Open Writing

'Thwack, thwack, thwack, in quick succession from out of nowhere a volley of
punches rained down. One and two, and three,' counted off Wilson, on fingers
stained caramel by a lifelong 40-a-day habit, as the flood of his excitement
spilled into the hidden microphone. Wheezing, the reporter gripped tight
hold of the voice activated recorder pressing it hard against his jawbone.
>From under the brim of a floppy Trilby sweat trickled down an unshaven chin.

Wilson was shaking, taut nerves jumping in time to the twanging beat of the
crowd. Through the soles of his shoes the very ground was pulsating; on each
spike of sound the corrugated iron sheets and rusty rafters rang out like
bells, echoing, bouncing round the breeze block walls magnifying that pulse,
that cacophony of all enveloping noise. On every side hearts beat as one as
the Gypsy horde pressed in so close he could smell what those nearest had
drunk for breakfast. His stomach growled to remind him it was still empty.

'In this true sport of KINGS, his senses awash from the roar of the crowd
baying for blood, crashing blows landed with unrelenting precision on the
unprotected kidneys catching him unawares across the small of his back,
cutting off his wind as the victim's gasping oxygen starved lungs fought for
breath.' Oh this was good copy. Wilson knew instinctively when he was on a
winner, and this was a cracker of an exclusive, destined to grace the
tabloids' back pages. From the second he'd got the tip-off he just knew a
bare-knuckle fight guaranteed hard-copy. Adrenalin-fueled prose that's what
he needed to churn out: a 'story-book' ruckus just had to be 'on-the-money'.
A pure gold dust story. You just couldn't make this copy up. It was so
good - exactly on the right level dumbed-down enough for tongue-out bone
heads each trying to read with one stubby finger tracing every word under
the line, going along one syllable at a time, read out loud with their thick
lips moving. Perfect!

He could do pulp fiction. An opiate for the unwashed, uneducated, fascist
masses. He whispered, 'Gawd bless 'em every one, safe in the security of
their ignorance.' Wilson hawked out his repugnance for tabloid readership
and spat on the floor. Sniffing and wiping his nose on his cuff Wilson
leaned out further across the straw barrier breathing fumes that could strip
paint into the cameraman's left ear.

'Get the lead out Fred,' Wilson wheezed above the din. 'Close-ups this time.
ZOOM in tight. No bloody landscapes.' Sniffing in annoyance, Fred MacMurray
recoiled from the stench of Wilson's close proximity and tried to wriggle
further away.

'Bollocks! Who put you in charge?' the photographer retorted over his
shoulder. 'You stick to your job Tel, I'll do mine.' Wincing against the
glare, MacMurray adjusted the lens for a closer shot. 'Anybody told you
recently you're getting to be a right cheeky old git?' Wilson's nose
wrinkled. 'Bloody ego maniac.' The abuse was lost as another sound wave hit
the two hacks like a steam train.

Eyes glued back on the action in the makeshift ring Wilson didn't hear, he
was already frantic, dictating copy. 'Gasping, outmatched and outweighed by
the sheer power of force behind those precision driven punches, the boxer's
knees gave way first under the punishing steel fisted onslaught.' MacMurray
squinted across at Wilson sideways during a brief respite as the crowd drew
breath, 'Steel fisted what? You can't say that - the Sub'll have a dickey
fit. He said a caption and three pars flat! What've you got in that bottle
Terry? Hang on this isn't for the Leader is it?' The penny had dropped.
Wilson was on the make. 'You're after syndication aren't you? 'Cause if you
are lad - I want in: 50 - 50. You can't flog this lot on,' MacMurray raised
his voice to compete against the racket from hundreds of dialects, 'to Mid
West sports agency without pictures. Not after last time.' The cameraman was
shouting full force. 'Your name's mud without me mate - and don't forget it.
You just try it - and I want a copyright symbol on the pics. And, spell my
bloody name right.' Wilson opened his mouth to retaliate a denial but at
that moment a plea for mercy rang out above all else.

'L - E - O - N . . . stop it . . .'

The high pitched voice carried on the air way above the raucous din of the
seething mass of punters baying for blood. The cry of anguish marked a full
stop to the proceedings as crisp uppercut to the jaw sent the youth
spiraling backwards pole-axed by a blur coming in so fast he didn't see it.
The knuckles smashing on bone were just lost, enveloped by a red haze. Both
fists fell to the fighter's sides dangling limp, leaving the contender
blinded and defenceless against an unrelenting offensive.

'Bugger me! I missed that with your yakking. Just get the pictures, you . .
.' the profanity was lost in the din as, muttering, the hack seized the hand
held recorder closer to thinly stretched lips. 'And, still it came. Left
hook, then a right bloodied fist hammered home.'

'Like I need telling,' muttered MacMurray pressing the zoom button as he
held the camera high above his head. A white light flashed brilliant in the
semi-darkness only feet from their faces. A lucky chancer shot from Fred's
pixel grabbing lens froze the transient scene for posterity on the
Letchfield Leader's sports' page which was shared across the whole of the UK
tabloids' back pages thanks to Tel Wilson's 'nice little earner' mentality
which didn't bother over much with the clause in his contract regarding
company copyright when supposedly working in 'company' time. 'Let 'em prove
it' - it wasn't as if he was getting a by-line in any of the nationals. It
was all going to be being filed as A.N.Other Staff Reporter, or, pushed out
on-line under the West Mids Sports Agency banner - too bad about Fred's
dreams of a name on the photo copyright.

'L . . E . .O. . . N,' a young voice cried again in total disbelief above
the din, desperate to be heard.

'Surely, this murderous carib must be stopped,' coughed Wilson. Good word
carib - he could use it as long as somewhere in the copy he explained what
it meant.

A thin trickle of blood speckled saliva escaped the corner of his lip,
Wilson paused to hawk into his palm. He wiped the tell tale spatter onto the
sides of an already smeared trouser leg. MacMurray, on his knees leaning
over a straw bale, hadn't noticed the spasm, not that he'd have cared
anyway - the fate of one unlovely hack was nobody's loss. 'Dazzled, knees
gone haywire, the championship contender crumpled gasping for breath.
Another relentless thunderbolt to the chin took the youth straight out to
the dazzling embarkation point of a journey to the next world's promised
land.'