“You walk in weak, you walk out mean—or you don’t walk out at all.”
Description - Exterior
McKunty’s Gym squats behind a meatpacking plant on the edge of Butcher Boys territory. The bricks are grease-dark, the windows are wire-glass and stained, and the front sign is just a rusted iron plate with “MCKUNTY’S” burned into it with a welding torch. Steam vents hiss from the side wall, and the back alley always smells like sweat, ammonia, and old blood. The front door is bolted from the inside after sundown.Description - Interior
It’s all grit and metal inside—free weights, rust-streaked lockers, bloodstained mats, and a ring that’s taken more beatings than any fighter ever has. Chains hang from the ceiling where bags used to be. There’s no heat in winter, no air in summer, and no excuses year-round. A back room holds a cot, a fridge, and a chair with leather restraints—no one asks. Upstairs, three cots for hiding out, drying out, or just bleeding quietly. Every wall has holes patched with cardboard and curses.History
Built in 1910 as a boxing club for Irish laborers, the gym changed hands too many times until McKunty took it over in ’36 and didn’t let go. He trained half the enforcers still walking today. When he died (or vanished—depends who you ask), the Butcher Boys took it over as a proving ground. Nobody’s touched the original heavy bag—it’s still stained, still swinging.Owned By
The Butcher Boys. It’s not flashy. It’s not clean. It’s theirs.Run By
Tug Malone, retired enforcer turned trainer. Cauliflower ears, a busted nose, and a mean streak wider than Ashland Avenue. He teaches with his fists, not words.Employees
- Darla Quinn – runs the front desk and the betting board; has a .38 in the drawer and a doctorate in contempt
- “Needles” Burke – unofficial medic and cuts man; knows how to stitch a gut wound with dental floss
- Stanislav – mute Russian janitor; lifts twice his weight and sleeps in the boiler room
Regulars
- Young Butcher prospects trying to prove they can take a punch
- Old timers with nothing left but reflexes and rage
- Drunks trying to trade sweat for penance
- Enforcers getting patched up after messy jobs
- Out-of-towners looking for work—or a beating
- Occasional Veil-marked folks drawn to the ring like moths to something hotter than flame
Notes
- The gym bell hasn’t worked since ’42—but it still rings, sometimes, when no one’s near it
- The main ring is marked with faint runes. No one admits putting them there
- Tug keeps a drawer of IOUs, most of them written in blood, ink, or teeth
- One locker in the back row is always warm, even when the gym’s freezing
- McKunty’s old gloves hang above the door. If they ever fall, something bad’s coming
- Fighters who lose three times in a row here get “the talk” from someone who shouldn’t still be breathing
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