Jerry Was a Bare-Knuckle Fighter

Writing Battle - Tempest Owl Pro Judge 2026 Competition entry
Placed in the Final Showdown in the genre of Cryptid Fiction

The gas lamps provided little light in the cold and damp back alley. No carriages at this hour. Jerry sat on the ground, leaning against the building. He winced as he took a drag off the hand-rolled cigarette he bummed off Harry for two reasons. First, Jerry didn’t like Turkish blends. Second, his lip was split, and his jaw was killing him. Big money here tonight, though, judging by one of those new motorcars parked outside.

“Quite the pummeling you took out there.” Harry said, “This ain’t church, I won’t preach to you. But you need to learn to wait for the right moment. Don’t just take hits expecting your grit to keep you up.”

Jerry just gave a grunt as he held the smoke in his lungs. He ran a hand through sweaty, brown hair.

"If you beat this next chump, there’s one more bout. You think you can do that?”

It was a Gauntlet tonight. That was Jerry’s second fight. He exhaled. Smoke billowed from his thin lips. He nodded. Of course, he could. Jerry was a prizefighter. This is what he did.

“Good, good. You’ll probably be leaving here a champ tonight. The purse is none too shabby either. Say, you getting hungry?”

Jerry considered the cigarette for a moment. The smokes were good at curbing cravings, but he could eat. He shrugged.

Harry smiled and stood holding his hand out to Jerry, “Alright, kid, let’s see what we can do for you.”

Jerry took the hand and got to his feet, taking one last long drag.

“Oh! Say, I didn’t catch your name.“ Harry said. He winked.

Jerry stamped out his smoke. He rubbed his aching, stubbled jaw for a moment.

“Jerry.” He finally said in a gravely voice.

Jerry was fascinated by the spectators. This old dockside warehouse stood in stark contrast to some of the fanciest clothes Jerry had ever seen. These were wealthy people… or at least wanted to appear that way. It was all the same to Jerry. The idea of the smell of moldy timbers and mildew worming into the nostrils of their otherwise perfumed persons amused Jerry.

There was still blood from earlier in the ring. Not uncommon in this kind of illicit fighting. Jerry took in his opponent as he stepped to the mark. Auburn hair. Long, bushy sideburns. Thick lips wrapped a tan mouthguard. Two big "meat-hooks” at the end of massive arms. Almost a foot taller. And when the bell rang, he came in fast!

Jerry’s hands came up, and he tucked his chin. His opponent opened with a haymaker, looking to finish Jerry quickly, but Jerry was fast, too, and danced back. Jerry went for the body. Two quick blows to both ribs, but the other man barely registered it. He grabbed Jerry and shoved him backward. Jerry could see the body blow coming a mile away. He tucked in, then saw white. The uppercut came out of nowhere. There was a roar of cheers from the crowd.

Jerry was on the ropes, and the room was spinning. As he came off of them, he almost fell and steadied himself with his hand. The room went silent. His opponent, wide-eyed, took a step back.

Jerry wondered if he had done something wrong. He looked at his hand on the mat. Seemed fine. There wasn’t a rule that you couldn’t use an arm to help you stand, was there?

That’s when Jerry remembered. He was standing. “People” aren’t supposed to be able to touch the ground while standing. He’ll have to remember that for next time. A quick fight then.

His opponent tried to get away, but Jerry reached halfway across the ring and wrapped his arms around him and pulled him close. The opponent screamed. The crowd screamed. Holding was legal.

Jerry was taller than his opponent now and looked down at him. He didn’t know who “Mother Mary” was, but his opponent kept repeating it. Jerry tried to relax his jaw. It was so sore. He opened it. Farther. He felt a pop. He opened it more. Wider. His lip split. Then the other. He opened it more. The guard in Jerry’s mouth fell as his chin split neatly in half. His jaw unhinged from the skull.

Jerry’s prey writhed and screamed, but there was nowhere to go. The other fighter’s legs were now kicking about 8 inches off the ground.

The cigarettes helped curb the hunger. Still, Jerry could eat.

His maw closed around the other combatant‘s head. The cheers were nearly deafening.

Twenty minutes later, he was in the men’s lavatory in new clothes. Jerry’s didn’t fit anymore. The shoulders were too tight, and the sleeves were too short. The pants? Forget them. He looked at his reflection in a cracked mirror, rubbing his aching jaw. It would be sore for days. The back of his hand brushed along the bushy auburn sideburns that framed his face.

“Hot damn, that was a spectacle! You need to keep that chin tucked, though. I thought he was gonna knock your block clean off for a minute.”

In the reflection of the mirror, he saw Harry strike a match and light the cigarette in his mouth. He lit a second off the end of that one and held it out.

“Hey, before I forget again.” Harry said with a smile, “What do I call you?”

Not-Jerry turned to lounge against the wall beside the mirror, plucking the cigarette from Harry’s hand.

“Liam.” Came a gravelly voice with the slightest bit of an accent. He took a drag. He liked Turkish.

“Liam.” Harry winked, “You ready for one more bout to close out the night? The people out there love you.”

Liam exhaled. Smoke billowed from his thick lips. He nodded. Of course, he could. Liam was a prizefighter. This is what he did.

END.