03-12-2023, 04:33 AM
(This post was last modified: 03-12-2023, 05:41 AM by Alistair Bishop.)
And don't be late
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Alistair tended to win his bare-knuckle matches fast—a duck, a juke, landing an uppercut, knocking his opponent out cold.
This match was no different. Though it took two minutes to beat his opponent, Alistair had taken a beating, unlike he had felt in a long time. His meaty opponent fought intensely until Alistair had clocked him with a powerful uppercut. The 6 ft 2-inch beast of a man fell to the ground – lights out. The fighter's skill in Moscow seemed higher.
Alistair would need to apply himself even more to his craft. Fighting was one-part pure aggression; one part will, and the rest all hard work and skill. He was a craftsman, practicing the art of fighting since high school. Fighting was life or death, and his pride was on the line. All he cared about in life was being the best there was or ever will be at fighting, an elite fighter capable of beating anyone in his way. He’d die before giving up perfection. He would die before ever returning to the poverty of his youth. Fighting was and always will be his way out.
Alistair circled his opponent, who laid on the ring unconscious. Alistair heard the crowd roaring, and his ego had swollen. Match number one in Moscow was completed, and he had won for the patron he had yet to meet. Not wanting to waste too much energy celebrating a win, he headed for the locker room to rest before his second bout.
Alistair silently sat at his locker with only a towel on and no thoughts on his mind. After each fight, there was usually a moment when time did not exist, and he was fully present, achieving enlightenment through executing his craft. He gets off to this addictive feeling of power and peace.
Alistair prepared mentally for his second bout of the night as he stood in the shower, warm water massaging his beaten body and pounding head. His thoughts went to how he would approach his next opponent, imagining each move and every blow. His game planning was interrupted as he heard a voice speak to him from behind.
“You are off the hook; no second fight. Not sure what happened, but your opponent withdrew. You are done for the night.” Jade barked at him as she stood outside the shower.
Alistair turned, unable to respond, before Jade started walking away. As she did, she flashed a white key card and slipped it into his jeans draped over the bench. “Meet me at Hotel Bannister, room 601, 2 AM.”
She looked his naked body up and down with a coy smile. As she did, a hand appeared from behind the door; red nails and slim fingers reached out to grab Jade’s hand and pulled her, revealing another woman who leaned in to kiss Jade softly.
Jade slowly released her lips; her cheek rested on this woman as she turned to look at Alistair with a grin.
“And don’t be late.” With that, both women walked out of the locker room, arms around each other, heels clicked on the concrete.
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Alistair tended to win his bare-knuckle matches fast—a duck, a juke, landing an uppercut, knocking his opponent out cold.
This match was no different. Though it took two minutes to beat his opponent, Alistair had taken a beating, unlike he had felt in a long time. His meaty opponent fought intensely until Alistair had clocked him with a powerful uppercut. The 6 ft 2-inch beast of a man fell to the ground – lights out. The fighter's skill in Moscow seemed higher.
Alistair would need to apply himself even more to his craft. Fighting was one-part pure aggression; one part will, and the rest all hard work and skill. He was a craftsman, practicing the art of fighting since high school. Fighting was life or death, and his pride was on the line. All he cared about in life was being the best there was or ever will be at fighting, an elite fighter capable of beating anyone in his way. He’d die before giving up perfection. He would die before ever returning to the poverty of his youth. Fighting was and always will be his way out.
Alistair circled his opponent, who laid on the ring unconscious. Alistair heard the crowd roaring, and his ego had swollen. Match number one in Moscow was completed, and he had won for the patron he had yet to meet. Not wanting to waste too much energy celebrating a win, he headed for the locker room to rest before his second bout.
Alistair silently sat at his locker with only a towel on and no thoughts on his mind. After each fight, there was usually a moment when time did not exist, and he was fully present, achieving enlightenment through executing his craft. He gets off to this addictive feeling of power and peace.
Alistair prepared mentally for his second bout of the night as he stood in the shower, warm water massaging his beaten body and pounding head. His thoughts went to how he would approach his next opponent, imagining each move and every blow. His game planning was interrupted as he heard a voice speak to him from behind.
“You are off the hook; no second fight. Not sure what happened, but your opponent withdrew. You are done for the night.” Jade barked at him as she stood outside the shower.
Alistair turned, unable to respond, before Jade started walking away. As she did, she flashed a white key card and slipped it into his jeans draped over the bench. “Meet me at Hotel Bannister, room 601, 2 AM.”
She looked his naked body up and down with a coy smile. As she did, a hand appeared from behind the door; red nails and slim fingers reached out to grab Jade’s hand and pulled her, revealing another woman who leaned in to kiss Jade softly.
Jade slowly released her lips; her cheek rested on this woman as she turned to look at Alistair with a grin.
“And don’t be late.” With that, both women walked out of the locker room, arms around each other, heels clicked on the concrete.