Jack London and Joseph Conrad Spar In Heaven

Conrad assumed the balanced stance, weight on the balls of his feet, knees slightly bent. “And what do you have to say about Sea Wolf, London? Marxist malarkey or a little boy’s adventure at sea?”

London delivered a hard left jab directly from the chin with no wind-up. Sharp delivery and sharp recovery. Conrad stumbled backward, momentarily shocked senseless, then regained his balance and control. He rubbed his long beard with a red boxing glove. His gum lines betrayed rivulets of blood when he smiled.

“Is that the best you got, London? You call that a punch, you sissy?”

London executed a hard right, simultaneously rotating the hip and shoulder, driving off the ball of the rear foot while swiftly stepping forward with the front foot. His glove sailed into Conrad’s jaw, lifting the man off his feet and slamming him onto the canvas and onto his painfully inflammed back with a bone-crunching thud.

“Fuck you,” Conrad sputtered, breathless, spitting blood onto the sweat-stained canvas. “I have Heart of Darkness. What have you? Call of the Wild. A dog book? John Barleycorn? All that proves is what a boozer loser you are.” Conrad’s eye brightened. “Hey — boozer, loser, I rhymed. Do you suppose I may try my hand at poetry?”

“I dunno,” London snarled through his mouthguard. “Why don’t you try going a few rounds with Yeats? Or maybe Shelley is more your speed.”

If there was one thing Conrad could not tolerate it was any breach of his manhood, any whisper or insinuation that he was lacking in masculine virtue. He slipped the Derringer out of his boxing glove and pointed the small pocket pistol at his opponent.

“Oh, come on, Conrad, you’re not gonna try that happy horsehit, are you? Not here.”

“Why not, Jack?” Conrad leered. “It’s Heaven; we can do whatever we want.”

The snout of the gun sparked and flashed and Jack fell off the cloud, spinning into darkness.

Previously: Tender is the Night of the Living Dead