The Mob
Betting Dept, Ste. 14
xxxxxx Wabash Ave (redacted)
Chicago, IL
60605
Dear Chicagoland area mob,
You’re probably wondering, “What happened?” Listen, I’m just as confused as you. The last thing I remember was looking up and realizing I was in the ring. How’d I even get here? Who was this man punching me? Why am I surrounded by a crowd of people in suits? Why do people wear suits to boxing matches? I couldn’t answer any of these questions. I also completely forgot I promised you I’d throw the fight at that exact moment.
But my left eye was swollen shut and I could taste blood in my mouth, so I knew I had taken a beating, which was probably why I couldn’t remember anything. That, and the 29 other concussions Wikipedia says I’ve had. But what I did remember was how to box. And box I did.
I pummeled that guy into the ground, and even a little more after that. The ref tried to pull me off so I pummeled him, too. Then the TV crew came in to congratulate me so I pummeled their cameras. After all of that pummeling I was starving, so I pummeled a bunch of hot dogs with my mouth which sent me running to the locker room to pummel the toilet.
That’s where I saw Coach, lookin’ like he just saw a ghost. “What’s going on coach?” I asked. “Why do you look so sad? Aren’t you happy I won? Wait, don’t tell me, were those your hot dogs? Was that not a toilet?”
“The mob had big money on that fight,” he reminded me. “And they hired you to make it go their way.”
“Well, did they want me to win?”
He told me you did not. I offered to go back into the ring and pretend to get knocked out, but it was too late, especially since I had already taken my shoes and socks off.
So why’d I run? Well coach told me that the last guy who didn’t throw the fight was found hanging by a tree the next day. Worse yet, he said you all had something to do with it. And even worser yet, that guy was dead.
Well I don’t like trees very much and all of my life I’ve tried to avoid death, so Coach told me my only option was to flee. There was only one problem: I couldn’t remember what “flee” meant.
After reading a book on fleeing, I grabbed my wife and kids and fled. And if it makes you feel better, I forgot about my better wife and kids, so I’ve been stuck with the loser ones whose names I haven’t even bothered relearning.
But I can’t take it anymore. I miss being a champion fighter with a reputation for being the meanest, baddest, worst-uber-rating-having boxer around. I also miss having a reputation for not tipping very well at restaurants even though I ordered a ton of food. But of all my reputations, the one I miss the most was my reputation for being really rich.
I miss it all so much it hurts. And that’s why I’m writing to you, my friends at the mob, to ask for your forgiveness. I know it’s all my fault folks are saying you all have gone soft; that a monkey could rig a fight better than you; that you look silly in those hats. But if you could find it in your hearts to take a chance on a guy like me to rig the fight exactly how you want it, I know I won’t let you down.
Just remind me one more time, am I supposed to win or lose?
Sincerely,
Mac Saber