《The Pugilist》


 Ring Walk

    He is built from tens of thousands of hours.


    He is built from years of spilt blood.


    He is built to be perfect, and he is built perfectly.


    His lines are clean and sharp. His balance is immovable and quick. His bones are steel and iron. His tendons are rubber and springs. His muscles are gears and flywheels. His eyes are decisive and unwavering. His skin is rock and stone. His hands are lead and bricks. His neck is concrete and rebar. His legs are cable and carbon fibre. His lungs are billows and hydraulics. His breath is boiling steam. He is a machine forged through practice and assembled through pain.If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    He can never be broken, for he will be assembled again better than before. He is an un-killable war machine. He is an automaton of pure energy willed to fight. He fights because it is all he wants to know. He fights, because what greater purpose is there in life other than to dance in a ring and spill blood for sport? There may have been a time when he fought for money, or fame, or thrill, or power, but now his purpose is the fight itself, and he could not wish for a happier existence. To him, to fight is to live. He forced upon himself one luxury: a single golden tooth hidden under his mouthguard so that me may call himself vain if any were to ask.


    His eyes still as he marches toward his canvas, left foot leading. The dust, and beer, and words, and spit fly.


    He cares not for theatrics.


    He cares only for war.

 The Showboater

    They fucking love me.


    They cheer, and bow, and rage whenever I enter.


    They worship the ground I spit on.


    And how could they not when I am everything they ever wanted? I am the perfect Ringmaster. They come to me to watch a man lose faith in himself. They come to me to see true despair. They come to me, not because I am any better than any other champion, but because I am worse. They come to me because I know exactly what they want. Sure, some fools care for the sport, but I give the junkies who truly love the game what they crave. I throw them my best meals. Dishes that I''ve handcrafted into masterpieces. Those who love me eat well, and I eat because of them.This novel''s true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.


    The rook walking towards me looks like a fanboy who grew up to be a man. I''ve watched countless hours of his film, and his work is so fucking clean. He has no tricks, but can spot them from four moves away. He throws like a dart and hits like a jet engine. He''s a carbon copy of any great fighter he needs to be. He jabs like Liston, hooks like Ward, sways like Dempsey, and has stamina like Frazier. His only weakness is his footwork. He just barely loses his stance on the cross, but if it so much as fucking grazes me I''m done. I''ll take him through to the ten, ring him through the eleven, and pick him in the twelve.


    I just need to deliver a show that has never been seen before.


    We''ve both fought great men before.


    Now we each fight the best.