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Sting Like A Stingray; Private
Topic Started: Feb 5 2016, 02:56 PM (695 Views)
MK Kilmarnock
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This was it, the fight of the century. Jerry and Trav, Fury and Lynch. You could really put that up on a poster if you thought about it; maybe superimpose a couple of angry faces and fists poised. Yeah, that'd work. That'd really put asses in the seats.

Today, of course, they'd have a minimal audience. The gym wasn't packed today which was probably the only reason Jerry was able to get the ring at all, but he only had it reserved for about 20 minutes, so Trav better have been on his way. Jerry was still on the outside, putting on his shoes but the rest of his attire had already been changed out. He did his stretches already. ... Okay, he did half his stretches, got bored with the other half, and decided to do some cool poses before changing.

"The fuck is that guy..." Jerry asked himself, finishing the incomplete question in his head with 'where'. Travis wasn't necessarily late. By all means, if Trav got to the gym within the next five minutes, he'd be completely on time. It's just that Jerry was more than a little impatient and wanted to get this over with. The two had discussed at length who would win in a fight and, of course, Jerry insisted it was him. How could he lose? He mastered three... was it three? One, two, three styles, and combined them. It was an assured victory! His only regret is that this wouldn't be an official sanctioned fight or anything, bringing his record up to 1-4. Damn it, he had that one guy... the judging was bullshit. So what if he took more punches to the face? So what if he got up the wrong way and took a kick to the back? He suplexed the guy once, that had to count for something!

With his shoes finally on, Jerry got up, sighed... and finished his stretches.
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MK Kilmarnock
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Ah. Right. He needed to wrap his hands. Jerry always thought that sort've thing looked stupid but his older brother Scott insisted he do it, so... whatever, he'd bow to his brother's wishes just this once. Jerry looked tellingly at his bag, letting Trav know that he'd still have to grab his gloves and his mouth guard before they could get shakin'.

"Hey, you're here!" Jerry said, after the fact. "Thought you woulda chickened out or some shit." It was a joke, and he laughed at his own joke, but maybe a tiny part of him was wishing Trav hadn't actually showed. Just... just a tiny part of him.

"I'm only fooling," Jerry quickly backtracked. "Just wanna see what you're made of, have some fun, show you why I put the Fury in Fury... ous. Furious. I meant... yeah. I meant that." Jerry looked off to the side, off towards the cage they'd be rough-cuddling on. "See you.... ah. Brought an entourage. Maybe I shoulda brought my brother t'cheer me on. Oh well, maybe when we meet each other on the BIG stage, eh?" Jerry turned and waved it off, going to fish through his bag.

"As for... egh... how we're doing this? I'unno, maybe start strikes only, maybe another 3-to-5 minutes of... i'unnevenno... grapplin' only, another 5 of freestyle? Keep goin' til we're bloody and shakin' and re-enacting the finale to Rocky IV." Obviously they weren't going to get that far, Jerry was going to stomp Trav into the motherfuggin' floor, but it was nice to make it sound more dramatic.
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MK Kilmarnock
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"Noodle's trainin'?" Jerry raised an eyebrow, more out of genuine curiosity than disbelief of any sort. Like, girl power and all that shit. "Like, to fight, like you? Or just working out?"

Ah, screw it, it wasn't important anyway.

"Ah, screw it, it's not important anyway," Jerry said. He took this time to start wrapping up his hands like Scott told him to, even if it always felt like crap. Maybe he wasn't doing it right, and he totally considered that. All the twists and turns of the bandages could really confuse a guy. When his handiwork seemed to be alright, he settled for putting on his gloves. "So yeah. Elbows and knees are, last time I checked, strikes!" Jerry grinned as he got in a bit more heckling. "Go ahead and give me your best. Actually, save your best. You're gonna need it for the main event, aren't you?"

Today was going to be the main event, so-to-speak, the day that ended the argument, but Jerry had forgotten to put up flyers all around the school to advertise. Turned out that putting the day off could be a blessing in disguise, since this would give him a chance to figure out what Trav was made of and plan accordingly. If fortune decided to yet again shaft Jerry and, instead, favor Trav, the only person who would know about it besides the two of them was Trav.

Oh and all the other people in the gym but fuck 'em.

Jerry picked up his mouth guard and cocked his head towards the cage. "A'right. Let's go."
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MK Kilmarnock
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Somewhere between the edge of the cage and the center of the mat, Jerry got a strange feeling in the pit of his stomach. It was a feeling he had received many times before, despite his best attempts to ignore it. It was that feeling that told him 'hey man, you're getting in over your head. Maybe you should test the waters with one feet instead of two'. Jerry also made a habit of ignoring that feeling. After all, all the all-time greats ignored it, right? Otherwise how would cool shit ever get done?

He had yet to do any of that cool shit that'd make him the famous person he KNEW he'd one day be but damn it, that day was coming! Maybe Trav'd be an important stepping stone. Maybe this was part 1 to becoming Jerry Fury, MMA all-star. Maybe, just maybe, he was overblowing a stupid sparring session that came before the actual match which would probably be watched by 20-30 people tops, maybe 50 if he made promises like offering concessions.

Jerry reached Trav and touched a glove. He was thinking about like... maybe putting his gloves up and slamming them down like a 'AH MUST BREK HYOU' thing, but that sounded tacky. Maybe in the match proper.

"Alright dude," Jerry said, bouncing back a few steps and then hopping from side to side to get that energy a-flowin'. "Hit me with your best shot! Let's go, Pat fuckin' Benatar!"
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MK Kilmarnock
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Awwwww balls. Trav was a lefty, huh?

Come to think of it, Jerry hadn't studied his opponent before, or ever really listened to him. Whenever he heard about or acknowledged Trav's MMA stuff, all he could think about was how he was gonna challenge this guy, beat him and prove that he could hang with the best of him. Jerry regretted that he hadn't listened more, that much was true. Now the challenge was not showing it.

Jerry took an exuberant stance, switching his footing once... twice... ha HA! Was he a righty, or a lefty? Yeah, that's right, gotta shake it up- oh shit, it looked like Trav was getting close - time to switch to righty to fight for real. Jerry dropped his ruse and kept his hands up, careful with his footing in order to try and at least keep center mat. Beads of sweat were already forming on his brow as his eyes swept Trav's guard up and down.

That right hand looked a bit too far forward. A-ha!

Jerry planted his left and threw a swift kick right up at Trav's head with his right foot. It was only sparring but, fuck, if you could end this with one strike, why not take the opportunity?
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Woooooooooosh!

Yeah, that was the sound of his opening kick missing. Welp, 0-1 was better than 0-100. Jerry just had to make sure to make the remaining 99 count. First, he had to follow through with the kick, since he may have put just a little bit too much force into it. Nonetheless, with all the grace of a stunted, squat little ballerina, both feet returned to the floor and Jerry spun through.

Just in time to OH SHIT PUNCHES COMING HIS WAY!

Jerry put up his dukes, caging those motherfuckers like a pro. Seriously, what good was superior reach if you're not even going to use it effectiv-

SLLLLLLLAP!

"Augh!" Jerry high-kneed it backwards, throwing a few wild rights in case Trav was stupid enough to follow up on that. Alas, he wasn't; it looked like he was content to send out the one leg. Well, there's not strategy there either, right? "Hey, Trav, there aren't any organs in my leg!" Jerry jeered.

Another step forward. Oh, that searing pain in his thigh with every step... thaaaaat's why Trav did that. Jerry didn't say anything else to that one - the expression on his countenance read clearly enough. Fine. No, really, that's cool. Jerry didn't need his leg or anything. He'd just step in all slow n' cautious-like, taking a classic Renoji-Dachi. Fuck the pain, the pain didn't exist. Okay, it totally existed... holy HELL did it exist, but... just fuck it. Fuck it right in its metaphorical, allegorical asshole.

No more fucking around.
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Hmph. Alright, dude. Let's see what you got.

Jerry had his hands up and his eyes forward. A couple fake-outs from Trav, but if they didn't come within range of hand smackin', Jerry didn't pay him any mind. It wasn't like this was the first time anybody ever threw a feint his way.

Jab, jab, jab. Now Trav was screwing around with the jabs, controlling the pace of the fight. They were pretty to stop; hell, one of them didn't even make full contact. Did Trav just not know how to throw a punch? If so, that might make this easier than it had to be. All Jerry had to do was get in and-

The right hook practically came out of nowhere, appearing on the left side of Jerry's peripheral vision as he remained focused on Trav's center. It was slow but there was a lot of power behind that. Fortunately, karate had like... the PERFECT block for that. He couldn't remember exactly what it was called, but he did remember how to do it, and Trav's main offense was...

Jerry's right arm swung in to cage the blow coming from Trav's lightning-quick left straight. No thinking, no planning, no time. Stopping that thing was either instinct or luck, and the first one sounded cooler. At any rate, THAT was the real attack, and Trav's left side looked open. Jerry wasn't the best kicker, but it was either Jackie Chan or Bruce Lee who said something like 'I fear the man who practices a kick a million times' or some shit like that. Maybe it was Chuck Norris. Steven Segal? Crying out loud, it was ONE of those guys. Point was, Jerry knew how to do a side-thrust kick.

So Jerry did a side-thrust kick.

With his right foot.

At Trav's left side.
Edited by MK Kilmarnock, Mar 30 2016, 01:59 AM.
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The right leg was caught.

Awwwwwww nuts.

The left leg was pulled out from under him.

AWWWWWWWWWWWWW BALLS.

Jerry landed hard on his backside and yanked his legs inward in an effort to free himself. This came all too easily, almost as if Trav had simply wanted to let him go. Or maybe he just wasn't ready for such an awesome maneuver! Either way, all was going according to keikaku. Jerry rolled his weight back to his shoulders and threw his heels over his head in a backroll, pushing up to his knees and guarding the kick to his head he thought was coming.

He realized about then that Trav really wasn't following up with an attack. Why, was it pity? Jerry scowled past his mouthguard at the thought, but stood up and touched a glove before backing up a few steps.

Gotta collect himself. Gotta think of a way to totally wow this guy. Too early to throw a roundhouse. It'd be a terrible tactical decision to throw a roundhouse anyway.

Damn it, he REALLY wanted to throw a roundhouse.

Jerry raised his knee then lowered it, repeating with the other knee. He gestured a quick 'come on' and waited.
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Jerry's eyes floated down to Trav's feet. He had switched stances... so that was a thing. Fighting a 'righty' shouldn't be so hard, but he had to admit it scared him a little. Was Trav pulling a... what was it, Indigo Montalban from that movie? That stupid whole 'I am not left handed' thing where he suddenly got better? If so, that could spell very bad news.

Jerry figured that maybe he was just overthinking it, that letting Trav lead was still a good idea. Left hook. Jerry just backpedaled away from that one, but he was running out of room to play with and the mat was about to end just a couple of feet behind him. After hitting his head on the cage twice... thrice... whatever the hell came after 'thrice' (quarice?), he had at least learned to have some awareness.

The hook was just a set-up, though, and Jerry knew it. He watched Trav's foot, and there came a right kick. From an orthodox stance, something like that took a while to throw. Not the sort of thing you'd fake. Jerry would block that, trap it, prepare for an awesome take-

Was that Trav's left leg?

CRACK

Jerry's arms dropped and his left knee buckled. Funny. The mat seemed to be getting a lot closer to his face.
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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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Jerry rubbed his mouth and cheek with his forearm, trying not to make direct eye contact with Trav. He really hoped Trav didn't consider this a real fight or anything. Sure, had Jerry won, that was obviously indicative of the fact that he was the greatest MMA brawler in all of Kingman and, by interpolation, all of Cochise. The situation had been turned around, reversing all expectations, though. It shouldn't have ended that fast... no, it shouldn't have ended with him on the mat at all! He had trained more than that. It's all about who wanted it more, right? Well, Jerry could ascertain that nobody wanted it more than Jerry. Jerry goddamn motherfuckin' Fury. Shit, it's right there in the name.

"Yeah... yeah, I'll hold you to that!" Jerry shot a grin. Well, he tried to shoot a grin, but his jaw was still a little numb, causing it to look more like he was having a stroke. His mouth guard was still clenched between his teeth sideways, so when he attempted to do anything and his jaw loosened, it tumbled from his lips and splatted onto the mat. Muttering a silent curse, Jerry bent down, scooped up his belonging and stood back up to touch a knuckle to Trav's fist with all the enthusiasm of a dog going to the vet to get neutered.

He had the flu. He had polio. The sun was in his eyes, regardless of the fact they were indoors. He was thinking about homework. Just... there had to be SOME validation for making an ass out of himself, but Jerry was at a loss to think of any excuse. Instead, he managed a weird sort of half-wave, turned, and headed for the locker room to change.

((Jerry Fury's pride: DECEASED.

Jerry Fury himself continued in Jawbreakers.))
Edited by MK Kilmarnock, Aug 9 2016, 02:04 PM.
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