Chapter 1 - Without a shadow of a doubt

“Damn!” muttered the Irish pugilist, staring up at his challenger, a 6’ 9” brute by the name of Angus McFarley, a Scottish/Irish up-and-coming boxer with a mean streak that almost equaled Aran’s, but only just. “Ah, ya may be part Irish,” yelled Aran, “but ya don’t have the guts to take me on! Yer mudder was a feckin’ jock!” Aran was only covering up his apprehension, for Angus was not only incredibly tall, but also built like a coliseum, with a face only a fighter’s mother could love. “You can come up with a better insult than that, ya bloody pogue!” Angus growled, hitting his gloves together; Aran only replied with a snarl as the bell went off, signifying the start of the first round. Angus was a prideful fighter, paying more attention to his performance than his skills, announcing his titled special attacks like “The McFarley Masher” and “Scottish Slice”; this didn’t affect his power, though, for his punches were almost as powerful as a car crash to Aran. “Ha-ha!” Aran shouted maniacally, drooling a bit, “c’mon and whap me! I can take it!” It wasn’t clear to the spectators, many of whom were familiar with Aran’s apparent masochism, but Aran was distracted and distressed; something on his mind was keeping the Irishman from keeping his guard up effectively. Soon, the round was half-over, and Aran was knocked down by Angus’s “Edinburgh Eliminator”, which lived up to its name. Even when out of it, it was clear that Aran was in more mental distress than usual, as the crowd and referee noticed that Aran got up on the count of 9 instead of the trademark 7 count. Nevertheless, Aran was keen to bring good luck back to him, even if it meant using his infamously devious tactics, including his elbow strike and headbutt, although neither were too effective on Angus’s tremendous body.

Soon, though, the end-of-round bell sounded, and Aran retreated back to his corner, yelling to Angus, “C’mon, you git! Quit kissin’ your clovers and gimme the works!” Aran’s coach, a Northern Irish gentleman and almost perfect contrast to Aran’s apparent insanity, saw through Aran’s caustic attitude and went to talk to him. “Aran?” said the coach in a fatherly tone, “What’s up? You seem a little more disturbed than usual.” “Whadarya talkin’ about?!!?” Aran shouted at his coach sharply, “I’m damn fine! Don’t look at me like that! I’m damn fine and there’s nothin’ you need to do, dammit.” Aran twitched like a cold, wet, frightened dog as he stared surlily at his opponent, Angus, as his British coach massaged his large shoulders. “Gaddammit...” spat Aran, giving Angus nasty looks. Aran’s coach looked right through Aran’s anger and saw his pain and predicament. “Aran,” the coach remarked, “this isn’t about the newcomer, is it? You wouldn’t have been so sloppy with those moves of yours if it weren’t for something else on your mind. Maybe if you talked to me about it, you’d feel better.” Aran would not let his shell of insanity and anger be broken for the sake of imperative therapy; “Shut your gob!” he yelled at his coach, “He’s nothin’ but an overinflated balloon, and I intend to give him the pin!” Aran’s coach was wise enough to know when to back off from his irate apprentice, but he still felt troubled as the bell sounded and the opponents fought again. It didn’t seem too long before the fight was over. Angus won by decision; Aran was knocked down once each round, while Angus wasn’t even knocked down at all.

In the locker room, Aran was just putting on his jacket when his coach approached him. “Aran?” said the coach softly, “What’s the matter, boy?” “Don’t you feckin’ call me a boy, Darrel.” spat Aran, “I’m 22 years old.” “Fair enough,” joked Darrel, the coach, “but when you’re my age, 22 will seem like kindergarten!” Aran dented one of the lockers in anger, shocking Darrel. “Leave me the feck alone!” shouted Aran, “You’re not my Da, and don’t get to thinkin’ that you’re anything near that!” Darrel spoke to Aran, “I may not be a part of your family, but I’m here for your needs in the ring! So I’m not your Da, but I’m as damn close as you’re going to find in the world of video boxing, so you better count your blessings!” Darrel knew that Aran was angrier than usual, but at what he did not know, for as soon as Aran left the building, Darrel was no longer a part of Aran’s life. Aran returned to his apartment, looking rather incensed as he carried his items in his duffel bag. “What the hell is this??” exclaimed Aran’s sister, Sharon, a sharp-featured, sharp-tempered woman known for being one of the only people able to keep Aran effectively in check, “You’re not entering this household with that damn look on your face!” Aran’s face was nicked with a terrible sneer as his right lower eyelid flickered involuntarily. Sharon smacked Aran’s cheek, causing Aran to snap out of his surly look. “That’s better,” said Sharon, “now get inside; it about time for dinner.”

The Ryan family dinner was a quaint yet wonderful affair as the family ate their share of bird and fish. “So then he said to the bastard ‘it’s a fair cop, but if only he could keep his knickers straight’!” said Father Ryan, concluding a funny joke and making the family laugh, except for Aran, who only stirred his stew. Sharon hit Aran forcefully in the elbow, “Aran!” she said, “What’s with you today?! You haven’t been this sour since you were beaten by that whacked-out ladylike Japanese fella, and even then, you still laughed at the dinner table! What gives?!” Aran sighed acridly, “It’s nothing, really. I just lost another boxing match to some overgrown Scottish-Irish bastard, but it’s none of your business.” Sharon grabbed Aran’s jaw and turned his head to look at her. “Excuse me, but I’m your god-given sister!” she announced, “Your business is our business whether you like it or not, and so you better stop acting like we’re just any old people you can spit on all day, and unless you stop acting so goddamn miserable—!” Aran gave Sharon a good shove out of the way and stormed off to his room. Mother Ryan grew worried, “Shar,” said Ma Ryan, “I wish I knew what was up with our boy.” Sharon stared at the door to Aran’s room and sighed, “Me too, ma… Me too…”

Aran opened the door to his closet and found some of his old stuffed toys that he decided to throw around and rip apart like a rabid Doberman. “Grrr! That stupid Scotch-Irish eejit!” growled Aran as he held a teddy bear in his hands and teeth, “He’s nothin’ but an overgrown dog with bad fleas! Isn’t that right, Dillon?” Aran threw the worn bear at his Irish setter, Dillon, who obediently tore the toy to shreds and presented the remaining stuffing to Aran like successfully killed prey. “Ah, good dog!” said Aran as he gave Dillon vigorous belly rubs, “Yer a chip of the ol’ block, ain’t ya, Dillon? Who’s a good boy? Who’s a good boy??” Aran continued to pet his dog happily, but suddenly Darrel’s voice entered Aran’s mind. “I may not be a part of your family, but I’m as damn close as you’re going to find in the world of boxing, so you better count your blessings!” Aran hit his head to try and silence the echoes of Darrel’s words in his head, but to no avail. Dillon whimpered as Aran growled and yelled. “That eejit Darrel’s too damn soft! He wants to help me be normal, but I ain’t damn normal! I never have been, I never will be, and I definitely don’t want any coach o’ mine to think that I need therapy!!” Aran pummeled the wall, sending Dillon whining under the bed to hide. “Aran?” the voice seemed to call, infuriating Aran, “What’s the matter, Aran? Aran?? Aran!!”

It turned out that that voice came from Da Ryan who just opened the door after hearing the racket. “What the hell is going on here?” remarked Da Ryan sharply, noticing the pulverized stuffed animals and the dented walls of Aran’s room, as well as the frightened Dillon whining under Aran’s bed.“You know we were hoping to save those toys for the homeless children.” Said Da Ryan coldly, but Aran couldn’t care less about any children’s needs at the moment. “Da,” said Aran, “why’d ya pick that eejit Darrel to be my boxing coach??” Da Ryan nodded, “Darrel was an old friend of mine, and, believe it or not, a spectacular boxer in his heyday.” Aran rolled his eyes derisively. “Have you ever even asked Darrel about his boxing days?” said Da Ryan, but Aran only hit his head to the wall, sending Dillon whimpering out of the room. “Some boxer!” said Aran, “He couldn’t even land a decent punch, let alone win himself anything if the fool knew anything about it!” Da Ryan gradually saw what was going on within Aran’s mind, but he too backed away, allowing Aran to stew in his own flashback...

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