Chapter 3, When The Rounds End.

He was leaning against the ropes. Round one was done. This was the time when The Judge took some time out for himself. Remembering his own fighting days. The times when he was at the corner. Being prepped up for the next round. Wounds being tended to. Cuts being fixed. Now, he saw the Wolf and the Onion. The fight had lived up to its reputation. Round one, was brutal.

Sitting at his blue corner, he couldn't remember which punch or kick from Onion had resulted in the cut. The one just above his left eyebrow. His vision was getting blocked by the blood flowing into his eyes. Somehow he had survived the first round. He was a clear 5 inches taller than Onion. But the strength and speed of his opponent was well known. He had felt the effects. Clearly. There was a moment in the match when he had felt dizzy. He had composed himself and had given back some of the treatment back. A few seconds on, and the next round would begin. He knew what had to be done. He felt supremely confident. This was his round.

He had repeated the cardinal mistake again. Onion. His fast flowing punches had missed the mark, his kicks didn't have the reach. He didn't get close enough. He couldn't get close enough. And now, it was one each. The second round, was Wolf's. He was knocked down once. The left hook by Wolf had knocked him off his feet. It was that moment of frustration. None of his punches were having any effect. He had let his guard down in a desperate move to punch more. Wolf had pounced. 

The time had come. 

The third round was more than what anyone had bargained for. It was a match which seemed to go on forever. Punch after punch. Kick after kick. Bloody faces. Black eyes. Hurting ribs. Blood stained ring. 

Onion had given it all. He had charged in like a pit bull. Wolf had held his ground. It was like watching two huge mammoths fight on to death. Wolf could hardly see through his left eye. Yet he had to go on. Onion could feel the ribs. The long reach of Wolf clearly had its advantages. 

Judgement Time.

The Judge hated this part the most. Breaking some fighter's heart by calling the other a winner. Yet, he had to. It was his job.

The hands were sweaty and blood stained. He held the hands tight. His was a strong grip. One on either side of his. He wanted to raise both the hands. But he would raise only one. And in the process, destroy the other.

Chapter 2, The Widow And The Old Crow

He looked out of the window.
The window was right next to the front door. This had become a ritual for him ever since the day he had moved into the house. She was there. Pacing in her garden. She must have been around 45 years old. She looked older. The dark circles around her eyes had a story to tell. Her gray hair, although well arranged, gave away the little battles she fought with her bare hands, every day. For now, she paced around in the garden, looking through the little flowers which bloomed into the spring sun.

She knew that he was staring at her. He was the "new arrival". He had arrived a couple of weeks back. "A middle aged moron" she thought to herself. But her thoughts were still consumed by the sudden arrival of her son. He had dropped in the last Sunday. He looked broke. He was. Now that she thought about it, so was his father - her only companion till date.
It had been 23 years. 23 years since her life had changed. Since life had stopped and had put a gag on her mouth.

The Old Crow.
They knew him as the Old Crow. They knew him to be the one with the shadowy eyes. The dark, cruel eyes which looked through your soul and beyond. He was the one with the best and the worst. He was a loyal, loving friend and a dedicated husband. And a cruel, blood thirsty fighter in the ring. He was well known to the fighting fraternity. He was loved and hated at the same time. They knew that when he was there in the ring, it was bound to be an interesting fight. He was smart. He was quick. And he was The Champion.

That day, the cold winter morning, when he was going to the fight, all seemed good. He, as usual kissed his wife and gave her a loving hug. Raised his son above his head, tossed him high and held him tight. The kid giggled. This was his ritual. To give a lot of love to someone before hurting someone else. This was going to be the 53rd official fight for him. She never went to see his fights. A ritual, of hers.

2 hours later, the phone rang, "Hello?". That was the last she ever spoke. The day she was widowed.

The Judge kept staring at her from the window. A crow flew by. What an irony he thought.

Chapter 1, The One Legged Man

He was not the best judge.
Looking around he realized that he was in fact, the only one available.
This was not a one time thing. He was the judge, the referee for most of the fights. He turned back, tried to see if there was someone he could appoint in the place of his. But then, he had known the answer well before he had turned back.
No one seemed to notice that he was a fighter himself. One of the best his era had ever seen. No one seemed to notice his powerfully built body. His flattened, thickened ears. His broken nose or even the missing incisors. For the whole batch, he was just the one legged man. Someone who hopped around and made himself useful by being the referee. Despite of the lack of respect for his own fighting skills, the respect for him as a referee was immense. For his voice was that of the kings. Majestic and strong. His eyes, they shone of justice. He was a man of justice and honesty in the eyes of the young lot. He was, The Judge.

But this time around, the situation was altered a bit. He didn't want to be The Judge. For one, he was tired; and then, the fight was no ordinary fight. This one was between the ones he called The Wolf and The Onion. Two of his favorites. The Wolf, the aggressive, the strongly built one. He must have been around 18 or 19. He looked an experienced fighter. A strong, dangerous one. Onion, he was the short stocky fellow who made others cry. He was a tough guy to the core. When he landed the punches, he meant it. His batchmates feared him. They knew he was destined for glory. For The Judge, they were two young kids who knew their weaknesses and strengths. They in someways reminded him of his own youth. He was a strong guy who fought his heart out. He was destined for glory, he had achieved it, almost.

A guy from the sidelines shouted for the match to begin. They were getting impatient. They were staring at him. The Judge. He had to start the fight. He adjusted the crutches, raised his right hand, "Fight".