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MK Kilmarnock
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Hate, hate, HATE!!!
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There was a pointed trail of drool leading from the corner of Jerry's mouth to a puddle that met his cheek. A few streams of pink joined the river of spit, no doubt caused by a small cut on the inside of the cheek closest to the focal point of the kick. Jerry's mouthguard did well to protect his teeth. Now, though, it laid half-protruding from his lips, puffy from exertion and maybe just a little bit from also catching a part of Trav's foot.

He was only out for a moment or ten; they often say that when you get knocked unconscious, you're usually only knocked out for a few seconds. Anything longer than a minute or two is a sign that something is seriously wrong. Nothing was seriously wrong with Jerry, not so much more than a case of a bottle of pride being emptied down a sink.

Jerry refused to directly answer Trav as he sucked his knees under himself, and slowly pushed up. "I think... I think I'll skip rounds two and three..." he finally managed to croak. "Musta... lost focus, or somethin'..."
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