The air in the garage is thick—sweat, silence, and tension. Jeffc stands shaky in his tight white trunks, already bruised from the last two rounds. His gear clings to him, damp and slightly twisted. Across from him, Dave looks fresh—bigger, meaner, and locked in—his green, black, and white trunks stretched perfectly over thick thighs, boots planted like he owns the mat.
Jeffc tries to start aggressive, but Dave just waits. Lets him swing—miss. Then bam—a stiff gut punch drops Jeffc to his knees in one blow. The white trunks practically shine under the overhead light, a contrast to the way he crumbles. Dave grabs him by the waistband, yanks him up, and drives a knee hard between the legs. The sound Jeffc makes isn’t a scream—it’s a whimper.
Dave drags him to the corner, presses him chest-first into the turnbuckle, and buries three more fists into his gut, slow and methodical. Jeffc slumps, hanging by the ropes. Dave pulls him out, stands behind him, and slams one more low blow—this time with a lifted boot from behind, full contact. Jeffc drops, legs spread, arms limp.
No pin. No count. Just Dave, standing tall over Jeffc’s wrecked body, flexing in his green-black-white trunks, while Jeffc lies face-up, beaten and humiliated in white.
Three rounds. Three losses. No question who owns who.
