Growing up in Philly, boxing was essential to culture. Boxing was just as popular any other sport. I was born without the genes, so no matter how many weights I lifted, no matter how much food I ate, I never would be able to fight.

Despite that, I was in love with the sport. The discipline, the strategy, the required precision, the necessary athleticism, it was all beautiful. No other sport can appeal to the heart of man like fighting. Man against man is the primal sport, the oldest game. 

I was always smart, and realized many truths earlier than most. Unfortunately, one of those truths was my incompetence; however, I could see incompetence, and could inversely recognize talent. My first recognition of talent was a boy I grew up with. His name was Cain Jones; born a leader, competitor, and most of all, dominator, especially with a fire lit under him.

We grew up in different neighborhoods, a bike ride apart, so we went to school together, even thought I was 4 years older than him. In primary school he was the tallest but never lanky, the fastest but never weak, and biggest but never fat, and won every game in recreation. He was scrappy, and never took any disrespect. Eventually he never received any. 

He wasn't born that aggressive, however. At the age of 9 his mother was murdered. To make matters worse, he was the one who found her. He was taking out the trash, and saw her leg, with a tattoo she got for him, sticking out of the alley between their apartment building and the coffeehouse next door. He looked around for help, to no avail. His mind immediately searched for someone to blame. Someone to chase, to fight, to retaliate against. He found it. He saw the silhouette of a young man, twirling a knife, turning the corner of the alley to the backside of the coffeehouse, whistling the tune of the Bob Marley song that the coffeehouse was playing. Despite the rage erupting from the void his heart now housed, Cain knew not to chase, and so he collapsed and held the corpse of his mother. 

To any, this is trauma would be enough to ruin a childhood, to affect a lifetime. Cain was due for more. His father, abused as a child, had only one escape from pain such as losing a loved one — anger, followed by wrath, and in this case, revenge. A retired cop, he relentlessly searched for the man on his own. He found him eventually, only to find him dead. Suicide. He jumped off a bridge and left a note. The body was never found. Fear killed him, and that did not satisfy Remy's father. He did not want his wife's murderer to die to fear. He wanted him to die by the hand of revenge. 

These events planted a seed in Mr. Jones’ heart, and Remy was raised through puberty by an angry hand, which taught him to never take disrespect, always win, protect those you love, and never let a chance to get your revenge, or assert your dominance slip. Any deviation heeded a beating, so Remy learned to follow these philosophies.

I befriended him, attracted by his talent. He enjoyed my wit, and was jealous of my intelligence. Through his rough, tough exterior I saw the good heart that he had, the fair competitor he was, and the loving soul he was. Those attributes were given to him by his mother in his early childhood, and they were almost unshakable features of him. I recognized this after the many years it took me to get him to reveal his past, and his relationships with his parents. I had to reveal my own regrettable past of a brief gang experience (which I got out of quickly after I saw myself as someone I didn't want to be). He never told me the details of his father's parenting or especially not of his mother's death; he couldn't face reliving the scene, or that part of his life.

We both had a passion for boxing but enough differences to keep it interesting. I supported his boxing career all the way, slowly becoming more than his best friend, but also his manager, coach and biggest fan. I knew he would become the greatest in the world, he had to.

We never needed to go to college, he fought as soon as he could and never lost. He rose in the ranks, and we rode the wave of his success. Bigger apartments, better cars, more women, more winning, winning, winning. 

I always asked him when he would hit his peak, and he never gave me a straight answer. I always asked him how long he thought he could fight, and when he would become the best, and he would answer me then. But when I asked him about what he thought his personal best was, he never answered.

 He only told me after many years of asking, like it did with his past, what he thought of his potential. 

He told me he knew his potential. He told me that he had always known. He didn't know how he knew, but he always had. I'll never forget the tone of his voice when he told me that he hopes and prays every day that neither of us, nor anyone, ever sees that potential. I understood what he meant, for I too, had abilities and inherent attributes I hoped would never surface again. Although I didn't know the specifics, I took his word for it, and accepted his answer. Despite his true potential, I knew he would always win and he would continue to rise in the ranks, and that's all that really mattered.

He attracted attention quickly, and in this age of technology, he was arranged to fight a big fight as quickly as possible, because his skills went viral almost immediately among the scouts. They offered me the fight for him, and they warned me beforehand that this would be one of the biggest debuts they've ever had, and that it might make or break his career. I knew that the former was the only possibility, so I told Remy immediately. His eyes smiled and he jumped up and down in excitement. This was his chance: it was against the best rookie of last year in the pro circuit, who was still undefeated and soon to be contender for the title. He was, like Remy, touted to be the next Ali. The next Tyson; therefore, the perfect fight to put his name on the pro scene.

The day before the fight, we had a long talk. There was no nervousness in him, there never was. He was confident, not cocky, and ready to win. We both knew how big this was. We talked of our past, the long road it took to get here, and all the work we both put in. He thanked me for all of my help, and I thanked him for the friend, the brother he had been to me. He returned that. I told him that this time tomorrow, his parents would be so proud of him. He said that he thought so too. 

We walked into the small arena and the moment he saw the lights, he couldn't stop smiling. He knew that was his night. While we taped him up and he stretched and warmed himself up, we ran through what we knew of the guy he was fighting. He knew it all, but I could tell he didn't care. He knew, and I knew it too: even if Ali himself came back from the dead to fight him, he would win with flying colors. 

We walked him to the ring and he practically skipped. I said some things to him, but he didn't hear me. He was at home. He was where he was meant to be. He heard no one, he saw no one. Not even his opponent; he only saw the title that waited on the other side of this fight. He only saw the success he was born for. 

He walked on the stage, as he called it, ready to perform his epic poem of victory. He was laid back, relaxed, yet intimidating. As always. His opponent walked into the ring, with a respect but also a confidence that almost came close matching that of Cain. Almost.

The bell was about to ring. The fight was about to start. The history of boxing was about to change.

Something happened. The smile disappeared from Remy. His body tensed, his form and stance straightened. For a moment he looked afraid, but the moment the bell rang, that disappeared as well.

I only saw this a few times before. Remy was angry. But this was no anger I had ever known. I had known anger, but never rage. Never wrath.

He fought with extreme power and mechanical precision; fear filled all who saw. The inability to stop this child of fury terrified everyone in the room. His opponent, rather than panic and fight, accepted his fate and hardly defended. 

With ten perfectly placed and timed blows the fight was over and the man was dead. 

A Hercules equipped with modern science stood as a god in center stage, flawlessly dominating the poor subject who was unlucky enough to fight this night. 

All of us in the room were now more aware than ever of our mortality, unlike Cain. We, humans, though physically frozen, mentally and spiritually bowed down to the alpha; shoved to our knees by the fear. 

There was a crushing, pressured silence in the room, as if he himself were pushing the air down, making himself a mountain to the crowd of trees and shrubs. He was too strong to need oxygen, and he asserted that strength through the awed silence that he left in his wake. We choked, we gasped for air as our pride, as any strength we ever had merely funneled into our new master. We lost the choice to live a life not under the mercy of Cain Jones.

He was the first to break that silence, as was the only possible way; however it did nothing to lessen the fear, pressure, and shock. 

He said, "You."

His eyes, once fixed on the corpse of his prey, had begun to shift around the room. I knew the beast, my friend of a decade, and I knew he had pale blue eyes, many women had complimented him on them as they highlighted his deep black hair; but I will swear now that on that day, his eyes were red. I do not believe in the supernatural but that day consisted of nothing natural, and I know that I saw blood red eyes, eyes that curdled the blood of every man and woman that night. 

It had scanned the room, and saw many faces. Many were shaded but to my face, his eyes lit up like they did when I told him that I booked him for this fight. He knew no one else in the room, as this was the biggest fight he had ever competed in. His eyes saw me, and me only; they recognized me as a friend, but It saw me as an enemy that It knew, and It knew well. It knew I had a weak ankle from rock climbing. It knew I was not as fast as my lean body broadcasted. Most of all, it knew that now I would never lay a finger on my friend, intending to harm, much less kill. However, I saw something behind his eyes, another motive. I sensed a primal reason that he chose me. I felt that It wasn't the leader. I felt that perhaps, Remy actually chose me to kill, for a reason I didn't know then. 

Before, when It was sniffing out a new victim, his body was like a snake; slow, methodical, revolving, although twitching with the excitement and adrenaline of murder, unable to contain the overwhelming strength his hungry body can utilize. 

Now, his body erected. It tensed like a tiger eager to pounce. He stepped towards me with a stride I had never seen before. He walked like a king. He walked like a god. 

His footsteps were the echoes of a bullet leaving the chamber. His marching tune was a firing squad, spelling my doom. 

As he went through the ropes I could almost hear the screaming of his steel frame bending. He jumped down from the ring, or the altar that it had become, and though it was merely the sound of his shoes against the floor, everyone in the room felt an earthquake. He ripped the ground apart, and everyone around the ring felt the impact, except for me. He ripped the ground under my feet, and I fell. I never hit the floor, I was suspended in the purgatory of destiny It had thrust upon me. He was a god who came down to earth among men, yet It was the devil that used him to release it from hell. 

The red in his eyes, It was pure evil. It was murder. It was lust for pain. It was lust for blood. It was lust for my bones to break. It was lust for my tears. It was lust for my shrieks. 

Despite the tediousness of his approach, he was upon me in a moment. The people did not disperse for him, as his presence now cemented the position of us all. He simply walked through them, and still they only budged on his account, and at his physical command. 

He stopped before me. He was giving me the chance to come to terms with my eternal fate. It was relishing in its unstoppable and inevitable victory over my mortal self. The taut muscles throughout his entire being loosened. For a moment I recognized him again. For a moment he stood like himself. For a moment he seemed alone in his own head. This was not the truth. This was the calm before the storm. It was done intimidating me. It was done scaring me. It did not want to kill me by way of fear. Lust desires immediately, but desires duration. Even in Its case, with endless food to feed his hunger, It still savors every morsel. Every taste must be with a clean palette, and his hands must be washed after every meal. 

The tension did not return, yet his body shifted into a mode of prime fighting form-firm and fast. It grabbed the fist of his soul, and pulled it to the other side of me. His body naturally followed, with a speed and momentum no bullet could rival. 

The moment our eyes met after he killed that man I knew I would die that night. I knew not to fight, for the quicker the less painful. I knew my friend would kill me. My only fear as of then was my destination. Was I to become food for worms, only? Would I join the boxer already dead, a puddle in the ring, who died as a lamb, the first sacrifice to show the world to the power of the devil in my friend? Or would I take the devil's place, would I be thrown down to the fire that was below my feet as I floated in the purgatory of hopelessness and damnation?

If the strength of my possessed friend shocked our mortal minds, the precarious fashion in which he collapsed in the midst of his lunge broke our newly born concept of physics and human ability, and shook any philosophy we had held before. 

Remy fell like an angel falling from grace, and for a moment I saw his eyes. They were once again hazel, yet more blue than usual. 

No one understood. No one could comprehend anything about the events that had just taken place. For minutes we watched his body breathe, like a normal human. Yet, like a snake cut in half, no one dared touch him, for the reflex, the power he once held, could still be there. 

It was then that I realized the room had not been silent. Fear can blind and deafen us.

There was music at the beginning of the fight, before the bell. Like in any event, there was music playing from speakers throughout the room. The song had ended just as Remy went to kill me.

Bob Marley’s Three Little Birds had been playing, and I, unconsciously, was whistling.