“Irish!”

“What?” I choked a little as the smell of beer and cigarette smoke escaped from my mouth.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

“Oh, hey Michael. I’m drinking and smoking, among other things.” Michael’s a little slow on the uptake.

Michael climbed through the ropes into the gym boxing ring and moved over to my corner. I must not have been a pretty sight. But after so many beers you tend to throw up.

“I hit Karen”, I said.

“Your girl?”

“In the face, with my fist”.

He paced, mulling this over.

“Oh and she’s not my girl anymore. So yeah.”

“Did she call the cops?”

This was a curveball. “Um, no.”

“Then what’s the problem? You’re off the hook”.

“Michael, I don’t think you’re understanding the weight of this situation”. Michael is definitely a little slow.

“No, I understand the weight of the situation: You have a title fight in two weeks and you’re five pounds heavy”.

“Fuck you and your fight. Oh, and your five pounds. Fuck that too.” I took a sip of my beer. I don’t really like Michael.