Chapter 8:

Life as “Lightning”

Nathan couldn’t understand why Davies didn’t ask him more questions. Every once in a while, Nathan would catch Davies staring at him, a stupid grin stretched across his lips. Still, Davies never asked any questions—except about space. It was weird.

The two talked, pointing about the desert, wondering aloud, but Davies never dredged up anything from Nathan’s storied past. Even as they sat about the fire, waiting for their food to heat. Indeed, it was Nathan that finally broached the subject. “You do recognize me?” he asked only to confirm.

Davies smiled, “The second you gave your name—but I imagine you get that a lot.”

“I guess I shouldn’t be surprised,” Nathan stated. “Though I do wonder why it took you so long.”

“If you had a mirror, you’d understand why,” Davies replied. “You have the most incredible tan I’ve ever seen. “

Nathan looked down at his arm and realized his whole body must be a dark copper color. “Re-entry?” he guessed.

Davies laughed. “It must be a curious thing to be you. If you should ever want to tell any of your stories…”

“Oh no, no, no,” Nathan poo poo-ed the idea. “Most of it’s dead boring.”

“Admittedly,” Davies replied. “Celebrity must get terribly irritating at times… Still, I bet you have some really good bits. I know I have some really good bits.”

“Do you now?”

“Sure,” Davies answered. “And since I owe you a story...” he thought for several seconds. “Did you know only 60 percent of people think of themselves as happy?” He asked.

“I’m amazed it’s so many,” Nathan answered.

“So you’re the glass-half-empty type.”

“Perhaps.”

“Do you have a girlfriend?” Davies asked.

“That’s a bit off subject.”

“Not really. People in a committed relationship tend to be happier than singles.”

A memory conjured in Nathan’s head. It was a brilliant day. He was out hiking with Michelle, a blanket, wine, and a pack full of food on his back. There was a hill where they sat and ate and kissed. Neither said much the entire day. “No, no girlfriend.” Nathan answered.

“Really?” said Davies. “I imagine the girls swarm around a looker like you. Especially with your money.”

“I’m just out of a long-term relationship,” Nathan noted. “And a much shorter relationship.”

“Oooohhh, alone time after a rebound. I get it. I had a girlfriend of two years. One day, she told me she didn’t believe in me anymore. What do you say to that?” Davies shrugged. “I waited for her to call, thinking she would. When she didn’t, I made the mistake of calling her, and then calling her again and again, until she finally answered and told me off. Then I joined the military.”

Nathan thought back to the picnic. He and Michelle had gone out for ice cream and a movie and nobody had bothered him for an autograph or pointed at all. When they got home, there was a message from the morgue with questions about Michelle’s body, which made Nathan terribly pensive and set Kelly to seething.

Oh, that’s right. It was Kelly at the picnic, rolling on the blanket. Not Michelle. It was two weeks after the fire. Kelly had the bright idea of going on a picnic, as the day was warm. Why did he think it was Michelle and not Kelly? The details were flooding back. It’d taken two weeks for the morgue to process all the bodies, what with all the burns, having to use dental records for identification, and whatnot. Michelle was somewhere in the middle. They’d called because they’d found an anomaly and needed Nathan to call back as soon as possible.

He called back. He didn’t want to, but he called nonetheless. They explained what it was they’d discovered and Nathan had to beg for nearly an hour to keep the morgue from calling her family and telling them too. They really didn’t need to know, he explained. It was all over and done, and knowing this would only upset them all the more. He asked, what will it take for you to keep this quiet? What can I do for you? Like most things, it just took a little money.

“Anyway, Erin hates it when I bring up Amber, and I don’t blame her,” Davies continued. “What I don’t get is why she asks. Where do people come off asking questions when they don’t want the answers? Admittedly, I say something stupid, like, ‘If Amber asked me back, despite how she treated me, I’d go back.’ And when Erin slaps me, like I deserve, she doesn’t also have to stomp out. She said, ‘if we were broken up,’ which means I can’t give a wrong answer. She certainly doesn’t have to avoid me for three days.”

“That does seem a bit harsh,” Nathan agreed, happy to be distracted from his own memories.

“People have certain assumptions about ‘perfect’,” Davies rambled on. “They say ‘perfect’ never does anything wrong, never says the wrong thing, has proper motives, is never sad, knows everything—so on and so forth. That’s what we think. To me, perfect is the way things are. The world is as it should be. I think this is the way Jesus was perfect, that is, if he was perfect at all. The rest of us can’t get this right. We’re too worried about what we should be doing, about making something of ourselves, about the future and the past,” Davies explained. “We can’t ever just let ourselves be here and now, making mistakes, the way god intended.”

“Can people ever really be happy?” Nathan asked.

“Of course! But not all the time, and that’s where people get it wrong,” Davies explained. “Remember back in school, when learning about self-esteem and feeling good about ourselves, how the teacher used to say we should always feel good? I don’t think even the healthiest, the happiest, the richest of people always feel good. Sadness, struggle, anger: these are all part of what we are. We cannot escape these feelings forever, nor should we want to. Nobody grows through continual happiness.”

“And there’s all this shit in the world—to be blunt—people dying, people killing. There’s greed and scandal and savagery. How do you go about being happy with all this going on?” Nathan asked.

“We’re not meant to dwell on the sad things of the world just because they’re out there. We’re meant to make the best of what we have. Make this space a happy, forgiving, and inviting space. Do what you can right now, right here! When you meet evil, face it! Defy it, sure! But we shouldn’t be miserable just because miserable things happen.”

“How do you go about just being happy?”

“The best way to be happy is to not think about being happy. Emotional state? Forget there’s such a thing! Feel what you feel, and let it go! All this worry about how you feel only makes you worried, which makes you sad, and eventually despondent, unaffected, apathetic, and morose. You see how it gets worse? Too much internalization! Get out of your own head, man! You don’t live there! You live here!” Davies pointed at the ground.

Nathan stared a bit. “You're a little crazy about this,” he noted.

“Not at all. It’s the rest of the world that’s crazy about it. They’re the ones with complicated formulas, with markers and indicators and lists of proper accessories. I say be happy! They say you have to have a convertible Corvette and a lady with perfect tits—not to mention a portfolio of stocks, a decent haircut, proper wine knowledge, a taste for sophisticated films, an appreciation of sports (but not an obsession), and a stomach you can do laundry on.”

As Davies droned on about the superficiality of the world, Nathan stared out at the strange beauties of the desert about him. The sun was coming up and he was suddenly taken by the beauty and fortitude of the native fauna, the golds and reds of the sand underfoot. How strong were these plants to flourish under such conditions? The land may be a waste, but it was beautiful. No wonder Jesus spent so much time in the desert. He needed a recharge after dealing with people!

Davies continued to expound his philosophies. Nathan kicked out the remains of their fire, then the two men set out again, before the sun grew too hot. Nathan wondered at the strange sapping heat of the sun, but wasn't too bothered. He had plenty of energy to listen to Davies, think his own thoughts, and navigate.

The two continued forward until nightfall when they dropped their supplies and once more set up camp. They sat up for some time, drinking water, trying to keep there minds off their quickly vanishing food supply.

It took Nathan a while to realize Davies had gone quiet and was now simply staring at him. Davies wore a stupid grin, and Nathan couldn’t help but smile back.

“So?” Davies finally asked.

“So, what?” Nathan replied. He should of realized that now Davies had questions.

“So why did you quit? I always figured the various commissions forced you out. After all, you didn’t just beat people, you ended careers. You finished Burnam, Brown, Cunningham, that kid back in ’02. What was his name?”

Nathan was a bit taken aback. “I’m sorry,” he answered, a little unclear about what Davies was talking about. It was out of context, although he recognized the names. These were the names of…

“You know, the guys you beat. Well, not just beat, but I mean really beat.”

“Lexing.” Marvelous volunteered, “Tomas Mosa Lexing,” The name ignited his memory. Beat. Really beat. Hospitalized. Ended. These were not happy names in his memory. Nathan frowned at the thoughts of these men, broken and bleeding in the ring. The boxing question was once more in the open. At once, Nathan was relieved and anxious all at once.

Davies continued. “That’s the one! I mean, you hospitalized Rice, and technically he won, since you up and left! So I figure, these people cost money to train and when they fought you, and you ended their careers, which takes money from the sport, and that adds up to revenue. They need those people with name recognition. This keeps interest up, which keeps ticket prices up. But with you; you finished people. Who was left after you quit? Maurice Murder Rice. That’s it. It took three years to get another solid talent pool competing at your weight.”

“It took three years for anyone to beat Rice?”

“No, it took five years for Bear Cortez to beat Rice! It took three years for anybody to take Rice past the third round, Clive Williams, or Wilson, or Watson,... or something like that. There wasn’t anybody approaching Rice after you left. He was walking on eggs, except he wasn’t being soft. Clive the Cleaver was the only one that punched back for years, and Clive, come on, you saw Clive.”

“Is Bear Cortez still champ?”

“No, no. Clive W-hatever beat him about a year ago.”

“Clive Wilkerson,” the name sent a bolt through Nathan's mind. He had a weird punch, dangerous in an awkward way. He asked to fight Nathan, but was four and seven. All four of his wins were big names, and all seven of his losses were nobodies. Nathan turned him down, sure he'd kill the poor bastard—but said it was because the purse would be too small.

“I’ve kind of fallen off since I enlisted,” Davies admitted. “Reading about it isn’t the same as watching you guys hammer at each other, but I actually did catch this last one. Lucky break, that—and it was a good fight too," Davies continued. "Looked like Cortez had him. Clive went down early in the third, maybe the fourth—I drank a bit—but after that, it’s all Clive the Cleaver. Right after he got up, Clive caught Cortez above his left eye, puffed him up something good. For the rest of the night, he worked the blind side. Downright vicious. With a good eye, I think Cortez wins that fight, but if that's true, you gotta hand it to Clive for working the strategy.”

“That’s intense.”

“That’s the sport,” Davies shrugged. So am I right? Was it the commissions that forced you out?”

Nathan ignored the question and asked one of his own, “Did you ever think that maybe they were all better than me?”

“Nope, not even for one second,” Davies replied.

“It’s true,” Nathan admitted. “Technically speaking. The only thing I was ever really good at was taking a punch. But I was really good at taking a punch,” he noted. “Is Rice still boxing?”

“He retired, what? Two years ago?”

Marvelous turned to Davies, “Did you ever think that maybe I couldn’t beat Rice?”

“No,” Davies didn’t hesitate. “Not at all. Nope.”

“I’m surprised you’re such a fan.”

“You kidding me? My father’s from Fight City, USA. Detroit, Michigan, born and raised. Admittedly, we moved to St. Louis, when I was twelve, to be with my mother’s family, but it was fighting and Red Wings since I can remember!”

For a long moment, neither said anything. How did it all end? Nathan thought about it for a bit before finally telling the story to Davies. “I was in six championship bouts, including the eventual loss to Maurice Murder Rice. The first championship fight was against boxing legend Willy Brown, a vicious stick-and-move fighter, known for his quickness and often compared to Ali. While I, Nathan ‘Lightning’ Marvelous, was brilliant in my early career, going 13-0 in just two and a half years as a professional, and all thirteen wins were by knockout. Still, Willy’d beaten some rounded fighters, relentless veterans, other up-and-comers, and yes, a few long shots. Despite a respectable start, I was viewed as too green to go against a master like Willy Brown. Brown was a legend in the making, to be mentioned in the same breath as Marciano, Sugar Ray, or Tyson. Because of this, my victory against Willy Brown was all the more stunning.”

Marvelous continued to tell his story, and Davies listened dutifully. He told that after Brown, contenders came out of the woodwork. The first in line was Digs Burnam, a bruiser and the fighter many thought should have faced Willy Brown before Marvelous—but when Burnam refused to take an early fight date, Nathan fought two other hopefuls who had nothing but hope going for them. He made literal killings inside the ring as well as monetarily. The second fight was against Tomas Mosa Lexing. Both fighters known for their stamina, which meant that Nathan just punched the shit out of Tomas for seven rounds until he finally went down. Afterward, Lexing had his jaw wired shut so it could reform properly. He never returned to boxing.

Twice delayed, Digs Burnam finally got his shot. Burnam was in fact scheduled against Brown before Marvelous, but Nathan had a crafty promoter who snuck in an earlier date thanks mostly to financial riggings Nathan didn’t know about for years. Because of this, Brown’s fight with Burnam was postponed for months, and when Marvelous won, it was canceled altogether. Instead of Brown, Burnam fought a second-rate veteran who did nothing but keep Burnam conditioned, and conversely, supplied fuel for his skeptics.

Of course, the whole incident incensed Burnam. He had a lot to say about Marvelous, nasty things he made sure to say in front of the press. Nathan responded, fiery and confident. For three months, they continued the verbal sparring, as the fight date slowly approached. The sports writers and commentators knew this was Nathan’s first true test as champion, and hyped the fight accordingly. They dubbed it “The Confrontation near Harrington Station” as the fight was scheduled for the poorly named Washington Carver Mutual Life / Calypso Automotive Parts Sports Arena, half a block from Harrington. Nobody, after all, would name any event after that Stadium. Even the commentators slipped, and referred to the place using the shortened “WACK M CAPS” moniker, but you can’t use such an informal name in the printed promotional material. After all, the people of Washington Carver and Calypso paid good money to have their names on the Arena.

As for the fight, it is one of those few that transcends mere contest, and becomes a thing of legend. For all its savagery and theatricality, the fight lasted only four rounds, but because of the great brutality and energy, it was bound to be short.

The first three rounds were dominated by Burnam, but that isn’t to say Marvelous didn’t get in a few good shots. In the fourth, everything changed. Burnam charged hard, putting Marvelous yet again on the defensive, nothing new there. Marvelous held together, for the most part, maintaining his disciplined defensive style, which still involved taking a lot of shots to the face. Several shots landed hard and nearly toppled the champion, a rarity for sure. After a severe combination that would have leveled a lesser man, Nathan managed to wrap up Burnam. As Burnam tried to pull away, rumor has it Burnam made an inappropriate remark about Marvelous’ mother. This is, of course, speculation; mere hearsay. Video and audio recordings show and tell nothing.

After separation, Marvelous threw a soft right and came around with the meanest left haymaker in history. Burnam, who’s right eye was swelled from a nasty jab in the second, never saw it. The punch leveled Digs. He had to be carried out of the ring on a gurney.

Despite the ferocity of the fight, it wasn’t the fight itself that figured so prominently into Marvelous’ boxing career, at least, not to Marvelous. He won all of his fights by knock out, and had hospitalized several other opponents, including poor Tomas Mosa Lexing. What ultimately changed Marvelous was his subsequent hospital visit, something he hadn’t done when he’d hospitalized Lexing or any of the others. The first thing he noticed about Digs Burnam in the hospital was just how small he looked lying in bed, white covers over proud black skin. Digs was a formidable man in the ring, towering several inches over Marvelous. Here, among the whites of the bed, he was reduced. He looked old and worn, used up and cast away.

Marvelous tried to be cheerful as he entered. “Hey Digs, is the food as bad as they say?” he asked.

Burnam turned, surprised, and not happy to see Marvelous, “What chu want, man?”

“I wanted to see how you were doing.”

Burnam’s face lit up, “How’m I doin’? You wanna know how’m I doin’? Well I got questions myself, like ‘What’d you hit me wit’?”

“I hit you with a haymaker,” Marvelous responded innocently, acting out the punch, not catching the accusation.

“No, I wanna know what you had in yo’ glove.”

“What?”

“Nobody hits that hard.”

“Are you suggesting…” and then Marvelous got it. He’d heard the whispers that he wrapped his fists in foil, or hid weights in his gloves, but he dismissed them since he knew he’d never sunk to such pathetic trickery, and since such naïve cheating was easily discovered. Marvelous considered these shadowy accusations as the perpetual whine of the vanquished. Nobody ever lost with dignity anymore. Nobody was simply beaten, outmatched, outclassed, or outmaneuvered. No. Defeat was always discarded as fluke, bad luck, metaphysical conspiracy, or a combination of these working against the better man. He was used to the silent whispering that something above and beyond Marvelous himself had caused his victories, and since they remained in dark doorways and on bad talk radio, he never entertained the idea that reasonable people might buy into these theories.

Yet, here he was, openly accused by a respectable opponent.

Burnam repeated, “Nobody hits that hard, nobody.”

Marvelous went cold. “I don’t cheat, and I didn’t come here to argue the legitimacy of my victory.”

Burnam frowned and looked away, out the window. He kept his face averted.

Marvelous simply stood there, then decided it was best to leave. “I didn’t come here to fight you a second time, Digs. Hope you feel better.” With that, he stepped into the hall, intending to leave.

There, Burnam’s voice caught him. “I get splitting headaches, and I get real dizzy,” Burnam said loud enough that Marvelous could hear. There was a quiver to his voice, as if it was hard to admit.

Immediately, Nathan realized he might not want to hear this. He thought he should keep on walking.

If he’d left, he’d still be boxing. If he’d left, he never would have lost to Rice. If he’d beaten Rice, Yzal wouldn’t have firebombed his school. If Yzal hadn’t firebombed the school, Michelle would still be alive...

Marvelous turned and walked back into the room, and, not knowing what to say, simply stared.

“In the ring, I remember thinking, ‘I got this fool’ and I hit you so hard. You’d stagger, brush it off, and it’d be like I never hit you at all,” Burnam’s voice was trembling. “I can give a punch, and several of the ones I gave you should have put you on your back. Now I can take a punch too, but that’s all it took you. I’ve never been so hurt my whole life and I’m not talkin’ ‘bout in the ring. I’m talkin’ ‘bout before, life as a ruffian, gettin’ tagged with bats and what. I’ve been in a lot o’ fights, mose of ‘em outside a ring, and mose o’ those involvin’ more than fists. I don’t remember the impac’. I’m talkin’ the next mornin’ when I woke up. I threw up for three days, couldn’t keep nothin’ down. I can’t get myself out of bed much more than ta shake a piss before I start t' stumble. The world spins like mad, and the doctors say the headaches might never go ‘way…”

Nathan shrugged, “I’m sorry.”

“All I want to know is what you hit me wit’.”

“Just about everything, Digs. Fighting you was the first time I really really tried to hurt someone. I’ve always fought to win. But you, I wanted you to hurt.” Marvelous had a pained expression on his face, “Why’d you have to say that about my mother?”

Digs let out a snickering sob, half laugh, half cry. “I was baitin’ you, man! Beggin’ you to open up! I couldn’t hit you hard enough! You see that! I gave ev’rythin’ and then I hit you again! Your mutha! I said that t’ mess with ya head, t’ get you t’ slip! Instead, you almost buried me.” His breathing was ragged now, passionate. Digs turned back to the window and snorted, “Guess I miscalculated.”

Marvelous hoped Burnam wouldn’t cry. “I never meant to…” Nathan began, though he didn’t finish. He was about to say “hurt you” but that was a lie. He had meant to hurt him. He meant to hurt Digs this bad. When he’d first hit Digs, Nathan was sad to see him go down, because he wanted to hit him again.

“Ain't no one ever trash talked you in all your fights?” Digs asked.

“I know people talk. But about my mom?!” Nathan asked. He shook his head. “I’m so sorry,” he apologized. He did not know grown men don’t say such words. He was only twenty-four at the time.

Perhaps it was a headache coming on, perhaps Digs simply didn’t have it in his heart to forgive, or perhaps he didn’t want an apologetic vanquisher. Whatever the motivation, he simply ordered, “Git out. I don’t want to talk to you no mo’.” Then added, “And don’t bother comin’ back.”

The next contest was gruesome. It was a kid named Cunningham, and just like all of Marvelous’s previous opponents, he had stature and reach on the champ. Like the rest, he pressed this advantage, hoping to overwhelm Marvelous, and like all the others, Cunningham found himself face down on the mat. This fight was different though. Marvelous didn’t work his trademark defensive style, picking and choosing his shots, letting his opponent wear down. Instead, Marvelous came out punching and hit Cunningham with all the anger and injustice he’d steeped from his confrontations with Burnam. Cunningham went down forty-two seconds into the fight. He was the third fighter hospitalized by Marvelous and it is said he suffered major brain damage. He retired shortly after being released from the hospital and has lived a reclusive life away from all but his family in rural Washington.

Marvelous publicly apologized to Cunningham the morning after the fight. Yes, again he said sorry, and this time publicly, and to the embarrassment of sports enthusiasts everywhere. Who was Marvelous to apologize? After all, Cunningham knew the risks and had stepped into the ring of his own volition. With a shot at such glory comes the possibility of such a fall. Not that anyone with a bit of humanity was happy to see Cunningham in the hospital. But sadly, these things do happen.

Two weeks after the Cunningham fight, Murder Maurice Rice began his slander campaign against the champ, hyping his shot at the title.

Rice was different though. Rice, for one, was the only opponent Marvelous would ever fight a second time during the course of his entire career. The first time Marvelous ended the fight in the fourth round as each was attempting to make a name for himself, but Rice walked away from the fight with bragging rights of his own. In the third round, Rice connected several smart jabs, ending the combination with an uppercut. It was the only time any opponent would ever succeed in knocking Marvelous to the mat.

Before the rematch, the media constantly tried to bait Marvelous into the rhetorical sparring that comes before so many boxing matches. Unlike the Burnam fight, Marvelous kept to himself, begging off retaliation. Secretly, he hoped he wouldn’t get all riled, that he wouldn’t come out hot, and hospitalize yet another opponent. He was determined to be cold and calculating and to end the fight as carefully as possible. No more hospitals. He wanted Murder to walk out of the ring.

On the eve of the fight, Marvelous contemplated his retirement, and even sought out the advice of his manager. In a fury, his manager demanded Marvelous continue fighting, quit with the sentimental whining, and begged him to be the man his mother raised him to be. He also dutifully noted the monetary gains that came with fighting. Marvelous was looking at the biggest payoff in boxing history should he win. He couldn’t get any hotter than this. He’d hospitalized his last three opponents, and was up against a true roughneck. Murder was properly monikered. He too had put several opponents in the hospital. Marvelous dutifully listened to enough of this before hanging up on his manager, mid-sentence.

Despite his many reservations, Marvelous actually appeared at the next night’s fight. Murder was fast, aggressive, and tireless. Nathan could ignore tireless; stamina was the name of his game. His style was heavily defensive, working the body, and looking for a good opening.

The first two rounds were tentative, as Rice refused to open up and Marvelous held back with misgivings. In the third round, Rice gave a vicious shot which would have staggered a lesser man. Marvelous took the shot and countered with a massive body shot that knocked Rice to the ropes and then on hands and knees. For seven seconds Rice recovered his wind. Each second Marvelous begged him to stay down, hovering as close as he could with the ref pushing him away, “Stay down,” he said. “Just stay down.”

The front row thought Nathan “Lightning” Marvelous was taunting Rice and cheered enthusiastically.

During the break between the third and fourth round, Marvelous realized that once again he would likely hospitalize his opponent. Rice would be too stubborn to stay down with anything less than getting all the mustard knocked out of him. Marvelous fought back this terror and worked to convince himself that it was Rice’s decision to fight, that Rice knew what the world knew, that people didn’t walk away from fights with Marvelous, but were carried out on a gurney. Rice had taken this risk on his own. The entire fourth round found Marvelous looking for the perfect punch, the punch that would put Rice down—but not permanently. He looked for his opening, but never took the shot. Through the entire fourth round Marvelous threw zero punches.

When the bell rang, ending the fourth round, Marvelous didn’t walk to his corner. Instead, he walked to Rice’s corner and offered a fist. The ref stepped over, pushing Marvelous away from Rice, but Marvelous would not be dissuaded. “Good fight,” Marvelous said, not able to get closer than a few feet.

Rice stared, quite puzzled that Nathan should be standing in front of him at all.

Marvelous turned, but instead of sitting on the little stool in his corner, he immediately stepped between the ropes and headed for the dressing room. The auditorium exploded with excitement. What was this? A news crew covering his exit rushed to discover why he was leaving, as his manager bellowed at the champ. Marvelous brushed the media aside, simply stating, “I’m done,” and ignored any further queries. It would be his last public statement concerning boxing.

As he left the arena, commotion erupted. Perhaps the most stunned was Maurice Murder Rice. Injured, he had given everything in the fourth round, and upon its completion, he realized he could not beat Marvelous. He sat in his corner, dejected. He could barely breathe. He was completely beaten when he became the new world champion.

Maurice Murder Rice stood in the middle of the ring, his eyes huge from the shock of the surreal events of the night. He was euphoric to be champion, disappointed he could not beat Nathan, and curious as to why Marvelous would forfeit.

After the coronation of titles, there were no parties, no wild, lavish night out to inaugurate his victory. Instead, Maurice had his sister drive him to the hospital with concerns over chest pain. In the emergency room, he found out Marvelous broke three ribs and cracked two more with that nasty body shot.

In the days to come, Murder Rice repeatedly called Nathan Marvelous. “I finally picked up,” Nathan explained. “I was sure that of all the people, Rice would understand why I quit—but I don’t think he did,” he shook his head. “I don’t know why I expected someone with a moniker like ‘Murder’ to understand my misgivings.”

“That is one thing I never understood,” Davies said after hearing the rest of this tale. “I watched a dozen of your fights, and you’re pretty fast, but certainly not meriting the moniker ‘Lightning’. What was that about?”

Nathan laughed. “Wow. Lightning! You really don’t get it?”

“No,” answered Davies.

“Think a little more superficial,” Nathan said. “What color is lightning?”

“Oh!” Davies eyes went wide. “It's because you’re so pale!”

“That, and I guess it does sound sort of dangerous,” Nathan conceded. “I did need a moniker, and Michelle laughed and laughed when my manager suggested it.”

“Well, that might of worked before,” Davies noted. “What are they going to call you now?”

Nathan looked at the golden hue of his skin as he thought about it. He thought about it for a second before he finally answered. “I guess they’ll have to settle for Nathan,” he finally answered. “Or perhaps they’ll call me nothing at all.”

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