(I really need to watch more anime - I have no idea about
any of the series that have been talked about lately.)
The sweat is running off me in buckets. I narrow my eyes and furrow my brow, hoping to keep it from blinding
me. Step left. Jab. Jab.
Cross. Uppercut. The tape on my knuckles scrapes against the rough canvas of
the heavy bag. Step. Hook.
Hook. I can feel last of my strength going out of my arms. I reach deep and
pull it back together. That's what separates you from the palookas who only think they can fight. You always got more. One more step. One more
punch.
The sweat hits my eyes and I blink hard. My body takes over. Left right combo, snap the head to clear the sweat. Uppercut. The bag jumps like a Dockworker with a shirt full of spiders. All I care about is staying on my feet now; that's where I focus my attention. The
rest is automatic. Fist follows fist follows fist.
"Time."
The voice is crisp, clear and very, very, British. I step back from the bag and accept a towel from my
trainer. Me and that Rocky guy from the flickers. We're both trained by
penguins.
"Better Gilbert, better." Al gives me the beady black eye as only an emperor penguin can. This ain't
good. I don't know if he was like this when he taught the kid to use a sword, but if it was, there were sure to be
tears.
"You are still over committing on your hook and your
cross." The compliment was a lump of sugar. The rest is cod liver
oil. A lot of it. Maybe I'm being culturally insensitive, maybe it's a
good thing for penguins. No. I don't buy it either.
"While such blatantly amateur mistakes might be
tolerable in the rough and tumble matches you have previously subjected yourself to, they are a glaring weakness in your style.
One that an individual with more talent than you possess will gladly take advantage of." Al waddles around
me in a circle as I struggle to get some air back into my lungs. "You need more hip and less shoulder in your
punches. Again."
He waddles over to a bench and heaves himself up on it with
an odd flopping motion. I wipe the sweat from my face and toss the towel back to him.
"You're a real sweetheart Al." I snarl at him.
"And you are goldbricking Gilbert." He snaps back. His beak darts out and taps the bell mounted next to the bench. "I want to see proper footwork and good, clean, punching. Am I
understood?"
"Yeah." I
turn back towards the bag, arms up in guard. Step. Left. Left. Jab.
My name is Gil MacHeath, I'm a shamus, a private eye; I
thought I was a pretty good boxer. One of these days I'm going to get Al ripped on pickled herring and find out
where he learned so much about the sweet science. Until then, I'm just going to learn.
any of the series that have been talked about lately.)
The sweat is running off me in buckets. I narrow my eyes and furrow my brow, hoping to keep it from blinding
me. Step left. Jab. Jab.
Cross. Uppercut. The tape on my knuckles scrapes against the rough canvas of
the heavy bag. Step. Hook.
Hook. I can feel last of my strength going out of my arms. I reach deep and
pull it back together. That's what separates you from the palookas who only think they can fight. You always got more. One more step. One more
punch.
The sweat hits my eyes and I blink hard. My body takes over. Left right combo, snap the head to clear the sweat. Uppercut. The bag jumps like a Dockworker with a shirt full of spiders. All I care about is staying on my feet now; that's where I focus my attention. The
rest is automatic. Fist follows fist follows fist.
"Time."
The voice is crisp, clear and very, very, British. I step back from the bag and accept a towel from my
trainer. Me and that Rocky guy from the flickers. We're both trained by
penguins.
"Better Gilbert, better." Al gives me the beady black eye as only an emperor penguin can. This ain't
good. I don't know if he was like this when he taught the kid to use a sword, but if it was, there were sure to be
tears.
"You are still over committing on your hook and your
cross." The compliment was a lump of sugar. The rest is cod liver
oil. A lot of it. Maybe I'm being culturally insensitive, maybe it's a
good thing for penguins. No. I don't buy it either.
"While such blatantly amateur mistakes might be
tolerable in the rough and tumble matches you have previously subjected yourself to, they are a glaring weakness in your style.
One that an individual with more talent than you possess will gladly take advantage of." Al waddles around
me in a circle as I struggle to get some air back into my lungs. "You need more hip and less shoulder in your
punches. Again."
He waddles over to a bench and heaves himself up on it with
an odd flopping motion. I wipe the sweat from my face and toss the towel back to him.
"You're a real sweetheart Al." I snarl at him.
"And you are goldbricking Gilbert." He snaps back. His beak darts out and taps the bell mounted next to the bench. "I want to see proper footwork and good, clean, punching. Am I
understood?"
"Yeah." I
turn back towards the bag, arms up in guard. Step. Left. Left. Jab.
My name is Gil MacHeath, I'm a shamus, a private eye; I
thought I was a pretty good boxer. One of these days I'm going to get Al ripped on pickled herring and find out
where he learned so much about the sweet science. Until then, I'm just going to learn.