551 - (FREE TO READ) "Fists Of Scorpio": Jack Johnson vs James Figg
Vunak Of Antares continues! Chapter Eleven...
Copyright 2025 LaFond & Randolph
A Casting Darts Publishing Original
Written by LaFond & Randolph
Vunak leads “The Dirty Dozen you always wanted” against an opposing team lead by non other than Bruce Lee!
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Click to read Chapter one: “Like Water”
Click to read Chapter two: “Stardust Express”
Click to read Chapter three, part one: “The Galactic Fix is In”
Click to read Chapter three, part two: “Charon’s Song”
Click to read Chapter three, part three: “Best and the Blessed”
Click to read Chapter four: “The Dawning Of A New Sun”
Click to read Chapter five, Part one: “Upon the Scales of Right”
Click to read Chapter 5 (Part 2): “Where’s Charlie?”
Click to read Chapter 6: “自由”
Click to read Chapter 7: “Knives Of Scorpio”
Click to read Chapter 8: “Flags Of Scorpio”
Click to read Chapter 9: “Champions Of Scorpio”
Click to read Chapter 10: “Bloody Scorpio”
Fists Of Scorpio / Vunak Of Antares #11
Afternoon: Each team advances a boxer, chosen by lot, to fight with the hard leather Cestus.(0)
“I’m my own man! I don’t don’t need coachin’ from you or anyone else on boxin’ , you serious?”
Vunak felt frustration, he’d known deep down that Johnson, like the other men who’d lived their Earth lives as walking acts of defiance, would be hard to manage but after the devastating defeat they’d just handed Red Team, there was no time for individual action but rather a moment for tightening of the helmet straps and pulling together to further cripple their adversaries.
The fact was that Johnson was a man well into his sixties and now at the time of his Antarian resurrection, hadn’t fought a man for eight years. He seemed powerful still but Figg, who Jack would face in a few short minutes, was very much the potent heavyweight fighter at his death-age of thirty eight.
“I know man, I get it, though rather than thinking of me as your coach, look at me as your Second, I’m in your corner and that’s something which you do need.”
He stopped short of mentioning that useless Limey as a bottle holder, that wouldn’t help his cause any here. So pausing, he then began again trying to talk the bald giant, who towered above him, around;
“Look, that last world was a shit show at times for all of us, not just you, and after all, it was just a testing ground for this place, but you’re forgetting one thing Jack; You ain’t in it on your own this time man. Look around you…”
Hands on hips and looking down at the smaller man, Johnson broke eye contact and scanned the faces of the other men.
Vu sensed his moment; “We’re in this thing together, teamwork is our only chance of getting out somehow.”
He pointed at the bloodied but unbroken figures of Burton, Shaka and Dioxiphous, while turning back and addressing his fighter directly.
“Those three just changed this fixed game and gave us a shot at a chance, Charlie and LaFond too. We all need you to kill that fucker out there man. All those hard times back then, put ‘em to use right now! You defied everyone man, now tap into that...Right now it’s payback time Jack!! Killer instinct man! Not a sledgehammer Jack, but the honed scalpel of a surgeon...killer instinct!!”
Johnson looked back at Vunak, “OK … Mr Coach”,
He threw a flurry of fists and shook his shoulders loose, “Don’t you fret none, that Englishman’s gonna see some killer instinct alright”, and roared with laughter.
“Ha! I forgot more about boxing than he ever knew! Let’s see how that young fella Mr Figg wants it. Fast and willing? I’m his man in that case. Does he want it flat-footed? Goodness! Well if he does, why, I’m his man again! Anything to suit, but fast or slow… I’m gonna win! Hahaha!”
And at that, and to Vunak’s delight, the men of Blue team stood and cheered as the imposing figure turned and called out to the Gate Keeper:
“Hey! Open up this gate! Papa Jack’s gonna bring home the bacon!”
The Galveston Giant began his walk out closely followed by his corners, Vunak and Jeth to the accompaniment of rock drumming, distorted guitar and a sparse, screaming jazz horn (1) that blasted thunderously from the arena PA system.
Vunak was sick of the sight of Charon, let alone the sound of him. The piped master of Ceramonies, chortled upon recieving this stolen thought and began his introduction with added gusto:
"My Most High Lords, Ladies and Gentlefolk, brace yourselves for a real humdinger of a tussle!
Representin' the Blue Team, with his corner crew, we got none other than Jack Johnson, the 'Galveston Giant,' and the World Heavyweight Champ from 1908 to 1915! His moniker's carved deep into the fightin' books, lemme tell ya. He ain't just slingin' the leather Cestus; he's a wizard of warfare, a mind-bender, and a true behemoth when he steps inta that square circle!
This here's a defensive maestro, dodgin' blows from the likes of James J. Jeffries, Tommy Burns, and Fireman Jim Flynn like they was mere gnats. He's got the patience of a sphinx, waitin' for that sweet spot to lay down the haymaker.
From guard to gumption, he can switch in a blink, dishin' out his wallops with the precision of a surgeon!
His counterpunchin' ain't about muscle; it's about smarts, makin' 'em miss while he's landin' his own shots like a sharpshooter!
Even with the years on him, he's still packin' that legendary wallop. Standin' at 6'1" with a reach of 74 inches, he was a real Goliath, even against big fellas like Sam Langford…"
‘Shit!’
Vunak saw Johnson shift slightly at the last comments and leaned towards his fighter; “And then some, am I right? Killer instinct Jack!”
Johnson’s head rose almost imperceptibly and he raised a fist to the crowds who seemed to stretch almost to the heavens.
The neck pipes continued their deafening broadcast.
"His style, forged in the rough-and-tumble of 'cellar' fights, proves that true combat ain't just about muscle but about outsmartin' your adversary.
Behold the legacy of smarts, raw strength, and mind games as Jack Johnson steps into the ring. Can his Red Team opponent knock this intimidatin' giant off his pedestal, or will his tactic of grindin' 'em down while rampin' up the aggression hold sway?"
The masses screamed ecstatically and two syllable, descending tone chants of “Jooohhhnnnsuu-uun!!” issued forth from the lower levels.
“Annnnd now! Representing Red Team…!!!”
A lull fell upon the crowd and Vunak, Johnson and the Limey turned to see a bald headed, pale skinned man of heavy build, followed by Bruce Lee and Carl Cestari with towel and bottle.
Johnson turned to his English cornerman; “Hey Limey, you don’t need to feel so bad now, this one’s even whiter than you!” and at that, both he and Vunak started laughing.
Charon began the introduction of Figg in the vernacular of his time and home town, while the fighter just punched at the air with a stone faced expression as though about to preform some mundane task rather than a fight for life:
"My Lords and good folke, gather 'round, gather 'round, for a spectacle like ye've ne'er seen before! We've got the very pride o' Oxfordshire his self, the indomitable, the unbeatable, James Figg, from the heart o' Thame!
This here gentleman's fought more bouts than ye can count on yer fingers and toes, with a record o' near two hundred victories, and by George, he's lost but once in his entire career! Aye, he's a master o' the sword, the staff, and the bare knuckles, mixin' it up like no other with the likes o’ Bill Flanders, The Greenwhich Butcher and Big Jack Broughton himself!
He's the champion of all England, known for his cunning, his strength, and his spirit. Today, he'll be facin' off against none other than Jack Johnson, come all the way from the American plantations, a man with a reputation that stretches far across the ocean.
James Figg will be steppin' into the ring today to show once again why he's the finest fighter born on Oxfordshire soil. So, brace yerselves for a contest that'll be talked about long after the suns have set on this fine day!"
Both Johnson and Vunak glanced at the the second cornerman. Vu muttered; “Hey Limey what kind of language is that? I thought you guys spoke English?” At which there was more laughing from the Texan and Californian as the bottle holder answered with a shrug.
Both groups of men now stood at the centre of the ellipse facing each other, but something seemed wrong, Vunak looked around the arena and then at Johnson, in confusion;
‘But… where’s the ring?’
As though to answer his thought, there was a growing roar that seemed to surround them and the ground vibrated ominously.
From the distal ends of the ellipse, the sands began to surge like ocean tides moving slowly at first but then, gaining momentum as the waves began to form eight columns that rumbled towards them. From each of the columns, eight tendrils shot out, four from each side like the legs of enormous spiders and scuttled outwards to meet the approaching legs of the nearest sand column. The legs then seemed to join in some sort of diabolical linking before rising up horizontally to surround the human figures and form the ropes of the ring.
The combat space now formed itself fully, a twenty and four feet square ring with ropes that seemed to glisten and twist as though made of some sort of rope that creaked as it tautened and finished its metamorphosis and menacingly sealed the six figures within.
Charon then announced:
“Your referee today is Mr Manning Norvil”.
The members of the Blue and Red teams, stepped back as the sands of the centre of the ring rose up and formed a human shape that then refined as grains seemed to race around its surface finding their places. The form before them was a man of medium build and middle age dressed in a collarless shirt, trousers and braces. His hair, for that had now formed from the sand in an almost lifelike way, was slicked back and he sported an Edwardian era moustache. He then spoke in a thick Cockney accent;
“All right gents, this bout is to the deaf yeah? So, “last man standing”, if you will. When I say ‘break’, you will break, in the event of being knocked or thrown down, you're permitted to avail yerselves of a half minute corner break, but you must be back at the scratch within 8 seconds of that expirin’.
Apart from yer Cestus, yer ‘ands must be empty, no stones or such like. No blows below the waist or ‘oldin’ the ropes, we clear, yeah?”
Both fighters nodded.
“Very well gents, shake ‘ands and let’s have a good fight with a nice clean deaf to ‘onour our Lords on ‘igh.”
He then gestured abruptly at Lee and Vunak to join him at the scratch as the fighters stepped back.
From his pocket, he produced a coin, flipped it high in the air and held it unseen to the back of his left hand. “Please call for your choice of corner!”
“Heads”, said Lee before Vunak could even hear the question.
“Heads it is”, stated Norvil and gestured to The Red Team that their corner was to be the one with the long twin shadows stretching from it. A red Cloth was produced and handed to Cestari, who then tied to the middle of the post, denoting it as their corner.
Opposite, an identical blue cloth was handed to Jeth, and similarly tied . Standing with his back to their now allotted corner, Vunak realised the fix as both suns glared into his, and Johnson’s eyes.
As Vu stepped out through the ropes to take his position, Johnson said to him “No problem, all part of the game Coach! This John Bull’s going down quicker than sunset anyhow, jus’ you see!”
And at that, the bell rang and the fighters faced each other.
ROUND 1
Figg immediately closed with the strategy to step inside Johnson’s opening strikes and dominate the fight from commencement with a cross buttock throw.
But before he had a chance to read his adversary, Johnson threw a huge, leather wrapped jab which caught the Englishman’s nose driving his head back with so stunning a force, that he was momentarily convinced in a state of confusion that he’d received a thrown brick to the face from the crowd.
Johnson’s plan to distance the younger man and start punishing him with the Jab before putting him to sleep was underway.
‘This ain’t no cellar fight boy, you in with a world champion now!’
Johnson smiled, his gold tooth flashing, “Oh sorry, did I interrupt you there? Hahaha!” The Englishman visibly exhaled with a snort that spurted blood from his nostrils, and readied himself to press forward. Seeing this, Johnson moved to the side and added mockingly in an affectation of an English accent; “Don’t get no hurt feelings ol’ chap, I’m just playing wiv ya!”
As the English champion went to step forward, Johnson closed and threw his huge cross, which Figg narrowly slipped, and then shot his hand for the side of the Texan’s throat once more, achieving his throw this time by roughly wrapping the neck of the huge man as he turned inward, sending him over his right hip to the sand.
“BREAK!” Yelled the sand figure of the Referee.
Johnson got to his feet and walked to the Blue corner where he sat on the knee of the waiting Vunak, who winced at the weight of his fighter.
Not wanting to waste a single one of the allowed thirty seconds recuperation time, he snapped his fingers and pointed angrily at the grog (2) that the Limey ringside assistant had nearly spilled as he tripped on the bucket nearby. Vunak grabbed it impatiently and pushed it to Johnson’s lips, while shouting above the tumult of the crowd.
“Jack, keep punishing with that jab man! Break him down and then take his fucking head off!”
Johnson nodded determinedly and rose (to the relief of Vunak), to return to the scratch (NOTES), his large fists raised and ready.
ROUND 2
As the bell sounded, and at the command to continue, Figg seized the momentum he felt was his, and threw a low cross to the American’s solar plexus which missed as Johnson hinged backwards slightly at the hips, his arms raising to cover a moment too late, all while throwing out the weight of his left jab once more.
Figg slipped right and slapped down on Johnson’s massive arm before catching it and turning his body inwards to powerfully crank the elbow joint with an arm-bar that caused a sickening crack to emit from his opponent's limb with the pressure of his upper right arm.
Johnson’s face contorted with the pain, and he threw a savage, clubbing right overhand which scraped past his opponent’s eye without any of the effect that it’s power demanded.
Vu screamed : “Take the knee! Take the knee!!!” and his team mate did so once more availing of the rest period it granted him.
“BREAK!!”
Vunak was unaware of the weight this time as his mind raced and he quizzed his man:
“Jack! How’s the arm?”
“It’s fine, ain’t no thing” Johnson grimaced as his bicep contracted and flexed the joint through a few degrees. He hid the pain from his coach. He would finish this English chump as soon as the bell sounded. Across from him he saw the elated Lee gesturing wildly to the younger Figg who was seated on Cestari’s bent knee. Johnson shook the image from his mind and rose to his feet with dark intention, as the call was made to return to the scratch.
ROUND 3
Sensing the bloodlust of the crowd, Figg side stepped Johnson’s jab that, thanks to the large reach, seemed to travel the length of the ring towards him at the very moment the bell sounded. He counter up-jabbed, and made an attempt at Chancery, but the American postured his head back up and avoided the neck catch, while throwing a heavy right shot to the body that only skimmed.
Figg closed again for the neck tie but couldn’t quite get the angle he needed to latch the neck, his hand slipping in sweat as Johnson rotated back inwards with his left and caught his ribs with a massive low hook that dropped the Englishman to the sands as though felled by an axe.
“BREAK!”
Johnson turned to Lee, “How you like that Mr Cap’n... ‘Sir’?”
Lee threw himself out to the stricken fighter dragging him back clumsily to the waiting knee of Cestari and the grog cup.
Lee leaned in close to Figg to counter the ear splitting cacophany of the crowd.
“Fight the pain! He sees the pattern, use it again and switch it up James!”
Figg stifled the urge to vomit through the stabbing pain of his ribs as he stood and returned to the scratch, where Johnson awaited him, smiling.
The sand effigy of The Ref called out: “Seconds out… Round Four!!”
ROUND FOUR
Johnson jabbed, and then double jabbed as Figg feigned a further attempt at the neck tie for chancery before suddenly switching, wrapping Johnson’s left arm, and then violently lifting up against the trapped elbow joint with his forearm, savagely and continuously wrenching on the joint.
“Hit him !!!” screamed Vunak as Johnson began to club Figg with battering right hooks that bit deep into the eye of his tormentor, opening the eyebrow straight across, and filling his vision with boiling, stinging blood.
Figg held firm to his opponent’s arm, his misshapen eye clamped shut to try and squeeze out the blood as he dropped his head below the barrage of punches, and he threw a left shovel hook to the solar plexus with limited effect, his body protested from the strain of retaining the giant man’s left arm.
Johnson threw all he had at taking that blood soaked head , that seemed to spray blood with every punch, off of it’s shoulders. He landed a colossal right overhand that flattened the Englishman’s nose, breaking it decisively with a hideous “SNAP!”
But Johnson felt amazement, and horror as the claret soaked man simply seemed to ignore this, and turn his head, while reaching with his left hand under Johnson’s stricken arm, and under-hooking it to turn him as he side-stepped to his right, created an angle, and began shovelling hooks into Johnson’s left kidney.
In desperation, Johnson threw his left elbow back to try and kill the adversary with a power shot to his left temple, but missed.
In this instant, he felt Figg disappear behind him and went to turn for him, just as he felt the arm reach around his back, clamping him where he was, as Figg’s foot trapped his right heel, and he was hoisted up, and backwards with the power of Figg’s body weight, as he dropped his hips, and then threw the inverted American over backwards towards the sands. His bald head landed, trapped by the force of his huge body, and at a turned angle, snapping it instantly.
“Nnoooooooo!” screamed Vunak as he raced to his team mate, but too late as Lee entered the ring to grab Figg, and raise his hands to the air.
Norvil handed the Blue Colours to Figg as his trophy, and he held them aloft, while wincing from the pain of his ribs, his face covered in blood.
Charon’s voice filled the arena. “In the Red corner, your winner, James Figg!”. The din was ear splitting as the ropes of the ring fell to rejoin the sands below. As did the posts, which broke apart and followed Norvil, who sank slowly back to the sands, leaving the remaining members of the two teams alone in the expanse of the ellipse as the guards closed in to take them back to their gates.
Vunak and Lee’s eyes met for brief moment that seemed to stretch to infinity. The two resurrected masters aware that this moment foreshadowed an inevitable, and fast approaching reckoning that only one, or perhaps neither of them would survive.
Lee called out to Vunak;
“Don’t feel anger Paul. After all, it’s just death my friend.”
Continued next week!
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NOTES:
0 - A Cestus (also known as "caestus") was a type of ancient Roman boxing glove, but it's more accurate to describe it as a hand weapon used in boxing matches. The basic form of the cestus consisted of leather straps wrapped around the hands to protect the boxer's knuckles. However, more elaborate versions included metal plates, spikes, or even lead or iron loaded into the leather to increase the damage inflicted on an opponent.
They were used in both sporting events and gladiatorial combat. While early forms might have been used in relatively fair contests, the later, more brutal versions with metal additions were clearly designed to make fights more lethal and entertaining for spectators.
1 - Miles Davis’ “Right Off”
2 – Grog was originally an British Navy mixture of rum and water, served to sailors to prevent them from getting too drunk on pure spirits. It was introduced by Admiral Edward Vernon in the 18th century, who was nicknamed "Old Grog" because of his grogram cloak, from which the drink gets its name.
Over time, grog could include lemon or lime juice to combat scurvy (leading to the term "limey" for British sailors), sugar, and sometimes spices. The exact recipe could vary, but the basic idea was to dilute the alcohol to make it last longer and to make it less potent. Here, it is administered to the fighters as a pain killer and to revive them.