"I t'ink not, kid," came the rooster's nonchalant reply. He didn't seem to think much of the massive grizzly, for Mack's usual sneer registered just a little more hateful than usual when his beady little eyes swept into the opposition's corner.

"Now, this' important, Rock, y'listenin'? Don't go toe t'toe wit' dis dinosaur, unnerstand? He'll cause ya a variety of damage; jus' keep light on dem twinkle toes a yers, and see if y'can't tired th' schmuck out. Got me? Nod y'head yes."

Mack clapped a feathered hand against his fighter's shoulder with no shortage of gusto.

"An' kid," he growled. "Good luck."

(Three way collab)


Not one to pause when an opening was... well, open, Rock bored in with a drilling assault. It wasn't the hardest he had to offer, but that was an intentional gauge of effort. Anything too hard might have committed too much force. He had to be ready to abort and get out of the way of swinging pendulum-fists of death at any second.

Either as a result of Rock's reflexes and tenacity or Mack's method, the first round ended in a completely raw deal for Flex. Though the monkey didn't rack up enough individual knockout-power-punches to put any serious hurt on, the round ended with over fifty blows landed for Rock... and an unprecedented zero for Flex. Not even a jab connected.

Round 2 came and went. Punches: A whopping 84 landed by Rock; goose-egg for Flex. Was the bear's mounting anger working to the primate's advantage? Maybe.

Round 3, 122 punches registered from Rock; zero from Flex. It was starting to look less like a fight and more like a heavy bag session, to the point where the audience's cheers were fading and being replaced by cringes and murmurs, and even some mixed jeers and cheers for Flex, who, against all odds, was suddenly the underdog.

"I don't get why this guy's still movin'," admitted Rock to his corner, in a voice that lacked breath. Sweat mixed with water from a cornerman's squirt-bottle and rolled down his face while he sat on his stool during the brief gap before the fourth round.

"Aah, what does it mattoir?" replied Mack passively, shaking his head while expediently dabbing excess moisture away from the monkey's face. "Some people just got no whaddaya-call-it, no sense of self preservation."

"All the same, it ain't yours yet, kid, s'don't get cocky," warned the rooster through a focused sneer as he refreshed the petroleum jelly under Rock's eyes. "Y'put on a good massacoi so far, but I seen fights go bad later than this, so stay on guard, and stay light, got me?"

With alarmingly good depth perception for his age, he rammed his charge's mouth guard back into place in one clean swipe. He smacked the ends of Rock's gloves, and, just in time to be drowned out by the commencement of round four, said, "Give 'im hell, Rock."

By this time, the grizzly was too busy dripping with anger to even consider that Rock might even be getting pooped-- to say nothing of the beatings and bruises his sides had received. He was built Ford Tough for sure, but very few people could withstand the everlasting beating the monkey had given and stay in tip-top condition.

His ribs were aching, and even the act of breathing was starting to sting, but if there was one thing keeping the grizzly on his feet, it was the sheer rage built up with every blow received, or the fact that he simply refused to let himself drop until his opponent got his dues. His fingers were so tightly clenched, he may as well have had medicine balls for hands-- so it was no surprise how eagerly he waited for the next chance to get even and then some.

And with that began round four. Rock left his corner, slightly recovered, but nowhere near 100% again. Untouched or not, throw that many punches in that little time, and those gloves start to feel mighty heavy. Regardless, the primate pushed through the fatigue, locked on to his target again, and started closing in, looking as predatory as ever—albeit without the spring in his step.

Pow.

Rock's eyes had gone a little wide at the nigh-audible snap that occurred in Flex's brain. He was rushed back as if by a stampede of wildebeest—except the wildebeest were in fact beings of pure fist, cussing, and rage.

Caught off his guard, he backed into the ropes by accident, and took the first of several direct hits. Spit flew, he staggered halfway across the ring along the ropes, just in time to get nailed again. It was hard to tell if his constant retreat along the ropes was deliberate, or if it was just the force of the punches knocking him along, but within that single fit of rage, there finally came a solid cross that pounded his head straight back. The force of the blow seemed to revolve around his head as, in the inevitable super-slow-motion replay later to come on TV, his right ear flipped back, the hair of the back of his head moved in a wave toward the other side, his left ear flipped forward, and his jaw on that side wavered and rippled.

He hit the canvas in a skid on his hip and right elbow. The ref immediately got in the way (or tried his damnedest to at the very least), but before he could count, the simian scrambled awkwardly back to his feet and staggered into the ropes back-first with a bounce. He looked stunned and a little disoriented.

"You good?!" shouted the ref in Rock's face.

It took him a couple seconds to digest the question, and determine which of the two swirling referees he should direct his answer to. "—Yeah-yeah, m'good," he slurred through his mouthguard, gloves raised.

"Fight!"

The ref stepped back. The crowd was going bonkers. The commentators were abuzz at their microphones.

"... the first recorded knockdown Rock Lochert has suffered in his boxing career, and it looks like he's shaken from it! We've officially got a fight, ladies and gentlemen..."

"—And Lochert is in full tactical retreat—"

That was as much of an absolutely accurate statement as was possible from the TV commentator. Rock fled backwards, hit the ropes back-first, bounced off, and just narrowly passed under a fist. As he stutter-stepped away and turned, he found more fists flying at him, and no longer had the balance to avoid them; no more than seconds after he'd fallen the first time, he fell a second, not from the pain, or stun, or impact, but just the sheer act of being bulldozed to the point where he tripped over his own feet. (The "getting punched" part didn't help, mind you.) In doing so, he rolled under the bottom rope and nearly fell out of the ring.

Again, he scrambled back up with no delay, but that was twice down in one round. The ref got in the way again, and pointed Flex emphatically (or maybe aggressively would be a better word) toward a neutral corner.

"Get in the corner this time! Get in the corner, or I dock you!" he threatened.