PUNCH
“You know that sense of relief when you punch the
heavy bag, Eric?” I say as I screw the large eye-bolt in place.
Not waiting for his reply, I continue working on
getting my bag just right to hang. Damn, do I have some pent-up anger and
stress. It's taking everything within me not to pulverize the thing while it's
still sitting on the table, but I can't wait to see how well my new bag will
hold up, which means I need to get it hung. The last two gave out on me so
quickly. This will be my third one in as many months. I wonder if coating it
with something will make it last longer. I decide against it because I really
don't want to throw off the feel of it. I need it authentic.
“The stress just kind of melts away, but it doesn't do
the job all the way. You know what I'm talking about, man?” I sigh at the
thought of how good this new bag’s going to feel. I've been waiting so long to
take a hit at this beauty.
I wonder how much resistance it'll have? How much
give?
I heft it up into one arm. The damn thing's so much
heavier than my last. It's a bit slick, yet sticky, all at the same time, and
it takes some work to keep a hold on it. I adjust the bulk in my arm, using my
other hand to steady it before reaching high for the swivel chain. I'm able to
hook the carabiner clip to the eye-bolt on the second try.
“What do you think, Eric?” I stand back and admire my
work.
I'm not crazy enough to think he's going to answer as
he hangs there in front of me. I've sawed off his arms and legs, leaving just
his torso. His head's still attached, of course. Where else would the eye-bolt
screw in? He died of blood loss long before I could get the bolt threaded into
his skull.
I think about putting on my gloves, but I'm too
excited. I swing; my punch makes contact with his left side. It gives slightly
but not too much. My new bag sways to and fro, and I smile to myself.
“Ah, perfect.”
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