Sweet Revenge

In the market for a mortgage, and getting blocked from a thorn on my credit report. The culprit was an auto insurance bill for a car I no longer owned. When the beast conked out for good, I called Kars for Kids, showing a heart full of soul for needy children and a write-off for the taxman.

That’s when Ron’s renewal notice arrived. Not just a reminder, but a contract. Talk about a hard sell. By then I bought another car and found a policy somewhere else. Under no obligation or debt to Ron, I ignored his sales pitch. End of story.

The next letter came from a collection outfit looking to shake me down for Ron’s bogus insurance bill. Now I was pissed. The ambush on my credit report continued to concern the mortgage broker, holding up the application. I contacted the credit union, where a manager told me tough luck over the cheap shot and Ron’s legal right to be a sleaze ball.

Unable to remove and reverse the filed claim, I remained on the hook and beside myself. If I marched into Ron’s office and threatened to clean his clock, the fraidy cat would call the cops and press charges. The county jug isn’t the digs I’m in the market for. Thanks, but no thanks.

I’m also a regular Joe who enjoys the sweet science. The balance, the form, the footwork. I found Manny’s Boxing Gym a great place to workout and blow-off steam. That good tired you get from snapping jabs and flurries of combinations. The crisp sound of the bag gloves as they peppered the various targets and trainer’s mitts. I always left the ring refreshed.

Tonight I left Manny’s uneasy. I never had the nerve to raise my paws in public. I’m not a dude with back alley rage and hands of stone. Despite these virtues, I decided to confront Ron and call him out. If you want to launch guerilla warfare, what goes around comes around.

Ron kept evening hours, and I figured to settle this nonsense at his office. On the ride over, I drove past the agency. The lights were on and knew Ron tucked his Cadillac in the concrete shed behind the building.

I stashed my car on the street and entered the port garage on foot. I spotted Ron’s Cadillac wedged in the corner of an empty lot. I found cover in a dark region of the garage where I’d jump this weasel. The winter has a habit of bombing out downtowns and parking lots. The chilly night turned Ron’s insurance racket into a ghost station.

Waiting in my hoodie, sweats, and ski mask at the ready. A firebird poised to pull a heist, or straighten out a seedy businessman. In the pockets of my pullover, a pair of boxing gloves. That’s right. No slapjack or brass knuckles for this payback. I’m not a thug — just a steamed citizen fed up with the garbage.

The elevator pinged, as Ron appeared and waddled for his Cadillac. I rolled down the ski mask and slipped on my boxing mitts. I dashed from the shadows, cutting Ron off at the center of the lot. I leaped for that dirt bag tossing a wild right. The haymaker missed and served my stupidity with the justice it deserved. Lunging with a right? What was I thinking? It’s a good thing my trainer from Manny’s wasn’t here for that one.

I straightened out as Ron stopped to raise his hands instead of bolting for his getaway. I started to hop around and stir my gloves. On the balls of my feet with a spring in my step, I continued to sway, blocking Ron’s escape. This meeting meant business and he knew it.

The bonus about Ron, he’s a short fat guy. Beneath the tube lights of the garage and wrapped in a padded coat, he looked like a heavy bag on feet. If Ron wanted out of this one, he’d have to show some game.

“Whoa, whoa. What do you want?” Ron asked as I bobbed and weaved, lining up his mug. 
“You think you can scam people, and get away with it, huh? I’ll show you, fat dog,” I said, as I shuffled around, aiming to slug Ron’s grill.
“Take it easy. What are you talking about?” Ron asked. He grew nervous and started backing up. I had him as I continued to bounce and churn my gloves. 
“Who is this?” Ron asked.

I finally found my mojo, planted my feet, and cranked a left jab. That one popped Ron’s chin, leaving a red welt looking like a soul patch. I followed the jab by plowing a right cross into his melon. The punch lit him up, huffing-out his eyeballs. Under the spell of instinct, my body coiled and sprang, unloading a left hook. The hook blasted Ron’s jaw, dumping fatso on his ass.

Snap. Crackle. Pop. As Ron flopped on the asphalt, I turned and ran. Thank the cosmos for the pitch-black night. There’s nothing to see and do this side of winter. Even a masked man fleeing an assault while wearing boxing gloves.

The training and hours at Manny’s paid off. On the ride home, my broker phoned, killing Ron’s comedy. The mortgage was full speed ahead. Talk about sweet revenge.