Post by James Edwards on Feb 27, 2019 22:10:47 GMT -5
2/24/2019
One step up. One step down. Once with the right leg. Once with the left leg. My menu calls for forty for each leg with six ten minute breaks built into an hour.
Repetition is the foundation for success--or some such shit like that.
I need to make this a habit between now and Greece. Trust me, I’d rather sit on my ass and stew in the juices of another fuckin’ Max-J failure, but anger alone ain’t going to get me to the funeral. It barely got me to the wake.
I hear a beep. It's time to rest. I slap the stopwatch layin’ on the hotel bed. I miss the clock, and its shrill beeping gets louder. The second time I pound the thing and the room goes silent.
The exercise ain’t hard. I don’t need a trainer or a gym. Just some of those fancy steps they have at fitness clubs that charge people fifty bucks a month to stand in front of a mirror and take selfies instead of putting in work.
I’m glad to be in a moderately nice Mumbai hotel room to myself for another day to train and sweat out the last stink of the translator’s company. The smilin’ bastard wanted to stay with me until I left, something about the company wanting to make sure I could find my way around a country I don’t speak a lick of Hindi or what the fuck ever they talk in over here. I’m sure Irvine could spit something a hell of a lot nastier to name India’s language.
I don’t need em’, though. I’ve been getting by on my own since Mom left to go save the world for Jesus. I’ll find my way around this damn country: money talks and a man dressed in black stands out.
Besides, I want to be alone. I need to be alone in this room. I don’t need distractions and people are the worst of em’. If I want this weapon to be ready in time for Europe then a solitary life I’ve got to embrace. I need to focus on one leg up and one leg down. Right and then left.
I’m sure folks will be surprised that I’m forasking the Gospel. I know I sure as hell am. No man loves a kick like I love her. Not many people get it up from her, and she scares the holy hell out of my opponents, but she takes too long to set up, especially against big motherfuckers. I can’t keep choppin’ them down every fight. That strategy makes me too predictable. I need to cut and move. I need a move that’ll come out of nowhere and knock em’ straight on their huge asses.
I’ve got one in mind. I know it’ll work. I need more springs in my legs. I need height and speed so that when I hit somebody’s jaw, they stay the fuck down.
A beep breaks my thoughts. I groan. It’s time for another round. One leg up. One leg down. Left left. Right leg. No one to distract. I work in total silence. I have to. I’ve got a funeral I’m itchin’ to get too.
One step up. One step down. Once with the right leg. Once with the left leg. My menu calls for forty for each leg with six ten minute breaks built into an hour.
Repetition is the foundation for success--or some such shit like that.
I need to make this a habit between now and Greece. Trust me, I’d rather sit on my ass and stew in the juices of another fuckin’ Max-J failure, but anger alone ain’t going to get me to the funeral. It barely got me to the wake.
I hear a beep. It's time to rest. I slap the stopwatch layin’ on the hotel bed. I miss the clock, and its shrill beeping gets louder. The second time I pound the thing and the room goes silent.
The exercise ain’t hard. I don’t need a trainer or a gym. Just some of those fancy steps they have at fitness clubs that charge people fifty bucks a month to stand in front of a mirror and take selfies instead of putting in work.
I’m glad to be in a moderately nice Mumbai hotel room to myself for another day to train and sweat out the last stink of the translator’s company. The smilin’ bastard wanted to stay with me until I left, something about the company wanting to make sure I could find my way around a country I don’t speak a lick of Hindi or what the fuck ever they talk in over here. I’m sure Irvine could spit something a hell of a lot nastier to name India’s language.
I don’t need em’, though. I’ve been getting by on my own since Mom left to go save the world for Jesus. I’ll find my way around this damn country: money talks and a man dressed in black stands out.
Besides, I want to be alone. I need to be alone in this room. I don’t need distractions and people are the worst of em’. If I want this weapon to be ready in time for Europe then a solitary life I’ve got to embrace. I need to focus on one leg up and one leg down. Right and then left.
I’m sure folks will be surprised that I’m forasking the Gospel. I know I sure as hell am. No man loves a kick like I love her. Not many people get it up from her, and she scares the holy hell out of my opponents, but she takes too long to set up, especially against big motherfuckers. I can’t keep choppin’ them down every fight. That strategy makes me too predictable. I need to cut and move. I need a move that’ll come out of nowhere and knock em’ straight on their huge asses.
I’ve got one in mind. I know it’ll work. I need more springs in my legs. I need height and speed so that when I hit somebody’s jaw, they stay the fuck down.
A beep breaks my thoughts. I groan. It’s time for another round. One leg up. One leg down. Left left. Right leg. No one to distract. I work in total silence. I have to. I’ve got a funeral I’m itchin’ to get too.