Post by "Perfection" Evan Cartwright on Jan 21, 2006 6:45:26 GMT -5
-=6=- Prizefight
-=Jab, jab… right cross. Dance to his weak side. Strut. Cock. Boom! Got him, baby boi’. Strut again, now do it that way. Fake left, fake left! Jab, weave—duck that sh*t! Do you wanna beat this punk or not?
The voice of Evan’s old trainer, his first ever, rang through his head like the clearest of bells. Nate “Old School” Robinson was the toughest sixty-year-old man this side of East St. Louis, and he knew how to pull the potential out of lazy a$$ kids who knew how to take a punch and dish them out with equal fervor. Evan Cartwright, a once lazy a$$ kid himself, was just over nineteen-years-old, a college boy from U of I. What was a smart-a$$ kid like him doing in my gym, Nate used to think. Then he saw how the kid would react when faced with a challenge beating on his face. He got beat, just like every rookie in the amateur circuit, but he wizened up quick, and managed to protect his face better than most rooks his age. His jab was a thing of beauty and his cross could crucify any man without a granite jaw. Evan Cartwright would go on to win two golden gloves in the state of Illinois, and once in Missouri, before he managed to break his right hand in four different places and effectively end his momentum and career as a boxer. The hand never healed properly, and close inspection revealed Evan’s misaligned knuckles, a constant reminder of his boxing past. Evan realized after some time that things happen for a reason. Because he couldn’t become the aging prizefighter that he envisioned himself to be, Evan knew that it happened so that he could be a great performer in another type of ring, one where he could utilize so much more than his fists and wits. A new challenge stared Evan down, and he busted it right in the nose, broken hand and all.
Punch that muthaf*cka! Jive, left, left, clear LEFT! That’s right, now give him your combo… stick to it, now jab, jab jab!=-
[The Edmonton Boxing Club is moderately busy this evening, with just enough clientele to justify it being open this late at night. Our focus leads us to far right back corner, where the absolute mismatch of the year looks ready to take place. All six feet of Evan Cartwright is in his headgear and sparring gloves ready to take on Darrell “The Black Mamba” O’Bannon—the luck of the Irish inside the body of a 6’7”, 280lb. monster with boxing gloves and headgear on. The Black Mamba, looking like Michael Clarke Duncan on steroids, gives a toothy grin to Evan before inserting his mouthpiece.]
Darrell: You sure you’re ready for this, Cart?
Evan: As ready as I will ever be, Mamba. Come have at it, then.
[The Black Mamba charges like a rhino and Evan wisely ducks and dances out of harms way. The Black Mamba is upset by this and zeroes in for a hard right that Evan blocks with both forearms. The force of the blow reverberates around the gym as Evan stumbles back against the ropes. The Black Mamba smells blood and closes in, only to catch a headbutt from Cartwright across his chin followed by an uppercut. Evan zings left and right while peppering O’Bannon with stinging left jabs and hard rights to his ribs and back. The Black Mamba is visibly slowing down as his heavy blows sing through the air and narrowly misses Cartwright, who avoids those hits like the flu. The Black Mamba catches Evan with an overhand right and backs him up with a nice left hook combo. Evan shakes off the cobwebs and continues dancing, occasionally absorbing some punishing blows from the bigger man. The Black Mamba goes for the knockout by palming Evan’s head with his left and reeling back with the right. Evan lowers his head just enough so that the blow hits him on the top of the head—hardest part of the body. The Black Mamba cries out as the pain seers through his hand and wrist, while Evan is slightly dazed by that last onslaught. He clenches his right fist in his glove and can almost feel the pain from breaking his own hand years ago anew. The Black Mamba’s hands are down, but only for a split second. That is all Evan needs to ring his clock with a right hook to the ear, followed by a dozen stinging jabs and a brutal right cross to realign Darrell O’Bannon’s jaw. The big man’s mouthpiece goes flying and he looks out of it as he stumbles back without falling. By now everyone else in the gym is watching them as The Black Mamba spits out a single bloody loose tooth and gives his familiar goofy grin.]
Darrell: Good shot, boss. We take a break now?
Evan: Why not, you’ve earned it, killer.
[Evan removes his sparring gloves and jumps out of the ring with a wince. He’s not in bad shape, but a noticeable shiner is welling up underneath his right eye. He grabs a cold bottle of Amstel Light from the nearby cooler and takes a long draught—one where his adams apple bobs up and down.]
Evan: I never thought I had it in me to throw another effective right hand ever since the break. Then Maniac comes along and brings out the fight in me, and low and behold, the enamel in my soupbone has turned into a solid fist of adamantium. The Black Mamba is built like a damn tank, and his jaw is like oak wrapped in steel, but I managed to knock his tooth loose… I still got it. I’m sure Maniac will claim that my punch is “weak” or something to that effect, but deep down he knows that I can knock him down harder than he has ever been knocked down before. Believe me; I like knocking people down just as much as I like knocking egos off of their pedestals. Maniac thinks he is better than us, the working men, who hustle to make ends meet and then make profitable negotiations to better our lives. I may have taken the fast, easier road to success by joining the Rat Pack, but I am smart enough not to squander that opportunity. I saw it and I took it. Why? Because I know, that in this business, you cannot go it alone for very long. A prizefighter is only as good as his trainers, his cut men, and his support system. But Maniac believes himself to be above that. He’s the lone wolf who will spit in the face of the odds and dominate like nobody’s business. He has all the experience of a journeyman and several notable accolades in various places only the gods know where. Guess what, Maniac… I don’t care, nor does anybody else for that matter. You think you’re a god? Hah, get in line, pal. Everyone thinks that the sun, moon, and stars revolve around them, so what makes you so special… it’s all a big nothing. Existentialism basically craps on every high opinion and notion that you have about yourself. The truth is, you’re human. You’re no better than me than I am to you, and the only thing that will make a difference come Jokers Wild this Monday… heart, desire, and wits. I have the desire to kick you’re a$$ and claim my spot in NAPW, and I am damn sure that your heart is nothing but a blackened cancerous lump that will give out once a proper challenge is presented. As far as wits go, that may just be the x-factor. I challenge you to a battle of wits, Mr. Maniac, and may the best man win. Just be sure to never drop your right, or your left for that matter.
[Evan finishes his brew and smashes the nearby heavy bag with his right. He heads to the showers as we fade to a commercial for Brion’s Pink Baboon Nightclub.]
-=Jab, jab… right cross. Dance to his weak side. Strut. Cock. Boom! Got him, baby boi’. Strut again, now do it that way. Fake left, fake left! Jab, weave—duck that sh*t! Do you wanna beat this punk or not?
The voice of Evan’s old trainer, his first ever, rang through his head like the clearest of bells. Nate “Old School” Robinson was the toughest sixty-year-old man this side of East St. Louis, and he knew how to pull the potential out of lazy a$$ kids who knew how to take a punch and dish them out with equal fervor. Evan Cartwright, a once lazy a$$ kid himself, was just over nineteen-years-old, a college boy from U of I. What was a smart-a$$ kid like him doing in my gym, Nate used to think. Then he saw how the kid would react when faced with a challenge beating on his face. He got beat, just like every rookie in the amateur circuit, but he wizened up quick, and managed to protect his face better than most rooks his age. His jab was a thing of beauty and his cross could crucify any man without a granite jaw. Evan Cartwright would go on to win two golden gloves in the state of Illinois, and once in Missouri, before he managed to break his right hand in four different places and effectively end his momentum and career as a boxer. The hand never healed properly, and close inspection revealed Evan’s misaligned knuckles, a constant reminder of his boxing past. Evan realized after some time that things happen for a reason. Because he couldn’t become the aging prizefighter that he envisioned himself to be, Evan knew that it happened so that he could be a great performer in another type of ring, one where he could utilize so much more than his fists and wits. A new challenge stared Evan down, and he busted it right in the nose, broken hand and all.
Punch that muthaf*cka! Jive, left, left, clear LEFT! That’s right, now give him your combo… stick to it, now jab, jab jab!=-
[The Edmonton Boxing Club is moderately busy this evening, with just enough clientele to justify it being open this late at night. Our focus leads us to far right back corner, where the absolute mismatch of the year looks ready to take place. All six feet of Evan Cartwright is in his headgear and sparring gloves ready to take on Darrell “The Black Mamba” O’Bannon—the luck of the Irish inside the body of a 6’7”, 280lb. monster with boxing gloves and headgear on. The Black Mamba, looking like Michael Clarke Duncan on steroids, gives a toothy grin to Evan before inserting his mouthpiece.]
Darrell: You sure you’re ready for this, Cart?
Evan: As ready as I will ever be, Mamba. Come have at it, then.
[The Black Mamba charges like a rhino and Evan wisely ducks and dances out of harms way. The Black Mamba is upset by this and zeroes in for a hard right that Evan blocks with both forearms. The force of the blow reverberates around the gym as Evan stumbles back against the ropes. The Black Mamba smells blood and closes in, only to catch a headbutt from Cartwright across his chin followed by an uppercut. Evan zings left and right while peppering O’Bannon with stinging left jabs and hard rights to his ribs and back. The Black Mamba is visibly slowing down as his heavy blows sing through the air and narrowly misses Cartwright, who avoids those hits like the flu. The Black Mamba catches Evan with an overhand right and backs him up with a nice left hook combo. Evan shakes off the cobwebs and continues dancing, occasionally absorbing some punishing blows from the bigger man. The Black Mamba goes for the knockout by palming Evan’s head with his left and reeling back with the right. Evan lowers his head just enough so that the blow hits him on the top of the head—hardest part of the body. The Black Mamba cries out as the pain seers through his hand and wrist, while Evan is slightly dazed by that last onslaught. He clenches his right fist in his glove and can almost feel the pain from breaking his own hand years ago anew. The Black Mamba’s hands are down, but only for a split second. That is all Evan needs to ring his clock with a right hook to the ear, followed by a dozen stinging jabs and a brutal right cross to realign Darrell O’Bannon’s jaw. The big man’s mouthpiece goes flying and he looks out of it as he stumbles back without falling. By now everyone else in the gym is watching them as The Black Mamba spits out a single bloody loose tooth and gives his familiar goofy grin.]
Darrell: Good shot, boss. We take a break now?
Evan: Why not, you’ve earned it, killer.
[Evan removes his sparring gloves and jumps out of the ring with a wince. He’s not in bad shape, but a noticeable shiner is welling up underneath his right eye. He grabs a cold bottle of Amstel Light from the nearby cooler and takes a long draught—one where his adams apple bobs up and down.]
Evan: I never thought I had it in me to throw another effective right hand ever since the break. Then Maniac comes along and brings out the fight in me, and low and behold, the enamel in my soupbone has turned into a solid fist of adamantium. The Black Mamba is built like a damn tank, and his jaw is like oak wrapped in steel, but I managed to knock his tooth loose… I still got it. I’m sure Maniac will claim that my punch is “weak” or something to that effect, but deep down he knows that I can knock him down harder than he has ever been knocked down before. Believe me; I like knocking people down just as much as I like knocking egos off of their pedestals. Maniac thinks he is better than us, the working men, who hustle to make ends meet and then make profitable negotiations to better our lives. I may have taken the fast, easier road to success by joining the Rat Pack, but I am smart enough not to squander that opportunity. I saw it and I took it. Why? Because I know, that in this business, you cannot go it alone for very long. A prizefighter is only as good as his trainers, his cut men, and his support system. But Maniac believes himself to be above that. He’s the lone wolf who will spit in the face of the odds and dominate like nobody’s business. He has all the experience of a journeyman and several notable accolades in various places only the gods know where. Guess what, Maniac… I don’t care, nor does anybody else for that matter. You think you’re a god? Hah, get in line, pal. Everyone thinks that the sun, moon, and stars revolve around them, so what makes you so special… it’s all a big nothing. Existentialism basically craps on every high opinion and notion that you have about yourself. The truth is, you’re human. You’re no better than me than I am to you, and the only thing that will make a difference come Jokers Wild this Monday… heart, desire, and wits. I have the desire to kick you’re a$$ and claim my spot in NAPW, and I am damn sure that your heart is nothing but a blackened cancerous lump that will give out once a proper challenge is presented. As far as wits go, that may just be the x-factor. I challenge you to a battle of wits, Mr. Maniac, and may the best man win. Just be sure to never drop your right, or your left for that matter.
[Evan finishes his brew and smashes the nearby heavy bag with his right. He heads to the showers as we fade to a commercial for Brion’s Pink Baboon Nightclub.]