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| Tweet Topic Started: Jun 9 2016, 02:00 AM (19 Views) | |
| Sinclair | Jun 9 2016, 02:00 AM Post #1 |
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《《( ( O ) )》》 《《( ( O ) )》》 Even as it’s happening, I know I’ll never forget this moment. It’s one of those that just sticks in your mind right from that point when it first happens and stays there forever and you know it will without being a psychic. Something there and then signals to the universe that this is one of those life-changing moments. This guy robbed my Granddad’s house. He was home alone because I was out and because Nan died years ago. He was sat all on his own and this cunt walked into his house and took all the jewellery, all the money, all the silverware, everything. Granddad was paralysed by fear, just sat in his armchair, too scared to move or even call out while this fucking asshole took his time picking and choosing which bits of an old man’s life he wanted to take away. That was months ago. Granddad was never the same after that. He never left the house. The council gave him a panic button and everything, but the damage was done. He’d lasted three years after Nan died, but he only lasted a matter of weeks after that robbery. It broke him. It killed him. This guy is Chadd Peterson and he’s the one who made the decision to pick that house out of millions around the city, who made the decision to frighten an old man and steal every last memory of a life near it’s end. He even took a picture of Nan ad Granddad together because the frame had a bit of gold inlay. I’m Shaun Sinclair and, for one reason or another, I’ve been fighting since I was born. Fighting because my Dad was white. Then fighting because my Mum was black. Fighting because we were poor, fighting because we had fuck all but the fighting itself sometimes. I’m 18 years old and I don’t give two shits that this cunt is ten years older and a lot bigger than me. This. Is. It. He doesn’t know who I am, but I know him well. The thing with nobody having fuck all is that everyone’s small-time, acting big and hard but everyone’s jealous and looking to bring eachother down to try and fill their spot and get more for themselves. It cost me fifty quid to find out who robbed my Granddad. It cost me another thirty quid to ask different people the same question and see what they came back with. I had to be sure. Everyone said this guy, everyone said Chadd Peterson and, now, I’ve found him. I could wait and catch him in a dark alley at night. I could break into his stinking thirteenth floor flat in that shitty fucking tower block and really go to town on him. Nah, that’s not how I want to do this because everyone knows who and what he is - what a fucking arsehole this guy is. I’ve followed him, studied his movements, worked him out. I know him, he doesn’t know me but he knows the taste of my knuckles within three seconds of coming face to face with him. It’s the high street, people everywhere. People stood outside a pub smoking and chatting. A couple of guys working on a broken-down old Ford transit. Mums shepherding their kids alongs with bags of shopping damn near as big as they are. Kids bunking off school trying to blend in with the crowd. I know it’s public - that’s the point. Right up close, he’s a lot bigger than me, bigger than I’d really taken into account which is why my first punch rocked his jaw rather than breaking it. He’s staggered but he fires right back and catches me flush on the cheek, but I can feel the fire inside. I’ve been angry for months, he’s been angry for ten seconds and it shows. I grab him by the hood of his hoodie and smash his face into the wing mirror of a VW polo. The glass shines as it spins and hurtles toward the ground, almost in slow motion. The plastic casing screams out as it splinters off like fingers reaching out. He’s dazed enough that I can half throw and half trip him over onto the bonnet of the car, his tip-toes still on the ground as he flails and that’s when it starts. I’m 18 years old and about six feet tall. I weigh maybe twelve stone which is about 168lbs for you Americans and I’ve never been much of a puncher, but today… today I punch and I punch and I punch like I’m Joe Frazier, like I’m Muhammad Ali, like I’m Lennox Lewis and I keep punching and punching and punching even thpugh my own hands are cut and swollen and bleeding and I don’t even know where his blood stops and mine begins. What have I got to lose? My Dad died. My Nan died. My Grandma died. My Granddad died. My Mom is back in Jamaica and hasn’t got the money to get me home. I don’t have the money myself. The council is taking back Granddad’s house and trying to push me into a crappy little fucking bedsit. Fuck that and fuck this guy. Fuck him. When I feel the strong arms of the law pulling me off him, he slumps down into the gutter and the officers slam me face-down on the bonnet. I can see the blue lights flashing across the windscreen. I can’t hear the sirens. I can’t hear the crying and screaming from the horrified onlookers. I can hear myself breathing. I can hear my heartbeat. I will never forget this moment. 《《( ( O ) )》》 《《( ( O ) )》》 A WEEK AGO... Everybody hears him - everybody without exception. He has one of those voices that can often be hard to hear because he can speak in the lower, hushed tones and does so as preference, but then there are times when he wants to be heard and he wants to be seen and now is one of those times. The facility is near-full, people on almost every bit of kit whether it be the weights or the mats or the cardio or stood in the ring with Shaun as he explains the finer points of employing leg power to increase the spring in their step. SHAUN SINCLAIR! SHAUN SINCLAIR, I HEAR YOU WANT A PIECE OF ME! Like something out of the wild west, he strolls in through the open roller doors and shakes his head. Shaun parts from the group he’s interacting with, wiping the sweat from his brow as his own teacher approaches, his heavy boots thudding on the floor with each step. He rips off his black fur coat and his mirrored aviator sunglasses, straightening out his plain white T-shirt as he approaches the practice ring and leaps up effortlessly onto the apron. Thirty students watch. Jurgen Johanssen emerges from the top of the stairs, leaning over the handrail to watch as The King, Osbourne Kilminster, ducks under the top rope and enters the ring, stepping right up face-to-face with the Spitfire, Shaun Sinclair. Osbourne’s casual white t-shirt with black jeans and boots opposite in almost ever way andbyet still linked by tenuous similarity to Shaun’s pastel red shorts and baggy white, sweat-drenched t-shirt. All eyes are drawn to the two men, Shaun’s friends slowly and silently sliding out of the ring and joining others in groups as they watch on, master versus student locked in an unblinking stare. What if I fuckin’ do, huh? You gonna fuckin’ retire me, mate? You gonna choke me the fuck out? Nah. You’ll do fuckin’ nothin’. You’re a beaten man - you nearly got sparked clean out by your ex-wife and then you go whimpering to her with your tail between your fuckin’ legs and then you walk in here like Barney fuckin’ Big Balls? Your day is done, old man. Stepping in closer to Osbourne, he half-whispers in his ear loud enough for everyone to hear. Done, mate. Stepping back again, Shaun contorts his face into a smile, a feeble attempt to hide the ice-cold stone of nausea weighing heavy in the pit of his stomach and the asphyxiating fear and doubt congealing in his throat. Two steps back, three steps back - he knows he needs the distance now. Osbourne smirks, looking down toward the toes of his boots for a moment before looking back up to Shaun, the light hitting his face in such a way that the scarring around his left eye and the left side of his scalp looks almost like a Tron grid, the bruising and cuts about his jaw and brow darker and more prominent for it. He’s been through a war, but his fighting days are far from over and few know it more than Shaun as he begins pacing slightly at the opposite end of the ring, back and forth with his eyes never once leaving Kilminster. You did a lot for me, showed me a lot, taught me a lot, paid for me, housed me… but everything you’ve taught me - I’ve added to it. Everything you’ve given me, I’ve taken it and made it more. I. Am more. Than you. You know it and you’re too beaten down and pig-headed to see it, to realise the fucking truth staring you right in your face. It’s my time now, MINE. The words flow out, flooding from his mouth like a raging torrent, the dams of his conscience and concerns for his personal safety overwhelmed, the banks burst as his need to not be made to look a bitch in front of everybody take priority. He walked in here with the express intention of demeaning him and patronising him, things Shaun cannot allow as an old fire from long ago burns deep, boiling the waters of words fountaining from him. Osbourne remains deathly calm and quiet, his hands finding homes on his hips as he maintains his visual lock on Shaun. What else, Osbourne? I’ve earned my spot and if that puts me against you then so fuckin’ be it. Jada knew you and thought that knowledge would break you, but she doesn’t have my speed and my strength. I know you better than anybody here. I’ve been with you the longest and I will be THE ONE to finally take your crown, take your throne and take all of this for myself. All of it! Fuck you, fuck your bullshit and fuck any cunt who thinks they’ll be the one to stand in MY way when I’ve fought MY WHOLE life for this. He can feel the rage, the water drying up and the flames lapping at the back of his tongue now, the fire burning deeper and deeper. He thumbs his nose and steps back in toward Osbourne, his jaw clenched and his fists at the ready. You could have handled this different, but you wanna come in here and call me out like some kind of cunt? Fuck you. You want it right fucking now? I mean right. Fucking. Now? DO YOU?! Shaun’s fists curl into tighter balls of bone and potential malice as his heart plays heavy and erratic drums on the inside of his rib cage, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end and sweat pouring from every pore as his eyes burn deep into those of his master, his mentor, his friend, his sometimes-father figure… his opponent. Kilminster remains calm, sucking in a deep breath through his nose and exhaling a long, deep sigh as he casts his eye over the furious frenemy before him. I’d advise you to be at your very best. Make sure that, at Battlelines, it’s your best day. Make sure that you swing your best punches. Make sure you can back up half of what you say or… well… Shrugging, Osbourne turns and ducks under the top rope and jumps to the floor, the silent onlookers following him with their eyes as he slowly strolls up the stairs, past Jurgen Johanssen and vanishes into his private room. Eyes return to Shaun, whose entire body is quaking as he raises his fists to his temples, his eyes closing tightly as the noise of his heartbeat and the dead weight in his stomach and the trickle of sweat and the silence and the acid burn in the- Without warning, he drops to his knees and his mouth opens wide, his stomach releasing his half-digested lunch and bile and phlegm in a steaming hot mess on the canvas. He looks up and his eyes catch Jurgen Johanssen staring down at him, grim and stoic and emotionless, before he closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. 《《( ( O ) )》》 《《( ( O ) )》》 NOW. It’s difficult for an honest man to be false, even if his life depends on it. It’s not easy to feign confidence, to face down fear itself when you’re quaking with weakness but masquerading as bristling with confidence. For a man like Shaun Sinclair, his fight or flight reactions have always been mixed, entwined in some bastard lovechild where his fight included a lot of flight and his flight never went without a fight. Being fleet of foot mean he’d always been able to make good an escape and it’d taken years for him to transfer that speed into something he could use to attack or defend rather than to run. It’d taken a lifetime for him to be able to use his fear as a spear, to use his instinct to move to his advantage rather than as a basic survival instinct. He’d learned to stand his ground. Anywhere his feet touch is his ground. If he jumps and his feet touch the wall, that’s his ground and he fights for it. If he stands right where he is, that’s his ground and he will find some way to put you down if you try to take it from him. Some way, somehow… He slams the back of his head against the red leather padding of the incline bench and pushes up another rep with the hundred pound dumbbells from his chest to full extension above his face, five pounds heavier than usual and feeling every ounce of it as his face contorts with determination. The problem comes when the man coming to take his ground, to whip the carpet right out from under him is the man who taught him how to fight for it in the first place. The problem comes when that one person who almost literally plucked him from the gutter is now the man tasked with putting him right back there. The problem is that the man facing him now is bigger and stronger and he’s no street bully trying to push him about for the fiver in his back pocket - this is a man who claims whatever prize he sets his mind to and ends the careers of those who stand in his way. The dumbbells lower slowly back to his chest and he drops them onto his knees as he sits upright from the 45° incline, sucking in deep breaths under the dim night lighting, the striplights at about 50% on energy saving mode, but more than enough for him to find his way about the facility at 2am. He couldn’t sleep. He didn’t want to. He wanted to feel stronger. He needs to feel stronger than ever before, strong enough to push away the strongest attacks. Strong enough to surpass survival and into success. 《《( ( O ) )》》 《《( ( O ) )》》 He hasn’t seen Osbourne at all, literally like ships in the night for days since he confronted him about the Path of the Warrior. Perhaps he’s giving him space or perhaps his schedule just doesn’t match up, but anybody who really knows him knows that he just can’t bring himself to even look at Shaun right now. It’s an instinct he has, a detachment which has allowed him to isolate himself from an opponent and study them intimately in his own space and in his own time without having to deal with the two-facedness of going about the mundanity of day-to-day life and tasks with someone he’s due to fight. It’s an instinct which broke down his marriage and ended the career of his ex-wife and, arguably, nearly his own. Shaun can feel it, the distance. Some mornings, he can hear the treadmill whirring and in the early evening, when he usually naps, he can hear the weights clanging about. Some nights, when Shaun returns from his own tasks, he can still smell the sweat which sits wet on the mats after his drills and sparring and coaching Jurgen. Osbourne is still here, just not for Shaun. He’s still the King here and Shaun is but his charge, a kept man in the den of lions. The treadmill zooms beneath Shaun’s feet, the belt moaning louder and louder as he ups the speed again and again. His feet pound into the machine as he pushes the limits of his tired legs beyond their usual boundaries, beyond what level has previously offered him success. He needs more. More speed. More endurance. More cardio. More breath in his lungs, oxygen to feed the fire. The ghost of Osbourne Kilminster haunts the place like a living ghost - a presence felt like a thousand eyes in the darkness but never seen, maybe possibly caught as a blurry flash in the corner of his vision but never enough to pin down and register as evidence. He runs. He runs faster than he’s ever run before. He runs until his veins pump battery acid and, then, he runs some more. 《《( ( O ) )》》 《《( ( O ) )》》 In the darkness, a dim blue light falls upon a free standing water feature, the azure hues playing along the transcendent surface of the water, perpetually moving. Standing close, his fingertips in the well-like base of the feature from which sprouts a tall and jagged rock face like a cliff or mountainside. He washes his hands and rises from his knees, his black track pants and matching hoodie blending him into the darkness in such fashion that Shaun and shadow almost blend together. He turns toward us, pulling back his hood and licking his lips, his nostrils flaring as he inhales deeply. So this is it, Master? The day is upon us where it’s just me and you and no fucker else to get involved or pull any shit - just me and you in the same ring, at the same time. You didn’t breed me to be the kind of dog to roll over and play dead, so you know it’s going to be a fight to the bitter end. You’ve cut me off, turned your back on me, ignored my very fuckin’ existence ever since you found out that this bracked in the Path of the Warrior Tournament would bring us together, ever since you called me out and tried to make me look like a fool. At Battlelines, you won’t be able to ignore me. You might not see me, but that won’t be down to ignorance - it’ll be because I’m just too fuckin’ fast. Shaun runs his thumb along his nose as he clears his throat, his brow and heart heavy. You may have made me what I am, but you know nothing about what exactly that is. You pumped the current through the corpse, made it stronger, but you don’t know what it can do because you’ve never felt it. I know what I am and what I can do better than you ever will and you know that, you know I was always the one who didn’t need the whip cracked on me, that I didn’t give a shit about anything but coming back day after day, month after month, year after year and learning and growing. I’m the fuckin’ one, Osbourne. I’m the self-motivated. I’m the Student of Students and when I crashed at the doorstep of the Master of Masters, wings btoken and feathers burned, it was destiny that, one day… one fuckin’ day… I would be the one to finally better you, to bring you to your knees. Many, many men and women have tried, but none of them have got shit on me. The slightest hint of a smile crosses Shaun’s face as he acknowledges his own speed and abilities, adamant that he cannot be matched by anyone. Yeah, I get that this comes across falsely confident when everyone knows I’m facing the beast who retired two warriors, passed the first Warrior’s Trial and carried the greatest prestige in the company for quite a while, the first World Heavyweight Champion of the new era. Everybody knows what you are and not that many know who I am, but there’s one thing they’ll all be doing at Battlelines. They’ll be ringing the bells and they’ll be chanting. Some of them might fucking cry. “The King is dead”. 《《( ( O ) )》》 《《( ( O ) )》》 |
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10:51 AM Jul 11