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The Legend of Johnny Irish #3

“Irish is beyond me. I train him for 7 straight years, pour my heart and fucking soul into the kid, finally get him into a title fight; and I get this”. He points out of the office window to Irish lighting another cigarette up in his corner of the ring.

I’m not really listening at this point. My knuckles are aching. They want to feel canvas bag conform to them. I’m hungry for it, and I only have a month left.

He says something about a girlfriend. I could honestly give two shits about Irish. The man is a douchebag. He’s the definition of “douchebag”.

“You need to keep him alive for the next 30 minutes.”

“What?”

“Him and his girl have been together since before he started boxing. I bring her over, she see’s Remorseful Irish, they make up, we got a working boxer on our hands.”

“Fuck no”, I say.

“Why not?”

“Because he’s a douchebag, sir.”

“He’s in good company, then”.

Michael disappears and I’m left alone in the office. My knuckles still ache. And who the fuck nicknames himself “Irish”?

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