Jawbreakers

[MK Kilmarnock]

((Jerry Fury continued from Sting Like A Stingray))

He'd asked for a kick, and he'd gotten a kick. Shit, the thing must've been going close to seventy miles an hour. Had he'd had any time to react, a taunting smirk, a waggle of the fingers... some showboating would have been in order, but again, it was fast. Jerry was off-guard, and he knew it. This would be him playing the situation by ear and hoping for the best.

He raised his arm; Trav's kick, going... eighty? Ninety? A million miles an hour, was set to obliterate everything in his path, but Jerry knew that if he could just expertly deflect the force upward and use Trav's own leg against him, that could knock the boy off-balance enough to land a counterattack of his own. Trav wobbled as his leg was caught; it looked like Jerry had been given the opening he needed.

So, he swung with all of his might. Upper body strength wasn't exactly Jerry's forte; he was a long-distance runner first and foremost. That wasn't to say he was weak, however... far from it, in fact. He had muscle mass all throughout his body from his constant strenuous activities that could make men double or triple his age jealous, practically sapping the testosterone out of their body through their beards until they turned into whitened and shriveled prunes. Jerry was also pretty sure that he could impregnate a girl just by walking past her on the street and winking.

As he swung his fist, he knew something very clearly; it was going to be a hit of fate. He didn't exactly call it that out loud, but that was what it was. These types of hits only ended one of two ways. Either Trav would duck under it and make Jerry pay for it dearly...

Or every atom in between his fist and Trav's jaw would be determined to make this blow succeed, landing with such force that the poor guy's jaw would crumble to dust in his head, his teeth would shoot out in every which direction and land in the grills of random schmucks in the front row at Caesar's Palace, his head would go flying off his shoulders and crash through the roof of the arena and land in a little old Russian lady's bowl of borscht. Meanwhile, people in all four corners of the country: in Washington, in Maine, in California and in... that place that kinda looked like America's penis and where all the gators were that kept showing up on Facebook with the caption- FLORIDA! It was called Florida. People in Florida and all those other places would be all "oooooh shit, was that a 7.7 on the Richter scale?" and their neighbor would respond "Bitch please, that was at least an 8.8."

Jerry's fist cracked against Trav's jaw in the punch to end all punches. His very own knuckles couldn't take the stress of the hit, even with the gloves to diffuse the pressure, and he could feel his middle knuckle snap, crackle and pop into uselessness, the fabric of the glove thankfully sparing Jerry from what obviously should have been splinters of blood-flecked bone spraying him in the cheek. Trav, on the other hand, seemed to hit the mat faster than the speed of light as that Ivan Drago-esque punch delivered more than 2,000 pounds of force into such a compact area on the boy's mandible.

Jerry could only blink, the ref calling the match in knockout. Once the glory of victory had registered in his mind, the pain in his hand was all but ignored. He raised both hands, spitting out his mouthguard to let out a large, totally manly "YEEEEEEHOOOOOOOEY!"

"Jerry! Jerry! Jerry! Jerry!"

Yes. YES. The crowd adored him. He was their champion. This was how it all truly went.

"That's right! JERRY! ME! JERRY MOTHERFUCKIN' FURY! I AM YOUR CHAMPION!"


Jerry Fury slumped over the table, some drool spilling out inches away from his unfinished grilled cheese sandwich and waffle-cut fries.

"For... now n'... for always..."