Two men, one bar, and a boxing debate that’s about to turn lethal.
Writer’s Prompt
The neon sign above the bar hummed with the same persistent migraine Max had been carrying since the demolition site. He stared into his amber glass, the cheap whiskey tasting like rust and regret.
“Ali had the feet, Tony. He danced. You can’t hit what you can’t catch,” Max muttered, his voice thick with drywall dust.
Tony snorted, slamming a meaty hand onto the scarred mahogany. “Louis didn’t need to dance. He was a machine. He’d find your ribs, Maxy. He’d find ’em and turn ’em into sawdust. Efficient. Like a paycheck on a Friday.”
The bar was empty except for a bartender who looked like he’d been dead since the 70s and didn’t know how to break the news to his reflection.
“Ali stood for something,” Max countered, leaning in. “He had style. Louis was just… heavy.”
“Heavy wins,” Tony growled. He stood up, his stool screeching against the linoleum like a dying bird. He reached into his heavy canvas jacket, his fingers wrapping around a shape that definitely wasn’t a wallet. “You always did value flash over grit, Max. That’s why you’re still swinging a sledge for pennies while I’m moving into… management.”
Max didn’t flinch. He reached into his own pocket, his eyes tracking the twitch in Tony’s jaw. “Management? Is that what they call ‘disposal’ these days?”
The hum of the neon sign cut out. In the sudden, heavy silence, both men braced. The air tasted like ozone and impending violence. Tony’s hand started to emerge from his coat, the metal glinting under the dim emergency light.
“Let’s settle it then,” Max whispered, his own hand tightening. “The Brown Bomber or the Greatest?”
The ending is currently hanging by a thread! Does Tony pull a pistol, or is Max holding the real “knockout” blow? I’d love to see how you close the curtain on these two.
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