i can survive the rat race, honey

For as long as you have been a photographer in the wayward WVBA, there’s always some special thing about each of the boxers. What amazes you more though, is that out of nowhere this small underage teen is plowing through the roster of boxers above his weight and height class like it’s nothing. But, then again, every boxer you’ve seen or met had something unique. A French guy who lives up to his name, a drunken Soviet who somehow got his wins, this… large… monster thing from the Pacific islands… And so many more. But there was one who had all the craze in the past few months. Hell, had more publicity than that aggravating testosterone brick from Hollywood. A wan, droopy eyed, (cough bALDING COUGH), Spaniard known simply as Don Flamenco.

Pretty on-the-nose for a guy like that. You don’t know if it’s just that Natural Spanish Charm™, but he has been a people magnet. Every match with him on the card have been sold out. He’s everywhere, that dashing man, on the papers, national television… And eventually, you found yourself with hundreds of photos of him. What’s so preternatural about this guy, anyway? You just didn’t get it, but here you are in the black room shifting through multiple rolls to find something that wasn’t Don. Ahah. Sandman… errr… what was that picture of Flamenco again? Your mind kept going back to Don’s photos. It’s not out of interest in his looks this time. It could be the amount of spotlights on the ring, but not one photo had him cast a shadow. While Little Mac— that kid’s name, right?— had some double shadow behind him, Don just didn’t have any. And there was no prank or editing behind the scenes. Even outside the viewfinder there was just no shadow. Whatever. It’s late at night, you’re on 3 cups of coffee, you might be going cuckoo.

All of these eventually came to a head one fateful day when you decided to get a bit too close. He looked a bit tired after this fight, could be his eyes, but he looked more dead than usual. He wasn’t smiling and he looked like he just woke up. He lost, but it almost never bothers him, at least, from your observation. Having the survival instincts of a dodo, you snuck into the locker room to get a closer look (and possibly more questionable photographs). There was nobody else in there. Just you and him—

“¿Hola?”

Ah shit.

You froze in place. The door was sprayed with WD-40 the last time you checked. How could he hear you if he was this far from the door. He called out again… “¿Hola?” Before you could backtrack and sneak out of the room, you bumped into something. Surprise! It’s him.

“WHAT TH-“

You stumbled backwards and tripped over a bench. In that nanosecond where you blinked, he caught you and helped you back up on your feet. He still looked tired, but a bit disturbed as he tried to calm you down. What the hell is he saying now? Is it relax? “Perdón… Perdón…” he muttered, keeping you close to him. His skin felt too cold. He got himself back together and switched up his language. “Sorry, are you okay?” You kinda missed his Spanish voice. “Y-yes,” you said still shaken. At last, you took the time to fully take in Don’s appearance. He was in the middle of still fixing his “hair”, his curl was a bit ruffled, his towel and robe were wet… eugh… and his expression looked worse. You asked if he was alright. He slowly shook a “no”, before slumping on the bench. You quickly got him some water, but he refused. “No. I’m fine. I’m just thirsty.” He said breathlessly. “But… you have water!” “Oh… you don’t know, do you?”