Post by MorningStar on Feb 5, 2007 20:47:59 GMT -5
(OOC: Short one guys, due to it being 1am, but I ain't letting Calaz get one up on me 
)
<|?|> Voice <|?|>
Come on, mate... one more run!
The sound of heavy breathing and the constant drip, drip of sweat falling to the floor. In a gym like most others, pristine white walls with racks of weights linging them, the floor covered with half inch thick black pads, dense with little give in them. Bags of varying sizes, from speedballs to heavy bags, hang from the ceiling, swinging ponderously like grim pendulums. All dominated by a foreboding, old fashioned ring. None of this twenty spring mat crap, this is a solid boxing ring, with about as much bounce as concrete block...
Stood amid a curious set up of bags, almost like a maze, stands a worn out Johnny Mental. Sweat pours from him in rivulets, plastering his lank hair to his skull, soaking his vest until it sticks to the skin. Bent double, hands on knees, Mental breathes quickly, his superior cardio forcing oxygen through his starved system. Stood outside the strange setup of light bags stands Steven Frost, known throughout the world as The Phoenix, and the other half of the hellishly infamous duo The Nightbreed. He stands with arms crossed and face flush from shouting as Johnny waves a hand in supplication.
<|?|> The MorningStar <|?|>
Gimme... just two seconds, dude. Need to... catch my... breath...
<|?|> The Phoenix <|?|>
Two seconds? TWO SECONDS?! Two seconds is one away from defeat, Johnny. It's one second away from starting all over again right from the fuckin' bottom! You want that? you want to throw it away? You want to let some snot nosed upstart demolish what we've built? Do you?
<|?|> The MorningStar <|?|>
No...
<|?|> The Phoenix <|?|>
DO YOU?!
<|?|> The MorningStar <|?|>
NO!!!
<|?|> The Phoenix <|?|>
Then get to work!
Without a word of warning, Frost lashes out, swinging the nearest swing bag murderously at Mental. With a speed bordering on the supernatural, Mental sidesteps, his footwork perfect as he launches a roundhouse kick, sending the bag flying. At random, Frost launches another bag to join the first, this time to be met with a savat kick of unbelievable power. One by one the bags swing viciously, until Mental is ducking, weaving and dodging amongst a whirlwind of black sacks, each one being hit as it passes, speeding its journey. Snap Jabs, haymakers, roundhouse punches, forearm blows, elbows and reverse chops. Roundhouses, side kicks, Yakuza's and transfer kicks. Finally, after what seems like hours but is barely minutes, Frost raise his voice once more.
<|?|> The Phoenix <|?|>
TIME!
Gratefully Mental collapses to the floor, seeming to fold into a sweat drenched heap. Chest heaving from the air being sucked into them, he lies there watching the bags swing gently to a rest overhead. Frost throws him a water bottle, which Mental barely has enough energy to lift to his parched throat, nor the wind to spare the shortage of breath whilst he drinks. Finally regaining his wind, Mental rolls from under the bags and crawls to an oaken bench, perched between the racks of weights.
<|?|> The Phoenix <|?|>
Well, you've not lost much of your speed or the power behind your blows mate... your cardio could do with a bit of a blasting, but aside from that you're fighting fit. The hell are you doin' this anyway? Shouldn't we be hitting the ring and work some ground skills and distances.
Mental shakes his head, swigging some water again to regain what sheer volume of sweat has taken away.
<|?|> The MorningStar <|?|>
Not for a hardcore match, dude. This kids got some crazy assed notion he's going to beat seven shades out of me, so odds are his first chance he's going to grab something heavy and start swinging for the fences. I dodge, I hit, I win. Simple tactics for a simple match...
<|?|> The Phoenix <|?|>
Johnny boy, dn't underestimate this kid. Christ, remember what you were like at that age?
With a wicked grin, yet another sign of the Johnny Mental which captured both hearts and titles all those years ago, Mental wastes a breath for a quick chuckle...
<|?|> The MorningStar <|?|>
Aye, I was more interested in the next beer and the next woman more than writing some damned book. Com on dude, Seventeen? His muscles aren't fully developed yet, christ he probably hasn't even stopped growing. Christ knows how he got his wrestling license...
<|?|> The Phoenix <|?|>
Fake ID, I expect... how else do these young whippersnappers manage to get their beer and smokes?
Both men share a laugh, and Mental shaks his head at Frost's usual put downs... for once they're not directed at him. Frost's face fades to a more sombre attitude.
<|?|> The Phoenix <|?|>
Just don't get lax out there, mate. You've taken enough punishment over the years to be able to take it and roll with the blows, but you're not god remember. Christ, even chuck Liddell has been dropped more than once.
Mental heaves to his feet, walking awkwardly as the muslces stiffen. He stops next to Frost, slapping him on the shoulder.
<|?|> The MorningStar <|?|>
It's just empty words, Steve. Don't let it get to you. I've beaten everyone worth beating, in most cases more than once. Some idiotic kid with ideas above his station isn't going to phase me. Besides, he's now made one fatal mistake. Up until now, I was just going to do enough to win, hurt him enough so he couldn't get back to his feet. But now he's threatened my life and livelihood... Well, I ain't taking too kindly to that. I remember enough from when He was in here...
Mental taps the side of his head with his index finger, whilst Frost's face clouds in dark understanding.
<|?|> The MorningStar <|?|>
...To know how to hurt people. I know how to make him scream, how to make him cry, how to make him regret he ever stepped into my world. He wants to make this personal? He wants to make this brutal? Well lets hope he lives up to his bluster, 'cos in the words of A Clockwork Orange, I'm taking this UltraViolent. He's gonna see what a REAL tsunami of evil looks like, and feel exactly how much pain it can inflict...
<|?|> The Phoenix <|?|>
Now that's my boy, there's the fire I've been looking for... just for christ sake don't turn your entrance music to Beethovens fifth...
With a snort of laughter, a shake of the head and a friendly cuff around th earhole, Mental head to the showers, still chuckling, ready to work out the stiffness for the upcoming match. Behind him, Frosts face furrows in concern at Johnny's words... The words that haven't been uttered since the seperation... just how much DID remain?
)<|?|> Voice <|?|>
Come on, mate... one more run!
The sound of heavy breathing and the constant drip, drip of sweat falling to the floor. In a gym like most others, pristine white walls with racks of weights linging them, the floor covered with half inch thick black pads, dense with little give in them. Bags of varying sizes, from speedballs to heavy bags, hang from the ceiling, swinging ponderously like grim pendulums. All dominated by a foreboding, old fashioned ring. None of this twenty spring mat crap, this is a solid boxing ring, with about as much bounce as concrete block...
Stood amid a curious set up of bags, almost like a maze, stands a worn out Johnny Mental. Sweat pours from him in rivulets, plastering his lank hair to his skull, soaking his vest until it sticks to the skin. Bent double, hands on knees, Mental breathes quickly, his superior cardio forcing oxygen through his starved system. Stood outside the strange setup of light bags stands Steven Frost, known throughout the world as The Phoenix, and the other half of the hellishly infamous duo The Nightbreed. He stands with arms crossed and face flush from shouting as Johnny waves a hand in supplication.
<|?|> The MorningStar <|?|>
Gimme... just two seconds, dude. Need to... catch my... breath...
<|?|> The Phoenix <|?|>
Two seconds? TWO SECONDS?! Two seconds is one away from defeat, Johnny. It's one second away from starting all over again right from the fuckin' bottom! You want that? you want to throw it away? You want to let some snot nosed upstart demolish what we've built? Do you?
<|?|> The MorningStar <|?|>
No...
<|?|> The Phoenix <|?|>
DO YOU?!
<|?|> The MorningStar <|?|>
NO!!!
<|?|> The Phoenix <|?|>
Then get to work!
Without a word of warning, Frost lashes out, swinging the nearest swing bag murderously at Mental. With a speed bordering on the supernatural, Mental sidesteps, his footwork perfect as he launches a roundhouse kick, sending the bag flying. At random, Frost launches another bag to join the first, this time to be met with a savat kick of unbelievable power. One by one the bags swing viciously, until Mental is ducking, weaving and dodging amongst a whirlwind of black sacks, each one being hit as it passes, speeding its journey. Snap Jabs, haymakers, roundhouse punches, forearm blows, elbows and reverse chops. Roundhouses, side kicks, Yakuza's and transfer kicks. Finally, after what seems like hours but is barely minutes, Frost raise his voice once more.
<|?|> The Phoenix <|?|>
TIME!
Gratefully Mental collapses to the floor, seeming to fold into a sweat drenched heap. Chest heaving from the air being sucked into them, he lies there watching the bags swing gently to a rest overhead. Frost throws him a water bottle, which Mental barely has enough energy to lift to his parched throat, nor the wind to spare the shortage of breath whilst he drinks. Finally regaining his wind, Mental rolls from under the bags and crawls to an oaken bench, perched between the racks of weights.
<|?|> The Phoenix <|?|>
Well, you've not lost much of your speed or the power behind your blows mate... your cardio could do with a bit of a blasting, but aside from that you're fighting fit. The hell are you doin' this anyway? Shouldn't we be hitting the ring and work some ground skills and distances.
Mental shakes his head, swigging some water again to regain what sheer volume of sweat has taken away.
<|?|> The MorningStar <|?|>
Not for a hardcore match, dude. This kids got some crazy assed notion he's going to beat seven shades out of me, so odds are his first chance he's going to grab something heavy and start swinging for the fences. I dodge, I hit, I win. Simple tactics for a simple match...
<|?|> The Phoenix <|?|>
Johnny boy, dn't underestimate this kid. Christ, remember what you were like at that age?
With a wicked grin, yet another sign of the Johnny Mental which captured both hearts and titles all those years ago, Mental wastes a breath for a quick chuckle...
<|?|> The MorningStar <|?|>
Aye, I was more interested in the next beer and the next woman more than writing some damned book. Com on dude, Seventeen? His muscles aren't fully developed yet, christ he probably hasn't even stopped growing. Christ knows how he got his wrestling license...
<|?|> The Phoenix <|?|>
Fake ID, I expect... how else do these young whippersnappers manage to get their beer and smokes?
Both men share a laugh, and Mental shaks his head at Frost's usual put downs... for once they're not directed at him. Frost's face fades to a more sombre attitude.
<|?|> The Phoenix <|?|>
Just don't get lax out there, mate. You've taken enough punishment over the years to be able to take it and roll with the blows, but you're not god remember. Christ, even chuck Liddell has been dropped more than once.
Mental heaves to his feet, walking awkwardly as the muslces stiffen. He stops next to Frost, slapping him on the shoulder.
<|?|> The MorningStar <|?|>
It's just empty words, Steve. Don't let it get to you. I've beaten everyone worth beating, in most cases more than once. Some idiotic kid with ideas above his station isn't going to phase me. Besides, he's now made one fatal mistake. Up until now, I was just going to do enough to win, hurt him enough so he couldn't get back to his feet. But now he's threatened my life and livelihood... Well, I ain't taking too kindly to that. I remember enough from when He was in here...
Mental taps the side of his head with his index finger, whilst Frost's face clouds in dark understanding.
<|?|> The MorningStar <|?|>
...To know how to hurt people. I know how to make him scream, how to make him cry, how to make him regret he ever stepped into my world. He wants to make this personal? He wants to make this brutal? Well lets hope he lives up to his bluster, 'cos in the words of A Clockwork Orange, I'm taking this UltraViolent. He's gonna see what a REAL tsunami of evil looks like, and feel exactly how much pain it can inflict...
<|?|> The Phoenix <|?|>
Now that's my boy, there's the fire I've been looking for... just for christ sake don't turn your entrance music to Beethovens fifth...
With a snort of laughter, a shake of the head and a friendly cuff around th earhole, Mental head to the showers, still chuckling, ready to work out the stiffness for the upcoming match. Behind him, Frosts face furrows in concern at Johnny's words... The words that haven't been uttered since the seperation... just how much DID remain?
