Post by jackbull on Sept 2, 2011 3:27:59 GMT -5
The roaring fire spilled its light out across the wide living room of the cabin, the chunks of wood glowing and crackling as they expended their energy in the name of warmth.
For this was a cold place. A freezing log cabin in the middle of nowhere. Many miles to the South West was Moscow, Russia; seat of the Russian government and home of the Russian Mafia, which are almost one and the same at times. Soon the city would add another feather to its cap - hosting a live EUW/Asylum event. Sunday Night Vengeance was about to descend on ‘The Third Rome’.
But for now the city would have to wait in excited anticipation. As would Jack Bull, seeking to vent some of his frustration after being eliminated from the Scars and Stripes rumble at the hands of The Scorpion. The poor soul matched against him this week had done nothing wrong. Jack had no personal beef with him. He was merely a victim, a sacrifice thrown to the wolf to keep his blood lust satiated for two more weeks.
Jack sat down on the decidedly old, decidedly uncomfortable sofa with its tatty and torn cushions missing half their stuffing. Now sitting still, he was hit by a wave of welcoming heat from the fire, pushing away the bitter cold that seemed to be a permanent feature of life in these parts. Outside a foot deep layer of snow blanketed much of the ground. Even in the summer it appeared that parts of Northern Russia could not stop it entirely from encroaching upon human activities.
Jack rubbed the looming sleep from his eyes and then reached down the side of the sofa searching for his laptop, tucked away neatly in it’s carry case. He retrieved said case, but also a surprise; a large white envelope, quite thickly padded and marked with a hand written scrawl. Surprisingly it was addressed to his house in Dallas. Someone had either been very lucky or very clever. The postal mark was stamped ‘Royal Mail - Air Freight’.
It was from the UK.
Just at this perplexing moment the head of Chuck Johnson appeared in the doorway behind Jack, attached - as it should be - to his body.
“Dude, you got a package. I put it down by your… yeah that’s it,”
“It’s addressed to my house in Dallas, Chuck?”
“And?”
“So what’s it doing here? I didn’t see anyone drop it off?”
“Yeah I know. It was dropped off by one of those FedEx pricks back in Dallas just before we left, but we were in a rush so I just stuck it in my luggage. Must have forgotten about it. I only found it earlier when I went looking for my por… my err… uhm… ah fuck it. I was looking for my porn and I found that instead. Has it got any porn in there?”
“Dude… what?”
“I could of sworn I put it in there! I borrowed a DVD off Vernon, something about Swedish Sauna Lesbians? Shit I can’t remember what it was called. Anyway I can’t find it, which means this is officially a porn free house! That’s not cool. A man has needs Jack. You understand right?”
“What does this have to do with me and my package again?”
“Whoa there cowboy! No offense, but I don’t want to know shit about your package!”
Jack held up the white parcel.
“Chuck. I meant this package,”
“Oh right, I gotcha. Just as long as we’re clear on the whole, you know, “package” front. Sorry what was the question?”
“I give up man. Did you find any beers?”
“Shit no! Fridge was empty. No porn, no fucking beer! No wonder these guys lost the cold war!”
“Because of beer and porn?”
“Exactly! The two fundamental human rights of every free man. Obviously the oppression of the masses got to them and their morale gave up. Couldn’t stomach the fight no more. Pussies!”
“That is just so… unbelievably… actually… shit, that actually kind of makes sense in a weird way. Anyway, so what’s the plan then?”
“Me, a sled, and that town just down the road,”
“Sled? Why don’t you just take the damn hire car?”
“On these roads? I couldn’t keep that communist piece of crap straight even on a proper American highway, never mind a road of ice! I think the steering balance is all fucked up,”
“So you’re gonna take a Sled? Without anything to pull it?”
“Shit son, I’ll pull it!”
“Aren’t you supposed to ride the sled Chuck? Isn’t that kind of the point?”
“Ride it? The fuck are you talking about? The sled is for the beer!”
Jack stopped for a second, though about, then made that face that people make when something surprisingly enlightening has just happened.
“To be honest, I can’t fault your logic dude,”
“Exactly! That’s American ingenuity at its best! Laters,”
And with that Chuck ducked off out of sight, leaving Jack alone with his package, his other package, his laptop and the fire. Bull tore open the packa… the parcel, and removed the contents; a small DVD case with a generic looking rewriteable DVD inside, and a dark red, woollen jumper.
“What the hell is this?”
The laptop - that Jack had placed on the coffee table, opened and powered up during his conversation with Chuck - bleeped, drawing his attention. It required a password for further progress. Jack typed it in;
“E-X-P-O-S-I-T-I-O-N… I still can’t believe they called the dog that, poor fucking mutt”
Suitably logged in, Jack made his Internet connection. He’d learned that by inserting his dongle and playing with it a little, he could really hit the sweet spot. Which in this part of Russia meant effectively one bar of reception.
First order of the day was for Jack to dive into his e-mails quickly. Most of it was just junk, your usual selection of penis enlargement pills and people from Nigeria telling you that they need help recovering some fortune lost during a civil war, and that if you just send them $10,000 today to cover the government paperwork then they will give you $1 million tomorrow to say thank you.
There was however one interesting message among them, from the EUW‘s very own dauntless but slightly ditzy female reporter;
From; sarah.thompson@theeuw.com
To; jack.bull@theeuw.com
Subject; Good luck
Hey Jack! Hope everything is going ok in Russia. I bet its cold out there! Chuck tells me has a new training program all figured out for you so good luck with that and don’t work too hard! I’m sure you guys will have fun as long as you can find some beer. I think Chuck will go mad if there isn’t any! Don’t do anything I wouldn’t and let me know if you hook up with any pretty girls
I just want to say Jack, well, Good Luck against Stephen Callaway. I know you can do it Jack.
I’ll be touching down in Moscow on Friday so hopefully I’ll see you around the venue at some point. Missing you already. And Chuck of course. Missing both of you guys. Equally of course.
Speak soon,
Love Sarah,
Jack chuckled warmly.
“Hehe, thanks Sarah. She’s a great kid that one. Hey Chuck, I think Sarah has the hots for you dude… dude? Oh yeah shit, beer run,”
Jack typed out a reply explaining about the weather, the lack of beer, Chucks adventure out into the snow, his lack of knowledge about the new training routine, the lack of porn, the mysterious package that Chuck found and the package that Chuck would never find.
His reply complete, Jack hit ‘send’ and shut his e-mail. It was time to take a look at the disc. The post mark on the parcel was only a general air mail stamp from England, which did little to narrow down the list of possible senders.
Jack took the disc from his case and popped it in the laptop. There was a whirl, a whiz and then silence. A message flashed up on screen;
“Internet Explorer has stopped working”
“I FUCKING KNOW, I CLOSED IT!! Piece of shit,”
Then suddenly the message disappeared and the windows media player sprung to life. Without prompting a video that had been on the disc began playing;
“Is ‘dis ‘ting on?”
The voice was female with a strong Jamaican accent, like the Voodoo chick out of ‘Pirates of the Caribbean’… if she was in her late 50’s, early 60’s.
“Mum?”
The black screen finally showed some colour as Jacks mother moved back from the camera, her long red dress with all its small white spots finally falling away from the camera lens and allowing the light to shine on this mystery.
“Ok, ok, I think we’re rolling now. And lights, camera, action! MY BABY BOY!! How you doin’ child? I know, I know, ya always hated that didn’t ya child? But that doesn’t change a ting, ya’ll always be my baby boy Jack! Always! Remember that child!”
“Child?”
“Don’t ya talk back to ya mother child!”
“What the fuck?!”
Mrs. Bull(?) begins laughing to herself, with her, erm, ‘bubbly’ figure jiggling around a little as she fucking laps up her moment of comedy.
“Gotcha child! Ya soooo predictable Jack! Ya don’t tink ya own mother wouldn’t know when ya be back chatting her? I know ya better than ya tink Jack Bull! Now when ya gonna stop using that silly name and use ya real name huh? Me and ya father didn’t Christen ya in front of Gods eyes with that name now did we?”
“Never ya mind though. I got more important tings to deal with now. I just wanted to send ya a little something personal and let ya know that your mother and father love ya very much Jack, and we’s always tinking about ya, and we’s always gotcha in our hearts Jack, every day,”
“Of course, the big superstar of the wrestling world could always afford to ring his mum now again huh? Well, we see Jack, we see. We know what ya like when it comes to makin’ commitments huh? Anyway, me and your father were watchin’ ya show ting on the telly the other day. And ya father be wanting me to pass on a message. He wrote it down for me huh,”
“He say; ‘Jack, what the bloody hell were ya doin’ the other day. What happened to all ya boxing trainin’? what happened to ya guard? Six years ya went to the local gym! All those lessons! All that Money just pissed up the wall…’ oh dear child, close your ears!”
“I sorry child, I didn’t know what he wrote. He just gave me the piece of paper to read from. But then again ya father always has been a miserable asshole, so just ignore him child! Ya came what was it? Seventh? Seventh is better than last child, huh? Better than ya father ever did with his silly card games!”
“So that’s it I guess. Just remember, ya mother loves ya Jack. We all do. Even little Mary from up the road. Ya remember Mary don’t ya Jack. She’s about your age I tink. When ya was twelve she must have been eleven, so that makes her what now huh? Thirty Eight?”
“Thirty-Three!”
“Oh wait. I tink I went a bit high. Is it Thirty-five? … Well, she almost as old as ya Jack. Maybe ya could write her a letter or some ting huh? Or e-mail, or whatever ya kids do these days. Of course ya not a kid anymore. My baby boy all grown up into a man huh! But ya need to get ya self some little kiddies Jack. Ya tings, ya know, down there, they wont last forever Jack! Ya need to set some of them free!”
“Course ya father tink ya should hook up with the blonde girl off ya show, ya know? The one with the big… tings, huh. He tinks ya two is already… ya know what I mean ya dirty boy!”
“With Sarah?”
“Oh dear! Listen to me goin’ on Jack. I better go before the ting run out of tape huh. Oh!! Wait! Wait! I made ya a present Jack, I almost forgot. I stick it in ya parcel for ya huh,”
Mrs. Bull pulls the red jumper from underneath her butt. Bull lifts the jumper and cautiously sniffs it from a distance. Seems ok.
“There! Look at that! Made it by me own hands Jack, me own two hands! Just for me baby boy huh. Winter on the way soon Jack. I stick it in ya parcel. Oh Jesus wept I’m gonna need a bigger ting than that. I wonder if me neighbour Carol has some… oh sorry Jack! Haha! Listen to ya mum ramblin’ on while ya sit there like a sour lemon huh!”
“Oh, I almost forgot some ting else. Ya father found one of ya old boxing fights. It was ya last match in the boxin’ ring. The owner or whatever ya call him had it made on tape, on the old video tapes huh. So I used the computer, and ya cousin Michael showed me how to put the tape on to the computer ting, and make a ting. What ya call ‘em child? DCD? Them tings. Clever boy that Michael. Showin‘ ya mum how to use these computer tings huh,”
“So I put that on after I’m done huh. That can be ya gift, from me and ya father. To wish ya luck in ya wrestlin’ ting,”
A figure appears in the background; a white man in his early sixties, his beer gut hanging down over the waist band of his trousers and a cigarette held in one hand. He speaks with a gruff London accent.
“Pat… Pat, your cake smells likes the underside of the fucking space shuttle. There’s no smoke but it can’t be long now!”
“Well don’t just fuckin’ stand there dickhead, take it out of the oven then!”
“All fucking right! What you doin’ anyway?”
“I’m sending a video to Jack. Ya son! Oh Jesus he hear me swear. Oh Jesus. Oh Jack, I’m sorry baby boy!”
“I think he’s old enough and ugly enough by now. ‘Allo Jack. Keep your fucking guard up in future! Remember, mental over physical!”
Jacks dad walked off, muttering something to himself about ‘fucking waste of time that was’.
“Anyway child. I need to go an sort ya father out, give him a good kick up the arse huh. So take care of yourself child. Find ya self a nice women, one with wide hips and big… tings, huh. Love ya Jack and we wish ya good luck in whatever ya be doin’. Just remember, be ya self baby boy, don’t let any of them nasty men try and make ya change. Love ya baby boy! Bye now!”
She finishes by waving, and then gets up to walk to the camera, smothering the lens with his dress as she fumbles with the buttons.
“How ya turn this fuckin’ ting off? Is tha…”
The video feed cuts off, but Jack can still see on the timer that there is plenty of footage left. Suddenly the screen flashes back to life.
There stands his mum, with her back to the camera, in her night dress. His dad is laying on the bed, the sheets mercifully pulled up over him.
“What the fuck is this shit?”
The audio is back on;
“Alright Tiger! Are ya ready for some lovin’?”
His mother slides off her night dress.
“OHHHH FUCK!! JESUS TURN IT OFF, PLEASE GOD!!”
Bull throws up his hands to block the view as the sound of his mother jumping on the bed and his parents laughing can be heard. Then the audio cuts out and Jack looks up tentatively to see what’s happened.
The screen is black, but soon crackles back to life with the image of an old boxing ring. The footage is being taken from a box position high up in the arena using a shitty old video camera that obviously predates the 21st Century. Hundreds of fans can be seen squashed onto shitty chairs or standing and lining the walls at the arenas edge. The fans are cheering loudly, literally baying for blood.
The camera zooms in on the ring and turns to one of the two boxers. The announcer introduces him;
“And now your competitors. Introducing first, in the red corner. Standing 6 feet and 1 inch tall, weighing in at 95 kilos, they call him the call him the Fastest Fist in the North, from Nottingham… Gareth Croxon!!”
The local London fans rip Croxon with a shower of boos. He just raises a hand and is done with it.
“And in the blue corner…”
A few cheers go up already.
“… his opponent and the defending champion in this bout. Standing 6 feet and 2 inches tall, weighing in at 96 kilos - born in Essex - bred in Brixton - he is ‘The Brixton Bull’ Jack…”
The picture fuzzes out and the audio is replaced by a hail of white noise, the original tape obviously not in the same quality as it once was. When it finally clears the referee has sent each man to his corner and we hear the traditional call of ‘seconds away’, prompting the seconds to step down from the apron with their towels, buckets and sponges. The bell goes and the fight is on.
Immediately Jack sees what his father was talking about. The guard is right up. Oddly for a right hander Jack has his right foot and fist forward in the style more commonly associated with left handed ‘south paw’ boxers. He remembered his old trainer, who he could see now screaming from the sidelines, who had read some book by Bruce Lee and had been using Jack as his guinea pig all this time to trial this new theory.
It worked.
The forward hand bore the brunt of the work load, jabbing and parrying with precision. Bruce Lee has astutely spotted many years ago that in that case, it made sense for the forward hand to be the dexterous hand, where the precise control was much greater. The other hand was nothing more than a lump hammer, a blunt object to be thrown with force against a wide open target.
Jack watched as his old self ducked and weaved, always keeping the guard up and the eyes peering between the fists to keep the target in sight at all times. He watched as the then 19-year old Jack Bull or ‘The Brixton Bull’ as he was known then, stayed on the defensive, covering up and taking a flurry of shots mostly in the body and guard, and occasionally throwing some jabs back.
This was the classic game plan devised by his trainer, inspired by Muhammed Ali‘s famous ‘Rope-A-Dope‘ plan from the ‘Rumble in the Jungle’ fight with George Foreman. Sit back, be conservative with your shots, take as much punishment as you can, then fight back in a late flurry. The key was to match fight strategy with training; aiming to maximise strength, endurance, discipline and toughness in favour of things like speed and agility.
Early in his career a local sports reporter had joked about one of his fights in his column, describing it as;
“At times like watching a fight between a graceful and artful matador, and a lumbering but rugged Bull. Demonstrating great speed and beautiful technique, his opponent poured on the punches, often forcing him back into the ropes. For seven rounds it was the same old story, as quick and accurate combinations forced the local lad to batten down the hatches and hide between his arms, occasionally resorting to the dreaded clinch,”
“Jack did duck and weave past some of his opponents more vigorous punches, but he still took a hefty number of shots to both the head and torso, managing only the odd jab and cross in return. Then in round eight came the killer blow, a final dagger through the heart. Except it was not the matador who dealt it, but the Bull,”
“In a surprise turn of events Jack managed to fight through his opponents onslaught, survived the taunting and the beating that had been laid on him for the last 21 odd minutes, and came back with a series of furious flurries, rocking his now exhausted opponent back and forth across the ring before throwing a brutal left uppercut that nearly took his mans chin off,”
“No matter what angle you look at it from, whether it be in terms of speed, style, grace, toughness, mentality, or punching power, this young man is no Ali. Yet in a way he is; a true fighter, a true brawler. And this Bull - born in Essex, bred in Brixton - has been let out of his pen!”
It was cheesy and cynical, designed to sell newspapers and create headlines. But it worked. The local buzz made him a D-list celebrity in the area. Three hundred and twenty-one people came to witness him fight his last semi-professional bout in the junior rankings, his last hurrah before he stepped up into the world of the pros, albeit the much better paying world of pro-wrestling.
Jack watched the bout once more with a glimmer in his eyes. He at once winced as he remembered the powerful blows that his opponent had driven home, and yet at the same time he could recall that burning sensation, that frustrating patience required to wait and pick his moment. As the two young fighters circled once more he saw his father in his corner, cheering him on.
Miserable old bastard. He wanted Jack to become a pro boxer. Told him that he wasn’t suited to pro wrestling, that he wasn’t quick enough or skilful enough to succeed there. That if he just stuck with boxing then eventually it would pay off in the long run. That just drove Jack more and more towards the wrestling angle, to prove his dad wrong, to shut him up. It worked. Perhaps a little too well.
What was it his Mum has said? ‘Just remember, be ya self baby boy, don’t let any of them nasty men try and make ya change’. This was Jack Bull, right here in front of him. This was the man that had come so far, fallen a little, and risen again.
He watched on as the clock ticked by, round seven, round eight, round nine. Then finally in round ten the comeback was on in earnest. As his opponent conceded to clinching, thinking he’d done enough on points, Jack slipped away and flung out a right jab followed by a low left to the liver. Bam. Down went Gareth Croxon, taking the Fastest Fists in the North with him. More like fastest to the mat.
The count hit ten and the match was over. Jack watched as his the arms of his younger self were raised in victory, the crowd cheering, Bull retiring from the boxing world on top, as a champion. That moment was etched in his memory and even now he could feel the sweat pouring down his brow, his breath heavy, his ribs sore.
And that sweet smell; victory. Glory. The satisfaction of over coming his opponent. The cheering of the crowd…
Jacks thoughts were interrupted by a thump. A sudden, fleeting wisp of cold wind let Jack know that someone had just entered the cabin.
“Chuck?”
There was no response. No footsteps even. Jack stood up.
“Chuck?”
The footsteps came running toward the living area. Jack hunkered down, ready to potentially tackle anything that came through that doorway. And then there he was, in a flash of brown and black, a figure decked out against the cold… holding beer cans?
“FUCKING BEER!!!”
“Dick!”
“What? I got beer, and some clear whisky,”
“Clear whisky? You know what, I’ll find out later. Now what’s this new training regime Sarah was talking about?”
“Sarah’s here huh?”
Chuck winked.
“No dude. You think I flew to the states and smuggled in here while you were out sledding?”
“She could have been hiding in the barn,”
“Hiding in the barn? Look whatever dude. It was an e-mail. She said hi, said she was missing us. Including you my friend. I think you’ve pulled son!”
“I know. A whole freakin’ sleds worth of booze!”
“No dude, I mean Sarah! Nice tits on that,”
“Me and Sarah? Shit Jack I couldn’t do that to… wait a minute? Jesus you’re telling me that you. I mean, you don’t? You haven’t figured? Jesus Christ Jack you are one dumb son of a bitch!”
“Uhm, thanks?”
Chuck chuckled.
“Have a beer idiot,”
“What?”
“Nothing. Lets talk about this training regime,”
Jacks pulse was racing. Having moved to the rickety, freezing old barn attached to the property, a slightly hung over Chuck Johnson was now putting a slightly hung over Jack Bull through his new plan in preparation for the match ahead. It started with skipping.
“I told Vernon and Willy that you used to box, so they said I should just ‘take that fucking retard back to only level he understands; basics!’”
Jack stopped skipping.
“Their words Jack, not mine! I’m just following through on the plan. So apparently skipping is good for your feet?”
“Footwork,” Bull said panting, “it’s supposed to improve your footwork and coordination. Quick feet,”
“Well that sounds fucking dumb. How is jumping up and down on the same spot good for your footwork?”
Bull said nothing.
“Well fuck it. Skipping it is,”
Chuck took a sip of his beer.
“You’re gonna need quick feet this week Jack. This dude Callaway is a little lighter than you and he likes to play it slippery!”
“Slippery?”
“Yeah slippery. As in dicking about on the mat playing grab ass like Sabora. So watch yourself, watch your butt hole. Keep facing the dude at all times,”
Bull picked up the pace and pushed himself harder and harder, the rope flashing through its orbit at lightning speed until he could skip no more. Bull tossed the rope to one side.
“I’ll remember that dude. Watch my butt hole,”
“Hey, you never known man. With hair like that I wouldn’t put it past him,”
“You never know, maybe he’ll be lured in by your village people beard,”
Chuck though about that for a second.
“Do you think I should shave before Sunday?”
Jacks world was turned upside down. Literally. As hung down from the mezzanine floor of the barn, Jack paused to suck in a breath. Then once more he curled up, his torso travelling near 180 degrees as performed another hanging sit up. Sat on the floor at the top was Chuck Johnson, reading the label on his “clear whisky”.
“I wonder what this shit tastes like,”
“Try some,”
Jack lowered himself back down again, his abdominal muscles aching from the exertions. A rippling six pack would be the reward, and as much as that might be nice for the ladies, it had a far more important purpose. Those muscles played a big role in generating his punching power, as well as helping him to absorb blows to the stomach that would wind a less muscular individual. Jack hauled himself up once more.
“I’m not sure Jack, it smells funny. Could be Russian poison,”
“Just try some!”
Bull gradually relaxed his muscles again, allowing his body to slowly lower down to the full hang. He looked at the floor in its unusually reversed state. It was the kind of view someone got on the wrong end of a suplex. That wasn’t going to happen Sunday.
“I mean, I asked the lady for Whisky. ‘Whisky’ I said. But she didn’t seem to understand so I tried a different approach,”
“Let me guess, you just shouted ‘Whisky’ a little louder at her,”
“Yeah, how did you know?”
“Just a hunch,”
“Good guess. So I shouted ‘WHISKY!’, and made the international sign of someone drinking from a shot glass. Then she gave me this clear shit,”
Bull felt the blood rushing to his head and knew that despite the pain he’d have to lift himself up once more.
“I mean whoever heard of clear whisky? Ah well fuck it, I’ll give it a shot. Hehe, see what I did there Jack? Give it a shot?”
“Wait a minute dude. Chuck let me see the bottle again, I don’t think that’s whisky,”
Bull took a breath and braced himself, then squeezed his stomach as tight as he could, lifting himself up. Close to the top he began to struggle, his body desperately breaking down every available source of adenosine triphosphate it could find to fuel his aching muscles. Coming into arms reach of the mezzanine floor, Bull reached out and took a firm grip, relieving his beleaguered abs.
“Dude I think that might be…”
A mixed cloud of spittle and genuine strong proof Russian Vodka hit Jack in the face.
“… Vodka,”
“God damn! That stuff tastes like shit! I’ve tasted horse piss that was better than that!”
Bull wiped some of the mixture from his eye with his free hand, then stopped.
“Wait, what? Go back to that bit about the horse piss,”
“Err, figure of speech. Now aren’t you supposed to be doing sit ups? Shit, I need a beer to clean that crap out,”
“That’s it for now. That’s all I got,”
“That wasn’t even twenty!”
“That’s not bad for hanging sit ups! I’m getting old now man. At my age I need to look after myself, conserve my strength,”
“Shit Jack, you’re 34, not 54!”
“Well I gotta be careful. My opponents a young stud, don‘t wanna get warn out,”
“Do you realise how freakin’ gay that sounded? Anyway, dude he’s checking in at 30. This is hardly The Rolling Stones versus Justin Beiber. All you gotta do Sunday is just hang in there. Hehe, see what I did there? ‘Hang in‘?”
Bull wiped more sweat and spittle from his face.
“Well I thought it was funny. Look Jack you’re good enough. You just gotta find your balls again man. You gotta stick it out, tough it out. Just keeping pounding away, keep fighting. You’re the best brawler I know in this entire company. Fuck, you’re the best brawler I know period. Just drag that son of a bitch down to your level. Make it like your old boxing days. Don’t let him wrestle, make him box. Make him fight. Then slap that little pretty boys face off,”
“You know I think you might have something there,”
“I do indeed. It’s called a celebratory beer!”
Chuck turns and grabs a beer, throwing it over his shoulder for Jack to catch. He then proceeds to open one for himself, the sound of the can hissing open masking Jacks cry of ‘whoa shit!’. Chuck turns, beer raised for a toast.
“To the master…plan? Jack?”
“Down here,”
Chuck peers over the edge.
“You let go of the edge to catch your beer didn’t you?”
“Yep,”
Chuck looks at the can that Bull dropped in his panic, unopened, but spurting beer from a crack in the side.
“That’s a fucking waste of beer Jack. A fucking waste. Well there’s no way I’m going all the way down to pick it up,”
Chuck took a sip of his beer as Bull tried in vain to reach out and grab the lost can.
“Hey, Jack. I’ve got an idea! Do like a, a half sit up, like a crunch thing,”
Bull took a breath and then curled just slightly just enough to bring his head parallel to the floor.
“Now open wide!”
Chuck took careful aim and then tipped a little bit of beer from his can. Bull had to move slightly to the left, but managed to get a decent sips worth, before relaxing.
“Hey shit, that even hit your obliques! I think we just invented a new exercise Jack - ‘Beer ups!’”
“Just imagine that’s it’s Callaway’s head and give it all you got!”
Chuck placed the block of wood upright on the tree stump, and no sooner had he pulled back his hand than the axe came flying down, splitting it violently in two.
“Jesus H Christ Jack! At least give me a chance to pull my damn hand away! You nearly took my damn fingers off!”
“Move quicker,”
Bull smiled at his disgruntled training partner.
“I’ll give you damn ‘move quicker’,”
Chuck picked up another block.
“Now remember. You gotta give it everything you have. You can’t lose this one. After that defeat in the rumble, you gotta come back strong! You gotta be mean! You gotta be angry! You gotta let The Scorpion know that you’re still hungry. You gotta let the world know that Jack Bull isn’t done yet, that you still got plenty of fight left in ya. In here,”
Chuck prodded Jack in chest, just above the heart.
“And in… well I aint touching that thing. But down there, if you know what I mean. Now,”
Chuck reached out and put the block down, watching Jack all the way, before snapping his hand back before Bull could even lift the axe up again.
“Hit it with everything you got!”
Bull heaved the axe up over his head, raising up a little on his toes and then slammed the axe down with a shout, scything right through the chunk of wood and leaving the blade firmly stuck in the stump.
“Good. Just like that man,”
The combos came thick and fast. Right, left. Right, left. Right, right, left. The sound of Bulls gloves slamming against the punching mitts echoed in all directions around the barn. The dust flew up beneath his feet as Jack stepped in and out, one-two, one-two.
“That’s it Jack! Just like the old days. Lay it on ‘em. Keep punching. Keep moving the feet. In and out, keep striking. Keep your guard up!”
Jack whipped his hands up to his face, anticipating the swing by Chuck, which he rolled under perfectly, winding back the years. Sweat poured off him and ran into his eyes, making it hard to pick out the black mitts in the dimly lit surroundings.
“That’s it Jack, concentrate. Keep hitting, keep moving. You gotta nail this son of a bitch! You gotta rock him! You gotta throw him off his game! You gotta make him think like he just stepped into the ring with a cross breed of Muhammed Ali and a grizzly bear! You gotta distract him, keep him on his toes. Make him scared that every time he comes in for a grab he’s gonna get his clock cleaned! That’s it, now faster,”
Bull picked up the pace, his fists flying back and forth like pistons, not just touching the pads but striking them. Driving right through them with force, battering CJ’s wrists.
“Better! Now keep it up Jack, keep going. Keep fighting! Never give up Jack, never give up, never surrender. Never surrender! You just keep going and going Jack, till you win or pass out! Win or out Jack! That Callaway is nothing but a low rank rookie Jack! You need to eat him for breakfast! You need to make his life a nightmare in that ring! You need to make him shit scared of ever stepping back into the squared circle with you!”
Bull fired off a succession of right handed uppercuts, followed by a left hook.
“That’s enough! Alright man. My wrists are fucking burning like a red head on a beach. Damn son, you got some power in them hands!”
Bull simply nodded as he leaned over trying to recover his breath.
“Now you just make sure you give that Callaway dude as much punishment as you just did to me, you here? You gotta crack his ribs and bust his balls. Make a statement Jack. Fuck that guy up!”
Bull worked his way along the rope. Strung up between two of the support posts of the barn, the rope was about chest height and mildly taut. Bull was ducking back and forth beneath it, popping up on the other side and throwing an uppercut against the air, before ducking back under the other side and doing the same. Back and forth he went.
“That’s it Jack. You duck under his punches and you pop up on the other side, then wham! Hit that son of a bitch right in his rib cage! You think he’s gonna wanna fight after that? You think he’s gonna wanna keep going, keep brawling with ya after that? Hell no he aint!”
“I’ll tell you what he’s gonna do Jack. He’s gonna curl up in a little ball in the corner of the ring somewhere and he’s gonna beg to have the match stopped. Beg Jack! He’s gonna look at that ref with fear in his eyes, just hoping that the match will get called!”
Bull picked up the speed a little, ducking back and forth with a little more vigour now, still punching, still working hard. Only a few more feet left to go and then it was all over.
“That’s it Jack, keep pushing!”
Bull reached the end of the rope and stopped, slumping down at the bottom of the post. Chuck came and squatted down in front of him.
“Now you see that? You see that little burst at the end? That’s the Jack Bull I know. Always fighting, always pushing, always working hard to be the best. That’s what you gotta take to the ring with you on Sunday. That’s the fighting spirit you need. Never give up, never surrender you son of a bitch! Just keep going, keep fighting! And knock that sissy boy on his butt. Now get up!”
Chuck stepped back as an aching Bull got back to his feet.
“Again! All the way to the end, then all the way back Jack. This is how it’s gotta be. You can do this!”
Bull took a moment, his eyes staring down the long length of rope between him and his goal. And then he started again, methodically working his way down the line, right to left and back to the right, duck and punch, duck and punch, always a tenacious look in his eyes, grimly determined to see it through and do what he had to do to win.
The front of the sled rose into the air.
“That’s it man, lift!”
The beer started sliding, but Chuck was close at hand to catch it safely as the sled titled up backwards, with him sitting right in the middle and now clutching the cases of beer under his arms.
Two poles extended out to the front where Bull stood, heaving them off the ground in a deadlift. He paused with his hands now hanging by his sides, the grounded end of the sled now bearing some of the brunt of the weight.
“And down again!”
Bull lowered the sled in relief.
“Right that’s ten. That should do it,”
Bull sat down in the snow, his warm breath spilling out into the air in clouds of immediate condensation.
“That’s good. And the beer didn’t fall off either, which is a bonus,”
Bull chuckled and panted at the same time.
“Dude. Cheers,”
“What for?”
“The training. The motivation. The support. All that stuff,”
Chuck cracked open a beer for himself.
“You don’t have to say thank you man. You are one tough son of a bitch Jack, but you just need a kick up the ass every now and again. But all that, all that lifting, all that punching. That was you Jack. That wasn’t me. That was you. I pushed you, but you did the work man,”
“Well then thank you for pushing me on,”
Chuck laughed and took a great, long, swig of his beer.
“If you want to thank me, then you got out there and you whoop Stephen Callaway’s butt. And I do mean whoop it. Whatever it is, whatever is in you that’s holding you back, you need to just let it go. You need to start living up to your potential my friend,”
“Meaning?”
“Shit. Look you’ve had two title shots now right? And then this rumble? It’s like you do all the hard work, you do all the hard running to get to the finishing post and then just before you cross it you sit down, break out a beer and put your feet up. You go out there week after week and perform and then you piss it away at the end,”
“Well that’s a little harsh man,”
“It has to be. This is the way it is Jack. In there, inside that dumb fucking skull of yours somewhere, there is a master plan waiting to break out. Inside that chest is a beating heart, a heart made of steel, the heart of a lion just waiting to roar. And you got a big ass pair of brass balls dude. Don’t waste that shit,”
“Don’t be like everyone else. Don’t be like all those guys that never live to their potential. Don’t be someone that taps out. Don’t leave that arena on Sunday and end up looking back and saying, ‘if I had just given it that little bit extra’. Don’t let there be any excuses, or any regrets man,”
“You were telling me the other night about your dad and how he’s pissed at you because you wasted your potential as a boxer. Well he’s right man. He was right,”
“Is that so?”
“Damn fucking straight! Don’t look at me all pissed off! He was right Jack. Because the way you’ve been wrestling lately, you are wasting your potential. Some of these half assed shows you put in. That rumble shit? You should have cleaned the fucking house in that match. Cross? You beat the shit out of that dude to win your title. So why not now?”
“Because you’ve reached the main event and now you’re all cocky. Now you’re all Mr fucking big shot. Mr. Jack Bull, king of the mountain and all that shit. And I know what you’re gonna say. You’re gonna say ‘Hey, the ladder broke on me. Hey, I pinned Scorpion and the ref wasn‘t there. Hey, I pinned Scorpion again and Rivera didn’t count!’”
“Well you know what, you should have made sure the ladder didn’t matter! You don’t go to over time in a football game and then complain because you lost the coin toss. No fucking way. You hit the field and right from the kick off, right from the very first second you blow that other team off the fucking field!”
“No excuses. You went into that ladder match. You had just as much of a chance as everyone else. You don’t want that ladder to break and cost you the match? Then you climb the damn ladder and you snatch that belt away before anyone else can! You wanna pin Scorpion, then pin him. And if the ref isn’t there then you go backstage and you drag one of those assholes to the ring and make him count the fall!”
“And if he doesn’t count the fall then tough. You keep goin’. You keep on pluggin’ away and you keep fightin’ till that son of a bitch quits or you knock him the fuck out. And if Rivera wont count the pin then you grab that skinny prick by the wrist and you slam his fucking hand into the mat for the three count. No excuses!”
“You gotta start making it count Jack. Your strong, your tough, you can brawl the shit out of anyone in this company. But you gotta stop being a paper champion and start making a difference. So you got out there Sunday and you win. You win and you keep winning. It’s time to pull your finger out, just like you have this week in training. Time to quit talking and start fighting. Quit wanting to be the great Jack Bull and actually start being the great Jack Bull,”
Chuck lifted the can to his lips and took another long swig, leaving Jack to dwell on his words.
“Dude,”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks man,”
“No problem. That’s a patented Montana State team talk right there. Here, have a beer,”
Chuck threw a beer for Jack, who cracked it open.
“To kicking ass! Hail the ale!”
“Hail the ale!”
For this was a cold place. A freezing log cabin in the middle of nowhere. Many miles to the South West was Moscow, Russia; seat of the Russian government and home of the Russian Mafia, which are almost one and the same at times. Soon the city would add another feather to its cap - hosting a live EUW/Asylum event. Sunday Night Vengeance was about to descend on ‘The Third Rome’.
But for now the city would have to wait in excited anticipation. As would Jack Bull, seeking to vent some of his frustration after being eliminated from the Scars and Stripes rumble at the hands of The Scorpion. The poor soul matched against him this week had done nothing wrong. Jack had no personal beef with him. He was merely a victim, a sacrifice thrown to the wolf to keep his blood lust satiated for two more weeks.
Jack sat down on the decidedly old, decidedly uncomfortable sofa with its tatty and torn cushions missing half their stuffing. Now sitting still, he was hit by a wave of welcoming heat from the fire, pushing away the bitter cold that seemed to be a permanent feature of life in these parts. Outside a foot deep layer of snow blanketed much of the ground. Even in the summer it appeared that parts of Northern Russia could not stop it entirely from encroaching upon human activities.
Jack rubbed the looming sleep from his eyes and then reached down the side of the sofa searching for his laptop, tucked away neatly in it’s carry case. He retrieved said case, but also a surprise; a large white envelope, quite thickly padded and marked with a hand written scrawl. Surprisingly it was addressed to his house in Dallas. Someone had either been very lucky or very clever. The postal mark was stamped ‘Royal Mail - Air Freight’.
It was from the UK.
Just at this perplexing moment the head of Chuck Johnson appeared in the doorway behind Jack, attached - as it should be - to his body.
“Dude, you got a package. I put it down by your… yeah that’s it,”
“It’s addressed to my house in Dallas, Chuck?”
“And?”
“So what’s it doing here? I didn’t see anyone drop it off?”
“Yeah I know. It was dropped off by one of those FedEx pricks back in Dallas just before we left, but we were in a rush so I just stuck it in my luggage. Must have forgotten about it. I only found it earlier when I went looking for my por… my err… uhm… ah fuck it. I was looking for my porn and I found that instead. Has it got any porn in there?”
“Dude… what?”
“I could of sworn I put it in there! I borrowed a DVD off Vernon, something about Swedish Sauna Lesbians? Shit I can’t remember what it was called. Anyway I can’t find it, which means this is officially a porn free house! That’s not cool. A man has needs Jack. You understand right?”
“What does this have to do with me and my package again?”
“Whoa there cowboy! No offense, but I don’t want to know shit about your package!”
Jack held up the white parcel.
“Chuck. I meant this package,”
“Oh right, I gotcha. Just as long as we’re clear on the whole, you know, “package” front. Sorry what was the question?”
“I give up man. Did you find any beers?”
“Shit no! Fridge was empty. No porn, no fucking beer! No wonder these guys lost the cold war!”
“Because of beer and porn?”
“Exactly! The two fundamental human rights of every free man. Obviously the oppression of the masses got to them and their morale gave up. Couldn’t stomach the fight no more. Pussies!”
“That is just so… unbelievably… actually… shit, that actually kind of makes sense in a weird way. Anyway, so what’s the plan then?”
“Me, a sled, and that town just down the road,”
“Sled? Why don’t you just take the damn hire car?”
“On these roads? I couldn’t keep that communist piece of crap straight even on a proper American highway, never mind a road of ice! I think the steering balance is all fucked up,”
“So you’re gonna take a Sled? Without anything to pull it?”
“Shit son, I’ll pull it!”
“Aren’t you supposed to ride the sled Chuck? Isn’t that kind of the point?”
“Ride it? The fuck are you talking about? The sled is for the beer!”
Jack stopped for a second, though about, then made that face that people make when something surprisingly enlightening has just happened.
“To be honest, I can’t fault your logic dude,”
“Exactly! That’s American ingenuity at its best! Laters,”
And with that Chuck ducked off out of sight, leaving Jack alone with his package, his other package, his laptop and the fire. Bull tore open the packa… the parcel, and removed the contents; a small DVD case with a generic looking rewriteable DVD inside, and a dark red, woollen jumper.
“What the hell is this?”
The laptop - that Jack had placed on the coffee table, opened and powered up during his conversation with Chuck - bleeped, drawing his attention. It required a password for further progress. Jack typed it in;
“E-X-P-O-S-I-T-I-O-N… I still can’t believe they called the dog that, poor fucking mutt”
Suitably logged in, Jack made his Internet connection. He’d learned that by inserting his dongle and playing with it a little, he could really hit the sweet spot. Which in this part of Russia meant effectively one bar of reception.
First order of the day was for Jack to dive into his e-mails quickly. Most of it was just junk, your usual selection of penis enlargement pills and people from Nigeria telling you that they need help recovering some fortune lost during a civil war, and that if you just send them $10,000 today to cover the government paperwork then they will give you $1 million tomorrow to say thank you.
There was however one interesting message among them, from the EUW‘s very own dauntless but slightly ditzy female reporter;
From; sarah.thompson@theeuw.com
To; jack.bull@theeuw.com
Subject; Good luck
Hey Jack! Hope everything is going ok in Russia. I bet its cold out there! Chuck tells me has a new training program all figured out for you so good luck with that and don’t work too hard! I’m sure you guys will have fun as long as you can find some beer. I think Chuck will go mad if there isn’t any! Don’t do anything I wouldn’t and let me know if you hook up with any pretty girls
I just want to say Jack, well, Good Luck against Stephen Callaway. I know you can do it Jack.
I’ll be touching down in Moscow on Friday so hopefully I’ll see you around the venue at some point. Missing you already. And Chuck of course. Missing both of you guys. Equally of course.
Speak soon,
Love Sarah,
Jack chuckled warmly.
“Hehe, thanks Sarah. She’s a great kid that one. Hey Chuck, I think Sarah has the hots for you dude… dude? Oh yeah shit, beer run,”
Jack typed out a reply explaining about the weather, the lack of beer, Chucks adventure out into the snow, his lack of knowledge about the new training routine, the lack of porn, the mysterious package that Chuck found and the package that Chuck would never find.
His reply complete, Jack hit ‘send’ and shut his e-mail. It was time to take a look at the disc. The post mark on the parcel was only a general air mail stamp from England, which did little to narrow down the list of possible senders.
Jack took the disc from his case and popped it in the laptop. There was a whirl, a whiz and then silence. A message flashed up on screen;
“Internet Explorer has stopped working”
“I FUCKING KNOW, I CLOSED IT!! Piece of shit,”
Then suddenly the message disappeared and the windows media player sprung to life. Without prompting a video that had been on the disc began playing;
“Is ‘dis ‘ting on?”
The voice was female with a strong Jamaican accent, like the Voodoo chick out of ‘Pirates of the Caribbean’… if she was in her late 50’s, early 60’s.
“Mum?”
The black screen finally showed some colour as Jacks mother moved back from the camera, her long red dress with all its small white spots finally falling away from the camera lens and allowing the light to shine on this mystery.
“Ok, ok, I think we’re rolling now. And lights, camera, action! MY BABY BOY!! How you doin’ child? I know, I know, ya always hated that didn’t ya child? But that doesn’t change a ting, ya’ll always be my baby boy Jack! Always! Remember that child!”
“Child?”
“Don’t ya talk back to ya mother child!”
“What the fuck?!”
Mrs. Bull(?) begins laughing to herself, with her, erm, ‘bubbly’ figure jiggling around a little as she fucking laps up her moment of comedy.
“Gotcha child! Ya soooo predictable Jack! Ya don’t tink ya own mother wouldn’t know when ya be back chatting her? I know ya better than ya tink Jack Bull! Now when ya gonna stop using that silly name and use ya real name huh? Me and ya father didn’t Christen ya in front of Gods eyes with that name now did we?”
“Never ya mind though. I got more important tings to deal with now. I just wanted to send ya a little something personal and let ya know that your mother and father love ya very much Jack, and we’s always tinking about ya, and we’s always gotcha in our hearts Jack, every day,”
“Of course, the big superstar of the wrestling world could always afford to ring his mum now again huh? Well, we see Jack, we see. We know what ya like when it comes to makin’ commitments huh? Anyway, me and your father were watchin’ ya show ting on the telly the other day. And ya father be wanting me to pass on a message. He wrote it down for me huh,”
“He say; ‘Jack, what the bloody hell were ya doin’ the other day. What happened to all ya boxing trainin’? what happened to ya guard? Six years ya went to the local gym! All those lessons! All that Money just pissed up the wall…’ oh dear child, close your ears!”
“I sorry child, I didn’t know what he wrote. He just gave me the piece of paper to read from. But then again ya father always has been a miserable asshole, so just ignore him child! Ya came what was it? Seventh? Seventh is better than last child, huh? Better than ya father ever did with his silly card games!”
“So that’s it I guess. Just remember, ya mother loves ya Jack. We all do. Even little Mary from up the road. Ya remember Mary don’t ya Jack. She’s about your age I tink. When ya was twelve she must have been eleven, so that makes her what now huh? Thirty Eight?”
“Thirty-Three!”
“Oh wait. I tink I went a bit high. Is it Thirty-five? … Well, she almost as old as ya Jack. Maybe ya could write her a letter or some ting huh? Or e-mail, or whatever ya kids do these days. Of course ya not a kid anymore. My baby boy all grown up into a man huh! But ya need to get ya self some little kiddies Jack. Ya tings, ya know, down there, they wont last forever Jack! Ya need to set some of them free!”
“Course ya father tink ya should hook up with the blonde girl off ya show, ya know? The one with the big… tings, huh. He tinks ya two is already… ya know what I mean ya dirty boy!”
“With Sarah?”
“Oh dear! Listen to me goin’ on Jack. I better go before the ting run out of tape huh. Oh!! Wait! Wait! I made ya a present Jack, I almost forgot. I stick it in ya parcel for ya huh,”
Mrs. Bull pulls the red jumper from underneath her butt. Bull lifts the jumper and cautiously sniffs it from a distance. Seems ok.
“There! Look at that! Made it by me own hands Jack, me own two hands! Just for me baby boy huh. Winter on the way soon Jack. I stick it in ya parcel. Oh Jesus wept I’m gonna need a bigger ting than that. I wonder if me neighbour Carol has some… oh sorry Jack! Haha! Listen to ya mum ramblin’ on while ya sit there like a sour lemon huh!”
“Oh, I almost forgot some ting else. Ya father found one of ya old boxing fights. It was ya last match in the boxin’ ring. The owner or whatever ya call him had it made on tape, on the old video tapes huh. So I used the computer, and ya cousin Michael showed me how to put the tape on to the computer ting, and make a ting. What ya call ‘em child? DCD? Them tings. Clever boy that Michael. Showin‘ ya mum how to use these computer tings huh,”
“So I put that on after I’m done huh. That can be ya gift, from me and ya father. To wish ya luck in ya wrestlin’ ting,”
A figure appears in the background; a white man in his early sixties, his beer gut hanging down over the waist band of his trousers and a cigarette held in one hand. He speaks with a gruff London accent.
“Pat… Pat, your cake smells likes the underside of the fucking space shuttle. There’s no smoke but it can’t be long now!”
“Well don’t just fuckin’ stand there dickhead, take it out of the oven then!”
“All fucking right! What you doin’ anyway?”
“I’m sending a video to Jack. Ya son! Oh Jesus he hear me swear. Oh Jesus. Oh Jack, I’m sorry baby boy!”
“I think he’s old enough and ugly enough by now. ‘Allo Jack. Keep your fucking guard up in future! Remember, mental over physical!”
Jacks dad walked off, muttering something to himself about ‘fucking waste of time that was’.
“Anyway child. I need to go an sort ya father out, give him a good kick up the arse huh. So take care of yourself child. Find ya self a nice women, one with wide hips and big… tings, huh. Love ya Jack and we wish ya good luck in whatever ya be doin’. Just remember, be ya self baby boy, don’t let any of them nasty men try and make ya change. Love ya baby boy! Bye now!”
She finishes by waving, and then gets up to walk to the camera, smothering the lens with his dress as she fumbles with the buttons.
“How ya turn this fuckin’ ting off? Is tha…”
The video feed cuts off, but Jack can still see on the timer that there is plenty of footage left. Suddenly the screen flashes back to life.
There stands his mum, with her back to the camera, in her night dress. His dad is laying on the bed, the sheets mercifully pulled up over him.
“What the fuck is this shit?”
The audio is back on;
“Alright Tiger! Are ya ready for some lovin’?”
His mother slides off her night dress.
“OHHHH FUCK!! JESUS TURN IT OFF, PLEASE GOD!!”
Bull throws up his hands to block the view as the sound of his mother jumping on the bed and his parents laughing can be heard. Then the audio cuts out and Jack looks up tentatively to see what’s happened.
The screen is black, but soon crackles back to life with the image of an old boxing ring. The footage is being taken from a box position high up in the arena using a shitty old video camera that obviously predates the 21st Century. Hundreds of fans can be seen squashed onto shitty chairs or standing and lining the walls at the arenas edge. The fans are cheering loudly, literally baying for blood.
The camera zooms in on the ring and turns to one of the two boxers. The announcer introduces him;
“And now your competitors. Introducing first, in the red corner. Standing 6 feet and 1 inch tall, weighing in at 95 kilos, they call him the call him the Fastest Fist in the North, from Nottingham… Gareth Croxon!!”
The local London fans rip Croxon with a shower of boos. He just raises a hand and is done with it.
“And in the blue corner…”
A few cheers go up already.
“… his opponent and the defending champion in this bout. Standing 6 feet and 2 inches tall, weighing in at 96 kilos - born in Essex - bred in Brixton - he is ‘The Brixton Bull’ Jack…”
The picture fuzzes out and the audio is replaced by a hail of white noise, the original tape obviously not in the same quality as it once was. When it finally clears the referee has sent each man to his corner and we hear the traditional call of ‘seconds away’, prompting the seconds to step down from the apron with their towels, buckets and sponges. The bell goes and the fight is on.
Immediately Jack sees what his father was talking about. The guard is right up. Oddly for a right hander Jack has his right foot and fist forward in the style more commonly associated with left handed ‘south paw’ boxers. He remembered his old trainer, who he could see now screaming from the sidelines, who had read some book by Bruce Lee and had been using Jack as his guinea pig all this time to trial this new theory.
It worked.
The forward hand bore the brunt of the work load, jabbing and parrying with precision. Bruce Lee has astutely spotted many years ago that in that case, it made sense for the forward hand to be the dexterous hand, where the precise control was much greater. The other hand was nothing more than a lump hammer, a blunt object to be thrown with force against a wide open target.
Jack watched as his old self ducked and weaved, always keeping the guard up and the eyes peering between the fists to keep the target in sight at all times. He watched as the then 19-year old Jack Bull or ‘The Brixton Bull’ as he was known then, stayed on the defensive, covering up and taking a flurry of shots mostly in the body and guard, and occasionally throwing some jabs back.
This was the classic game plan devised by his trainer, inspired by Muhammed Ali‘s famous ‘Rope-A-Dope‘ plan from the ‘Rumble in the Jungle’ fight with George Foreman. Sit back, be conservative with your shots, take as much punishment as you can, then fight back in a late flurry. The key was to match fight strategy with training; aiming to maximise strength, endurance, discipline and toughness in favour of things like speed and agility.
Early in his career a local sports reporter had joked about one of his fights in his column, describing it as;
“At times like watching a fight between a graceful and artful matador, and a lumbering but rugged Bull. Demonstrating great speed and beautiful technique, his opponent poured on the punches, often forcing him back into the ropes. For seven rounds it was the same old story, as quick and accurate combinations forced the local lad to batten down the hatches and hide between his arms, occasionally resorting to the dreaded clinch,”
“Jack did duck and weave past some of his opponents more vigorous punches, but he still took a hefty number of shots to both the head and torso, managing only the odd jab and cross in return. Then in round eight came the killer blow, a final dagger through the heart. Except it was not the matador who dealt it, but the Bull,”
“In a surprise turn of events Jack managed to fight through his opponents onslaught, survived the taunting and the beating that had been laid on him for the last 21 odd minutes, and came back with a series of furious flurries, rocking his now exhausted opponent back and forth across the ring before throwing a brutal left uppercut that nearly took his mans chin off,”
“No matter what angle you look at it from, whether it be in terms of speed, style, grace, toughness, mentality, or punching power, this young man is no Ali. Yet in a way he is; a true fighter, a true brawler. And this Bull - born in Essex, bred in Brixton - has been let out of his pen!”
It was cheesy and cynical, designed to sell newspapers and create headlines. But it worked. The local buzz made him a D-list celebrity in the area. Three hundred and twenty-one people came to witness him fight his last semi-professional bout in the junior rankings, his last hurrah before he stepped up into the world of the pros, albeit the much better paying world of pro-wrestling.
Jack watched the bout once more with a glimmer in his eyes. He at once winced as he remembered the powerful blows that his opponent had driven home, and yet at the same time he could recall that burning sensation, that frustrating patience required to wait and pick his moment. As the two young fighters circled once more he saw his father in his corner, cheering him on.
Miserable old bastard. He wanted Jack to become a pro boxer. Told him that he wasn’t suited to pro wrestling, that he wasn’t quick enough or skilful enough to succeed there. That if he just stuck with boxing then eventually it would pay off in the long run. That just drove Jack more and more towards the wrestling angle, to prove his dad wrong, to shut him up. It worked. Perhaps a little too well.
What was it his Mum has said? ‘Just remember, be ya self baby boy, don’t let any of them nasty men try and make ya change’. This was Jack Bull, right here in front of him. This was the man that had come so far, fallen a little, and risen again.
He watched on as the clock ticked by, round seven, round eight, round nine. Then finally in round ten the comeback was on in earnest. As his opponent conceded to clinching, thinking he’d done enough on points, Jack slipped away and flung out a right jab followed by a low left to the liver. Bam. Down went Gareth Croxon, taking the Fastest Fists in the North with him. More like fastest to the mat.
The count hit ten and the match was over. Jack watched as his the arms of his younger self were raised in victory, the crowd cheering, Bull retiring from the boxing world on top, as a champion. That moment was etched in his memory and even now he could feel the sweat pouring down his brow, his breath heavy, his ribs sore.
And that sweet smell; victory. Glory. The satisfaction of over coming his opponent. The cheering of the crowd…
Jacks thoughts were interrupted by a thump. A sudden, fleeting wisp of cold wind let Jack know that someone had just entered the cabin.
“Chuck?”
There was no response. No footsteps even. Jack stood up.
“Chuck?”
The footsteps came running toward the living area. Jack hunkered down, ready to potentially tackle anything that came through that doorway. And then there he was, in a flash of brown and black, a figure decked out against the cold… holding beer cans?
“FUCKING BEER!!!”
“Dick!”
“What? I got beer, and some clear whisky,”
“Clear whisky? You know what, I’ll find out later. Now what’s this new training regime Sarah was talking about?”
“Sarah’s here huh?”
Chuck winked.
“No dude. You think I flew to the states and smuggled in here while you were out sledding?”
“She could have been hiding in the barn,”
“Hiding in the barn? Look whatever dude. It was an e-mail. She said hi, said she was missing us. Including you my friend. I think you’ve pulled son!”
“I know. A whole freakin’ sleds worth of booze!”
“No dude, I mean Sarah! Nice tits on that,”
“Me and Sarah? Shit Jack I couldn’t do that to… wait a minute? Jesus you’re telling me that you. I mean, you don’t? You haven’t figured? Jesus Christ Jack you are one dumb son of a bitch!”
“Uhm, thanks?”
Chuck chuckled.
“Have a beer idiot,”
“What?”
“Nothing. Lets talk about this training regime,”
-----------------------
Jacks pulse was racing. Having moved to the rickety, freezing old barn attached to the property, a slightly hung over Chuck Johnson was now putting a slightly hung over Jack Bull through his new plan in preparation for the match ahead. It started with skipping.
“I told Vernon and Willy that you used to box, so they said I should just ‘take that fucking retard back to only level he understands; basics!’”
Jack stopped skipping.
“Their words Jack, not mine! I’m just following through on the plan. So apparently skipping is good for your feet?”
“Footwork,” Bull said panting, “it’s supposed to improve your footwork and coordination. Quick feet,”
“Well that sounds fucking dumb. How is jumping up and down on the same spot good for your footwork?”
Bull said nothing.
“Well fuck it. Skipping it is,”
Chuck took a sip of his beer.
“You’re gonna need quick feet this week Jack. This dude Callaway is a little lighter than you and he likes to play it slippery!”
“Slippery?”
“Yeah slippery. As in dicking about on the mat playing grab ass like Sabora. So watch yourself, watch your butt hole. Keep facing the dude at all times,”
Bull picked up the pace and pushed himself harder and harder, the rope flashing through its orbit at lightning speed until he could skip no more. Bull tossed the rope to one side.
“I’ll remember that dude. Watch my butt hole,”
“Hey, you never known man. With hair like that I wouldn’t put it past him,”
“You never know, maybe he’ll be lured in by your village people beard,”
Chuck though about that for a second.
“Do you think I should shave before Sunday?”
-----------------------
Jacks world was turned upside down. Literally. As hung down from the mezzanine floor of the barn, Jack paused to suck in a breath. Then once more he curled up, his torso travelling near 180 degrees as performed another hanging sit up. Sat on the floor at the top was Chuck Johnson, reading the label on his “clear whisky”.
“I wonder what this shit tastes like,”
“Try some,”
Jack lowered himself back down again, his abdominal muscles aching from the exertions. A rippling six pack would be the reward, and as much as that might be nice for the ladies, it had a far more important purpose. Those muscles played a big role in generating his punching power, as well as helping him to absorb blows to the stomach that would wind a less muscular individual. Jack hauled himself up once more.
“I’m not sure Jack, it smells funny. Could be Russian poison,”
“Just try some!”
Bull gradually relaxed his muscles again, allowing his body to slowly lower down to the full hang. He looked at the floor in its unusually reversed state. It was the kind of view someone got on the wrong end of a suplex. That wasn’t going to happen Sunday.
“I mean, I asked the lady for Whisky. ‘Whisky’ I said. But she didn’t seem to understand so I tried a different approach,”
“Let me guess, you just shouted ‘Whisky’ a little louder at her,”
“Yeah, how did you know?”
“Just a hunch,”
“Good guess. So I shouted ‘WHISKY!’, and made the international sign of someone drinking from a shot glass. Then she gave me this clear shit,”
Bull felt the blood rushing to his head and knew that despite the pain he’d have to lift himself up once more.
“I mean whoever heard of clear whisky? Ah well fuck it, I’ll give it a shot. Hehe, see what I did there Jack? Give it a shot?”
“Wait a minute dude. Chuck let me see the bottle again, I don’t think that’s whisky,”
Bull took a breath and braced himself, then squeezed his stomach as tight as he could, lifting himself up. Close to the top he began to struggle, his body desperately breaking down every available source of adenosine triphosphate it could find to fuel his aching muscles. Coming into arms reach of the mezzanine floor, Bull reached out and took a firm grip, relieving his beleaguered abs.
“Dude I think that might be…”
A mixed cloud of spittle and genuine strong proof Russian Vodka hit Jack in the face.
“… Vodka,”
“God damn! That stuff tastes like shit! I’ve tasted horse piss that was better than that!”
Bull wiped some of the mixture from his eye with his free hand, then stopped.
“Wait, what? Go back to that bit about the horse piss,”
“Err, figure of speech. Now aren’t you supposed to be doing sit ups? Shit, I need a beer to clean that crap out,”
“That’s it for now. That’s all I got,”
“That wasn’t even twenty!”
“That’s not bad for hanging sit ups! I’m getting old now man. At my age I need to look after myself, conserve my strength,”
“Shit Jack, you’re 34, not 54!”
“Well I gotta be careful. My opponents a young stud, don‘t wanna get warn out,”
“Do you realise how freakin’ gay that sounded? Anyway, dude he’s checking in at 30. This is hardly The Rolling Stones versus Justin Beiber. All you gotta do Sunday is just hang in there. Hehe, see what I did there? ‘Hang in‘?”
Bull wiped more sweat and spittle from his face.
“Well I thought it was funny. Look Jack you’re good enough. You just gotta find your balls again man. You gotta stick it out, tough it out. Just keeping pounding away, keep fighting. You’re the best brawler I know in this entire company. Fuck, you’re the best brawler I know period. Just drag that son of a bitch down to your level. Make it like your old boxing days. Don’t let him wrestle, make him box. Make him fight. Then slap that little pretty boys face off,”
“You know I think you might have something there,”
“I do indeed. It’s called a celebratory beer!”
Chuck turns and grabs a beer, throwing it over his shoulder for Jack to catch. He then proceeds to open one for himself, the sound of the can hissing open masking Jacks cry of ‘whoa shit!’. Chuck turns, beer raised for a toast.
“To the master…plan? Jack?”
“Down here,”
Chuck peers over the edge.
“You let go of the edge to catch your beer didn’t you?”
“Yep,”
Chuck looks at the can that Bull dropped in his panic, unopened, but spurting beer from a crack in the side.
“That’s a fucking waste of beer Jack. A fucking waste. Well there’s no way I’m going all the way down to pick it up,”
Chuck took a sip of his beer as Bull tried in vain to reach out and grab the lost can.
“Hey, Jack. I’ve got an idea! Do like a, a half sit up, like a crunch thing,”
Bull took a breath and then curled just slightly just enough to bring his head parallel to the floor.
“Now open wide!”
Chuck took careful aim and then tipped a little bit of beer from his can. Bull had to move slightly to the left, but managed to get a decent sips worth, before relaxing.
“Hey shit, that even hit your obliques! I think we just invented a new exercise Jack - ‘Beer ups!’”
-----------------------
“Just imagine that’s it’s Callaway’s head and give it all you got!”
Chuck placed the block of wood upright on the tree stump, and no sooner had he pulled back his hand than the axe came flying down, splitting it violently in two.
“Jesus H Christ Jack! At least give me a chance to pull my damn hand away! You nearly took my damn fingers off!”
“Move quicker,”
Bull smiled at his disgruntled training partner.
“I’ll give you damn ‘move quicker’,”
Chuck picked up another block.
“Now remember. You gotta give it everything you have. You can’t lose this one. After that defeat in the rumble, you gotta come back strong! You gotta be mean! You gotta be angry! You gotta let The Scorpion know that you’re still hungry. You gotta let the world know that Jack Bull isn’t done yet, that you still got plenty of fight left in ya. In here,”
Chuck prodded Jack in chest, just above the heart.
“And in… well I aint touching that thing. But down there, if you know what I mean. Now,”
Chuck reached out and put the block down, watching Jack all the way, before snapping his hand back before Bull could even lift the axe up again.
“Hit it with everything you got!”
Bull heaved the axe up over his head, raising up a little on his toes and then slammed the axe down with a shout, scything right through the chunk of wood and leaving the blade firmly stuck in the stump.
“Good. Just like that man,”
-----------------------
The combos came thick and fast. Right, left. Right, left. Right, right, left. The sound of Bulls gloves slamming against the punching mitts echoed in all directions around the barn. The dust flew up beneath his feet as Jack stepped in and out, one-two, one-two.
“That’s it Jack! Just like the old days. Lay it on ‘em. Keep punching. Keep moving the feet. In and out, keep striking. Keep your guard up!”
Jack whipped his hands up to his face, anticipating the swing by Chuck, which he rolled under perfectly, winding back the years. Sweat poured off him and ran into his eyes, making it hard to pick out the black mitts in the dimly lit surroundings.
“That’s it Jack, concentrate. Keep hitting, keep moving. You gotta nail this son of a bitch! You gotta rock him! You gotta throw him off his game! You gotta make him think like he just stepped into the ring with a cross breed of Muhammed Ali and a grizzly bear! You gotta distract him, keep him on his toes. Make him scared that every time he comes in for a grab he’s gonna get his clock cleaned! That’s it, now faster,”
Bull picked up the pace, his fists flying back and forth like pistons, not just touching the pads but striking them. Driving right through them with force, battering CJ’s wrists.
“Better! Now keep it up Jack, keep going. Keep fighting! Never give up Jack, never give up, never surrender. Never surrender! You just keep going and going Jack, till you win or pass out! Win or out Jack! That Callaway is nothing but a low rank rookie Jack! You need to eat him for breakfast! You need to make his life a nightmare in that ring! You need to make him shit scared of ever stepping back into the squared circle with you!”
Bull fired off a succession of right handed uppercuts, followed by a left hook.
“That’s enough! Alright man. My wrists are fucking burning like a red head on a beach. Damn son, you got some power in them hands!”
Bull simply nodded as he leaned over trying to recover his breath.
“Now you just make sure you give that Callaway dude as much punishment as you just did to me, you here? You gotta crack his ribs and bust his balls. Make a statement Jack. Fuck that guy up!”
-----------------------
Bull worked his way along the rope. Strung up between two of the support posts of the barn, the rope was about chest height and mildly taut. Bull was ducking back and forth beneath it, popping up on the other side and throwing an uppercut against the air, before ducking back under the other side and doing the same. Back and forth he went.
“That’s it Jack. You duck under his punches and you pop up on the other side, then wham! Hit that son of a bitch right in his rib cage! You think he’s gonna wanna fight after that? You think he’s gonna wanna keep going, keep brawling with ya after that? Hell no he aint!”
“I’ll tell you what he’s gonna do Jack. He’s gonna curl up in a little ball in the corner of the ring somewhere and he’s gonna beg to have the match stopped. Beg Jack! He’s gonna look at that ref with fear in his eyes, just hoping that the match will get called!”
Bull picked up the speed a little, ducking back and forth with a little more vigour now, still punching, still working hard. Only a few more feet left to go and then it was all over.
“That’s it Jack, keep pushing!”
Bull reached the end of the rope and stopped, slumping down at the bottom of the post. Chuck came and squatted down in front of him.
“Now you see that? You see that little burst at the end? That’s the Jack Bull I know. Always fighting, always pushing, always working hard to be the best. That’s what you gotta take to the ring with you on Sunday. That’s the fighting spirit you need. Never give up, never surrender you son of a bitch! Just keep going, keep fighting! And knock that sissy boy on his butt. Now get up!”
Chuck stepped back as an aching Bull got back to his feet.
“Again! All the way to the end, then all the way back Jack. This is how it’s gotta be. You can do this!”
Bull took a moment, his eyes staring down the long length of rope between him and his goal. And then he started again, methodically working his way down the line, right to left and back to the right, duck and punch, duck and punch, always a tenacious look in his eyes, grimly determined to see it through and do what he had to do to win.
-----------------------
The front of the sled rose into the air.
“That’s it man, lift!”
The beer started sliding, but Chuck was close at hand to catch it safely as the sled titled up backwards, with him sitting right in the middle and now clutching the cases of beer under his arms.
Two poles extended out to the front where Bull stood, heaving them off the ground in a deadlift. He paused with his hands now hanging by his sides, the grounded end of the sled now bearing some of the brunt of the weight.
“And down again!”
Bull lowered the sled in relief.
“Right that’s ten. That should do it,”
Bull sat down in the snow, his warm breath spilling out into the air in clouds of immediate condensation.
“That’s good. And the beer didn’t fall off either, which is a bonus,”
Bull chuckled and panted at the same time.
“Dude. Cheers,”
“What for?”
“The training. The motivation. The support. All that stuff,”
Chuck cracked open a beer for himself.
“You don’t have to say thank you man. You are one tough son of a bitch Jack, but you just need a kick up the ass every now and again. But all that, all that lifting, all that punching. That was you Jack. That wasn’t me. That was you. I pushed you, but you did the work man,”
“Well then thank you for pushing me on,”
Chuck laughed and took a great, long, swig of his beer.
“If you want to thank me, then you got out there and you whoop Stephen Callaway’s butt. And I do mean whoop it. Whatever it is, whatever is in you that’s holding you back, you need to just let it go. You need to start living up to your potential my friend,”
“Meaning?”
“Shit. Look you’ve had two title shots now right? And then this rumble? It’s like you do all the hard work, you do all the hard running to get to the finishing post and then just before you cross it you sit down, break out a beer and put your feet up. You go out there week after week and perform and then you piss it away at the end,”
“Well that’s a little harsh man,”
“It has to be. This is the way it is Jack. In there, inside that dumb fucking skull of yours somewhere, there is a master plan waiting to break out. Inside that chest is a beating heart, a heart made of steel, the heart of a lion just waiting to roar. And you got a big ass pair of brass balls dude. Don’t waste that shit,”
“Don’t be like everyone else. Don’t be like all those guys that never live to their potential. Don’t be someone that taps out. Don’t leave that arena on Sunday and end up looking back and saying, ‘if I had just given it that little bit extra’. Don’t let there be any excuses, or any regrets man,”
“You were telling me the other night about your dad and how he’s pissed at you because you wasted your potential as a boxer. Well he’s right man. He was right,”
“Is that so?”
“Damn fucking straight! Don’t look at me all pissed off! He was right Jack. Because the way you’ve been wrestling lately, you are wasting your potential. Some of these half assed shows you put in. That rumble shit? You should have cleaned the fucking house in that match. Cross? You beat the shit out of that dude to win your title. So why not now?”
“Because you’ve reached the main event and now you’re all cocky. Now you’re all Mr fucking big shot. Mr. Jack Bull, king of the mountain and all that shit. And I know what you’re gonna say. You’re gonna say ‘Hey, the ladder broke on me. Hey, I pinned Scorpion and the ref wasn‘t there. Hey, I pinned Scorpion again and Rivera didn’t count!’”
“Well you know what, you should have made sure the ladder didn’t matter! You don’t go to over time in a football game and then complain because you lost the coin toss. No fucking way. You hit the field and right from the kick off, right from the very first second you blow that other team off the fucking field!”
“No excuses. You went into that ladder match. You had just as much of a chance as everyone else. You don’t want that ladder to break and cost you the match? Then you climb the damn ladder and you snatch that belt away before anyone else can! You wanna pin Scorpion, then pin him. And if the ref isn’t there then you go backstage and you drag one of those assholes to the ring and make him count the fall!”
“And if he doesn’t count the fall then tough. You keep goin’. You keep on pluggin’ away and you keep fightin’ till that son of a bitch quits or you knock him the fuck out. And if Rivera wont count the pin then you grab that skinny prick by the wrist and you slam his fucking hand into the mat for the three count. No excuses!”
“You gotta start making it count Jack. Your strong, your tough, you can brawl the shit out of anyone in this company. But you gotta stop being a paper champion and start making a difference. So you got out there Sunday and you win. You win and you keep winning. It’s time to pull your finger out, just like you have this week in training. Time to quit talking and start fighting. Quit wanting to be the great Jack Bull and actually start being the great Jack Bull,”
Chuck lifted the can to his lips and took another long swig, leaving Jack to dwell on his words.
“Dude,”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks man,”
“No problem. That’s a patented Montana State team talk right there. Here, have a beer,”
Chuck threw a beer for Jack, who cracked it open.
“To kicking ass! Hail the ale!”
“Hail the ale!”