A flurry of reporters were on the scene, microphones competed for soundbites, and the man of the hour appeared cucumber cool with his arms spread across the top of adjacent chairs. Sunglasses blocked his thousand yard gaze, they hide his post-bewilderment.
“Given the size of your ‘opponent’, were there ever any doubts that you would win?” Asks a fallen debutante in a low cut dress. She wrote news features. She heard this boxer preferred physical ones. In this sporting world, she had grown accustomed to using one to aid the other. The boxer just turns his head to examine the prize.
A sand shark dangles by its tail. Cameras flicker. The boxer hears himself screaming in his mind. He envisions the terror that swept his body as this beast charged toward him. Now here it is, a lifeless trophy. The boxer contemplates the fragility of his own life as he stares at his ‘opponent.’ But there are cameras and he has people that depend on his image, so he snaps out of his fugue and socks the damn thing in the face.
More cameras flicker as he raises his arms in a victory pose.