Life had thrown a haymaker at Salvador Romero, the former lightweight champion of the world. The blow was unexpected, and news of the scandal spread faster than the fire that burned his home to cinders.
The timing of the house fire suggested the work of a vengeful arsonist, but authorities claimed it was simply due to electrical problems.
It all reeked to Salvador; in his gut, he knew he’d ended up on someone’s list. The type of list you stayed on until someone crossed off your name with streaks of your own blood.
Days went by. Weeks. Salvador squandered the rest of his fortune at high-end bars and lesser-known establishments of ill repute.
Well-dressed men in suits and sunglasses began to watch him everywhere he went. They rolled up in Rolls-Royces and Lamborghinis. No matter how he stacked it, all signs pointed to the cartel. Salvador knew he couldn’t outlast his opponent in the final round this time. There was no strategy here other than acceptance. In his mind, he had a pretty good idea of where this story would end: in a dusty alley, grain bag over his head, silenced pistol popping a single bullet into his skull.
He'd just be another bag of bones buried in the desert.
At least it would be quick.
When Salvador could no longer pay for his motel room, and when everyone in his inner circle had gone quiet or turned their back on him, he hit the streets while hitting the bottle harder. Somehow, he moved about undetected, or that’s how he felt, at least. For days, he wandered the city streets like a vagrant who had somehow survived the apocalypse. In his mind, he was the only person left in the world.
One day, Salvador woke up on a bench beside a cardboard sign that read Help a brother reclaim his former glory. Had he written it? Is this what he’d become? His head throbbed, and he felt dehydrated beyond belief. But he felt sober, and his mind felt clear.
A man in a hoodie and an old-school Oakland Athletics cap strolled by. He dropped a pouch in Salvador’s lap. “Open it,” he said, before rounding the corner and disappearing from view.
Salvador stared at the pouch bleary-eyed, and opened it with trembling hands. A small slip of rolled-up paper rested inside.
Salvador removed the paper, unrolled it, and read.
Leave town. They’ve been plotting, and you’re in it deep, but this isn’t over. In three days, meet me in Golden, Colorado. I’ll find you.
Don’t throw in the towel. Not yet.
- Z
Salvador had no idea who “Z” was. In fact, he had no idea what the hell any of it meant. He reached into the pouch, felt around, and pulled out a bundle of cash. It was a hefty stack of hundred-dollar bills.
“Another shot,” Salvador whispered to himself. He glanced left, then right, ensuring no one else saw the money. He gripped the pouch tightly in his fist.
Salvador stood, wobbled ever so slightly, and began to walk toward the train station. Could he get to Golden? Or Denver, at least? He didn’t know why he had a change of heart. Perhaps it was the fighter in him.
Maybe he could go a few more rounds after all.
Thanks so much for reading my new story today. I hope you enjoyed it. I’m contemplating whether or not to serialize this one.
Please feel free to share with a fellow fiction reader, and remember to click that heart icon if you liked the story.
I appreciate you being here.
Take care and have a wonderful week.
- Justin
PS - My goal is to host Fifties by the Fire this Friday—keep an eye out! I will try to send the prompt as a Note before Friday.
I see a picture of Jesus offering redemption in this story, Justin. I don't know if that is where you were going, but I enjoyed it!
You are on a roll, Justin. Go a few more rounds with a serialization.