Seaton: The Slapfight

A crowd gathered at Garage 16 on a cold January night in Mud Lick.

The air was thick with the smell of booze and cigarettes, a change from the normal odors of oil and machinery. The crowd surrounded the shop floor and all but four men stayed out of a ring drawn around the floor.

Inside the white circle was a barrel. Atop the barrel sat a small flip chart capable of displaying the numbers 00-99. “Warming up” in their own unique ways in the circle were Stan and George Cocke, the Cocke Boys.

The pair spent the afternoon drinking and watching videos of something called “Slap Fighting” on YouTube. As both brothers were semi-professional fighters, they thought this would be a fun contest for their unique skill sets. “Big” Ed Cocke, the boys’ father, heard about the latest fool mess his boys were getting into and started immediately calling any prospective ticket buyers.

Which was how this crowd happened to form at Garage 16 this particular night, and why the town’s top cop, Sheriff Roy Templeton, sat with the Cocke patriarch in the garage’s meager “crow’s nest” above the shop floor.

“Let me get this straight,” Sheriff Roy began as he watched the proceedings commence. “You’re just going to let your boys slap the piss out of each other?”

“Rules is rules, Sheriff,” replied Big Ed. “They agreed to these terms and they’re bound to see them through. Family tradition.”

“So they slap each other?”

“Takin’ turns. Gotta be a clean, open palm slap. No clubbing, stepping, hitting the eyes or ears.”

“Do they get to defend themselves?”

“Hell naw!” Big Ed wheezed with laughter. “Hands must remain behind the back during receipt of a slap. No flinching allowed or it’s a penalty.”

“What’s the penalty?”

“Lose a slap.”

Sheriff Roy eyed the top of the barrel. “How many rounds y’all agree to?”

“We figured someone would cry uncle before Round 20.”

“Mmhmm.” Sheriff Roy hummed as Stan and George stepped to the barrel. “I’m sorry Big Ed, but this looks an awful lot like brain damage for no good reason.”

“Now you listen, Sheriff,” Big Ed spat. “My boys are out there trying to create that viral YouTube content so they can monetize the shop channel and we can all make some decent money. If that means a little brain damage, it’s all okay once we bring in the fat stacks. Hell, they was both raised with a touch of dumbass to them. Might even be genetic.”

“If you say so. Hey wait, doesn’t that make you partially responsible?”

“Nah, Sheriff. I was one of them ‘absentee’ fathers. Now I’m cleaning up Mama Cocke’s mess, God rest her soul.”

“What was you doing all these years, Big Ed?”

“Merchant Marines.”

“Okay.” Sheriff Roy wasn’t about to dispute this with Big Ed. He had more pressing matters in mind. Reaching for his phone, the Sheriff dialed a number and spoke to someone. “Can we get an ambulance sent to Garage 16? No, there’s no emergency right now. I’ve just got a feeling. Thank you.” Sheriff Roy hung up the phone and eyed the boys.

“They aint need no ambulance, Sheriff,” Big Ed said.

“Humor me.”

Stan won the coin toss and opted to slap first. He was allowed to wind up twice and slap on the third approach.

“One, Two,” the crowd counted.

“THREE! A loud sound of flesh making contact with flesh rang through the garage. George didn’t move an inch but red welts began forming on his cheek.

Now the youngest Cocke was ready for his payback. “One, Two” went the crowd.”

“THREE!” George threw a bomb of a hand to Stan’s face. Stan stumbled back two steps, took out his mouth guard, spat, yelled “SHIT FAR!” then returned to the barrel.

“They got sixty seconds to get back up or they’re out,” Big Ed muttered to Sheriff Roy.

“I’m sure the concussions will resolve in under a minute,” replied Mud Lick’s top cop.

Now came Stan’s wind up. “One, Two” called the crowd.

“THREE!” Stan threw a frying pan of a hand to George’s face.

The slap wobbled George and knocked the cotton wad out of one ear the boys wore as protection. Sheriff Roy had suggested for future bouts they try wrestling headgear, which Big Ed wrote down on a scrap of paper with a pencil stub.

“Goddamn Stan, that hurt!” George cried in pain.

“I ain’t meaning to make it feel nice!” Stan shot back.

“Fuck you!”

“Hey boys, keep it clean and fight like men! Back to the barrel!” Big Ed yelled from the crow’s next.

“Yessir,” both boys said while glaring at their sibling with murderous eyes.

Stan readied himself at the barrel. He held a towel behind his back, wrapped around both fists.

A trickle of blood ran from George’s ear as he wound up. “One, Two” counted the crowd.

“THREE!” George threw a haymaker. Stan flew to his ass, a glazed look in his eye.

“Call the fight, Ed,” Sheriff Roy said to the Cocke father. He then thumbed his receiver and asked dispatch for the location of the ambulance he requested. As if waiting in the wings, EMTs descended on Stan.

“Let the boy compose himself, Sheriff? He’s still got fifteen seconds!”

“NOW, Big Ed. Call the fight.”

“Sheeit.” Big Ed mumbled. He reached for a radio. Pressing the receiver he spoke to the referee on the floor. “Fight’s over. Ref stoppage. George by TKO. I said call it, goddammit!”

The referee pressed an earpiece, listened and then awarded the fight to George Cocke.

The crowd cheered and cussed at the same time. Money exchanged hands. Attendees made their way towards the exits.

“You get Doc Butler or someone he trusts out here before you try that mess again, okay Big Ed?” Sheriff Roy asked as he watched the first Slapfight patrons leave. “And I want an ambulance on standby. Make it easier in case of serious injury. I don’t want to stop your fights but I have to make sure people in them are okay.”

“What if we get them to sign waivers?”

“Big Ed, all I can tell you there is you and your boys have constitutional rights to be dumbasses. Doesn’t mean we have to let y’all’s dumbassery hurt others.”

“We just having fun, Sheriff!”

“Fun is a relative concept for you Cockes and the rest of us. I’ll let bygones be bygones as long as we keep this safe.”

And Sheriff Roy left that night, determined to bleach the most redneck ass shit he’d ever seen from his brain with Dilbert cartoons.

We all cope with trauma in our own ways, I suppose.