On a 20X20 boxing ring in the belly of Madison Square Garden, Tommy Farrow defends his title for the WBO championship belt against Jeffrey Johnson. Near the end of the 10th round, a solid left hook to Farrow's head drops him to the canvas, killing him instantly. Thus begins an adventure into hell and a race against the clock. Farrow must rescue the soul of a writer who dies just seconds before him. The writer, Robert Scalia, has been hijacked by demons through a passage into purgatory called the Hellmouth. Tommy Farrow has been told that in the future Scalia is going to write a tell-all book that will prevent a madman from becoming the President of the United States . . . a madman who will eventually cause a nuclear war, ending the world as we know it. The final round is upon us.The timer is set. Get ready to rock

Heatseeker

By JAMES CLASSI

AuthorHouse

Copyright © 2012 James Classi
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4772-6457-7

Contents

Prologue.............................ixRound One............................1Round Two............................6Round Three..........................24Round Four...........................36Round Five...........................0Round Six............................70Round Seven..........................87Round Eight..........................112Round Nine...........................136Round Ten............................159Round Eleven.........................184Round Twelve.........................213Epilogue.............................219Acknowledgments......................221About the Author.....................223

Chapter One

Round One

The Heavyweight Championship January 20, 2013 Madison Square Garden

Flashbulbs popped outside the boxing ring like the prelude to a violent thunderstorm; or, as Tommy Farrow dreaded, was the light show due instead to corneal starbursts behind his swollen eyelids? The handy-work of Johnson's right jab followed up by his trademark left hook.

Like his idol Smokin' Joe Frazier, what Joltin' Jeffrey Johnson was known and most feared for was his devastating southpaw attack. And tonight, more so than any other night, it was landing with increasing frequency and pinpoint accuracy.

The fact that Farrow could no longer reliably discern between the two visual sensations was an ominous sign that no good could possibly come of this. His strength was slowly ebbing like the sands in an upturned hourglass. Sheer will, the guts and determination which were a by-product of his natural constitution and physical conditioning, was the only thing preventing him from floating out to sea with the flotsam and jetsam. But Farrow was well aware even in his semi-conscious state that this was not an infinite resource. That, despite a second-round knockdown and building up an early lead on the judges' scorecards, his time was running out and his share of the heavyweight championship was doomed along with it, but that was alright.

Okay, I put on a good show; time to end this thing, he thought.

"A vicious left has Farrow's knees wobbling," said analyst Jim Lampley. "Backed into the corner, blood now streaking his right cheek. I don't know how he is still standing."

"Survival instinct," said Larry Merchant. "Nothing more, nothing less. Oh, a right jab and another left and ... I don't believe what I'm seeing! Farrow has dropped his arms! Tommy Farrow is no longer defending himself! What on earth is he thinking?"

The volume produced by the thousands of fight fans surrounding the small, roped boxing stage went from a deafening chant of "Far-row! Far-row! Far-row!" to a thunderous roar.

"Tommy seems distracted," Lampley again. "He keeps looking into the stands."

Flashbulbs continued to flicker and sizzle around the ring that now seemed to spin violently through the roaring mob and the thick cigarette smoke.

"That's gotta hurt! Another Johnson combination and Farrow has still not raised his arms. What could possibly be going through his mind?" said Merchant.

"Farrow, now thirty-six years old, is not the same man who started this fight. Something must have snapped ... Ow! A big left by Johnson!" said Lampley, the volume of his voice increasing with excitement. "A right jab ... another left, and Farrow is still looking out ringside."

Due to the measure of noise in Madison Square Garden it seemed the roof would likely blow off and up into the vast expanse of night sky like a soda bottle top fueled by the violent, shaken fury of carbonated air.

"A hard right followed by a punishing left hook! The round steam-training to a close, just under twenty seconds to go!" Larry Merchant yelling into his microphone now, trying to edge his voice above the havoc in the arena.

"A quick right jab to the face, another left, an assault to the body!"

Merchant was talking without breathing, calling the attack as it played out before him. The sickening sound of Johnson's leather gloves pounding into Farrow's flesh was not unlike Keith Moon destroying his drum kit in a ferocious blurred rage.

"The left hook again perfectly executed and Farrow finally hits the deck! My God, what has happened here tonight?"

The commentator's voice, now very small, was lost somewhere in a sea of cheers and yells, a tidal wave of shrieks and frenzied screams. The referee sends Johnson to a neutral corner and begins a count that Tommy Farrow looks to have no chance of beating.

One ... Two ...

"Tickets! Tickets! Who needs two for the big fight tonight?"

The scalpers were working Seventh Avenue earlier in the evening, their breath misting before them on the cold January air as they sought suckers or out-of-towners to part with double or triple the face value on tonight's main event at the Garden. A unification bout between the two reigning divisional heavyweight champions whose menacing profiles and career records were on vivid display on the giant screen outside the arena.

TOMMY "HEATSEEKER" FARROW 37-0 (32 KO) WBO HEAVYWEIGHT CHAMPION

JOLTIN' JEFFREY JOHNSON 32-0 (29 KO) IBF HEAVYWEIGHT CHAMPION

THERE CAN ONLY BE ONE KING IN THIS TOWN ... AND KONG IS DEAD!

"Sold out, baby," said one of the scalpers to two guys from Long Island hoping to score a couple of cheap nosebleed seats just to be there. "I got your only way inside right here."

He waved a handful of tickets, the legitimacy of which was dubious at best.

Highlights of both Farrow and Johnson's previous fights played on the video monitor overlooking the pandemonium in front of Penn Station, where the excitable fight crowd was tame in comparison to the tourists and club-hoppers impatiently vying for cabs to whatever Saturday night destination they couldn't seem to get to soon enough. Shopping, drinking, dancing, fucking?

Only the Vegas odds-makers, promoters, and Pay-Per-View providers whose personal gains from this event were believed to rival that of the contestants themselves, outdid the level of anticipation for this long-awaited match-up among the boxing faithful. Much was to be gained, or lost, according to what side of the action you happened to be on this night and everyone wanted to be as close to it as humanly possible. To feel the electricity, see the blood, smell the sweat, hear the sadistic pounding of leather against flesh, perhaps touch the robed gladiators as they made their memorable entrances into the 20x20 foot slaughterhouse. Sensory overload.

No two people, however, experienced the gravity of the situation on a more visceral level than Tommy Farrow and Jeffrey Johnson: the pre-dawn roadwork, running the streets of Farrow's freezing Boston and Johnson's sweltering Atlanta respectively, which began while the nine-to-fivers were still snug in their beds, hitting the snooze alarm for the first of many times. The seemingly interminable weight training and sparring sessions in stinking, too-hot or too-cold gyms, black eyes, broken noses, bruised ribs, plus the pissing of blood and the dozens of amateur bouts, tournaments, and competitions. Both were Golden Gloves champions, Farrow in New England after having lost in the previous years' finals, Johnson a two-time titleholder in the mid-south region.

Never had the two squared off against one another, as amateurs or professionals, before tonight. As both rose steadily through the heavyweight rankings at roughly the same time, much intrigue and speculation did abound, but it was thought best by the powers that be to wait for...