— Posted in Fight Like A Girl, Vampire Noir

“That’s Life” by Hinda Hicks—Requiem for a Heavyweight, back in the day when Mondo was mortal [Fight Like A Girl, Episode #103]

One of the most underutilized techniques in boxing is the check hook [aka counter-hook]. In boxing, a counter-hook is designed to catch an aggressive fighter coming forward.

This maneuver consists of a normal left/right hook, combined with some nifty footwork. As your opponent comes forward in an overly aggressive manner, you almost simultaneously take a step back, pivot on your lead leg, and swing your rear leg while throwing a hook.

The result is sort of like when a matador sidesteps a bull and sticks him, but instead you sidestep your opponent, and catch him with a hook for his efforts.

This punch is extremely hard to pull off in a boxing match, simply because it requires great footwork and a good amount of speed to land. A fighter must have the foot-speed to take a half-step back and pivot on his lead leg almost simultaneously.

A fighter must also have the reflexes to make his opponent miss, and the hand-speed to throw the hook while pivoting and swinging the rear leg. While any fighter can learn this technique, applying it in the ring requires much effort.

However, when used effectively, this can be a great tool to stop an aggressive opponent obsessed with bringing the fight to you. At the very least, if landed, this punch will throw your opponent off balance. If landed with authority, this can be a knockout blow, or at least a knockdown blow.

This punch should be in the arsenal of any fighter with the speed to pull it off. Any young boxer with better than average hand-speed, foot-speed, and a counter-punching style should know this technique.

If Manny Pacquiao is smart, he will add this punch to his repertoire for the Hatton fight.

Historical example: Floyd Mayweather Jr. vs. Ricky Hatton. Ricky Hatton was becoming overly aggressive due to his irritation with Floyd’s counter defensive style. He lunged forward with his chin up to get to Floyd. In one swift action, Floyd both sidestepped Ricky, and hit him with a picture-perfect check hook, sending him head-first into a ring post.

Honorable mention(s): Floyd Patterson was really good at that [the counter-hook], also—as was Henry Cooper, for that matter. But he [Patterson] was just too small of a man to hurt Sonny Liston. A good small man just can’t beat a good big man – the laws of physics are against him.

Side note: Roy Jones Jr., another of Connie’s boxing idols, also used this punch significantly throughout his career.

So it seems only fitting that this is the punch that Connie utilizes to finally put Kia down for good. Although Connie is seemingly the aggressor, since it is she who is stalking Kia.

Needless to say, if you can break a person [in a fight], you’re halfway there to defeating them. But … Unlike Sara, Kia’s girlfriend, Kia refuses to break.

As such, being stylistically a counter-puncher, instead of becoming frustrated by Kia’s resiliency, Connie turns it to her advantage. In boxing terms, Connie pulls off a magic trick. She literally boxes Kia into a corner.

With Kia’s back literally up against a wall. And, with few, if any, options available to her. Kia abandons her defensive posture and goes on an all-out, go-for-broke, counteroffensive. She becomes the aggressor, and by doing so, falls into Connie’s most subtle trap. The worst part of it is that even if an opponent sees the trap, they have no way of avoiding it.

Connie adjusts how she clinches her fists. Up till now, from bell to bell so to speak, her hands have remained fisted. Now, her hands are loose—she makes them into fists only before impact. It’s a prelude to how she plans to deliver the coup de gras.

In an endgame scenario, reminiscent of Custer’s Last Stand—a pure boxer-puncher [devastating puncher by all accounts]—the much bigger stronger Kia Stevens standing toe-to-toe, having taken the worst beating of her life from a similar at-her-prime Connie Smith. Kia has absolutely no other response to her opponent’s speed, movement, and style.

PEDS or no PEDS, both girls are sweaty and exhausted. After all, they are still human. Both have incurred much damage. And … Trap or no trap, Kia really takes it to her [Connie]. Bottomline: The anti-mollycoddling of Connie by Kia.

A casual fight fan might see it as such: exhausted AND she [Kia] still slugs it out and tries to answer back in the final round. She doesn’t do what Khan did against Maidana and run out the round. NO! She goes toe to toe with her much dirtier [Barbie doll] foe to show that the bone in the jungle belongs to the true lion and that she isn’t gonna let Connie steal the show or have Connie running to away to escape. NOPE! Like a true champ should do she [Kia] fights to the final bell and goes to hell to prove her point.

But, this isn’t a prizefight and Kia is not the female Rocky. And the casual fan would be wrong thinking thusly.

Pressed by Kia, Connie goes from dirty to downright nasty. They’re a series of ugly moves that create the wonder in the end. It’s “gangnam style”, for lack of a better word. A Goon would see it as Grey. Now, even more than before, Kia’s plodding is tailor made for a slick [Gray] operator like Connie. Verdict? Kia has absolutely no response to her opponent’s speed, movement, and style. Somewhere [in Heaven above], Max Schmeling is laughing …

The end is anticlimactic. Connie delivers the coup de gras: a check hook. But, unlike in prizefighting, Connie doesn’t deliver the finishing blow with a fist. The point of the spear, so to speak, is a thumb. Upon impact, with Kia’s throat, Connie’s thumb collapses Kia’s trachea.  As big and strong as Kia is, she still needs to breath. The punctuation [the follow-through] is a deftly applied uppercut to the back of Kia’s head delivered by Connie’s other hand—the rabbit punch from Hell, that’s delivered with a fist and malicious intent, bare knuckles smashing into the base of Kia’s skull. The follow up is a brutal back fist to the temple. Ouch!!!

Manny begins gathering up Connie’s gear. The end is in sight.

Kia topples face first into the pavement, clutching her throat, gasping for air. She’s suffocating. The fight is over. The crowd disperses quickly—there’s very loud grumbling [audible in spite of the crackle of lightening and the crash of thunder] and a few choice racial epitaphs [prominently the “N” word] uttered even louder. A crazed Connie is on her like white on rice [shit on stink, etc]; manhandling the larger girl onto her back. There is no one to help the fallen Kia, except for a very disappointed looking Sara Hex and a totally disenfranchised Freddie Roach, neither of whom seems inclined to lift a finger to aid their distressed warrior.

Connie mounts Kia, straddling her chest, flat butt resting upon Kia’s plumped breasts, boney knees pinning her beefy arms down. It’s a modified crucifix called the jockey position, because it looks like you’re a jockey riding atop a horse at the races. All the while, Kia is choking to death. Their eyes lock, bloodlust in Connie’s and defiance to the bitter end in Kia’s. Kia’s eyes slowly roll back into her head as she shakes off this mortal coil.

Sick, degenerate bitch that she is, Connie cums—orgasm supreme. Then … the geysers cometh. She just cums, and cums, and cums. Multiple orgasms supreme. Think: Yellowstone, Yosemite, and Old Faithful. Connie makes no attempt whatsoever to hasten Kia’s end. Choosing instead to milk Kia’s demise for everything that it’s worth. And, adding insult to injury, Connie grabs Kia’s head and shoves the downed girl’s face into her crotch. Yuck!!! Her thong is moist and gamey. The sexual aspect of this act for Connie is not lesbian [she’s straight, after all, and a virgin]. It’s about humiliation and degradation. The fact that Kia is a woman is purely incidental.

Kia thrashes about as if in one vain, final attempt to shake Connie off of her. But, Connie is latched onto her like a leech. Then, she just shudders and dies. That’s when Connie gets off of her and administers CPR.

Once Kia is back in the here and now, coughing up phlegm laden with bile, blood, and whatnot, Connie nonchalantly walks over to Kuntz and Manny. Manny hands Connie her gear, he’s grinning from ear to ear—a shuddering sight, indeed. It’s while she’s dressing that she notices the board nailed to the bottom of her foot. She stepped on it sometime during the fight. The rusty nails of the rotten piece of wood are sticking all the way through her foot. Connie yanks off the plank and tosses it into a dumpster. Her foot is black-n-blue, punctured, and broken.

Once she’s dressed, she turns her attention to Kuntz.

“You were right, I couldn’t break her.”

“Pay up,” Kuntz smirks as she shoves her wanting mitt into Connie’s battered face.

Connie takes a wad of bills out of her back pocket and places it in her mentor’s massive hand. It’s all good, clean fun, by their way of thinking.

“Now … Do I really have to say it?” Connie is winking at Kuntz playfully [or rather her best version of winking that her puffy eyes allow]. One eye is almost swelled shut.

“Yes …” Kuntz demands. And, she’s only sort of playing now.

“Morgan Ailis Webb, born October 5, 1978, a Canadian-American co-host and senior segment producer of the G4 show X-Play, and host of the show G4 Underground, originally got her start on a show called Screen Savers. Unlike her G4 counterparts, Morgan Webb is not a fame seeking whore, but rather a beautiful woman who is very much into her video games. Ms. Webb [who maintains dual Canadian and American citizenships] is best known as a host, along with Adam Sessler, on X-Play. Her sarcastic, and different sense of humor, add to her unique and unusual but beautiful appearance. You will never hear about Morgan Webb leaving X-Play for a minor movie role that is hardly recognizable like fellow ex-AOTS host Olivia Munn because Morgan Webb is not riding the G4 train to ultimate stardom but rather the bedrooms of 18-35 year old nerds everywhere. Morgan Webb is so hot, she’s the only reason I watch X-Play religiously.”

“And …”

“Morgan Webb … Super-hot co-host of a popular TV show on G4 TV.”

“More … All of it … Just like we agreed …”

“Morgan Webb … A woman who’s a co-host of X Play and has a new feature in FHM magazine. She appeals to the horny male; age 18-34 demographic that G4 is trying to net because of her T&A, which she is definitely all that. She knows everything about video games—a gaming goddess—the gaming goddess—and is NOT just another annoying personality. Most gamers drool over her because she’s a girl who plays video games. Guess what kids? There’s no chance you’re going to get her, after all, besides being an unattainable gaming goddess, she’s married to Rob Reid a wealthy older man. But … nonetheless … if you’re tuning into X Play just to see her … Then at least you’re looking at it for all the right reasons.”

Rob Reid is an American author and entrepreneur. He is best known for his bestselling book Architects of the Web and as the founder of Listen.com Inc., which created the Rhapsody digital music service.

“Now, do the Webbhead bit.”

“Webbhead … A person at the G4techtv message boards who is a fan of Morgan Webb more than the usual viewer. Like a deadhead only with Morgan Webb, get it? Ha-ha. Webbheads hate Webbn00bs … biatch … Buy Webbhead mugs and shirts.” Connie giggles, on cue, and then resumes her rambling diatribe for those who are Webbheads against those who are not. “Webbhead … A person who holds television’s Morgan Webb in high regard and respects/likes her for more than her looks. In direct opposition to fanboys, who are stereotypically referred to as being ignorant, barely pubescent perverts who passionately use bad grammar. The audacity of the post directed at Morgan made the Webbheads who read it blush with indignity. Buy Webbhead mugs and shirts.”

“Last, but definitely not least … Recite my favorite Morgan Webb quote, which incidentally is her most famous one.”

“I’m not very attached to my hair. The nice thing about it is that it grows back, and serves no earthly purpose except vanity,” Then, after a strategic pause, Connie adds: “Could you remind me again, why she’s so famous?”

A hardcore Webbhead, Kuntz is obsessed with Morgan Webb. Fantasizes about doing her every which way and loose. So, she ignores Connie’s jab [at her idol]. Instead, the subject gets back to business, when Kuntz’s count comes up short. Such is The Business, and those in it.

“Where’s the rest of my money?” Kuntz asks as she finishes counting the bills. Connie is short twenty dollars.

“That’s all I got. I guess you’ll have to beat the rest of it out of me.”

“You can bet on that.”

The police arrive, fashionably late. Kia refuses to press charges. But, she’s smart enough to not turn down [at Connie’s insistence] Manny and Kuntz’s kind offer to take her to the hospital. Theirs is a kindness that is dictated by ROE. She [Kia] is obligated to accept it. If she were foolish enough to rebuke it, she would be eaten alive on the spot—a horrible, painful death.

As the police are hauling Connie away [for a nice, discreet beatdown somewhere between here and the station] the white girl hands Kia a business card for Fat’s gym and calls her champ. The champ comment isn’t a dig, and Kia knows to not take it as one. It’s a boxer’s way of showing respect to a fellow boxer’s skill and gamesmanship. More ROE—ergo, not an indication of some noble character on Connie’s part.

Connie is a lot of things, and noble is not one of them. She’s one crazy, evil-ass chick.

The police are always leaning on Connie every chance that they can get, trying to turn the girl into their stoolie. Not a chance in Hell. She belongs to Fats, and that’s that. Besides, snitch on The Mob and get caught, and you end up like Jimmy Hoffa—disappeared—in other words, eaten alive!!!

Furthermore, leaning on a sadomasochist is like giving candy to a baby who has a King Kong sweet tooth. Their [the police’s] futile attempt to bribe Connie with pain [merciless application of the rubber hose and brass knucks] will never be agony enough for this here pain girl supreme.

Down at the police station …

“You’re wasting your time. She won’t betray Fats.”

“Think so, huh?”

And to think that once upon a time I was every bit as deluded as he is. Deluded, conceited, it’s all the same thing. In the end, he’ll get his ass handed to him. Just like I did. He ought to know better. He should have learned something from my mistake.

Detective Patrick Murphy shakes his head in utter disbelief at his son Lieutenant Amos Kruger.

Kruger is going in his mother’s maiden name. He’s making his way in the world on his own terms, not on the coattails of his famous father. A father who, in spite of a recent fall from grace, is still a living legend on the force.

They’re watching Connie through a one-way glass. The girl is being held in one of those drab, nondescript interrogation rooms. Connie’s broken foot has swollen into the shoe. It [the shoe] will have to be cut off. Her left arm is broken, and is in a sling. She broke it getting out of the squad car—she slipped—so the story goes. A fable for the ACLU, as if they [let alone Internal Affairs] would ever believe it.

“She’s a sader. You can’t use pain to break her or bribe her. ”

“We’ll see.”

“Did you see her MRI—the one on file? She’s got chronic, debilitating pain from injuries that she refuses to get healed. Only, in her case, the pain that should cripple her doesn’t even faze her. She keeps it around to warm her cackles.”

“I saw her file. I’ll be the one who turns her. You’ll see.”

“Better men than you have tried and failed.”

“Don’t foster your failures on me. You couldn’t hack it. I’m not you.”

“I bet my reputation on turning her, and look at me now. Busted down from captain to just a detective first-class. I’m lucky to still be on the force.”

“Like I said, I ain’t you!” Kruger’s face goes beat red. Murphy relents and wishes the younger man good luck. Once, he was that young man—just like Kruger—a young, hungry lion, out to conquer the world. The fruit never falls far from the tree.

Sixteen months later …

“So, why did you let me live?”

Connie looks up. It’s Kia. Connie is sitting on a bench, cooling down, in Fats’ neighborhood gym, having just had a brisk workout with a heavy bag.

“Because …,” Connie coos, nonchalantly. She’s trying to get under Kia’s skin, and it’s obviously working by the look of the deepening furrows in Kia’s forehead.

“Because, what?!” No longer is Kia’s voice without emotion. She promised herself that she wasn’t gonna lose her cool like this. And here she is, well on the road to failing miserably at that promise.

A slow shimmer or a quick burn? I wonder which.

Connie decides to really push Kia’s buttons. And see, definitively, which is which.

“Because … Killing you would have been bad for business. Worse, it would have been bad business. Worst, it would have been inexcusable. Likely I would have ended up in the pot—as in, guess who’s for diner—if I had made that stupid choice. Fats taught me to scout talent better than that. It sure wasn’t out of respect for your fighting prowess or your unfretted display of heart that moved me to spare your life.”

“Chattel, is that all I am to you…?!”

“That’s what fighters are … Raw meat … And they should be treated as such. Especially, your kind. People like you are made to order. No wonder you shines made such good slaves.”

“Racist bitch!!!”

“Why would you say that?”

“The things that you said to me in that fight, the way that you were talking to me just now, that’s why!”

Kia realizes that she’s being played, but she’s way too far caught up in the emotion of the moment to stop now.

“I don’t remember.”

“What?!”

In contrast to Kia’s increasing cacophony, Connie is calm, cool, and collected.  Likewise, Connie’s voice is just so simpatico with her current muse and laid back temperament. The white girl’s speech is that sharp, precise articulation that goes so well with her thin lips and loathsome mouth. A girl’s mouth can never be too big nor her tongue too long or too facile.

“Of course I remember what I just said to you. That’s not the forgetfulness that I’m referring to. But … I’m supposed to remember what I said to someone in a fight? Let alone one I had with them well over a year ago? Now … That’s total bullshit. I say a lot of things to an opponent during a fight, to get into their head. I fight to win, unless I’m told otherwise. I say a lot of things for fun-n-games, too, just like I did to you in the here and now. So, fucking what.”

“There’s your opening. Get the bitch to admit that she throws fights.”

“So, you throw boxing matches?!”

Connie stands up and smiles. She opens up her locker and changes right in front of Kia—more mind games. Again, for the record, Connie is straight. She’s not trying to seduce Kia. Connie has no sexual interest in the black woman whatsoever, or any female for that matter.

“I never said that.”

Kia yanks the wire from underneath her blouse and stomps on it. The officers in the surveillance van parked out front of the gym go ape shit. Also … No more voices in her head, she blocks Lieutenant Kruger’s telepathy. The would-be puppet master is gone for good.

“I got nothing to lose! Vince McMahan has me blacklisted! I can’t even get work in Japan. I lost my baby in a miscarriage! And my husband has left me! I’m flat broke! But, I still got my pride. I’m nobody’s stooge! I’m my own woman!”

Kia’s voice reaches a crescendo.

“And you’re gonna take it all out on me?”

Kia shoves Connie into a locker. The loud crash of a body slamming into a metal locker reverberates in the gym. That cacophony gets a lot of eyes looking at them. The eyes of Goons working out in the gym. Kia and Connie are the only two humans here. Kia really lays into Connie. Connie offers no resistance. She just takes it. And has a ball. Eventually, Kia realizes it and stops.

“You’re liking this! What kind of sickass bitch are you?!”

“You just said it. I’m a sickass bitch.”

“Shit!!!”

“You were undefeated in the amateurs, just like Rocky Marciano.”

Rocky Marciano [born Rocco Francis Marchegiano; September 1, 1923 – August 31, 1969] was an American professional boxer and the World Heavyweight Champion from September 23, 1952, to April 27, 1956. Marciano is the only champion to hold the heavyweight title and go untied and undefeated throughout his career. Marciano defended his title six times.

What’s the point? If I beat this skinny-ass white bitch to death, she’d only like it. All of that hate for nothing. I hated her so much for so long, months and months of hating her, and she’s just indifferent to the whole thing. To her, it’s just business. Any violence is just added fun along the way—whether she’s dishing it out or getting dished.

That realization, the absolute futility of it all, is Kia’s needed catharsis. The rage in her is suddenly drained. Sixteen months of pent up frustration is gone, just like that. It’s over, finally. Once more, she’s at peace with herself and the world. Zen!

I might as well listen to her sell. I got nothing better to do.

“Go on.” Kia stops punching Connie and moves back off of the girl. Now, her voice is calm and collected, as well.

“If you went pro … You could be the first undefeated, untied heavyweight champion since The Rock. Fats is very interested in promoting you. Of course, she’ll cut you loose as soon as you lose.”

“What about draws?”

“A draw counts as a loss.”

“I’m no stooge. I don’t take dives. No fight fixing. I beat someone cause I can, not because they’re paid to let me.”

“Of course. Of course. After all, fixing fights is illegal,” Connie winks playfully at Kia as she accentuates the word illegal, “Everything will be on the up and up. You just have to keep up your end of the bargain.”

“And I walk away from Fats, anytime that I wish, no questions asked. No repercussions—legal or otherwise.”

“Yes. Yes. Of course.”

“So, besides money and promoting a champ, what does Fats really get out of this? Cause Fats is Mob, and the Mob wouldn’t settle for just those peanuts.”

“The Mob gets a legit foothold in boxing’s crown jewel, its heavyweight division, which the law can do nothing about. And that’s something that it’s wanted for years.”

Yea, right, like the HWs aren’t already Mobbed up. She’s obviously not going to tell me the truth about why they [The Mob] really want to promote me. So … Well, I’ve made my bed … time to lie in it.

“Deal.”

They shake hands. It’s done. Fats makes her timely entrance.

“So, do I have me a fighter?”

Fats is huge, easily dwarfing Kia.

“Yes you do.”

Kuntz makes her way in-between the row of lockers. A pure Goon, not a half-breed like Fats, she’s even bigger than Fats.

Outside, in the surveillance van, Murphy begins laughing at his son’s expense. The other officers know better than to get in the middle of what’s brewing here. Right after Kia yanked her wire and she started blocking Kruger, someone else intervened [likely it was Fats] and their remote viewing was ceased inside the gym. They got squat. The tapes are worthless. They’ve all been played like a ten-cent fiddle.

“What’s so damn funny?!”

“You are. That’s what so damn funny.”

Kruger just got his ass handed to him, just like his father predicted from the git-go. All’s well that ends well. Or so the story goes …


Fini

Kia returns in – “Thighs and Thumper”