DON'T GRIN UNDER THE BED
“Urban legend says, if a pugilist doesn’t go to sleep before a fight, a fist fiend slips in your bedroom, knocks your lights out, then takes your eyes and hands as a reward. Whoever said that must have said it, so their OPP would be at a disadvantage before a fight. When the pugilist never showed and ended up missing, the pugilist became concerned over the words he spoke. Then one night he couldn’t go to sleep as well. That pugilist– also ended up missing. Speak no evil. BEF no evil. But don’t quote me pugilist, cuz I ain’t said Gack!”
In the night sky above Jabbity Klub Drive, a comet flies overhead. Inside the interior kitchen of T-Raw’s Krib, New Gack Ganja Grin and Pusha T-Raw sit at a table under a yellow fixture that lights the room as they enjoy a meal together. Suddenly the lights flicker out. Ganja looks to T-Raw to assess the situation, but his Pusha is GONE. Ganja tries to let out a verbal jab, but his voice is muted. Behind him, the entrance to The Kave flings wide open like a portal to another dimension. Laces creep out of the portal tightening its hold around the Ganja Grin’N Bastard.
Ganja attempts to yell, but wires close his mouth completely shut, all the while keeping the grin on his mug. The laces slowly drag Ganja into the void with his grin being the last thing we see before the darkness completely envelops him.
The Grinning One resurrects from his hibernating canvas in a cold sweat. Ganja jabs an eye at the clock that sits on his wooden dresser. It’s three-forty in the morning. Ganja gets up to look at himself in the mirror. He grins and shadow tactics in the dark.
Throwing on his usual dark green hoodie and sweatpants combo, Ganja takes R&D for roadwork. The odd pair encounters a thick fog. As Ganja steps out of T-Raw’s Krib, a deranged entity stands across the street, staring his way. The ominous punchuko’s steez consisted of a long trench coat and top hat obscuring the windows of his soul, box braids that unfurl in whichever direction, and an untamed beard.
Unnerved by the odd deranged bastard, Ganja gives the spectator a nonchalant head nod. A tactic very distinct in this time period, just to let people know you were cool. The Odd Bastard however just continues with his baleful stare.
Ganja gives a false grin and continues towards his roadwork. Ganja and R&D make their way through Roadwork Alley. The fog seemed to be thicker there than at T-Raw’s. Random jalopies pass by every now and then, shedding some light. As one passed by, Ganja could hear a feint whisper carried by the wind as if the phrase was spot punched into his brain:
“Jab… Jab… Jab… Kill… Kill… Kill.”
Ganja looks around to try and find the source of this mental sucker-punch. Behind him, he spot-punches the Deranged Bastard from a distance carrying on at a molasses pace. Another jalopy passes by with its high beams on. Ganja rubs his eyes together and the figure vanishes. After completing their roadwork, the duo returned to T-Raw’s Krib. Pusha T-Raw prepares for his nine-to-four at Ring Depot.
“Don’t forget Ganja, have your gear ready by the time I get off work, dork.”
Ganja completely disregards T-Raw’s itinerary as he stares out the front window. “Did we get any more New Gack neighbors on our block?”
T-Raw gives Ganja an out-of-pocket look. “No. I’m not playing around ya Grin’N Dork, you always–” T-Raw trails off while Ganja looks at the Deranged Bastard who had returned to his original spot.
“Jab Check!” T-Raw jabs Ganja in the arm, snapping him out of his daze.
“JMD punk!” Ganja turns away and grabs his arm. “Foo, instead of sucker-punching me, why don’t you sock the punk stalking and staring at our house?”
T-Raw looks out the window, but sees not a single soul in sight. “Who ya staring at dork?”
Ganja points out with a jab, “That Odd Deranged Bastard right there!”
T-Raw pauses, before responding to Ganja, “You should get some rest before the BEF Ganja. You’re buggin’ man.”
Ganja seems perplexed at first, then goes flip mode. “Geh-geh, I was just foolin’ ya T, now off to work with ya foo.”
T-Raw is a little worried, but has no time to discuss semantics, so he roadi-five-thousands out of there. As the down-to-earth Pusha drove away, he could still see Ganja look out the window in a paranoid manner.
A fiery fist hurls itself toward the world, barely visible with all the brim, smoke, and debris. Amidst the forefront of the chaos, it seems as if three fingers or heads arise. Before it impacts –
Ganja wakes up in cold sweat. He checks the alarm on his wooden dresser. It’s four-forty in the afternoon. Tooner is almost home. Ganja goes to prep his gear for tonight’s BEF. Out of curiosity, he checks the window again. The Odd Deranged Bastard is gone. Maybe Ganja just needed some rest. But surely–he jabbed wrong.
The Grin Unit traveled in T-Raw’s Jab’d Up Jalopy to The Project. Warhol Vaude does the routine gift of gab, but what comes next is not a jab. When it comes time for the BEF, Ganja’s OPP is a no-show. Security scoured the entirety of the Project BEF complex, but no one could find the New Gack. Even his Pusha had only seen him a day prior to the BEF. Pugil Police had to be brought in to investigate.
In the coming days at The Project, other pugilists would be reported missing or wouldn’t show all together. The Sports Complex that was once bustling with a plethora of personas had become nothing short of a ghost town.
Missing a BEF was a serious offense at Project. Warhol Vaude gathers the remaining New Gacks and Ganja to decide the next course of action for the chapter. Pushas and pugilists alike give the Warhol a combo of verbal jabs and grievances, while Vaude bobs and weaves the best way he could.
Ganja, not acting his geriatric goofy self, sits hunched over with beads of sweat forming around his mug while Vaude jabs his verbal tactics.
“Yo G, everything good kid?” T-Raw slips.
“Grin, grin punk, I’m just using Pugilist Focus to speed up my heart rate in a rested position,” Ganja grins falsely.
“You’re such a dork, forget I asked,” T-Raw shakes his head in annoyance.
Just when Vaude is about to conclude his combination of regulations, Box-Mayne interjects “Ay- Mang, aren’t you gunna introduce us to the New Gack in da ring wit’ youse?”
(Part 2)
Some of the other New Gacks agree with the third-person pugilist. Ganja slowly perks up as he hears this. Warhol Vaude looks around the ring and sees no one.
“Box-Mayne, what the hell are you talking about man? Have you been Lace’n?”
Jax jabs, “Box-Mayne is a meathead, but he ain’t blind Vaude. That pugilist with the hat and trench coat.”
Warhol Vaude chortles at the notion his lineup is in cahoots on a prank. But surely he jabbed wrong. “AH-AH-Alright, all the New Gacks who see this imaginary cat, move to the right, and all who don’t to the left, expeditiously.” The pugilists that moved to the right were the usual suspects of the Carswood Project: Mike Bones, Jax Jabbit, Box-Mayne, Outlaw, The Fridge, and of course the egregious Ganja Grin. The other half of the pugilists moved to the stands unable to grasp the odd situation.
“Box-Mayne bring ya’ simple behind in the ring and ask ya imaginary friend if they got BEF with me?”
Box-Mayne reluctantly gets up and directs Vaude to the impromptu actor on the stage. “Ay-mang, why only sum peeplez can see jouse mayne?”
The Odd figure ignored Box-Mayne’s inquiries, only muttering half-way phrases under his grinna. Vaude attempted to end the vaudeville match-up by stepping up to the spot where Box-Mayne was looking. Before he could get his usual verbal jab in, the Deranged Odd Bastard popped an uppercut so erratic, the Warhol’s mug busted into confetti.
All the pugilists go into a frenzy. Box-Mayne inched his way closer to make sense of the situation, however, this was just fuel to the proverbial BEF that had just been lit. When Box-Mayne was in range, the Odd Deranged Bastard grappled the unsuspecting pugilist. The next tactic to happen was otherworldly. Unable to break free from his OPP, Box-Mayne had the veins from his wrists split open. He howls in pain as the rest of the lineup looks in horror. The Odd Deranged Bastard lets go of his prey as his trench coat morphs into bat-like wings. With that tactic, he vanishes into the undercover darkness of the rafters above. Box-Mayne lies on the canvas in a puddle of his own blood.
The pugilists on the left, not believing their eyes roadi-five-thousand out of The Pit, while the Usual Pugilists are frozen in place.
“T-T-They’re Boxed In Peace? T-Raw spawns from the background.
In retaliation, Tyke Bones and Outlaw hop into the ring to check on Box-Mayne, when he suddenly resurrects on the spot from his canvas grave. Although the third-person talking pugilist was upright, he didn’t seem to sport his usual steez. The wrists where his gash was had lost a ton of blood from the looks of it.
“Hey punchuko, you alright?” Outlaw calls out to him, while Tyke Bones stands behind with his baleful stare.
No response. Only a cacophony of feint laughter that echoes throughout The Project. Box-Mayne launches a flurry of sporadic tactics towards Outlaw. The quickdraw pugilist bag-backs and slips anyway he could. Tyke Bones intervened and grappled the former Box-Mayne, shoving him into the ropes. Still no response. This was not Box-Mayne anymore. It was as if his whole B-Steez had gone flip mode. His movements were similar to that of a puppet.
“Easy big punchuko, I can handle this,” Outlaw guiles an assuring smile to the Heavy B. “No more bloxay-blah Mayne of Box. Let’s settle this BEF with a draw.” Outlaw readies his bestus from the hip. “On the count of th–” but before Outlaw could finish, Box-Mayne rushes in…not that it mattered to Outlaw’s sleight of hand reflexes. He quickdraws his Six-Shot-Jab tactic and lands a blow to Box-Mayne’s grinna. The triggered bestus trailed with smoke like the barrel of a firearm, but the BEF had not yet been quelled. Box-Mayne was stunned at first, recovered at an unnatural rate, and started to mimic the very same tactic that should have knocked his lights out.
“Son of a–” but before the fast jab puglist could finish, the possessed pugilist fired his Six-Shots into Outlaw’s abdomen. Outlaw clutches his insides as if a dastardly villain discharged lead into his slab. The desperado pugilist fell to the canvas, with internal bleed marks, looking up at the lights that would forever stoke his eternal cave.
“T– are you seeing any of this?” Ganja grabs his Pusha’s collar in desperation.
Pusha T-Raw takes off his fitted hat and gives a solemn salute to the BIP Outlaw. “My hemisphere can’t even begin to comprehend this nightmare dork. I do know if we don’t take action, then the rest of Project, maybe the whole neighborhood will be in trouble from this Fist Fiend. Opportunity comes knock’n with a one-two tactic Ganja. The one you can’t see; you don’t even know if the problem is there. Two is the source that spreads like a disease, with wires detached causing mayhem. How are we gonna respond, Ganja?”
Ganja has his head down; silhouette casted over his mug, as he involuntarily shakes. “With jabs and a grin,” Ganja grins.
“So be–”
The platitude is interrupted by the feint psychotic laughter from before. Tyke Bones faces off with the husk pugilist. The Fridge looks up and does his All-Seeing tactic. T-Raw looks up, then observes the BEF going down in front of him. In the lights, he could see barely visible blood red strings protruding from Box-Mayne’s wrists.
“A puppet… is controlled by a puppetee,” T-Raw looks up again. “The rafters! That Deranged Odd Bastard is in the rafters!”
“Grin, grin, so what now?” Ganja enthusiastically pats his bestus together.
“Ain’t it obvious ya meathead!” Jax jabs. “We joob the puge and take the BEF to him. Man, you’re such a hook, I swear.”
“Mm… grub,” Ganja grins egregiously. “Four slabs to one BEF. I grin those odds.”
The Grin’N Bastard would come to regret those words as the Husk Pugilist pounced on Tyke Bones and bit into his slab like a feral animal. Almost as if transferring his evil essence into the Heavy B himself. Seymour stoically signals he’d stay to BEF the behemoth, while Jax and Ganja would forward the assault. The deranged duo proceed to climb one of the scaffolds from below. Jax leads as Ganja follows behind.
“Hurry up dawg, ‘fore Fridge’s BEF is cooked,” Jax says.
“G-shatup ya corny bastard,” Ganja grits with condensation on his mug. “Me and heights don’t agree is all.”
They make it to the top, while Seymour uses his long-range tactics to his advantage in the ring. With minimum visibility, they can barely make out anything in the darkness. Only distant laughter was heard from the other end of the walkway. They inch their way cautiously with their guards up.
Jax verbal jabs, “One of us should at least grab him, so the hook doesn’t slip away like before. The other will have to punch his lights out. I don’t trust you enough to aim, so ya grab him and I’ll jab him.”
“Whatever, I’m raw either way punk,” Ganja says.
“Hol’ up, you hear that?” Jax stops dead in his tracks.
“Nuthin.”
“Exactly.”
The crazed laughter had ceased with no rhyme or reason to it. The duo had reached the end, but the Deranged Bastard was not a wink in sight. Unbeknownst to the pugilists a black mist was present in the air.
“Ganja,” a distorted voice called out from behind.
Ganja turns around and it is the Deranged Bastard. Ganja attempts to grab his OPP, but is pushed away. Being in range for a tactic, Ganja decides to take a shot before the fist fiend can get away. He uses his Boom-Bap-Pow tactic landing each hit successfully, causing the Deranged Odd Bastard to tip overboard from the platform. Although seemingly victorious, the phrase Ganja heard next did not make him grin.
“GANJA-YOU-HOOK!”
A loud thud was heard below. Ganja looked around, but Jax was no longer there. Sweat began to form at Ganja’s dome as he raced back down to the bottom. Oddly enough Tyke Bones and Seymour The Fridge were both BIP in one corner. A stalemate to the bitter end. Jax’s slab was in the middle of the canvas unresponsive. Ganja slowly approaches, shakily dropping to his knees as he pounded at the canvas. “DAMN YOU, DAMN YOU, DAMN YOU!”
“Funny, you normally use playful banter instead of full-on curse words,” a voice from outside the ring said. It came from the slab of Pusha T-Raw, but not his tone or voice.
“YOU’RE NOT MY PUSHA. YOU’RE NOT T-RAW,” Ganja grits through his grinna.
The doppelganger smiles like a Cheshire Cat hopped up on Lace. The black mist returns, altering his appearance back to the Deranged Odd Bastard. This time he brandishes a custom-made GLUV with a syringe claw-like attachment. “Heard you been having trouble going to sleep. Maybe my fists could help,” he smiles.
“Mm… grub,” Ganja grins halfway.
The odd fighters roadwalk parallel to each other. Ganja rushes in. The fist fiend elongates his arm like a murderous cartoon character. Ganja gingas, narrowly escaping the claw attack. With Jax’s slab still in the middle of the ring, Ganja works his way along the right side of the ropes. An unwise tactic, as the fist fiend controlled the very fibers of the ropes. They tugged and pulled at Ganja’s slab. Like a rubber band, the stringy OPP hurled the Grin’N Bastard towards the Deranged Bastard. The Fist Fiend orchestrated the tactic, striking Ganja in the grin, instantaneously severing the wires that held Ganja’s mask together.
A sharp pain coursed through Ganja’s gums as if a masochist took the tip of a blade and slowly caressed it at the root. Ganja grabbed his mouth in agony with one hand and the other to defend himself from incoming tactics. Like a free-flow pendulum, Fist Fiend attacked from all sides. His bat-like trench coat wings swept swiftly with each jab as the Ganja Grin got bruised and battered like roadkill on pavement.
Nearly beaten within an inch of his menial light, Ganja meekly lifts himself onto his knees. They shake and quake, but above all else, his jaw was completely detached from the mandibular notch to the coronoid process. The mask was broken. On his last stand, Ganja tilts his mug up. The Deranged Bastard looms over his slab, a mix between a ghostly apparition and an arachnid spun on its web. The Fist Fiend says “You must want dead pugilists to represent you,” as the final blow is about to be administered, Ganja closes the lights to the cave one last time and grins.
A round passes, maybe two, then three, until the pugilist formerly known as Ganja decides to take another peek through the cave. His OPP is gone. Not the slabs of his acquaintances or adversaries, but the Deranged Odd Bastard had disappeared. [REDACTED] crawls to a corner, dismantled from grin to below. He looks up at the lights, Beaten In Peace, as water begins flowing out of his eyes.
It’s four-forty in the morning. Ganja wakes up in cold sweat from his bedroom canvas. He grins a sigh of relief, “No more, Ginga Beer before bed.”