Boys Life

“See?”
    “Hokay. Dass fine, den.” He returned to his corner, where he stood like a grotesque statue.
    “Franklin’s a happy sort,” Princey explained. “Ahmet’s the quiet one.”
    “What are you?” I asked.
    “I’m the ambitious type,” he said. “What type are you?”
    “Scared.” I heard the rush of wind behind me. The freight train was speeding now, leaving Zephyr sleeping in peace.
    “Sit down if you like,” Princey offered. “It’s not too clean in here, but neither is it a dungeon.”
    I looked longingly out the door. We must’ve been going…
    “…sixty miles an hour,” Princey said. “Sixty-four, it feels to me. I’m a good judge of the wind.”
    I sat down, keeping my distance from all three of them.
    “So.” He slid his hands into the pockets of his coat. “Favor us with your destination, Cory.”
    “I guess I… wait a minute. Did I tell you my name?”
    “You must have, I’m sure.”
    “I don’t remember,”
    Franklin laughed. It sounded like a backed-up drain being Roto-Rootered. “Haw! Haw! Haw! Dere he goes again! Princey’s got da best sense’a yuma!”
    “I don’t think I told you my name,” I said.
    “Well, don’t be stubborn,” Princey answered. “Everybody has a name. What’s yours?”
    “Co-” I stopped. Were these three insane, or was I? “Cory Mackenson. I’m from Zephyr.”
    “Going to…?” he prompted.
    “Where does the train go?” I asked.
    “From here?” He smiled slightly. “To everywhere.”
    I glanced over at Ahmet. He was squatting on his haunches, watching me intently over the flickering candles. He wore sandals on his shriveled feet, his toenails two inches long. “Kinda cold to be wearin’ sandals, isn’t it?”
    “Ahmet doesn’t mind,” Princey said. “That’s his footwear of choice. He’s Egyptian.”
    “Egyptian? How’d he get all the way here?”
    “It was a long, dusty trail,” he assured me.
    “Who are you people? You look kinda-”
    “Familiar if you’re a devotee of the sweet science. Boxing, that is,” Princey said, shoveling words in my mouth. “Ever heard of Franklin Fitzgerald? Otherwise known as Big Philly Frank?”
    “No sir.”
    “Then why did you say you had?”
    “I… did I?”
    “Meet Franklin Fitzgerald.” He motioned to the monster in the corner.
    “Hello,” I said.
    “Pleased ta meet ya,” Franklin replied.
    “I’m Princey Von Kulic. That’s Ahmet Too-Hard-to-Pronounce.”
    “Hee hee hee,” Franklin giggled behind a massive hand with scarred knuckles.
    “You’re not American, are you?” I asked Princey.
    “Citizen of the world, at your service.”
    “Where’re you from, then?”
    “I am from a nation that is neither here nor there. It is an unnation, if you will.” He smiled again. “Unnation. I like that. My country has been ransacked by foreign invaders so many times, we give green stamps for raping and pillaging. It’s easier to make a buck here, what can I say?”
    “So you’re a boxer, too?”
    “Me?” He grimaced as if he had a bad taste in his mouth. “Oh, no! I’m the brains behind Franklin’s brawn. I’m his manager. Ahmet’s his trainer. We all get along famously, except when we’re trying to kill each other.”
    “Haw haw!” Franklin rumbled.
    “We are currently between opponents,” Princey said with a slight shrug. “Bound from the last place we were to the next place we will be. And such, I fear, is our existence.”
    I had decided that no matter how fearsome this trio appeared, they really meant me no harm. “Does Mr. Fitzgerald do a lot of fightin’?” I asked.
    “Franklin will take on anyone, anywhere, at any time. Unfortunately, though his size is quite formidable, his speed is quite deplorable.”
    “Princey means I’m slow,” Franklin said.
    “Yes. And what else, Franklin?”
    The huge man’s overhanging brow threatened to collapse as he pondered this question. “I don’t have da killer instink,” he said at last.
    “But we’re working on that, aren’t we, Silent Sam?” Princey asked the Egyptian. Ahmet showed his hooked yellow teeth and nodded vigorously. I thought he’d better be careful, in case his head flew off.
    I began staring at Franklin’s neck. “Mr. Princey, why does he have those screws in there?”
    “Franklin is a man of many parts,” Princey said, and Franklin giggled again. “Most of them of the rusted variety. His meetings with other individuals in the squared circle have not always been