Just the two of you. No crowd, no ref—just the low hum of a lightbulb and the faint smell of sweat and old gear in the garage. The mat’s laid out, barebones. Jeffc’s already in his Blue trunks, bouncing in place like he’s got a chance. You step in—black briefs snug, boots laced tight, calm and ready.
No ceremony. You walk straight up and slam a fist into his gut. THUD. He folds instantly, gasping. You don’t give him space—grab his trunks at the waistband, pull him in, and drive another shot deep into his stomach. He chokes on the air.
You whisper, “Stay up,” just before you send your knee rocketing between his legs. The impact is solid—he yelps, eyes wide, knees buckling. You hold him up by the back of the neck, smirk, and deliver a second low blow—this one slower, crueler, right under his Blue gear.
He’s done, barely able to stay upright. You push him to the floor, plant a boot on his belly, and flex—king of the garage.
