| Running the Path #1; featuring Kilminster and Johanssen | |
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| Tweet Topic Started: May 3 2016, 07:42 AM (22 Views) | |
| Sinclair | May 3 2016, 07:42 AM Post #1 |
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《《( ( O ) )》》 《《( ( O ) )》》 I always knew Dad was in the Navy, right from the start and, I guess, even if Momma and Grandma hadn’t told me then the other kids sure would. They tell me he was around more when I was a baby, like when I’d just been born, but I don’t remember that. I think maybe he managed to get some time off work or something and spent it with Momma to get used to me, to get used to being a Dad. I don’t know. I only remember seeing him twice. On my third birthday, he was there for the party. I remember that because he came after the party started and he had balloons and a present for me, but he never gave me the present. He never had chance. Momma and Grandma took him into the kitchen and left me with the other kids and the other kid’s Mommas but I could hear the shouting and then he was gone. He was there though. He came to see me. I saw him smile before he went into the kitchen. When I heard the door slam, I looked out the window and I saw him walking down the garden path but he didn’t look back. I wanted him to. I wanted him to look back and smile again. He didn’t. I was seven the next time I saw him. I know Momma used to talk to him every week on the phone because he sent her a lot of money to buy me things. Grandma says that where he comes from, it’s not a lot of money, but that it is here and it buys a lot of stuff but he could send more. She gets very angry about it. It wasn’t my birthday but I know I was seven because the fair was in town and I was allowed on somebof the bigger rides and you’re only allowed on them when you’re seven. He stayed for a few days and he slept on the sofa and I’d jump on him every morning to wake him up and we’d laugh but one day I ran downstairs and he wasn’t there and I asked Momma and she said he had to go to work and I thought he’d got a new job like other folks and he’d be back that night so I waited by the window all day, but he didn’t come back. I asked Momma where he’d really gone and she cried and said he was back on his ship. I never saw him again. Ever. It’s June the 14th 2002. I was ten years old two months and four days ago. Which means it’s been just over three years since I saw him and they’re telling me he won’t ever be coning back. They’re changing things, Momma and Grandma. They told me he worked on a warship with big guns and planes on it like in the movies. Now they’re telling me he’s dead and he didn’t die on a ship but in a cave somewhere between Afghanistan and Pakistan, that he was looking for the man that blew up the buildings in America and he got shot. People who work on ships don’t go to caves. They tell me he was very special and that’s why they sent him on a special mission to find the bad man. Now they say because he’s dead there's no money and I can’t live in Kingston anymore, that I’ll have to live with Dad’s family in England. I told them that I can’t because I kissed Jenny Gainsborough and that we love eachother and we’re going to get married but that made Momma cry more. Grandpa died when I was about four so it’s just been me and Grandma and Momma and everyone else here seems to hate me, but they love me and Jenny loves me and I want to stay more than anything but I’m ten years old and small and only grown-ups get to make decisions. 《《( ( O ) )》》 《《( ( O ) )》》 Yeah, turns out my old man was in the SBS and was one of the very first British special forces to join up with the Americans to go and find Bin Laden, back in the day. We all know where that cunt met his end now, so in hindsight we know Dad was nowhere fucking near, but the mission they sent him on had some “good intel” and he went in with a team of US Rangers and never came back. When it happened, they didn’t tell anyone fuck all. I was ten and I didn’t know shit about the fuckin’ internet really - Kingston is beautiful but a bit behind the fuckin’ times - so we just had what they told Momma. Even now, with the internet and wikifuckin’pedia and whatever, I can’t find much out. I guess he was deployed with Operation Fingal or Herrick, but the SBS tend not to leave records of the shit they get up to, so it’s just guesswork. There’s something fucked with the system when I’m left knowing fuck all about my Dad and what he did and how he died, but there ya go. Then again, it turned out he hadn’t told anyone he had a son and it only came to light when he died. These Navy types leave documents and letters and stuff “only to be opened in the event of death” and that’s how his parents found out about me and, apparently, how his commanding officers found out about me. It was them who paid for my travel to England - Momma had fuck all and Granddad and Nan had fuck all either, so the British Navy stepped up a bit. Not much, but a bit. Yeah, this is the shit that runs through my head when I run. Somehow, when I race, so does my fuckin’ mind and shit like this just flies right up in my face and I have to keep on running and running and running until either I can’t take anymore or my body can’t take anymore. Sometimes, running down the street helps a bit. Sometimes it doesn’t. Sometimes I’m stuck in one place, like today, like right now, on a treadmill with just a mirror in front of me - running and running and running but getting nowhere. The soles of my feet hurt more than any “air” heel or gel cushioning in-sole can help with. My calves burn. My thighs are jelly. My chest hurts from heaving and even my fuckin’ arms hurt from setting my pace. Every sinew, every fibre, every nerve ending fires with pain and just as it becomes too much for my brain to handle, it retreats into itself and that’s when all this fuckin’ karmic inner-reflection mirror to the soul bullshit tends to happen. Your mind finds its own pain to shout over your body’s. Your brain, being a physical thing, wants to escape the physical pain, so it just dives right in. Sometimes, you can feel the periphery of your mind dip its toe in the water first and, other times, you’re up to your eyes in bubbles and shit before you even know what’s happening. I run. I run a lot. I tried describing all this to Osbourne, once, and he got into analysing it and trying to fuckin’ define it and ended up fucking me right off. He says it’s “cathartic” and “reverse-escapism, of a sort”, whatever that means. I don’t see it quite like that, or maybe I just have a less educated vocabulary but see it the same way? I don’t really know. I run to make my body better, which hurts. My mind takes over to take away the fact that it hurts by showing me other stuff that hurts in a different way. Each time, it hurts less and less so it’s come down on the scale of torture-entertainment from a 10 to about a 3. I’m not running to escape - I’m running to endure and to enjoy. It’s the dichotomy that’s made me who and what I am. The fastest man alive... 《《( ( O ) )》》 《《( ( O ) )》》 Things are different now, and even if you’d not been there to see everything unfold after months and months of building to a head, you’d be able to feel it just by walking into the same room as any of the guys right now. Jurgen Johanssen is angry, but angry in an almost comic-book manner whereby you can all but see the jets of steam spurting from his nostrils. All he does now is lift heavy, eat, run and sit in front of the television for hours on end, not even changing the channels, just staring at the screen and silently seething. Even his bright orange short-sleeved shirt doesn’t seem to make his disposition any brighter as he sits on the edge of the decline bench just off from centre on the floor of the Boston base of The Institute, water bottle in hand as he stares out of the open roller-shutter door at the glaring sunlight playing a heat haze across the surface of the tarmac car park outside. Shaun can feel the dour, downbeat, grim reality of the situation and finds the weight of the situation heavy upon his shoulders and the thickness in the air almost suffocating, but he doesn’t suffer the most, a fact reinforced upon him as he adjusts his perch atop the upper rest of the incline bench station, slowly eating away at his egg salad sandwich, careful not to drop crumbs or spill mayo on his white vest or bright pastel blue basketball shorts. The man he stares at stares back from behind mirrored lenses, almost ridiculously-sized aviator sunglasses hiding most of his face, but not quite enough to hide the old scarring around his left eye nor the fresh cut right across his forehead. Beneath his UnderArmour rashguard shirt are a hundred different cuts and bruises superimposed atop various scars and cuts of varying thickness and freshness. His hair is growing thicker and longer, still sitting only on the top of his head but the very first hints of grey are there, contrasting the vibrant ginger-red of his long beard. Shaun throws the last of his sandwich down the back of his mouth and coughs slightly as it sticks on the way down, clearing his throat and pounding his fist into his chest. Greedy bastard. Try chewing before you swallow. Says the fuckin’ master of swallowing... Do you two have to act like children the whole time or could we possibly have a break to try and work out where things go from here? Would that be too much to fucking ask? Osbourne doesn’t often snap or, rather, didn’t. That’s changed now, like a lot of things. It doesn’t seem like Battlelines was just yesterday and, already, things are just so different. Stacey had said at the press conference that their jobs are safe, but none of them are too certain just what that means or what the cost will be. So, will the Dravens be at Fight Night? I hear they won’t, but they’re not answering my calls. Erik isn’t, anyway. Fuck calling Michael and I’m not wasting my time with their walking answerphone. Two-faced scheming fucking wh- Be careful. So we’re booked for Fight Night and Battlelines… that’s got to show willing, right? That’s got to fucking count for somethin’? Shaun doesn’t say anything they haven’t all thought and wondered and mulled over on long, silent flights or during long, silent car rides or through a long, silent and restless night of pseudo-sleep. Somehow, they still had their jobs. Somehow, they still had their spots in the Path of the Warrior. Somehow, it all just came down too easy. Shaun had considered that maybe it was down to the sheer name value of Osbourne Kilminster which carried enough gravitas to ensure the EWA wouldn’t let them go or push them away, no matter who was in charge. Then, he’d considered that the way this business worked, it’s more likely that they’ll turn up for their matches and get jumped by four or five guys with sledgehammers and baseball bats. For a professional and world-renowned sports promotion, the working practices hadn’t noticeably changed since the 1930s. We just have to take it all at face value for now. At Fight Night, I’ll do what has to be done with Sahara and, hopefully, that’ll be abig enough stick to poke Mirage off the fence and into the cage. Shaun, you’ve got whoever wins between Heart Attack Kid and Dietrich. I can help you with the Kid, but you need to do your homework on Dietrich… And me? Osbourne turns to him and sighs, his chest heaving heavily anf slowly as a wave of new worry washes over him and leaves its chill behind. After your outburst, you need to be more ready than anybody. Keep doing what you’re doing. You need to be good to go at a moment’s notice. I don’t know who or what it’ll be, but something will be coming for you… coming for US. We’ve been in this together from the start and we’ll be in it together ‘til the end, no matter what. Thanks. I appreciate that. There’s something instantly heartening about the confidence and reassurance exuded from Osbourne, even when he’s picking over the charred remains of what were once the foundations of glory, he digs deep and always comes up with the trump card that presses the reset button and brings everything right back together. Brotherhood. The gap between Master and Student is diminishing and as he thumbs his nose with a nod to Kilminster, Shaun acknowledges inwardly that the gap diminishes much more quickly as the trials and tribulations they face and endure become tougher. Still, that is a gap which closes much, much more quickly for one man than ever it has for anyone else… ...for Shaun Sinclair, the Spitfire… ...Shaun Sinclair, the faste- 《《( ( O ) )》》 《《( ( O ) )》》 Stood in the centre of the ring in front of Punch Bob, Shaun drips with sweat from every pore. The soft, flesh-like rubber of Bob’s “face” and armless torso have taken a vigorous and relentless pounding for hours on end now. As he looks up to the windows set high in the walls, he can feel the sting from his toes to his knees from kicking and even deep in the centre of his hands despite the 4oz MMA gloves he wears from the punching and clinching. As the perspiration courses along his glistening flesh, he paces back and forth, his eyes locked on the lifeless, rubber, flesh-toned shallow orifices in the moulded face of Bob. He sees Michael Draven. He sees Erik Draven. He sees Marcus Mirage. He sees Shinya Nakamura. He sees Joe Lemon. He sees Azrael Goeren. He sees Dietrich. He sees the Heart Attack Kid. He sees Duane fucking Gates. In an instant, his feet have left the canvas and he is aloft, taken to the air without weight or effort as his fists fly with a rage and fury that he feels rising from within and exploding from his mouth in a primal roar as his right, left and right fists smash deep into the T-zone of Bob’s face, destroying what would be eye sockets, nose and mouth with three shots before his feet even touch the canvas again. His body braces as he lands, his knees bending slightly to absorb the shock as he roars right in Bob’s face, his teeth barred and his eyes narrowed as his vocal chords unleash and then, again in the blink of an eye, in a fluid move he drops back into a single handstand and spins his right hip over his left, slamming his right shin across Bob’s jaw. As the rubber gives way, his leg sails through and the momentum takes him over, twisting in mid-air and landing back up on both feet, his back to Bob and every muscle and sinew in his body tense as he hears the thud of Bob hitting the canvas behind him. Sucking in long, deep breaths, he can feel every part of him shaking with the tension from his skin to his skeleton, his sweat rising from him as steam as he slowly re-oxygenates his blood. He took it easy on Sahara. He felt for her. Not so long ago, he had been her. That time is gone. Lowering his head, Shaun laments the change he realises he must make in himself if he hopes to accelerate his success. There is no room for gentleness beside his speed. The EWA is no place for a gentleman. All things must end with the Strafe Run and Red Leader Down. All things must end in victory or be buried. He can’t take this road lightly or slowly, he can’t meander and follow leads and do just what has to be done. He has to stake his claim to make his name. His jaw is still tightly clenched, his nostrils flaring with every drawn breath, every muscle in his body still flexed to maximum contraction as he stares dead ahead at nothing in particular. His face glistens, but not with the purity of sweat any longer. His cheeks are streaked with beady streams from the corners of his eyes. 《《( ( O ) )》》 《《( ( O ) )》》 Sat beneath a single blue spotlight, Shaun Sinclair wears his usual baggy black hoodie and matching track pants, cross-legged before a small fire surrounded by a circular perimeter of bricks, the flames dancing before him as he pulls back his hood and looks up with deathly white eyes. Everybody’s been thinking and talking and fighting about the future lately… The future of the company… The future of the industry… Their own future… I’ve been thinking about my own future and what that is. I don’t believe a lot in faith and destiny and all that hocus pocus bollocks, but I do believe in potential and the big difference there is people tend to believe destiny means good shit just knocks on your door and jumps into your lap. Me? I believe you’re born with a set of skills that boil down to your genetics and then you have the opportunity to push those skills and develop them and see how far they take you. You are born with potential, not born into a fucking birthright. Licking his lips, Shaun smiles and looks directly up into the spotlight. I sit and I wonder what's to come, but I don’t even know what it is I’ll face at Battlelines, whether it’s Dietrich or the Heart Attack Kid, the midget or the monster. I have to sit back and watch which of you two emerges “victorious” and pick at what remains of you to advance myself in the Path of the Warrior tournament. I don’t care if you’re the 208 masked warrior who won the respect of my mentor and friend or if you’re the 285 giant more used to manhandling people your own size - I have something in me which is capable of cutting down either of you and you’d best be sure to count on me doing just that because I’m not feeling in the most merciful of moods. Sucks to be you, boys. Trust me, it really fuckin’ does. Looking back down, Shaun warms his hands by the fire and shakes his head. In my first match here, I was too eager to please, too quick off the mark without checking myself and I was absolutely fucked by a man who isn’t a better man, but was better on the day. When it counted, he brought it and I failed… but I learned and I came back with wins and a strong showing in the Warrior’s Trial and then, at Battlelines, I became the instrument of education for someone else, someone who suffered as I did and I saw something that hit home with me because it was still fresh. That weakness, that vulnerability, that utter helplessness in the face of a force just beyond comprehension. Once, that was me. Once, I was so feeble and so fuckin’ pathetic and took such a beating that they thought my career was over before it had begun… but they were so so so fuckin’ wrong and I survived and I’m here now and neither of you two are going to be the roadblock that halts me. Neither of you. Smiling, he thumbs his nose and clears his throat, clenching his hands into tight fists before his eyes. So I sit and I watch and I wait and I know that I’m stronger and faster than the one man on the one hand… and I’m faster and more well-rounded than the man on the other. I know how to beat both of you because I’ve seen you, because I’ve fucking watched everything there is to watch and if I transcribed all the notes about you that I have in my mind, I could fill a fucking Bible. Heart Attack Kid’s fast and he tries to confuse people by moving non-stop, which can be a very effective strategy… until you come up against someone faster. Oh, I’d challenge you to keep up with me, Kid. I’ve heard the comparisons and they make me fucking laugh. I could walk out of that ring with a victory and your front teeth as trophies before you even know the bell’s been rung. Check your mail in the next few days and I’ll Fed Ex you a little highlight reel of what I’ve done to Lemon and Sahara and even Sinnocence and then you tell me if a little man struggling to come to terms with the fact his unbeaten streak is ancient history can hope to stand up to that. You fucking tell me and I’ll tell you you’re talking shit. With a laugh, Shaun clicks his neck from side to side and claps his hands. Oh, but the lure of gold beckons elsewhere. Fuck Johnny no-name Napalm and keep your eyes on the prize, dear Dietrich, because I’ll rip that belt from around your waist and have it mounted above my headboard for the girls to look at before you even get your fucking boots tied. Big old boy, but all you’ve got it strength on me. No shit, you’d beat me in an arm wrestle or a bench-press contest, but power can come from speed every bit as much as strength and I’ll fucking put that right in your face when you realise that a fost coming down into your nose at a forty five degree angle at fifty miles an hour and with two hundred and twenty pounds of muscle behind it will fuck you up in ways you can’t even imagine. Closing his eyes, Shaun takes a deep breath and clears his throat, before casting his white eyes to us again A lot of cunts wouldn’t know what the fuck to do with themselves in my position. I guess I’m lucky to have been taught by someone so patient, someone who taught me to be so patient - not to waste my energy stressing or worrying, but to just sit and wait and learn and strike when the time is right. Ask of yourselves - do you even want to beat the fucker across the ring from you, to beat him and go on, knowing that I’m just sat here waiting for you? Bring me your mask or bring me your belt - I will not leave this with nothing, no matter who I face. Now, there is nothing. Stillness, calm. Soon, the speed will come, and what a fucking rush that will be. His eyes close again, his head dropping and his hands finding comfort atop his knees 《《( ( O ) )》》 《《( ( O ) )》》 |
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10:52 AM Jul 11