're preaching to the choir.  I've been down that road too.  Got
beat up just about as bad as you.  Nine rounds of it, mercifully ending the
ordeal by my being knocked out cold.  I was a senior in high school, 18
years old.  Never fought again.  Found I didn't miss it either.  Guess that
makes us partners of some sort or another.  Both whipped bad."    
	She continued, "It's a mind game.  Here are two girls in a strange city,
neither having the foggiest idea of where anything is.  And one of them is
going to be beaten into unconsciousness.  Then when she wakes up she'll
find out that she's been seduced and abandoned.  The fallen women in the
classic sense.  Scared the hell out of me.  I said 'no way' to that
suggestion.  That is when I found out that my opponent had done this kind
of fighting before - In Germany and in England."
	"Yet that is how I found you."
	"The promoter raised the stakes to triple or nothing.  Fifteen thousand
smackeroos to the winner.  Period."
	"And you jumped at it."
	"Yep.  Jumped right into the ring for it.  I saw the brass ring in the
square ring.  As is always the case, said fallen woman has been seduced by
lust; only this lust is for money.  I took a terrible risk, because you
can't get those damn gloves off unaided, unless you revert to becoming some
form of rodent and use your teeth to first gnaw the damn tape off and then
use them to pull on the strings, praying to god that they come loose."   
	"Now I understand.  You lose and you're stuck there for the duration of
the night with useless hands.  Or until someone like me comes along and
rescues you."
	"That you did, my hero."
	"One last question, then I've go to go.  How did you lose?"
	"A difference in strategy.  By inclination I'm a headhunter.  I go after
the head for the quick knockout.  Sure worked in the past, but not this
night.  The Blonde was a body puncher from the getgo.  We threw about the
same number of punches, however most of mine were at her head, and she
avoided a lot of them by dodging under them, or slipped them, or they were
glancing blows.  Oh, she jabbed a lot, but it was to keep me off balance
and prevent me from getting set to deliver combinations.  But her big guns
were aimed at my body, and almost all of them connected.  You don't slip a
body punch, when they land they are solid and you feel it.  I was getting a
real education in the school of hard knocks."
	"Especially to the body."
	"Right on, Sam.  But I learned.  Sometimes it takes awhile to get it
through my thick noggin, and this was one of those times.  So, at the
beginning of the fourth round I shift gears and start to go hard after her
body by always advancing forward.  No dumb Blonde, she.  Damn, that Viking
was sharp, immediately knew what my new strategy was."
	"Which was to close with her, get inside and whack away at her ribs and
belly."
	"You got it, Sam.  Only it didn't work.  I was so battered downstairs that
it took a real effort to even move my legs, let alone my feet.  I had
really slowed down, so as a lumbered forward she danced backward, whacking
me square in the face, time after time.  My nose catching every blow.  That
is when the nosebleed started."
	"Why didn't you just quit at that point?"
	"Well, the fight wasn't that one-sided.  Early in the first round she went
after my chest and I let her have it right back in the second round.  She
took my best shots to her breasts and I took her best ones to mine.
Neither one of us concentrated on the other's chest, it just worked out
that they were just another target to hit, albeit a most painful one.  The
only thing we were really equal at was in respect to punches into the
other's chest.  We're both pretty much equally endowed as well as battered
in that department.  By the fourth round our boobs were pretty big, with
all that fluid and blood building up inside them.  She's as stacked as me,
so our large tits, now grown huge, were a sight to behold."  
	"I beheld yours, remember."
	"So you did.  Anyway, back to my boxing demise.  Toward the end of the
fourth round my nose was gushing, it was getting hard to breathe, my eyes
were stinging from sweat; I was really getting angry and worse, was
frustrated beyond belief.  That is when I snapped and let go with a
roundhouse right to her head.  Hell, I telegraphed that punch all the way
back from Chicago.  She ducked under it and from her crouch countered with
a left hook square on the Everlast tag on my waistband.  Round after round
she had been driving lefts and rights into that word.  Must be Everlast is
the German word for bull's-eye."
	Jackson interrupted, "Seems she had been taught one of the oldest maxims
in boxing, 'Kill the body and the head will fall'.  Am I right about that?"
	"Are you ever.  By then my lower stomach muscles had been battered into
jelly.  We were wearing narrow boxing trunks, the top of the waistband is
below my bellybutton.  Lot of female plumbing in that area.  That hook
plumbed my plumbing.  She backed up and stood up.  I took the bait and
countered with a straight right at her face.  She slipped it and from
shoulder level drove a right glove straight down into that Everlast
bull's-eye.  She tagged my Everlast tag real good.  It might as well have
been the last punch of the night, I was going down."
	"Which you did."
	"Not fast enough.  Her fist finished off my uterus for the night.  I had
nothing left to impede the glove's deep downward penetration into my womb.
I froze in unbelievable agony as I felt my uterus being gripped in spasms.
It was continuous, like some cruel hand from hell had grabbed hold of the
damn thing and was successively squeezing and letting go of it with
maddening rapidity.  I stood there long enough for a roundhouse right to
the jaw to knock me out cold."
	"How can you be so sure?  They say you never see the punch that knocks you
out."  
	"I didn't see that last punch.  But I sure can feel it.  The side of my
jaw is absolutely numb.  No doubt about it, that is where she tagged me."
	"Well, I've heard enough.  As I said before, you go to sleep now."  With
that, Jackson got up and gave her an affectionate pat on the top of her
head.  Then he stopped, reached into his pant's pocket and withdrew the
envelope.  "This is for you.  Mark gave it to me just before he drove away.
 Do you want me to open it?"
	"Sure Sam.  We don't have any secrets between us.  Hell, you've seen me in
the flesh."
	"That I have.  And fine flesh it is."
	"Liar.  All you saw was bruised flesh."
	"I beg to differ.  I observed one part of your anatomy that was free of
bruises.  Susan, I have to say this.  You are a fine looking women, even
when you've had all the crap beaten out of you."
	"Thanks for the left-fisted complement, Samuel."  
	He ripped open the packet.  "The first thing this envelope contains is a
thousand dollar check from Mark Phillips.  With a note attached."
	"What's it say?"
	Attached to it by a paper clip was the note that succinctly read: 'For
wear and tear to miscellaneous body parts.'  He handed that check and note
to her.  "You read it."
	She looked at the check and note with surprise.  "Well, I'll be damned.
Wasn't that nice of him."
	Jackson sarcastically replied, "Right.  Salt of the earth."
	"Would you read the letter to me.  Please.  My eyes aren't up to it."
	"Sure.  The letter reads thusly."  The following is what was read to her:

	'Susan, you fought the good fight.  In fact Jake and I witnessed a woman
who gave her all.  And beyond.  In fact the two of you fought most
gallantly.  For what had been originally conceived by an ignoble desire for
brutal spectacle was eventually transfigured into a most noble contest.  An
epic battle of biblical proportions.  Both you and your worthy opponent
lifted what could have been a degrading brawl to the highest level of what
we know as sport, and at rare times transcends the term to become:
Majestic.  What we viewed tonight can only be regarded as simply splendid.
   
	The enclosed check for a $ 1,000 is the least I can do for that initial
verbal contract you originally agreed to.  We have honored that original
contract.  And gone beyond - By twice.  Although you may have lost the
contest we both feel you have gained something far greater.
	As have we.
	For both of us are in agreement that we were privileged to witness an
extraordinary contest between two magnificent women that can only be
described as: 'Carnal combat'.  Although carnal has sexual overtones, the
word basically is about flesh.  We're talking about meat here.  And the
appetite for it.  There are those rare women who desire to pit the strength
and resolve of their flesh against another woman in order to answer some
deep-seated need to answer a fundamental question.  Lacking the verbal
powers of such description I have to revert to the cliché: 'Do I have what
it takes?'  To be added, 'What are my limits; and beyond?'  Susan, you have
obviously answered both questions in the affirmative.  You may not think so
right now, but with the passage of time and deep introspection you shall.
	Unlike wrestling, which is the pressing of the flesh, boxing is the
pounding of the flesh.  In wrestling it is the stronger flesh that
overwhelms; in boxing it comes down to whose flesh can endure the most
punishment and stay the course.  
	We both are firm in this, in that each of us believes you reached down to
reserves you never knew you possessed and brought forth a form of courage
and endurance that was a wonder to behold.    
	As a personal aside, I've matched the initial dollar total with one of my
own.  I think this attached note to the check is apropos. 		
	Finally, as I said earlier, you fought a battle of biblical proportions.
And as such I conclude this letter with an extract from another letter
written almost two thousand years ago from some guy named Paul.  It was
addressed to someone called Timothy.  To whom he wrote:'

	'I have fought a good fight, 
	I have finished my course,
	I have kept the faith.'  

	'God bless you my dear, for you have fought the good fight.  You stayed
the course against an almost omnipotent power, under the most trying and
terrifying circumstance.  And you have personally reinforced my faith in
the indomitable courage of the human spirit.
 	I am honored to have known you.'  
		
							Best regards,

							Mark

Jackson was astonished, "That's some letter."
	"Yes, it was nice.  What's the other one from Jake say?"
	He turned his attention to the second of the folded letters.  "Hello,
what's this."  Inside was a check from Phillips for a thousand dollars.
The letter said the following:    

	'Susan, I only wish to add to what Mark said.  Each of us is kicking in $
1000.00 to equal by twice the thousand bucks you originally accepted in
case you lost the match.  Considering the outcome, it is the least we can
do.  As Mark said, the extra amount is for wear and tear of body parts.
However, neither one of us has limited ourselves to this offer.  If we can
be of any further assistance please feel free to come forward.    
	I have had the honor to meet a most courageous and remarkable lady.  With
the emphases on lady.  Although you may have been beaten, you have not been
defeated.  Only you have the power to permit yourself to be defeated.
Hell, a lot of us have been beaten when we were children, either by our
parents or our schoolyard peers.  Each of us in our own way overcame those
early beatings.
	Defeated is another story altogether.  I firmly believe, of that, you
never shall.
	As Mark has stated, it was a struggle of biblical proportions.  To me what
comes to mind is First Corinthians:'

		'Beareth all things,
		Believeth all things,
		Hopeth all things,
		Endureth all things.'

	During what must have been a most dark and stormy night for you, we were
witness to one who did 'In Deed' beareth and endureth all things.  With the
passing of this grim night you will arise and enter the next day and from a
new perspective see the bright of day anew.  To see the light, so to speak.
 In such sunshine, or during the night of reflection, will you come to
believeth all things; so shall you hopeth all things.  For you have already
had to beareth all things, and endureth all things.
	For tonight we all were witness to your bringing to life in all its
clarity Hemingway's definition of courage: 'Grace under pressure'.
	I know several of the men you met tonight and in the main they are fine
people.  However, I have to admit that none of the men involved in creating
the conditions of the match this night were acting exactly honorable.
However, the two women in the ring physically and spiritually demonstrated
the full meaning of honor.  By their superb fighting spirit did they put
away the base intent of the perpetrators.  
	I do go on.  So let me conclude with one of the last entries from the
diary of Robert Falcon Scott.  He was the first English Antarctic explorer
to reach the South Pole.  While trekking back to home base he had the bad
luck to get caught up in a horrific blizzard from which there was no
escape; and subsequently froze to death.  If memory serves me right, it
goes like this:    	  

	'I do not regret this journey.
	We took risks, we knew we took them.
	Things have come out against us.
	Therefore we have no cause for complaint.'

	I sincerely hope that you do not regret your journey.  Both to San Diego,
and I might crudely add, your subsequent journey to dreamland.  The latter
journey is not meant as humor.  I'm afraid that at present you might have a
sore spot concerning that trip to the unconscious world.
	Please find it in that stout heart of yours to forgive us, one and all.'
							
							With all due respect,

				
							Jake

	
	He handed the check to her.
	The Negress laughed, "More than a sore spot, buster.  Try everywhere sore."
	Her companion joined in the laugh.  Then a very astonished Samuel Jackson
handed the note to an equally moved Susan Clarke.  He shook his head in
dismay.  "Boy, did I misjudge Mark.  I was pretty hard on him."
	"He's good people.  So is Jake.  Don't worry, Mark won't hold a grudge
against you.  I'll introduce you to him tomorrow.  Or the day after.  We
fly back Monday morning.  For now I desperately seek sleep."
	"Which ye shall have at this very instant.  Goodnight sweet princess.  Oh
yes, I just remembered that I forgot to re-lock the side door of the
auditorium, so I've got to get cracking."
	"Thanks for everything."
	"Susan, one last question though.  I didn't think of it until now.  When
first I removed those six-ounce gloves you didn't have any Everlast
hand-wraps around your hands and wrists.  How come you put your hands in
such jeopardy?"
	"Sam, there wasn't much chance of either one of us dislocating a knuckle
or finger.  Those boxing gloves are rather small and our hands fit in them
tight enough.  You have to remember, six-ounce gloves were designed for
fighters who weigh around 110 pounds.  One Negress at 155 pounds and that
Blonde Valkyrie at 160 pounds, well by any standard of measurement we are
pretty big girls.  Consequently our hands fit in them quite snug."
	He nodded in agreement, "Makes sense."
	Then she added, "Oh, by the way I'll confess something very dark to you.
The Krauts didn't even have to ask us if we wanted to put on hand wraps.
They knew the answer already."
	"It would be 'no',"
	"Yes, Samuel.  It would be 'no'.  For you see, when we entered inside that
ring both the white girl and the black girl wanted nothing to hinder us
from experiencing that exquisite feeling of our fists sinking deep into our
opponent's breasts; digging into the femaleness of her lower belly -
seeking out the other's womb; to feel the crunching of knuckles against
facial bone.  Nothing whatsoever to interfere with such sensations except a
thin covering of leather and a bit of padding around the front of the
glove.  The question of putting on hand-wraps never came up."
	"I see."
	"I believe you do, Sam.  The Germans knew why, all along.  Residing deep
in our collective subconscious minds that Blonde and I may have had the
hidden desire to attack our rival's sex and make her impotent.  However,
during the first round when the fighting got hot, such feelings sure as
hell rose to the conscious level.  Right soon, I might add."
	"Susan, men don't think that way."
	She smiled, "I wouldn't have it any other way.  Tonight, while discussing
the match with you I would bring up the contrast between my opponent and me
- White versus black.  In truth, nothing is black and white especially
concerning this match.  As far as I'm concerned, racism never entered into
the equation, nor that boxing ring.  And I think that is how she felt about
it too.  That Viking was an honorable fighter.  She beat me fair and
square.  Racism had nothing to do with it.  It was all about sexual rivalry."
	"That seems to be the case.  Just about everything has sexual
connotations, even boxing."
	"Especially boxing, Sam.  Hell, the most erotic form of sport is female
wrestling.  With female boxing close behind."
	"Now that you mention it, I have to agree with you, Susan."
	"Glad I had you see the light.  Now turn off the light so I can get some
sleep.  For I must depart with a goodnight, Mister Jackson."
	"Goodnight, dear."   
  	Then she rolled over to get some sleep.  
	And then he was gone.
	Within minutes so was she.  For Clarke had slipped into unconsciousness
for a second time this most eventful night.  However, it was a healthy
unconsciousness, and in her deep sleep would there begin the long recovery
to regain her strength, repair the traumatic effects of the concussion to
her brain, and heal the bruises to her face and body.
	
	She would not fight again.  
	In due time she would reach that conclusion.  There was nothing more to
prove.  What questions she had about her limits had been answered fully
during that May night in San Diego. 
	Although her beating was severe, she would fully recover.  So too would
her pride.  It could be argued that it was equal parts pride and courage
that kept her going, round after brutal round.  Arrogance got her inside
that ring in the first place.  It was mostly pride, or mostly courage,
perhaps a deadly combination of the two that propelled her ever forward to
an eventual and humiliating defeat.  When she came to and found herself
flat on her back, alone in that darkened auditorium, Clarke initially
considered her loss as a humiliating defeat.  With all the kindness and
respect shown her by Jackson and the note from Phillips and Dooley, any
thought of humiliation was forever swept away.        
	In time, when she had healed and had time to reflect, she would come to
know herself, and in that knowing would realize that not only was she
over-endowed in the chest department, she was also over-endowed inside that
chest with 'heart'.  Which on the face of it is not always a sensible
trait.  Be it an excess of courage, or perhaps she being cursed with the
stupidity of stubbornness; whatever the case, she rightly knew that if she
ever entered into the ring with such a fearsome opponent again, she would
again fight to the bitter end.  Knowing full well that she had not yet
learned the brutal lesson of the ring, by refusing to give up to that whom
is your better.
	Or stronger.
	Or quicker.  For out there, laying in wait in the tall weeds is always
someone superior.  Ever ready to painfully explode with a leather glove to
the face and in the gut, a sort of fistic ambush.  
	Although, historically, there are those rare few who, for a time, were
simply the best.  Such rarity leads to a sort of immortality.  For a time.
For all fame is fleeting.  It is hope that springs eternal.       
	Perhaps the American's prime motivation during that desperate struggle
with the German had been hope.  The hope of that perfectly delivered punch
to the jaw.  For in boxing, no matter how far behind a fighter is, there is
always the hope that one perfectly delivered punch will knock out an
opponent; thereby winning the battle.  Boxing is one of the few sports
whereby one of the participants can be hopelessly outclassed and even
further behind, and yet at a stroke - Win.  
	Decisively.              
	Be it courage, stubbornness, or hope, it was in her nature that if Clarke
ever met the likes of her Blonde nemeses again in the ring there was the
very likelihood that she would fight on with the same dogged determination
as before.  And endure the same pounding to her body, chest, face, and
spirit as before.  From such a repeated ordeal there was the chance that
Clarke would not fully recover, either physically or emotionally, or both.
Common sense dictated that she would never fight again.  
	Jackson had already learned this lesson of the ring in the same painful
way.  And once was enough.  
	So be it Clarke.
	In this was there a fundamental experience shared.
	For each of them; for the two of them, a good start.
	Perhaps a new beginning.
	Together.      
	Perhaps.