The Pugilist

DR. AGONSON

The life of a pugilist can have its downsides. Not just concussions, lost teeth, broken bones—I accept all that—but when you’re the guy who punches things, well, you end up being the guy who just punches things. It’s true, in a way; that’s all I’m good at, landing the punch. But that’s alright.

When me and my cousin were jumped by a bunch of goobers in dresses and they dragged us off to some temple or something—I don’t know much about all that archeology stuff like cousin Kupe. He called it a temple. He’d been studying all that at school, and he wanted me to go with him “on a dig,” he called it.

I got excited when I heard that. As kids, we’d dig holes all the time. Kupe was trying to find Atlantis or something. I just liked digging.

Well, he wouldn’t let me dig anything when we got there. I guess, maybe the natives don’t like to share shovels. He wanted me on the dig so I could punch things, or so people would know I would punch things like themselves if they weren’t civil.

Kupe’s big into civility. Always reminding that one fellow with the funny, red hat to keep a respectful tone. Don’t know what he was shouting about. Something about a sacred site and I heard him say Kalu-kaloop a bunch. Kupe tried to explain it. See, that’s the name of some sort of god, like the false gods those prophets were always railing about in the Bible.

Anyway, there we were, tied up, and all those goobers in robes chanting “Kalu-kaloop” in front of this big, dark doorway. Kupe’s always a sly one. He had a little knife and was cutting the ropes. Smart guy.

I was just biding my time. I knew how these things end, with a punch. That time Kupe got drunk and started a fight, how did it end? I punched the guy. Or that time those big doofuses tried to beat up Kupe cause of some money? I punched the guys. It’s always the same story.

So, there they are, all facing the doorway, and I can feel the ropes loosening. I’m starting to wonder, will this time be different? Maybe we’ll just sneak off when their backs are turned. I look over my shoulder, and there’s no one guarding us. The coast was clear.

But then, just as we’re about to break free, Kupe starts screaming. The goobers are screaming too, by this time, so I don’t think they noticed. I bet they were drunk. They all just fell on their faces. I start to grab Kupe and try to lead him away, but he just keeps screaming and pointing at the doorway.

So, I look over there, and there’s some weirdo; I mean weird. Every time I try to explain it, my head gets fuzzy, like I’m drunk or something. I remember taking a hit once and my vision getting all blurred or whatnot. Doctors called it a concussion. Well, whenever I try to think about what I saw, I get like that again. The memory gets all confused and my head hurts.

The best I can do is to say it was like a man, but not a man. Like a, like someone dressed up to look like a person, but he’s not really a person. He’s a, he wasn’t a…and I lost it again. Just like that night in New Orleans. I can never remember what happened after the fifth shot of whatever those sailors were drinking.

Anyway, I did what I do. Kupe wasn’t going anywhere, just sort of pointing and screaming and dragging his feet. I figured I’d better civilize this…whatever the hell it was. I remember it was soft, like punching a pillow. I don’t think it’s something that can die. Don’t think it was really alive, not like we are. One punch went right through him, and suddenly, all my dizziness went away. The thing, whatever it was, just sort of fell apart in front of me.

I thought I’d have to fight the goobers next, but they never got up, just lay there chanting “Kalu-kaloop,” over and over again.

Had to carry Kupe back to camp after that. He’s been recuperating. He doesn’t talk that much anymore, but, since we got back, he has been preparing for something called a dissertation. Spends a lot of time scribbling at his desk. A very pretty typist comes by on Thursdays. She always looks worried after typing his notes. I try to get her to laugh. Tell her about all the trouble Kupe’s gotten us into in the past.

We’ll have to call him Dr. Kupe, she says. Didn’t know Kupe was going to be a doctor. Thought he was going to be a…an…archeologist. I hope we can still spend time together, but I don’t think he’ll want me punching his patients. She told me not to worry about that. She says if Kupe keeps this up, he’ll always need someone like me around.

I like her.

…from my research that the manifestation of the cultists’ collective belief into a corporeal reality, affecting the mental capacities of all witnesses (note: see if any reports can be found regarding the night of Sept. 18 last year of outbreaks of insanity) did not affect had a disparate result on the participants correlating to the participant’s general intellegence intelligence. My cousin, of a low mental nature, though a possessor of great virtue, complained only of a headache migraine and was able to drag me from the scene during the general incapacitation suffered by everyone else. (Note: Ms. N, please make appropriate references to Medford’s Occultism, Gendril’s Middle Eastern Religion and that theosophist’s work.)