I always hoped you'd finish this story!
+1 rep,***** (5 gold stars), 2 thumbs up, and all that stuff.
Definitely a nice story, Witchfrost.
My Stories
Look at that. A full-grown woman pulling off pigtails. Her crazy is off the charts.
Quote:
'Bout time, been wondering about ol' Tony for a loooooooong time now.|
Originally Posted by Sooner
I always hoped you'd finish this story!
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Good stuff bud.
*taps the desk anxiously*
Well? You're on summer break. Where's the rest? 
"Goodbye, Jean-Luc. I'm gonna miss you... you had such potential. But then again, all good things must come to an end..." -- Q
Quote:
Hahahahahahaahahahaha!
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Originally Posted by Major_T
*taps the desk anxiously*
Well? You're on summer break. Where's the rest? |
Major T and Sooner have been hounding me mercilessly for part two, so here it is.
Round 2
Im still trying to figure out my options when the bell rings and Jimmy pushes me out to the center of the ring. Jimmys my trainer; but the stupid old ******* is half blind and wasnt a good fighter even in his prime. Hes as near to useless as tits on a bull, as the saying goes, but hes the only one who would take me after my hands went south a few years back. No one else wanted me. I only think Jimmy took me in because I was the same age as his son, another should-have-been that died in an a ring accident (he got distracted in a sparring match; caught a shot to the temple lights out, pretty boy).
****. Im dancing in the center, and the kid wont come near me. I shook him up too bad in the last round what the hell am I supposed to do now? Hes bobbing and weaving and dancing like hes having convulsions; if he doesnt stop hes gonna tire himself out and pass out before Im supposed to dive. Jesus H., kid, youre a chump. I charge in, he cringes and winces and I havent even gloved him this round yet. I start to sweat again; I just know people can see how hes acting and theyre taking it all in, waiting to see me finish him off. Damn it!
I fake like Ive stumbled and let the kid pop me one. I make myself stagger back like the kid has bricks in his gloves, and the audience gasps. He gets bold, and throws a series of lefts followed by a nice right cross. Hes slow as molasses in January, and if I wasnt tanking this fight Id have laughed in his face as he threw them then crushed his nose with my fist. But I cant laugh or punch, because if I do the jigs up and Im screwed.
The hits are enough, though, and old Pounder gets his confidence back. I let him take me to the ropes, and I feel their cold pressure on my back as Ref Davison breaks us up. He moves the kid off me, but I pretend to stagger again coming off the ropes, which is like meat to the chump, and he rushes me again right away. His trainers have to be going nuts; theyve got to be waiting for me to spring some sort of trap and put him on his back. He gets a couple more shots in on me, and I throw a few punches at his gloves, just to make it look like Im fighting back, which Im not, and I suspect everyone has to know it at this point. I lock up with him, leaning on him heavily, as if I were too tired to go on, and Davison comes over.
Oh, you little **** he takes a cheap low blow as we separate, which only glances off me, but its enough to make me forget what Im doing and I pop him. Pop him good, too, right over Davisons shoulder. It doesnt make him go down, but he stumbles, and takes a good look at me. I panic. God, Im sweating, and I can feel a burning through my fingers and toes; my teeth hurt. I need my junk, but cant get it till this is done. Where am I? Davison is asking me if I can continue the low blow! Nobody saw me hit the kid, and I thank God. I catch a break and the bell rings, ending the round.
I dont think Im going to make it out of this one.
Two and a half years earlier:
Tony, youve got to stop taking that crap, says the small, mouselike young woman standing in the kitchen of the small, battered apartment that Tony Jones called home. The kitchen looked as if a whirlwind had hit it; broken dishes littered the floor, covered in crusted on food that had dried on eons before the porcelain had even been hurled against the walls.
The kitchen, part of an equally demolished-looking apartment, which in itself was part of an equally demolished looking building, sat in one of the neighborhoods of Kings Rows garment district, and the small brunette saying the words was talking to an equally demolished looking, although massive, young man. If youre not careful, that junks going to kill you. Youre already showing the rage signs, and if it keeps up, you know whats next.
The woman moved into the living room, towards a small window partially occupied by a rusted, dent-covered window unit (which was only blowing mildly cool air into the room to begin with). She pulled open the tattered curtains, and pointed down to the street below, where a large man was passed out in the alley only a story down. Casual examination by an observer- and the mans large hat- might have overlooked the growths beginning to pepper the mans forehead, but even from Tonys window the greenish hue of the troll (as thats what Dyne addicts were called nowadays) showed clearly. Point as she did, and as loud as she was, still, the brutish man seated at the small dining room table did not look up.
Dont you think I know that, Tina? asked the man, barely audible over the hum of the window unit. Tony Jones slowly raised his head to look his sister in the eyes. But its the only thing thats worked so far and as he said this, he held up two cast covered fists to heal these things. It solidifies bone! I know what Im doing.
If Dr. Wilson knew what you were doing hed have a stroke! Hed cut you off, thats what hed do! And you need him right now! She crossed her arms, shifted her weight to her left foot from her right, and stared him down, something few others would ever try to do. A few painful seconds went by, before the huge man looked away from her, a look of embarrassment crossing his face. It was too much for him, and he exploded.
Forearm shattering the dining room table, the man stood up and leveled a kick at the chair which he had just vacated; a kick which sent the chair flying into the empty kitchen. Broken plates rattled and were sent flying, ringing loudly in the silence of the apartment. If I cant fight I have nothing! Nothing! Its all Ive ever been good at! If this doesnt work, what am I supposed to do with myself? Fry cook? The huge man threw himself down into the other chair, staring at the clock on the wall, a clock which no longer worked, its life cut short by a well-thrown flashlight.
The silence in the apartment, save for the steady hum of the window unit, was soon broken by heeled footsteps and a closing door. Tony Jones flinched, put his hands to his temples, and sobbed.
Good stuff, Frosty.
I loved the fight scene.
IF we could please try to come in with a new post before nearly two months have gone by, that'd be great!
Caught between a rock and a hard-place... both in the ring and in the apartment.
"Goodbye, Jean-Luc. I'm gonna miss you... you had such potential. But then again, all good things must come to an end..." -- Q
hmm looks to be another good story here.
@tiggy
Beware the attack cat
I started this story a while back, and have had the urge lately to finish it for some reason (probably because of Going Rogue right around the corner). It's the story of my Erg/WP Brute, Two-Shot Tony. If I get some decent feedback, I'll keep posting (I have a few 'chapters' done).
Round 1
The referee calls us out the center of the ring and starts telling us how the fights gonna be. Fight clean, he says, no dirty punches or headbutting. Hes an alright guy; Ive fought fights with him calling before. The ref's name is Davison; I think his first name is Jon. Short guy, stocky; I know he wears glasses but uses contacts when he refs, which causes him a slight blind spot on the right for some reason. Last year I took a cheap shot to the back by that sloppy ******* Gonzales because of it that nearly cost me the fight, but Gonzales paid for it tenfold when I broke his collarbone the next round. What Davison doesnt know when he tells us to fight clean is that the fights already dirty he just doesnt know it.
I use the time Davison is flapping his jaws to look over my opponent. Christ, this kids a chump. Sure, hes a heavyweight in size, but anyone watching knows this kid isnt a real fighter. Hes too thin in the chest for one thing, with a nose that hasnt been punched in nearly enough for him to have gotten this high in the rankings; this kids been pushed all the way through to me like hed been boxing on an expressway with no stops. And hes got a bad habit of leaning forward when hes about to throw a jab I know, because Ive been watching the tapes which I cant exploit because one uppercut to that exposed chin would take his head clean off.
Pounder Paul Phillips. What kind of jerkoffs gave the kid that nickname, anyway? I bet it was his uncle, the Back Alley Brawler, which is another ridiculous nickname for a guy who isnt even a good fighter. Ive seen his tapes too; how that guy ever got to be hero to the city is beyond me probably because hes been bowing to Statesman since before I was born. Theres a pair. If this kid wasnt Brawlers nephew I wouldnt be in this mess, but Im the next big thing, so they say, and taking me down gets the kid his title shot, which makes Dear Old Unca Brawler proud. A title shot that should be mine, but Im promised first crack at the kid when he makes champ, which apparently is already a made deal. Funny, I wonder what the champs being paid to take a dive. Bet hes getting more than I am.
We touch gloves, and I notice the smirk the kids got on his face as they connect. He thinks he can really fight; someones not telling him hes a bought champ. Id love to show it to him by taking out about ten of his teeth in the first round, but itll have to wait for another fight. Jeez, this ones not even begun and Im already waiting for that one. I can hear them from across the ring; theyre telling him to avoid my combos by staying at a distance and using his reach. Like that would save him if I wanted him down. They dont call me Two-Shot for nothing; I once knocked out a guy through the gloves blocking his face. They told me afterward that I had broken six bones in the guys face, and they had to wire his jaw shut for months.
The bell rings and Im up, and meander my way to the center of the ring. I need to sell that Im getting beaten, so I cant move too fast out there, even at the beginning. I need to make it look like somethings wrong; maybe a stomach flu or dehydration, so when I go down its realistic; no one who knows fighting is ever going to believe this kid beat me any other way. Pounder dances out, like hes in the freakin ballet. I want to punch his face in so bad its making my teeth hurt. Or is that the withdrawal starting; I cant be really sure anymore, but I know Id better focus or Ill end up screwing this up.
The kid throws a couple quick jabs, and then a combo that never even comes close. I have to pass up at least five opportunities to break his face and weve been fighting less than a minute. I lightly tap him a few times, just to let him know where he is, and youd have thought I hit him full force. He staggers, and I start to sweat. This is never going to work, I think, and I start to panic. I hear the ring announcer counting down the end of the round, and I start thinking: How the hell did I get myself into this mess?
Three years earlier:
Light streamed into the office through the large picture window behind the desk, shining down upon two large, overstuffed armchairs on either side. The glass topped desk was covered in files and charts, and the stacked paperwork created the image of a fortress, in which the paperweight took on the appearance of a king under siege. The door opened, and two men entered. One sat down immediately, the chair under him creaking and groaning under his weight. The other moved to a short hook on the wall near the opposite chair.
Look, Tony, youre a great fighter. Probably the best Ive ever seen. But the bones in your hand just cant take the stresses you put on them. You hit too hard; youve broken every bone in your hand at least three times in the last five years. I dont think its going to heal right this time, son. Doctor Paul Wilson took his coat off and sat down in the chair in his office. He took out a cigar and lit it, and offered another to the man sitting in the chair across from him, who declined.
The man was big, shorter than youd expect from a boxer of his weight, but so bulky he didnt fit right even in the doctors oversized chairs. Head hung low, his massive brow creased as he considered Wilsons words. People often mistook Tony Jones for stupid when he did this, since it made him look like a Neanderthal; he was anything but. He wasnt a rocket scientist, by any means, but he possessed quick wits and a very cunning way of getting inside an opponents head. He lifted his head and looked Wilson straight in the eye, a look Wilson found vaguely unsettling coming from a man of this size with this reputation.
What am I supposed to do now, Doc? Are you saying my careers over?
Well, the surgery might take, but well have to break your hand again to do it, and we can put pins and plates in to help, but either way it might possibly cripple them. Tonys head again dipped. If we can find a way to make bones heal faster and stronger, itd be a piece of cake, son. But we cant. Wilson was an old-school doctor, and called everyone son, regardless of age or race (and in at least one case, sex). He was a rare breed, and felt terrible that he couldnt help the man sitting in front of him. But there was nothing he could do.
Tony Jones rose, slowly, to his feet, and lightly shook Wilsons hand with his fingertips, mindful of the bandages and plaster holding his shattered bones together within. Thanks Doc. I appreciate it. Lets do the surgery, and go from there. He opened the door, said goodbye to Wilsons secretary, and let the door swing shut behind him. Wilson could hear Tonys steps as he lumbered down the hallway, and took a slow, deliberate puff of his cigar as he considered the mans (now limited) options.