Round Two

…Four. Three. Two. One.

Farrow heard the sound of snapping fingers close to his ear. There was something wrong with the number sequence. Shouldn’t the count be ascending, instead of descending?

The noise clicked off next to his head a second time.

What was that? 

His mind was clearing quickly. He had to stand. He’d been knocked down. If he intended to win this bout or at least continue the show…he had to lift his body, but something was wrong. He worked his back around for better purchase, the canvas did not feel right.

There was a peaceful silence surrounding him. Where were the cheers? Where was the smell of blood? Why was the damn count going the wrong way?

Three. Two. One. Snap.

Farrow opened his eyes and hurriedly closed them again. Bright sunlight assaulted his pupils. He was not lying on his back in the center of a boxing ring. This he was sure of. He kept his eyelids closed awhile before opening them again. He did so this time squinting with the palm of his left hand shielding his vision, like the captain of a sea vessel looking out over a misty, wind swept horizon.

         Farrow pulled himself up onto his right elbow before advancing to a full sitting position. He cupped both hands over his eyes. Was he resting on sand? For a moment he thought he heard seagulls off in the distance, but maybe not. He lowered his hands and recovered from the squint, turning his head left to right, absorbing the surroundings. The punishing sunlight seemed to simmer down a bit, returning his vision to somewhere around normal.

        Everything, as far as he could distinguish was a washed out, blurred white. His body was undeniably sitting on sand, this he knew now with finality, a beach somewhere?

        Farrow was shirtless and still wearing his boxing trunks and shoes. He thought he could hear what sounded like rolling ocean waves breaking on the surf. He imagined the white foam sizzling and dissolving over seaweed and discarded shells. The smell of sea air was strong in his nostrils. But subsequently the sounds, and the not unpleasant aromas, were gone, almost like these sensations had been hinted at, floating in and out, not holding onto reality. There was nothing tangible for him to grasp.

        Farrow, blinking rapidly now, looked around some more. He made fists in the warm sand at his sides, trying to grasp something real. It felt comforting. As a matter of fact, he decided, everything felt all right. He remembered flash bulbs bursting, a right jab and a hard left to his jaw. The canvas. Cheers and more flash bulbs, Johnson standing over him. The referee counting…he brought a hand up to his mouth. No swelling, nor any pain or bruising seemed evident. Where are my gloves?  He held his hands in front of his face. Gloveless. Save for the white particles sticking to his palms, they were clean. Turning them around, he now saw his fingernails appeared to be manicured.

        “What the fuck?” he said under his breath.        

“Hello, Thomas,” said a soft voice behind him.

        “Thomas A. Farrow. It’s an absolute honor!” said another.

He immediately recognized the voice as the one that had been counting backward a few moments earlier. He turned his head quickly, and without realizing it, was on his feet. The reflexes of a prizefighter. He towered over the two men he now faced.

        “Okay, guys. What’s the joke? Where am I?”

        The two smaller men looked at each other. Their eyes were kind.

        “I’m John,” the taller of the two said through a neatly cropped beard, “and this, is Keith.”

The man now known as Keith sported a bowl haircut and a slight potbelly. He gave a polite nod in Farrow’s direction.

“It’s a real honor to meet you, sir, I have been a fan since the early days. I still remember your demolition of Darnell Walker in the beginning of the fourth round at the Boston Garden, and then there was…”

        “Excuse me,” Farrow said suspiciously, “who exactly are you guys? And where am I?”

        “Like I said, I’m John and this is Keith.”

        “Yeah, I got that much,” Farrow said, staring at the ground. “I remember fighting Jeff Johnson and taking a beating.” He looked up at the two men with an almost embarrassed expression.

“I was about to turn things around,” he lied. “I hit the deck and remember all this bright flashing and popping…and spinning…then I woke up here. I’m not…I mean, was I hurt? Was I hospitalized? Is this some kind of recovery retreat?”

        John and Keith looked at each other. Farrow could tell they were holding something back and not ready to give it up yet. The sound of the churning ocean spraying on rocks sounded again. He looked beyond the two odd men, but still saw nothing.

        “Listen, Thomas, maybe you should sit down.”

        “Sit down? I want you two to tell me what’s going on right now!” he shouted, his patience draining as his voice elevated. “And where the hell would you like me to sit? I don’t see any chairs. Fuck, I don’t see anything.”

        The two men stared at him, but didn’t speak. Farrow threw his hands into the air in a frustrated gesture and planted his ass back onto the warm sand. Seagulls far above sounded again, but he ignored their song and just stared the two men down until they joined him in the sand.

        “There is a rare opportunity,” John started, “a unique and rare opportunity presenting itself to you.”

        Both men, their legs folded beneath them, seemed to be blanketed by a peaceful, soothing aura.

        “What opportunity? Come on, guys, enough is enough. Where am I?”

        “Please,” now it was Keith’s turn to speak. “We need you to stay calm. We’re trying to explain everything to you.” He looked to John, and then trained his eyes back on Farrow. “Just bear with us, okay?”

“Did you ever hear of Robert Scalia?” Keith said. The question hung out there for a second before Farrow answered.

        “Robert who? Scalia? No, never heard of him. What’s this got to do with me? What’s going on here?”

        “Please, Thomas,” John’s voice now, calming. “We’re trying to explain everything in a most delicate manner.”

        Waves crashed again, and Farrow’s nostrils were filled with the scent of an old-fashioned Long Island summer.

        “About a quarter to eleven,” John started, “a man named Robert Scalia was in a terrible car accident. I’m sad to say, he passed while the doctors were trying to revive him. He just slipped away from us.”

“Okay, I’m sorry to hear that, but what the fuck does this have to do with me?”

He looked at John and Keith, really looked at them for the first time, taking them in, absorbing what he was seeing. Both men spoke with slight British accents and were very similar in appearance, almost interchangeable. The one named John looked as strong as an ox. They wore loose-fitting, white robes, and both had kind blue eyes, but Keith, Farrow saw, had a certain mischief flickering behind his. It was a trait he knew well, identified with.

        “Who did you guys say you are?”

        “We told you, I’m John, and this is Keith.”

        “Yes, yes, I know that much, but who are you?” The two men looked at each other with sly smiles, “And why are you dressed like that?”

        “Thomas, listen,” Keith started. “I’ve been a fan of yours since the beginning. I’ve seen almost all your fights, and I was quite literally always in your corner. I mean 37-0, with 32 knockouts, you sure were something!”

        “Wait a minute, what do you mean, I sure ‘was’ something?”

        “What?”

        “You said ‘You sure were something’ like in the past tense, like I was something, but no longer am.”

        “Let me ask you a question, Thomas,” John this time. “Who do you think won the fight between you and Johnson? No bull. Who do you think really won?”

         “I…” Farrow started. “I can’t remember. I know I was hit hard, and I went down probably even harder. I remember a bunch of bright flashing lights and Johnson standing over me, that son of a bitch’s bald head gleaming…”

        “Let me ask you this, do you think you could beat him? Extend your record to a perfect 38-0?”

        “You bet your ass I can beat that dirty…” Farrow’s voice was climbing again before remembering why he actually lost the fight. I could have beaten him if I wanted to. Farrow stood.

        “There’s no need for emotions to flare, I was just asking a simple question.”

Farrow pinned John with his eyes.

        “What would you say if we could put you back in your body…”

Looking down at himself, “Back in my body? What the fuck are you two lunatics talking about? I’m in my body,” his voice with a noticeable quiver now.

        “I’m sorry, Thomas, at almost 11:00 this evening, less than half a minute after Robert Scalia died…”

There was that name again.

“Jeff Johnson knocked you down near the end of the tenth round in front of thousands of people.”

        “He won the fight?” Farrow asked, his voice soft now, knowing the answer before John responded.

        “I’d say he won, you see…last night in front of the whole world, after that left hook to your head, you suffered an intracranial hemorrhage…and it killed you.”

         Farrow was silent and, without realizing it, he curled his hands into fists, the blood leaving his knuckles. He closed his eyes and leaned his head on his chest. Nobody spoke. Farrow stood motionless like a large marble sculpture chiseled by an ancient Greek, portraying a mythical god. His skin seemed to glisten, his breath slow and even. The sound of the seagulls returned, but was now complemented by the tumbling ocean waves and that great sea smell he had loved so much as a child. He seemed to be deep in thought. John and Keith looked at each other with a hint of trepidation, and both men almost took a step backward when Farrow opened his eyes in what seemed an instant of panic.

“Okay,” he said, “I’m ready to listen.” His voice was soft.

He felt composed, at peace. He slowly opened his hands and wiggled his fingers, shaking away the dangerous fists. A refreshing breeze sifted off an ocean that he couldn’t see and worked its magic over his skin. He could almost feel the spraying of salt-water mist baptizing his naked torso.

As Keith and John took turns speaking, things came slowly into focus. Behind the two smaller men Farrow could see a large body of water defining itself and the sea smells grew stronger with real staying power. Opening and closing his hands he could feel the stickiness of the salt. The crash of the waves sliding along the beach that was, and always had been, just about twenty feet away, how could I have missed it? The seagulls, he now saw, were out in full force, white and gray, gliding above the Atlantic Ocean and dipping down to pluck breakfast, or maybe lunch from the bubbling surf. This is the Atlantic Ocean, how do I know that? But with certainty, he somehow did. He had spent summers here as a youth. It was all familiar and comforting. The happiest days in his childhood took place on this very beach.

Now, just John was speaking. Farrow took it all in without interrupting. He didn’t question anything. Displaying an amazing sense of attentiveness he just listened. Keith would interject from time to time, bringing forth a memory to Farrow of the old Abbott and Costello routine, “Who’s on first?”

Farrow now noticed other people occupying the beach; at first the horizon was a blur, just a yellow smear, then there were people. Slim girls in bikinis, worshipping a quickly materializing sun that was low in the sky, blazing orange, like the burning end of a cigarette. A man was throwing a frisbee to a small, excited dog, and a volleyball game was being played out about thirty yards away.

The people laughed and went on about their business, seeming not to even notice the prizefighter, or for that matter, his two new friends.

After listening to their elaborate plans, Farrow looked at them, something akin to amusement in his eyes. He began to pace.

“Now hold on a second,” he said, “let me see if I have this right. Last night, I died in the boxing ring, and next thing I know...I wake up here. You two tell me if I walk down the beach a stretch I’ll come to a cave that leads into hell, and you want me to sneak in with some stupid weapons. You’re kidding, right?”

He stopped talking for a second, amazed at the nonsense he was rattling off.

“I have to rescue the soul of this guy Robert Scalia,” he continued, “who by the way, also died last night…but his soul was kidnapped. He’s supposed to write a book exposing some politician who turns out to be an asshole. That’s a real surprise by the way, a politician who’s an asshole, who would have thought? If Scalia does not write his book, this politician will eventually becomes President and causes a nuclear war. If this writer stays dead, he can’t write this book and prevent that from happening.”

        Farrow stopped talking again, digesting the information.

        “If I do this. If I’m able to get this guy out, you will then put his soul…and mine, back in our bodies?”

Openly smiling, Farrow continued.

“Scalia will be resurrected and eventually write the book, and I’m back on the canvas. I’ll be able to open my eyes and have a chance to beat Johnson.”

Farrow stopped talking again, the playful grin no longer on his face. He stared at John and Keith. “Did I miss anything?”

 Both men started to clap their hands happily.

The sun, a low burning coal on the horizon, seemed to sizzle as it was dragged beneath an ocean that had been thrown into twilight.

Keith broke the silence.

        “First of all, it’s not a cave, although it may seem like just that when you first enter. It’s called a Hellmouth. It provides a passageway into hell, to you; it’s going to seem about a mile long.

        John interrupted.

        “You can probably run the damn thing in about six minutes, I mean, you used to be a professional fighter and all…”

        “Used to be?” Farrow cut in, his tone bordering on violence.

        “You know what I mean,” John’s voice shaking a bit, “you’re in great shape, this shouldn’t be hard for you at all… the run-a-mile in six minutes part I mean, but what I’m getting at is even though you could do it, run a six minute mile…perhaps Scalia is not in shape for the chore. He is after all just a writer, probably sits on his butt all day eating Doritos.”

        “What he means,” Keith added, “is you have thirteen hours and thirteen minutes to get in and out of there. Don’t cut it close, like down to the last six minutes; if Scalia can’t run or is in bad shape and not up for such a long jog, you are going to want to give yourselves some extra time. Once the Hellmouth closes, that’s it. There is nothing we can do to help you. You stay dead. Scalia stays dead, and you both stay in hell. Not to mention the world ends and millions of people are eventually going to die.”

        “That sure makes me feel better,” Farrow said. “Ya know, you guys are laying a lot of shit on me. Why can’t God, or whoever is running this loony bin, just take Scalia’s soul back? I mean, isn’t he all-powerful and everything? You know all that shit we learned when we were just dumb kids?”

        “It doesn’t work like that, Thomas. Trust us, we have been over every angle. This is the only way. The unfortunate timing of your death…and Robert Scalia’s passing, well, his hijacking actually, has locked you two together,” said John quietly.

        “Listen, Farrow,” Keith started, “I have been a fight fan most of my life, and all of my afterlife. You’ve been my hero for years. I have counted you out in so many fights…only to see you come back from almost certain losses, and I’ve seen you do this more than once. I have seen you resurrected from the dead…oh sorry, I didn’t mean anything by that. Anyway, I’ve seen you come back and win fights nobody could have won. You have something inside you, this fighting spirit to win…and yes, to live. I know you can do this, Thomas. All I’m asking you, all we’re asking you to do is beat Johnson, raise your arms back up and beat him. Finish the fight, the guy’s a jerk. I know you can do it. Be a hero one more time.”

        Farrow knew Keith was talking about more, much more than just winning a fight.

        “Yeah, all I have to do is go to hell and back first,” he said. “And another thing, I’m no hero, that’s for sure.”

        “I believe everyone has the ability to be a hero,” John said, “providing that you catch them at the right time.”

        “And now’s that time, right?” Farrow asked.

Neither man answered.

The night air was cool and Farrow could see a group of people sitting semi-circle around a small fire about fifty yards away, probably drinking beer and eager to get laid. Looking this way and that, he noticed there weren’t many bodies left on the beach. What seemed like just a few minutes ago, the sand was teeming with people laughing and bathing. The fast, almost too fast, sunset seemed to erase them with the daylight.

“Let’s not complicate things, Thomas.” It was Keith who spoke first. “You were always my hero; now the world needs a hero.”

Farrow was silent for a moment and then exploded with almost comedic enthusiasm.

        “Okay, you want a hero? Is that what you want, for me to be a hero? You got me. Let’s do this thing. I think both of you guys are nuts, but let’s do this.”

Farrow looked into Keith’s eyes. “I’m going to wake up on that canvas in less than thirteen hours, I’ll get off my ass and beat Johnson. I’ll do it for you.” Pointing now at Keith. “I’ll do it for both of you.”

        Farrow wore a sly smile on his face not really sure about anything that was going on or anything he was saying, just playing along.

        “But before I do that, I’ll get our writer friend and save the day. How does that sound?” Looking at the two smaller men, he said, “You got me, I’ll play the hero, put on a real showstopper! Shit, I got nothing else to do, so until I wake up from this insane dream, I’ll go along with it.” Farrow’s voice was echoing down the beach, while no one that remained along its sandy terrain seemed to notice.

Farrow wasn’t sure he even believed himself.

        “Tell me about these so-called weapons.”

John stroked a quick contemplative hand through his closely cropped beard, hesitated a second, and said, “Okay, here goes.”

        He bent down and opened what seemed to be a small wooden chest that sat in the sand next to his feet. The box was stained a deep brown and the wood from which it was made, seemed very old, ancient in fact. Its top was covered with a piece of worn, black leather. The box was about a foot and a half long, a foot deep and a foot tall.

        “Now wait a minute,” Farrow said, with astonishment and more than a bit of uncertainty in his voice. “Where did that come from?”

        “This chest has been here all along. It’s been right next to us this whole time.”

        “Been next to us this whole time? Bullshit! We’ve been here for almost an hour and…”

“Thomas, trust me…trust us,” Keith said, motioning his hands to include John. “The chest has always been next to us. You just have to know how to see it.”

        Farrow started to talk, but was quickly cut off.

        “You couldn’t see the Atlantic Ocean or the seagulls at first, am I right? But it’s right there.”

Keith pointed toward the large body of water. A gust of wind blew the smell of sea-salt under his nostrils. He looked out and the horizon seemed to be glowing.

        “And the birds have always been right above us…well, as soon as the sun comes up again, any minute now, actually, they will be.”

        Farrow’s eyes raced up and down the beach, it was now barren. No people. No campfire or children, nobody drinking beer, or playing grab ass.

        “Wait a minute,” he said. “Where is everybody, and what do you mean when the sun comes up any minute? The sun just set.”

        “Oh, the people are long gone, Thomas, and it is almost sunrise,” Keith said pointing at the spectral glow simmering just above the ocean that seemed more purplish than blue at this hour, whatever this hour was.

        “Sunrise? The sun just set a little while ago, that can’t be right.”

        “Oh, it can be, and is right. Thomas, everything is not as it seems here, especially time. What if I were to tell you that we have only been standing here talking for a minute or so.”

        “A minute or so? It’s been at least an hour, but I’d put my money on longer.”

        “Let me explain,” John started; “When your soul left your body…it…you woke up here. Are you with me so far?”

        Farrow nodded.

        “Time as you know it virtually stopped. Your physical body is still in the real, well, as you would call it, real world, and I’m not talking MTV.” John smiled before continuing.

“If time continued at the pace that you’re accustomed to, it would be found out that you had died in the ring. The referee would have finished the count and your corner would rush to your aid and see how badly you had been hurt…they would find you not breathing.”

John let that sink in before he continued. “If that happened, we wouldn’t be able to put you back, when, and if, the time came. Right now, in Madison Square Garden, everything is frozen like a snapshot, a photograph.” John ended this last sentence in almost a whisper.

        Farrow spoke slowly, his voice, with a bit of a tremor. Things were settling in his head, winding around his brain and squeezing.

        “How come a little while ago the people on the beach seemed to be moving just fine?”

        “This plane of existence is somewhere between your reality and ours. It’s something to make you more comfortable, a place that you are, or at least were, familiar with, a place you loved as a child. As you can see, time is very strange here,” Keith said.

        “Do you understand things a bit better, Thomas?” John said.

          Farrow nodded.

“Let’s stay on the subject of time for a bit longer. When you cross through the Hellmouth,” now looking directly at Farrow. “A timer will start. Look at your left wrist.”

        He did. It seemed he was now wearing a black watchband that was about an inch and a half wide.

        “Has that always been there, too?”

         Keith just smiled at him.

        Still looking at the band, Farrow could see four digital numbers running across its length horizontally in what seemed to be a phosphorescent, tranquil blue. 13:13. Thirteen hours, thirteen minutes.

        “Once you go through the Hellmouth, that read-out will start to count down. No matter what, do not let it finish. Do not let it reach all zeros before you get back out on the other side of that thing.” Keith said.

        “Why thirteen hours and thirteen minutes? Who came up with that number?” Farrow said looking at Keith with a hard stare.

        “Because…it’s unlucky...doubly unlucky actually. Hell’s rules, hell’s game. Anything past that time, and you’re stuck there. I guess it’s just a way to show us they have a sense of humor.”

        “Yeah, and I can’t stop laughing.” Motioning toward his wrist, Farrow asked suspiciously, “Won’t they find out I died once this thing starts to count down?”

“No,” said John, “because we, well, I mean HE,” he said pointing his eyes upwards, “can put your soul back into your body at the exact moment it left. Right after you landed on the canvas. You just won’t suffer the intracranial hemorrhage.”

“Nor will you have to worry about it again,” Keith added; “But, Thomas, if you do this, if you make it out, and back into your body,” he paused before continuing, for effect more than anything else, “it’s all going to be up to you. You have to get back up and face Johnson yourself. Stand before him in the ring and raise your arms.” Keith then added with a slight smile, “Truly back from the dead this time.”  

Farrow stared Keith down, and the smile receded back into his face, but happy mischief still danced behind his bright, bird-like eyes.

“This is a Hellstick,” John said, holding between the fingers in his right hand what looked to Farrow like a roll of quarters that had been wrapped in black electrical tape. Apparently John had been rummaging around in the “magic” chest at their feet while Keith had been making “back from the dead” jokes.

“A Hellstick? That’s what you call a Hellstick?” Farrow said nearly laughing out loud.

Smiling, and taking a full step backward, John said, “Watch.”

He squeezed the small item in his right fist and almost instantly it came out, growing out of his hand, extending to a full three and a half feet. The end of the Hellstick, Farrow saw was slightly thinner than the part John firmly gripped, its tip glowed a sinister spread of yellow and orange. Farrow and Keith backed away together as John swung the item like a baseball bat. The black rod made a sizzling noise as it hissed through the air before them. Wisps of smoke rose from its length.

After the swing, John brought the weapon back to his side and lowered it; a thin smile cut the lower half of his face. He gave the rod a second squeeze and it receded back to its normal size, that of a roll of quarters. A strong smell of sulfur infused the air for a few seconds, before the overpowering aroma of sea salt once again consumed it.

“The Hellstick,” John started, almost as if he were presenting the item on a 3:00 AM infomercial, “will cut through almost anything you come in contact with or encounter.”

The damn thing reminded Farrow of a Star Wars light saber.

“It will stop anything in your path, slash through anything that gets in your way. It’s a very deadly weapon, and if you find the need to use it, its value to you will be absolutely essential.”

John stopped talking and held out the hand holding the now shrunken version of the item to Farrow. The prizefighter hesitated a second before scooping it up.

“Where do I keep it?” asked Farrow.

“You’re right handed,” Keith said. “So put it in the right front pocket of your jeans. It’ll be easy to access there.”

Looking down at himself, Farrow now saw that he was wearing a faded pair of blue jeans, black work boots, and a black t-shirt.

He started to ask where the clothes had come from and what happened to his boxing garb, but looking at the two men who saw he had a question on his lips, just said, “ Yeah, I know, I was always wearing this stuff, right?”

John responded with a smile, and a quick thumbs-up motion.

Farrow concealed the Hellstick, as was recommended, in his right front pocket. When he completed this small task Keith said: “Is that a Hellstick in your pocket? Or are you just happy to see me?”

The joke amused neither Farrow nor John.

Speaking to John, but with his eyes narrowed and pinned on Keith, Farrow said, “What else you got?”

He saw that John was already holding up what looked like a small pill; the item was surely no bigger than an aspirin. It was fire engine red, almost as if it had just been spray painted, still glistening.

“And what do I do with that? Does it help if I suddenly get a migraine? Or maybe it will send me on a nice trip,” Farrow joked.

“This is a Spitfire,” John said. “And it does just what it sounds like it does. Thomas, please do not regard this diminutive item lightly. It’s a very powerful weapon. How it works is simple. You put the Spitfire in your mouth. After it mixes with your saliva for a few seconds, you spit the thing into the direction of your enemies.”

“Oh yeah? And then what?”

“And then get your ass out of there. This little thing…” John said, still holding the seemingly harmless red pill up high, “will cause destruction and mayhem the likes of which you have never seen. Only use it if you get yourself in a really tight bind, I mean really jammed up, and only as a last resort.”

“And,” Keith added, “get away from the area as quickly as possible. Trust us, you don’t want to stick around to watch the fun.”

John handed the red pill to Farrow who hesitated for a second and rolled his eyes before depositing it into the right front pocket of his newly acquired jeans. It rested safely next to the Hellstick. Two seemingly innocent items, the purpose of both was to cause death and destruction.

        The sky over the beach seemed ready to burst with light. Dawn rolled over the Atlantic like a stampede of buffalo. The ocean glowed and the sand looked white hot. Electrified. The air was still and cool around the three men.

        Keith cut into the conversation. “You can put these on now.”

        He was holding out to Farrow what seemed to be hand wraps. The same kind he used during his whole pugilistic career.

        “These are a special item, made specifically for you, Thomas.”

        “Hand wraps? Why am I starting to feel like James Bond being sent out on an impossible assignment? You know the way he always had to go see that guy with a letter for a name before each mission? Z? Or was it X? Some old guy played him in the early, well most of the movies, then for some reason, John Cleese from Monty Python took over the role.”

        “Thomas, can we please stay on track? Stay focused?” John said.

         “Q! His name was Q!” Farrow said, with much excitement in his voice. “It’s funny how James Bond always stayed young and debonair, but that gadget guy got older and older with each movie.”

        “Thomas, please.”

        “Okay, okay. Just trying to make sure that I’m not in a coma somewhere, or sleeping in my bed dreaming,” Now looking at John and Keith, “having a terrible nightmare.”

“Okay.” Farrow said again, smacking his hands and vigorously rubbing them together, “Hand wraps. What do they do?”

        “You wrap them around your hands, of course, but the beauty of it is…well, put them on,” Keith said, “and watch what happens.”

        Farrow took the wraps from Keith’s outstretched arm and apprehensively, but quickly, wrapped them around his hands. Years of practice had the chore done in just under five minutes, a nice snug fit.

        “Now what?” Farrow said, holding his large hands up, palms out for them to see, but the wraps were gone. Erased like they never existed at all.

        “Wait a minute, where did they go? Let me guess, they were never there, right?” he said sarcastically.

“Oh no, Thomas, the wraps are there, you just can’t see them.” Then he added, “Nor can anyone else. If you come across someone, uh…something that wants to rock and roll, even though you were a professional prizefighter, you wouldn’t stand a chance against anything that you may encounter on the other side of the Hellmouth. So the hand wraps that you can’t see, but I assure you are definitely there, will even the score. Now when you hit something, if you have to hit something, you will hurt them…or it. Slow em’ down enough for you and the writer to get away.”

“Okay,” Farrow said, “if you say so.”

He held his hands up, balling them into huge, meaty fists and then reopening them, trying to feel the wraps, because he sure as hell couldn’t see them. Farrow then proceeded to shadow box for a few seconds. He felt good. Dangerous.

“Just do me a favor, guys. Stop saying I was a professional prizefighter, like in the past tense. After I get this writer back out through that Hellmouth, or whatever it is you call it, I’m going to be a professional prizefighter again. Okay?” Then he smiled at them.

“Of course, Thomas.”

“Yes, of course,” Keith chimed in. “I’m sorry. We’re sorry.”

“Okay, is that it? Is there anything else? Can James Bond leave for his mission now?” Farrow said, still smiling. “I have to get back. I still have a fight to win.” He stopped shadow boxing.

“Another minute, Thomas. We have one more item for you; well, it’s not really a physical item,” Keith said.

“What he means is you will have a certain ability to ask for stuff. Think of it kinda like making wishes, but you will only be granted the things that you really, really need,” said John.

“Yeah,” said Keith. “Don’t get over there and start asking for a Coca Cola, or a cheeseburger, cause it’s not gonna happen.”

 “Can I wish for more wishes?”

“Thomas, please! If there is absolutely no other way, and you are in dire need of something, you can ask, and we’ll see what we can do.”

“Then why can’t we just ask Him,” motioning his eyes in an upward gesture, “to get this writer of yours out?” Farrow said.

“We told you, it doesn’t work like that. An absolute necessity might find its way to you, but nothing can be taken out without you actually going in to get it. Oh, and that reminds me Thomas, only two souls will be allowed to leave hell, so don’t get any ideas about taking anyone else out with you, it won’t be permitted. If someone is there, they’re there for a reason.”

 “Trust me,” Farrow said. “I’m going in, getting the writer, and then the two of us are coming out as quick and as neat as you please.”

“That’s good, Thomas. Do things nice and clean. Quiet.”

“I’ll do my best, but I do have another question. Just a small thing that’s been niggling at the back of my head.”

“What’s that?” Keith said.

“How the hell do I find him?”

“Ah, yes, Thomas. Excellent question. One we almost forgot to address,” said Keith.

“Since you died within seconds of each other, your souls are connected. You’ll be able to sense him, almost feel him. It will be like a pull…a tugging in the core of your stomach. His soul will be like a beacon to yours.”

“You said I only have thirteen hours and change to get in and out, how far away is he going to be? I mean, what if it takes me that long to find this guy?” Farrow questioned.

“Scalia will be in the main holding area. Every soul is held for a twenty-four hour period in what will look like to you glass holding-cells. The structure is huge, and you should be drawn right to it, so he shouldn’t be hard to find at all. That is why it’s so important to get him out now, within this first twenty-four hours.”

“It’s about a three hour journey on foot,” John said. “Three hours there, and three hours back. You should be out in six. Nice and easy.”

 “And if I meet that someone special?” Farrow joked.

“Thomas, please. Enough levity. This is serious business.”

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry. You guys are laying a lot of shit on me. I’m just a bit nervous. Hell, I’m real nervous, scared to death actually.”

“That’s understandable, we’d be also, given the circumstances. Anything else you need to know? Any more questions you might have that we can try to answer?”

“No. I guess not,” Farrow said in a quiet voice, almost a whisper. “Just tell me one thing. Why is it I feel like I’m going off to my own execution?”

“Because,” Keith said, “maybe you are.”

          The new morning sun brightened the sand as the first of its worshippers appeared on the beach. The three men started walking along the soft terrain in a palpable silence.

           When they were close enough to the Hellmouth, just about six yards away, Farrow finally saw it, really saw it, and he was shocked into silence. He thought that it would be just a cave, or some sort of dark passageway, but he now knew with certainty that everything John and Keith had told him was true. He was not sleeping or the victim of a drug-induced coma, he was wide-awake.

        Just a few feet away now, the Hellmouth floated before them a foot off the sandy beach ground. It was basically a rip in the air, as if something had torn a hole into existence through the atmosphere. There was a deep humming noise, an insect-like buzzing that sounded like a thousand angry bees coming from within the abomination. It was oval shaped, about six feet at its widest. Its edges seemed to be a burnt orange and black ash, red smoldering embers, an evil cigar burn.

        Farrow could see the beach beyond and around this cruel puncture, laughing sunbathers featuring beach ball activity, and the midday sun in a cloudless eastern sky.

He looked from John, and then to Keith, and said, “My God, what the fuck is that thing?”

        With a comforting hand on his shoulder, John said, “That Thomas is the Hellmouth.”

        “I…have to go in there?” he said, motioning towards the buzzing rip. “Our writer is trapped somewhere in there? Make me understand how something like this could happen.” Any trace of humor was now absent from his voice.

        John gave Farrow’s shoulder a comforting squeeze, and Keith began to speak.                “When an incident occurs, where many people pass through, that’s what we call it passing through, when there’s a bad fire, or I don’t know, maybe some sort of explosion, or natural disaster that takes a lot of lives, the souls all pass through this area. This midpoint.”         He stopped talking so this information would settle in. Keith spoke slow and deliberately so Farrow would understand everything he was saying.

        “Some people stay here for years. These are kind of ‘borderline’ people, it’s almost like they have to do penance before we take them upstairs, while others go up instantly.”

        Now John cut in, rubbing a hand quickly through his beard.

        “While the rest go straight down there.” Pointing into the endless black throat of the Hellmouth.

        “So you see Thomas, a place like a hospital, while hundreds of people don’t die each day all at once, there is a pretty good turn over. A lot of souls pass each week. When Scalia came over, unfortunately, he was real close to the opening of this thing…and how do I say this…I guess he was hijacked, kidnapped from this limbo right under our noses. Something must have been waiting for him.”

        “Why was he on my beach?” Farrow asked.

        “To Robert Scalia, it didn’t look like a beach. It was the picnic area where he first made love to his wife. This place is different for everyone.”

        “How could this have happened? How does somebody who doesn’t belong in hell get kidnapped and held there?”

        “Because of the particularly high volume of souls leaving the hospital. In the midst of the confusion, Ol’ Beelzebub pulled a fast one; he saw a chance to end the world. If Scalia does not write his book, a book that will keep an imbecile out of the White House and prevent a nuclear war…the world is going to end in about seven years.”

        Farrow realized that this was it. He was a fighter, and to save the world he would have to fight for it. He would once again have to lift his arms. He took a single step toward the obscene opening of the Hellmouth.

        “Thomas, no man can see the things that your are going to see over there and lead a normal life. I can assure you, that once you get Scalia out neither of you will remember anything that happened…nor anything you’ve seen. That’s just a small consolation, cause you’re gonna see some fucked up shit.”

        “Keith! Language!” said John.

        “Oh, I’m sorry. My Bad!” Keith said, smiling.

        Farrow liked Keith. John too. At a different time and place, he felt they could’ve been friends, good friends, maybe start a band.

        Farrow turned to the maddening buzz of the six-foot, hole in the air, the Hellmouth. He could feel a chill draft filtering up through the dark passageway like a screen door left open on a frigid New England night. He took a step forward, stopped and looked back at John and Keith one last time and nodded his head.

        John returned the nod and Keith raised a single hand as if to wave goodbye.

        In search of a writer whose soul was trapped in purgatory, a writer who would one day save the world, Thomas Farrow stepped into the Hellmouth.

Next Chapter: Round Three