Interview with the Monster
Prequel to The Death Pledge by Jeff Carroll
When I first got the assignment to cover the story of
Jefferson Washington, the barnyard boxing sensation known as the King of
Africa, I was taken aback. Me, Hirum
Langston, award-winning writer assigned to cover a story about a brutal,
illegal sport. Bare-knuckle fighting or
boxing without any gloves or whatever you want to call it’s pit fighting. I would have much rather been investigating
one of Gravel T. Woods’ new inventions or spending some time with Fredrick
Douglass talking about ways to end slavery.
However, Reginald Small is a man with great purpose, so even though this
is something I do not understand, I will approach it with the utmost
respect. I have only been to the South
one time in my life and the experience there was life-changing. Reporters for the north, especially of the
abolitionist school of thought like me, were never invited to newsworthy
occurrences on the Plantations of the South.
I guess they are scared we will find out about some hideous slavery
activity. That makes this opportunity
all the more sweet.
Arrangements had been made for me to stay at a rooming house
or, as they say, a bed and breakfast. I
have heard stories about this fighter, the King of Africa, that make him seem
like a terror. All of these stories are
relayed orally, of course. Barnyard
boxing and any form of boxing is against the law in all of the Northern
States. Human fighting is barbaric and
inhumane. Even when these fights were
held up North before the laws were passed, they were held in secrecy. The South maybe filled with cornhusking
hillbillies, but even they aren’t primitive enough to celebrate this savagery. On second thought, with all of the reported
incidents of slave labor and its hideous atrocities, fist fighting is a step
up.
Saturday, October 7, 1851
The ride to the bed and breakfast was treacherous to say the
least. I have never rode for so long on
an unpaved road. The carriage reached
South Ridge, Virginia, well past midnight – about two a.m. Even after a decent
night’s sleep when I was coming downstairs I was still trying to settle my
nerves by thinking about what good stuff these country folk would have for
breakfast.
“Say, is this your first fight?” a man said to me. I was holding a spoon serving myself a
helping of grits.
“Ah, I ah. I’m not a fighter,” I said. Not knowing what to say. I didn’t really want to tell people who I
was. “I’m just here with a friend.”
“Well, I hear that the wager man is running late,” the man
said in a lower voice than he had the first time. “On account of people placing so many bets.”
“Is that so? Well, I
don’t expect to be betting any money on this fight.”
“Well if you do wanna make yourself some take home money. I’m taking bets on Haymaker Hazlitt. He’s going to show that jungle ape the proper
order of the food chain evolution.”
I walked away from the man whose excitement over the fight
caused spit to fly out of his mouth while he was talking. So as not to have his oral fluids fly onto my
plate I walked around him to find a seat at the end of the table. While I didn’t mind a breakfast buffet, it
does demand a certain etiquette that I just don’t think these Southern fight
fans are capable of.
The fight was set to start after noontime, leaving enough
time for the main fight time to finish before sunset. The rooming house was filled with nothing but
travelers like myself. Everyone was here
to see the African King fight. The
dining room table quickly filled up with an assortment of characters. Men came from as far south as Atlanta and
Savannah. I met a group of men from
Newark. They owned a shipping company
and rode their company’s coach down to South Ridge. There grass outside the house was filled with
coaches and horses from the porch all the way out to the road.
The breakfast was good.
Nothing like fresh eggs and cheese.
I talked to the men about as many subjects as I could but the subject of
the fights always took over. I must
admit people are certainly excited about these barnyard fights. “I heard that African King fella punched a
white man in front of the mayor and ain’t nothing happen to him,” one man said.
“I heard he punched a horse for looking at him the wrong
way,” another man said.
“Knocked the horse out cold with one blow.”
I heard so many stories, which I think were a bit
exaggerated, just at the breakfast table that I started to get a little excited
myself. I excused myself and went back
to my room to take a nap.
“Come on out! They just bringing the African King out,” a
voice screamed. It startled me. I looked at my watch and it was 11:30
a.m. I guess that carriage ride took a
little more out of me than I expected.
Anyway, time to go to work and get this story. So I ran a rag over my face and skipped down
the stairs.
“Easy, young fella.
They got him covered up. His
trainer Jim don’t want him to be teased by any of the boys here,” an old man
said. He was sitting in a rocking chair
drinking a glass of lemonade on the porch looking at all the chaos from a safe
distance. “They’re going to be bringing
out some pork sandwiches in a few. You
need to make sure you get yours first cause they are sure to run out today.
“Ah is that all they’ll have is pork?” I said.
“Hell no. She been
frying chicken and making tater pies all week.”
Thank God. I could
eat some chicken, but I had a bad experience with a piece of pork when I was a
child. “Okay, thank you Sir.”
From a few feet off the porch, I was able to see the big
wagon carrying the African King roll in.
It looked like a big box covered with a show curtain like the ones they
use on stages at the theater.
I noticed the fighting area was filling up quickly, and I
also saw they had started selling the sandwiches. I rushed over and got a box of chicken and
three fluffy biscuits. I took an end
seat on a mid-level bleacher. The
announcer was already talking to the crowd by the time I got situated.
“Today we got a treat for you fight lovers. I ain’t talking about no cock fights or no
dogs fights. I’m talking about two big
ole giants fighting. Men so big there
ain’t no place for them in the world but in this here ring. First we got two scrappy young fellas that
promise to give you something that you ain’t expecting. They both say they’ve got killer in their
blood, so it sure to be a pleaser. Then
we got what you all came here for. We
got a fighter who’d make the gladiators in Rome run home and get their mammas.
He’s all the way from England. It took
him two weeks to get here, and I bet he ain’t happy about that. Haymaker Hazlitt,” the fat announcer
said. The crowd screamed and cheered so
much you would have thought he had already won the fight. “He told me yesterday that he heard Virginia
had a colored problem and he wanted help us solve it. Hahaha.”
Then the crowd got quiet.
Real quiet.
“Now you know we’ve got this fighter trained by Old
Jim. This fighter is half animal and
half monster. He started in the fields
of North Carolina. You know picking
cotton and sugar cane. Now he’s been
chopping down every man we’ve put in front of him. All the way from Africa,
we’ve got the African King!” This caused
the crowd to boo and scream curses.
The first fight was a spectacle to say the least. Both men about the same size traded punches
and slaps at each other for over 5 rounds.
They knocked each other to the ground.
Each time they got up before the bell rang and got back up with new
energy. By the tenth round, I could
barely predict who would win. The
fighters both looked to be within an inch of their lives, yet they still
fought. Every time they fell to the
ground, I couldn’t help but think “Why get up?”
One time I yelled, “Stay down, dummy!”
That made all of the men sitting around me turn and look at me. I wouldn’t say that again. But why?
Why do they get up? This was the
stupidest way to display courage. Then
by the fifteenth round, out of the blue and totally unexpectedly, one of the
fighters threw a right-handed punch at the other fighter’s head and misjudged
the other fighter’s distance. The other
fighter, seizing an opportunity he had been waiting for, followed with a
devastating uppercut which connected with the jaw of his adversary. The blow knocked the fighter off his feet and
into the first row of bleachers.
When they finally got a word out of the laid-out fighter,
all he said was “Where am I?”
They quickly cleared the ring and the announcer pronounced
the fighter the winner. He then called
for two volunteers and stood them on both sides of the ring.
“Now you fellas will get the first shots at the African
King,” the announcer said. He stepped
aside and in walked Old man Jim, an old man with wrinkled skins and a big round
belly. He was followed by what seemed to
be just what they said: a monster. The
African King. Dressed in overalls and
wearing a straw hat, he looked normal, except he was twice the size of a normal
man. He had large muscles – not defined,
just large. His chest was big like a wooden
barrel of ale. He looked around at all
of the people and offered what almost seemed like a smile. The two men in the ring were each given a
piece of wood. Following the instruction
of Old man Jim, they swung the slabs over the head and back of the African
King. While each piece of wood broke
over the African King’s body, he barely flinched. Holy cow, he was strong. I’d only seen men this strong at the circus.
“You see. He’s got no
feeling,” someone screamed from the audience.
“No soul,” the announcer said. “And now I bring you this animal trainer all
the way from England, Haymaker Hazlitt.”
The African King backed away from Haymaker as soon as Old
man Jim climbed out of the ring.
Haymaker – a tall man, equal to the height of the African King – just
starred at the big Black fighter. When
the bell rang, Hazlitt was all over the African King, throwing lefts and right
punches. The African King barely moved
as he raised his arms to block. The
crowd cheered. It didn’t seem like a
fight at all. By the beginning of the second
round, Haymaker had thrown almost all of the punches while the African King
just took a beating. Midway through the
second round, Haymaker landed a punch that caused the African King to
stumble. Haymaker, sensing an easy
victory, released out a barrage of more punches. The African King fell to the ground. Well, not all the way. He came down on one knee. But you would have thought he fell out flat
on his back, like the early fighters did, by the noise of the crowd. I started to think that this was no fight; it
was a rigged public beating. This
couldn’t be the guy people traveled so far to see.
The African King blocked Haymaker’s punches from that
position until the bell rang. After that
he got up and walked over to Old man Jim.
Jim splashed him with a cup of water as he sat down. He offered the African King a jar of some
sort. It had green liquid in it. The King took a big gulp and Old man Jim said
something I couldn’t make out. When the
bell rang, the African King jumped up and dropped his arms to his sides and
squatted down. Haymaker paid him no mind
and rushed in as usual. This time the
African King caught Hazlitt with an open-hand slap. Haymaker stumbled back a step. He shook his head and charged again this time
he was slapped twice. He tried to punch the
King, but his punches were blocked. The
King jumped around on each side of Haziltt, slapping him on the side of his
head and body. His opponent turned his
head as fast as he could, but that only added to the blows ‘accuracy. Hazlitt snorted and gritted his teeth then rushed
toward the African King. The African
King sidestepped and punched Hazlitt in the cheek. Hazlitt, now mad and turning red, said “Come
on you beast. Stop running and fight me.”
The African King stopped moving and just stood there with
his arms to his side. Hazlitt hauled
back and aimed a blow at his opponent.
The African King lowered his body to the ground and let the punch sail
over his head. The move caught Hazlitt
so off guard that he lost his footing.
The African King jumped up in the air like a frog and came crashing down
on Hazlitt’s head. Hazlitt fell straight
down. The big white fighter’s face
connected with the ground so hard it thudded like it was a brick. The ring man quickly rang the bell. Hazlitt pushed himself back up to his feet
and wobbled back to his chair. The
once-noisy crowd was quiet. I dared not
say a word.
When the bell rang starting the next round, both fighters
looked refreshed. The African King
looked like it was the beginning of the fight, and Hazlitt looked like he was
surrounded by a group of bandits. He
didn’t seem to have his earlier skilled aggression. He held an arm out to keep the African King
away from him. He walked around the ring
like he was looking for an opening. The
African King just stayed in his position with his arms dangling and in a
squatted position. The crowd started cheering “kill him, kill him.”
Hazlitt, grinned to the crowd in acknowledgment of their
love, it seemed like he’d been waiting for to charge the African King. He blocked the first slap and almost tackled
the King, a move which I thought wasn’t allowed. I thought the rules were for fist fighting
only. Anyway, Hazlitt, having the
African King pinned against the rope, rammed his knee into the barrel shaped ribs
of the African King. He pushed the King
back with both hands around his neck choking him. The referee just stood there watching. The African King fell down to his knee and
Hazlitt rammed his knee into the King’s head.
The crowd cheered. Some men stood
up. Hazlitt punched the King, knocking
him over onto the ground.
Now with the African King finally lying on the floor,
Hazlitt turned to the cheering audience and raised his arms. When he turned back toward the African King,
the King was almost back on to his feet.
Hazlitt rushed him with his stereotypical confidence and swung and the
King. This time the King was already on
one knee and the blows were easier to block.
He blocked them both and followed with an uppercut to Hazlitt’s
chin. The blow stood Hazlitt up
straight. The African King punched
Hazlitt in the stomach, causing Hazlitt to bend over. As Hazlitt crouched to hold his stomach, the
African King cupped both his hand together and swung them into Hazlitt’s
face. Hazlitt stood erect and
motionless. Blood dripped out of his
mouth and his eyes were shut. I couldn’t
tell if he was going to fall forward or backward. All I could tell was he was unconscious. His head tilted to the sky and his arms
dangling on his sides told the crowd who the winner was.
This was by far the most thrilling event I have ever
witnessed. As barbaric as it was, these
fighters are a cut above the rest of us.
I can’t wait to talk to Jefferson Washington, the African King tomorrow.
Check out the book with the story
Sci-Fi Streetz
“I wanted to write a mainstream type story but still be black. I wanted to expand on what is considered black science fiction. When people think of Black sci-fi they think of African warriors and paranormal stories not global disasters and the post apocalypse,” said Jeff Carroll of his work.
