A hard fist sends VoxNeruda sailing backwards onto the dirt ground, drawing cheers from the unruly crowd.  His cheek is badly swollen and tender.  He winces as the man he is fighting begins to kick him unmercifully in the ribs.  "He has undoubtedly loaded his boot with something heavy, most likely a chunk of lead," VoxNeruda thinks to himself as he hears/feels his ribs crack.  This would of course be a violation of the rules, however there isn't much of a governing body to speak of for these kinds of events that would enforce any type of rule.

A circle of men and women alike surround the two fighters, waving cash in the air, cheering, and cursing.  VoxNeruda hopes to stop being kicked soon, before his opponent harms him in a way he might not recover from.  Prior to the fight, he was approached by one of The Don's lackeys, who told VoxNeruda he was to throw the fight.  VoxNeruda found pleasure in the fact that he would be given a sum of cash for his cooperation.  The comfort was instantly replaced with agony as the man sends another hard boot to his broken ribcage.  

Finally the other man, a heavy smoker, ran out of breath and fell over.  He lie on the ground beside VoxNeruda, wheezing and gasping for air as the crowd boo'd.  But it didn't matter.  VoxNeruda had lost the fight.  He had done his part.  

The fighters are dragged out of the circle to make way for the main event for which they were the opening bout for; a fight to the death between two roosters.  As the crowd becomes engaged in the rooster fight, some neighborhood wise guys pull VoxNeruda aside.  

"Here's your cash.  Go get some rest.  We need you back here next time too, ready to fight."

VoxNeruda nods to acknowledge that he understands, as it would hurt too much to speak and tell them so.  He limps off to his sleeping area underneath the train tracks.  He makes sure to sleep on his good side, hoping that by doing so his injured ribs won't heal too improperly.  In the morning he will wake up and take his winnings to Grin-07 as tribute.

There would be more fights for VoxNeruda.  Some would be men of his own social stature, others would be mafioso types who get their kicks from punching and kicking homeless men.  He would lose all of these fights of course.  This was his role in life, and VoxNeruda would be sure to make sure he was compensated sufficiently for his role.

Kuku had stood and watched the fight take place.  He wasn't sure how he felt, watching this man take a beating.  He noticed his friends laughing and joking, and instinctively thought "I'm gonna give this guy some money."  But then, a Devilish thought came over Kuku.  He walked over to the man and began to speak...

"Hey there friend.  That was some asskicking that you just took.  I hope they paid you well.  Say, I'm trying to learn to be on my guard against pickpockets.  How about you try and pick my pocket?  You can keep what you get.  Or, if you're not down with that, I'll try and pick yours.  I'll give you the cash back, of course."

With that, Kuku grinned his famous wolfish grin and waited for the man to respond... 

The man could take an asskicking, Zapata had to give him that; the foul-smelling, homeless hero VoxNeruda worked hard for his 35 bucks.  Though Zapata usually observed the bum fights from under the rim of his large sombrero, it hung over the top of a cinder block today, on account of a couple of the usual fighters being indisposed by the Spanish Flu. While the shaggy dog of a man had enough of a mean look about him to convince bettors to throw a couple bucks on good odds, he was more of a punching bag than a threat in the ring, and so Zapata threw every blow at him knowing it was a dollar earned. 

"Listen up Vox, I'm going to give you a couple smacks, maybe a few, maybe a lot, that depends on how this goes. You're gonna hit the ground, and then we're gonna go and get you a nice hot bowl of soup, that sound good to you?", he had told the gross man before the bout.

It turned out there was a strange satisfaction to beating VoxNeruda up, like pulling the cover off a yoghurt, or peeling an orange in one, connected pull. It was the best stress elixir he had found in months. Though Zapata had made his name being a man of the people, today he took great joy in a minor oppression of the huddled masses. Damn, he thought to himself as he stepped over the broken man, he's good. This guy could be the Babe Ruth of getting his teeth knocked out if he plays his cards right. Whatever teeth he's got left, at least. 

VoxNeruda spits blood onto the dirt as he slowly pulls himself off the ground.  He grimaces with pain as he clutches his side and thanks Zapata for the gracious beating, hoping that his polite demeanor will endear him to Zapata and encourage him to come back for some repeat business.  There were plenty of bums around for men to pay to beat up.  VoxNeruda was determined to stay ahead of the curve.  The bum-beating industry was an ever-changing one.

Th-th-thanks Mr. Zapata.  Very kind of you.  I'll take my bowl of soup now.  I only ask that you don't give me anything too spicy, as I've been finding blood in my stool lately, as you could imagine.

VoxNeruda follows Zapata, wishing he too owned a sombrero.  He would wear it boldly and be the envy of skid row, most of whom didn't own any hat at all.

Someday...