4vA]^#PG#IN-3#ST-2#SP-2#DR-2#EP-1#FS-6#AD
Post by Nick Fury on Feb 19, 2007 1:12:51 GMT -5
The air was still.
The borders beyond the edge of the ring were bathed in darkness.
Darkness so blinding in its abysmal presence, it drew his focus off of the left jab, hurtling his way.
The sound was deafening in the temporary vacuum that consumed his senses upon entering the red and blue square of conflict.
His head whipped violently to the left as beads and streams of sweat and saliva unleashed themselves onto the spring boarded and white hued flooring beneath their feet. His fine hair remained matted in perspiration soaked patches atop his noticeably aged forehead as he struggled to keep the rhythmic movement of his footing and stance.
That’s one.
His brown-green eyes remained half closed as he continued to circle his opponent, preparing for the younger and fitter rival’s next combination of pain inducing throws.
This used to be easy…
This used to be fun…
A right hooked landed square across his jaw; lashing his face to the right and causing his mouth piece to bend relentlessly within his tightly clenched teeth.
Now it’s not even a game.
It’s a reminder.
A test.
Three left hooks in a row were thrown, each time missing their mark by no more than a centimeter as he bobbed and weaved in an almost surreal maneuver.
When the young stud comes to take down the Bull,
His body was noticeably worn with years upon years of service, pain, and experience. Chest hair covered most of his well developed and still reflexive muscle mass, complimenting the light brown stubble that played across his iron jaw line.
The Bull has two options.
Black sports trunks brandishing the bold and yellow label, “FURY” across the waistline swayed gently through slowed time and frozen air as their owner remained light on his feet in anticipation.
Option A, he relinquishes his title as the elder…the Alpha of the group.
He lets the younger, fitter stud take his place at the top.
Probably settles down in a pasture and dies peacefully.
Alone.
His opponent continued to throw jab after jab with a complexion of nervousness and panic smeared across his seemingly angered expression. The younger, white trunks wearing man could not, for the life of him, comprehend how his older opponent was outmaneuvering his every swing and step. With each miss that passed, the younger man grew more and more agitated. With every blow landed, he became more and more arrogant.
Option B, he stands his ground…tells the stud that if he wants it, he has to earn it.
He then proceeds to jam both horns right up the stud’s ass and tears him apart.
Probably draws the attention of the females…and victory fucks them.
All of them.
A hard right hook nearly topples him over as the younger man let’s out a curt victory shout with the landing of the nearly devastating blow. He spends several moments regaining his footing and readjusting his mouth piece before staring coldly into the eyes of the ‘stud’ and pointing his right glove directly at him.
That’s two.
The room is cold, the air conditioner drones ambient in the rafters above as the two continue stepping left to right, right to left, bobbing and weaving their heads as though they were dodging a volley of invisible projectiles of a hostile nature.
As he threw his head to the left, the ‘stud’ landed four quick jabs to his abdomen; causing pain to etch its presence all over his aged and weary facial features.
Three strikes and you’re gone, god damn it.
Using the pulsing sensation of pain reverberating throughout his rib cage and abdomen, he closed the distance between himself and his opponent as quickly as his aching legs would allow him.
The first left hook he threw sent the ‘stud’ stumbling backwards against the ropes, somewhat dumbfounded by his older opponent’s sudden burst of fury and speed.
You feel that sting, big boy?
The second left hook rattled the younger opponent’s jaw to the point of throwing his torso over the ropes and nearly out of the ring.
That’s pride…
As the ‘stud’ pulled himself back into the ring and turned to face his opponent, he was greeted rather harshly by the most forcefully driven right hook he had ever felt.
Fuckin’ with ya’.
The ‘stud’s’ two front teeth came loose as his back was violently thrown against the ring’s corner, moments before his right eye met with the older man’s left glove.
You gotta’ fight through that shit.
A left and right jab came not from the Bull, but the stud as he began working his way free of the corner rope and corralling his opponent towards the center of the ring.
I’m gonna’ kill ya’.
‘Diego’, as was written on the stud’s white trunks, bared his bloody mouth piece with rage as he threw a combination that landed in the center of Fury’s abs and chest.
I’m gonna’ cook ya’.
In a daring, and more or less illegal maneuver, Fury used both gloves to grab Diego on both sides of his head and hurl him into the same corner he had been backed into moments earlier.
And I’m gonna’ fuckin’ eat ya’.
Left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right. Jab after jab was thrown by Nicholas Joseph Fury into Ricardo Diego’s now pulverized abdomen as he unleashed what fight he still possessed out and onto his opponent.
With no referee to call the fight, Diego was at the mercy of his older and bitter opponent as he silently begged the powers that be to stop the relentless barrage of jabs being projected onto his swollen and battered torso.
The stud’s had enough.
He gets the point.
You fuck with the Bull.
You get the Horns.
Diego began sliding downwards into the corner, unable to keep his eyes open or his teeth in place as blood began to flow freely from the open gashes above both eyes and across his forehead. As quickly as the torrent of hooks and jabs by Fury had started, they ceased.
Fury’s expression was that of exhaustion and boredom at the redundancy of it all as droplets and beads of sweat poured off freely from atop his weathered face.
Diego did his best to slur his words past the bloodied mouth piece that had become infused between his teeth during the fight.
“…it’…it’….it’ ain’t over…”
Fury, still looking down upon the beaten, bruised and nearly unconscious Diego responded in a curt and harsh, veteran tone.
With a simple nod of his head, the words came out flawlessly.
“The fuck it ain’t”
The borders beyond the edge of the ring were bathed in darkness.
Darkness so blinding in its abysmal presence, it drew his focus off of the left jab, hurtling his way.
The sound was deafening in the temporary vacuum that consumed his senses upon entering the red and blue square of conflict.
His head whipped violently to the left as beads and streams of sweat and saliva unleashed themselves onto the spring boarded and white hued flooring beneath their feet. His fine hair remained matted in perspiration soaked patches atop his noticeably aged forehead as he struggled to keep the rhythmic movement of his footing and stance.
That’s one.
His brown-green eyes remained half closed as he continued to circle his opponent, preparing for the younger and fitter rival’s next combination of pain inducing throws.
This used to be easy…
This used to be fun…
A right hooked landed square across his jaw; lashing his face to the right and causing his mouth piece to bend relentlessly within his tightly clenched teeth.
Now it’s not even a game.
It’s a reminder.
A test.
Three left hooks in a row were thrown, each time missing their mark by no more than a centimeter as he bobbed and weaved in an almost surreal maneuver.
When the young stud comes to take down the Bull,
His body was noticeably worn with years upon years of service, pain, and experience. Chest hair covered most of his well developed and still reflexive muscle mass, complimenting the light brown stubble that played across his iron jaw line.
The Bull has two options.
Black sports trunks brandishing the bold and yellow label, “FURY” across the waistline swayed gently through slowed time and frozen air as their owner remained light on his feet in anticipation.
Option A, he relinquishes his title as the elder…the Alpha of the group.
He lets the younger, fitter stud take his place at the top.
Probably settles down in a pasture and dies peacefully.
Alone.
His opponent continued to throw jab after jab with a complexion of nervousness and panic smeared across his seemingly angered expression. The younger, white trunks wearing man could not, for the life of him, comprehend how his older opponent was outmaneuvering his every swing and step. With each miss that passed, the younger man grew more and more agitated. With every blow landed, he became more and more arrogant.
Option B, he stands his ground…tells the stud that if he wants it, he has to earn it.
He then proceeds to jam both horns right up the stud’s ass and tears him apart.
Probably draws the attention of the females…and victory fucks them.
All of them.
A hard right hook nearly topples him over as the younger man let’s out a curt victory shout with the landing of the nearly devastating blow. He spends several moments regaining his footing and readjusting his mouth piece before staring coldly into the eyes of the ‘stud’ and pointing his right glove directly at him.
That’s two.
The room is cold, the air conditioner drones ambient in the rafters above as the two continue stepping left to right, right to left, bobbing and weaving their heads as though they were dodging a volley of invisible projectiles of a hostile nature.
As he threw his head to the left, the ‘stud’ landed four quick jabs to his abdomen; causing pain to etch its presence all over his aged and weary facial features.
Three strikes and you’re gone, god damn it.
Using the pulsing sensation of pain reverberating throughout his rib cage and abdomen, he closed the distance between himself and his opponent as quickly as his aching legs would allow him.
The first left hook he threw sent the ‘stud’ stumbling backwards against the ropes, somewhat dumbfounded by his older opponent’s sudden burst of fury and speed.
You feel that sting, big boy?
The second left hook rattled the younger opponent’s jaw to the point of throwing his torso over the ropes and nearly out of the ring.
That’s pride…
As the ‘stud’ pulled himself back into the ring and turned to face his opponent, he was greeted rather harshly by the most forcefully driven right hook he had ever felt.
Fuckin’ with ya’.
The ‘stud’s’ two front teeth came loose as his back was violently thrown against the ring’s corner, moments before his right eye met with the older man’s left glove.
You gotta’ fight through that shit.
A left and right jab came not from the Bull, but the stud as he began working his way free of the corner rope and corralling his opponent towards the center of the ring.
I’m gonna’ kill ya’.
‘Diego’, as was written on the stud’s white trunks, bared his bloody mouth piece with rage as he threw a combination that landed in the center of Fury’s abs and chest.
I’m gonna’ cook ya’.
In a daring, and more or less illegal maneuver, Fury used both gloves to grab Diego on both sides of his head and hurl him into the same corner he had been backed into moments earlier.
And I’m gonna’ fuckin’ eat ya’.
Left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right. Jab after jab was thrown by Nicholas Joseph Fury into Ricardo Diego’s now pulverized abdomen as he unleashed what fight he still possessed out and onto his opponent.
With no referee to call the fight, Diego was at the mercy of his older and bitter opponent as he silently begged the powers that be to stop the relentless barrage of jabs being projected onto his swollen and battered torso.
The stud’s had enough.
He gets the point.
You fuck with the Bull.
You get the Horns.
Diego began sliding downwards into the corner, unable to keep his eyes open or his teeth in place as blood began to flow freely from the open gashes above both eyes and across his forehead. As quickly as the torrent of hooks and jabs by Fury had started, they ceased.
Fury’s expression was that of exhaustion and boredom at the redundancy of it all as droplets and beads of sweat poured off freely from atop his weathered face.
Diego did his best to slur his words past the bloodied mouth piece that had become infused between his teeth during the fight.
“…it’…it’….it’ ain’t over…”
Fury, still looking down upon the beaten, bruised and nearly unconscious Diego responded in a curt and harsh, veteran tone.
With a simple nod of his head, the words came out flawlessly.
“The fuck it ain’t”
4vA]^#PG#IN-7#ST-7#SP-7#DR-7#EP-7#FS-1