February 23 - The Human Punching Bag

Story was he'd killed a man in the ring, but nobody could confirm that.
He'd served overseas in the navy, possibly the Philippines, but they kicked him out. Some people said it was for being crazy. Other people said it was for hitting an officer.
Either story would make sense.
Rumor had it he could break a cinder block with his bare fists, but he had to hit it a bunch of times. He was definitely a boxer, though. Boxed in the Midwest back in the '50s, before doing time in Kansas City for armed robbery.
At least that's what people said, but nobody knew for sure.
He was part of the circus for some time, but they kicked him out for drinking. Did other things for a while. Rodeo clown. Stuntman. Miner. But that was ages ago. He hadn't had a real job in years.
Most people figured he was homeless.
Sometimes you'd see him standing outside the day labor place in the morning, but mostly he made his money as a human punching bag. Nobody knew his name, so that's what people called him, the human punching bag. Give him a dollar and he'd let you hit him in the gut as hard as you wanted. Three bucks would get you a face shot. And if he didn't think you hit him hard enough, he would make you do it again. If he still didn't think you hit him hard enough, he wouldn't take your money.
But he wouldn't turn down a cigarette, especially if it was a Marlboro Red. Smokes were the only thing he ever accepted from people.
Everything else he earned or stole.
He drank Schlitz Malt Liquor. He'd down a quart of it, and then choose a direction and just run. Didn't matter that he was in his jeans and army jacket and boots. Didn't matter that he was drunk. He would just run until he sweated out all the alcohol. Then he'd take enough shots from people to get another quart so he could do it again.
One day he found religion.
But then he lost it again.
Rumor had it he had a grown up daughter in Scappoose, Oregon that he never saw anymore.
He was definitely missing his left pinky. People said he couldn't remember how he lost it.
Either way, he had more fingers than teeth.
A guy I knew said if you got close enough you could see lines on his face where his beard didn't grow because of scars.
He didn't have any friends. But he didn't seem to have any enemies either.
Nobody knew how long he'd been around town or where he came from.
People said he was wanted for breaking and entering in Nashville, Tennessee.
But nobody knew for sure.