I made this blog and I was pondering what I should start with so I decided to show a little of my owrk, so heres a little taste of the first chapter of my current manuscript "Three Rounds"
Chapter 1:
SHAWN
I’ve been fighting almost all my life. Certain things I will never fight for again. Some things I’ll never stop fighting for. People will always look at me with distain and disgust. I often get asked how I can be such a brutal person and enjoy what I do for a living. The funny thing is I don’t think I could ever imagine doing anything else. It’s the only thing I’ve ever been good at. It's the only thing that has ever satisfied me and constantly challenged my character.
I grew up hard and fast. The streets of Detroit will do that to you. It's no wonder I was involved with gang-warfare at the age of fourteen. My mother died when I was 5. It was a cocaine overdose. While she wasn't the brightest bulb around she was very kind to me and my baby brother Dan. At least what I can remember. My father with two children in his lap after my mother died did the only thing he was ever good at. He ran. I grew up my entire life without a mother or father. I was shuffled in and out of foster care quickly. Most wanted me when I first got there. They all wanted me gone after the first month. I can't say I can blame them; I was anything but a good child. It was very rare for my hands not to be hitting someone at that time. I would often find myself looking through a group of my peers trying to find the meanest one I could. Bullies are the same everywhere. Hit them hard once they fold like a cheap poker hand. Most try to save face by saying things like "I let you off" or "you're not worth the trouble". Almost every time I was disappointed. It wasn't until I was almost eighteen before I found a real challenge.
I was born with light blonde hair. It looked almost like it was bleached. Then by the time I reached six my hair darkened along with my perspective on life. I have light blue eyes and some girls think they make me look innocent. I laugh every time I hear it. There is no one that’s innocent anymore not after they reach adulthood. My body hardened from my fights. Lean muscle and small scars made up my torso. I was never tall always just south of six feet. Throw a ball cap on my head and I’m one of the most average guys you’ll ever see.
The streets were my father. They were hard and they taught me the most important lessons of my life. None more important than the first. There is no such thing as a fair fight. If your opponent can get an advantage they will. My fists were hard and my chin became iron. I didn't lose street fights. Ever. It was as if I developed a sixth sense after a while. I would always know when another threat was near. Glass bottles, chains, and knives were my mother. I never got a lullaby but they kept me safe. Like a mother I could always go to them to help me when I needed them. My friends were my brothers. We would fight with one another at times but it was never in anger. We would always take a fist to anyone if we were but asked. Mike, Matt, Steve, Johnny and the rest of the guys. I remember times in the middle of the night swinging my fists to break our enemies. I used to feel like a hero. It used to be like I was doing the right thing. Mike and Steve were good guys so helping them had to be the right thing. Right?
Dan was my real brother but we were never together. I was shuffled from foster homes for my violent behavior. Dan was the opposite of me. He constantly strived to be the best he could. Some say I resent him for that. Nah, I'm proud of him. He took the hard road. I took the easy one. I can say that now, I'm not young or ignorant anymore. He was on the honor roll, student council and captain of the wrestling team. When I was finishing high school he was leaving junior high with a 3.9 grade point average. He wanted to fit in. To belong. I can understand that now, but unfortunately we belonged to different worlds. Dan and I never really got along. He saw me as a thug and I saw him as a kiss-ass. I'll always regret not owning up and acting like the older brother.
There were a few things I learned early from fighting. You can tell a lot about a person after the first few strikes. "Everyone has a plan until they get hit". It’s a famous cliché' for prizefighters, but it's true. After the first contact you either move in or back up. Flight or fight. It's all about instincts. I was always looking for the ones to step up. I was often disappointed. I fell in love with throwing elbows. Even when I was standing, I found that they were the most deadly in my arsenal. One elbow strike to the temple and they would go rock a bye baby. I loved to hammer that shot and watch them crumple. Sometimes I would catch them with the edge and they would get cut above the eye. The blood would pour into their eye. By instinct they would close their eye and then the fun would begin. Once one eye was closed their depth perception was fucked. I could stand at a distance and they would flail wildly not knowing what to do next. Then...pop, pop, BAM, and he's down for the count. You're winner by knockout the "Irish Warhound!” One of the few things I am proud of from my family is my Irish blood. Along with it came my lust for alcohol and my short fuse. Always quick to put up my dukes and swing for the fences.
When I first saw a Mixed Martial Arts fight, I fell in love with it. I was on a drug run for Mike. It was a simple enough job drop off the package pick up the cash and walk out of the building. When I walked into the warehouse there was a four-roped ring set up and two men stood in the ring each wearing a pair of shorts and thin black gloves. I watched that which was unattainable. Before then I had never seen a street fight that was on even ground. The fight didn’t stop once the combatants hit the ground either. I was mesmerized watching these two warriors gloriously exchange blows in the ring. One of the combatants was on top of his opponent and he started dropping heavy fisted blows. One after the other, each punch was aimed at the others head. I was surprised he could take that many shots and stay conscious. Suddenly the guy on bottom swung his legs up and wrapped them around his opponents head pinning his right leg under his left kneecap in a triangular formation. Once he had the maneuver he started to throw right elbows into his opponents face until the universal sign for surrender occurred. The tap out.
Even after the fight I was shocked. These two guys weren’t your typical barroom brawlers I was used to. They were skilled competitors. They weren’t pure blooded martial artists either they didn’t have the bullshit self-defense methods and only one type of style to support them. The only way to win a fight is to be aggressive, to actually want to hurt your opponent and hurt him so bad he doesn’t want to fight anymore. That’s why I think self-defense classes are a fucking joke. A mugger or a rapist isn’t going to stop if you do a simple punch to the torso. No you have to be willing to go for the jugular. My father taught me that. The streets taught me very well about finishing a fight. Never leave a wounded fighter because it will always come back to bite you in the ass.
I walked up to the buyer and supplied the heroin. He gave me the cash. Normally I wouldn’t talk to a client but I was interested in the bout that had taken place. The things I was told shocked me even more. The fact that not only was the fight legal, but it was sanctioned by the state. You could fight like this and get paid for it! Next I found out that the fighter that one used a style that was made for a weaker fighter to gain dominance. Not only that but just about every type of fighter had to keep up in it otherwise it would be very easy to be defeated by a simple choke or joint lock. I had to admit these “submissions” had me very interested from the beginning. You don’t have to be an extremely strong fighter to pull them off and it’s a definite way to finish a fight rather than knockout. It was new and fresh. It was another way to display dominance. I became intoxicated with the idea of this new style of fighting and I wanted a piece of it. It was then I decided that was what I was going to do with my life. I was going to become a Mixed Martial Artist. My name is Shawn “The Irish Warhound” McAllister and I am a Forgotten Fighter.
ALEX
I never had a tough life growing up. I grew up privileged if I can as far as calling that. I never had any wants. My father ran his own business in Denver. My mother wasn’t a slouch either. She worked as a doctor at a nearby hospital. I was an only child so I never had to worry about sharing with my siblings. The hardest things I had to live with were trying to borrow the car at night from my father. I never complained but I did take it for granted. Everything I ever wanted was handed to me. I never knew what it was like to work for something when it came to money. Fighting was another story.
I started training in martial arts ever since I could crawl. Muay Thai, Tae Kwon Do, and American Kickboxing just to name a few. I’ll never forget those first fights. Walking in with my pads on and trying to beat my opponents as quickly as possible. Out of my first ten fights none of them went past the first round. I was too much for my opponents so I decided to find tougher competition. There wasn’t much tougher. At the age of 15 I won the Junior National Championships for Kickboxing. I won it again at sixteen and seventeen. It all started to become dull. Kickboxing which I loved was boring. I began to dread going to the gym and training. I felt like there was nothing left. There was nothing new to learn. I wasn’t training anymore I was going through the motions. 132 wins, 1 loss and 0 draws. After three years I decided that it was time to step away for a while.
My coach wasn’t happy with me. He called me a prodigy. That I was a type of fighter that only graces the ring once every few generations. Then again I wonder if Coach Lee really believed that much in me and my potential or just felt like I could do more than I already had. Thomas Lee was an excellent coach he could push even the laziest person to achieve more than they ever believed. He always said that lack of talent was not an excuse when hard work can make up for it. A fighter who works twice as hard as his opponents will win every time.
I just couldn’t understand that kickboxing would come so natural that the elite in my age group couldn’t touch me. I remember a fight where I only threw three punches in the first round because I was worried about knocking him out and ending the fight too easily. In the second round I hit him with a counter without thinking it came so natural. He hit the floor after it connected with his jaw.
School was never an extremely high priority for me. However I made just enough time to get good grades. The teachers loved me for my positive attitude. The guys liked me because I was funny and a wiseass. The girls seemed to all be attracted to me. I wasn’t ever sure if it was for my looks or if it was for my charming personality. I stand now a bit past six feet with jet black hair that sticks up in spikes. I had brown eyes and angular face structure. I was always tall and lanky I didn’t really lift weights like other competitors it just seemed to slow me down. And my record speaks for itself.
Everything seemed easy when I was in Denver. Part of me was disappointed when my father told me we were leaving. But at the same time I was glad to get a fresh start away from kickboxing. That was all I was known for. It seemed to suck up my life. I wanted to break away before it did become my life. I didn’t have the passion I once did for the sport. It turned into being all sacrifice and little reward.
My mother had been offered to be head medical director in Detroit, Michigan. My father simply reasoned that he could move his carpenter business out east in Michigan. So with that in mind I prepared to move with much hope in the whole idea as anyone else. Two weeks later we were on way to Detroit or new home. The thing is that was where I finally found it. The reason why I had fought so long and so hard: a real challenge. My name is Alex “The Wild Card” Evans and I am a Forgotten Fighter.
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