Mack's Boxing gym was starkly contrasted to the facilities available at the Starry Nights Colosseum. Then again, that had been precisely what the rooster had wanted. Thousands of square feet were supplanted by roughly nine-hundred, which was just enough to house a small sparring ring, several well-loved heavy bags, a pair of duct-taped weight benches, and a mismatched assortment of dumbbells, weights, and bars. Worth mentioning was that the entire room smelled profusely of disinfectant masking old sweat.

But it was real, whatever that meant. Jam had once again earned Mack's ire by suggesting that it meant cramped, un-air conditioned, and smelly. The excessively impassioned chicken, however, had instead purported that Vince's training facilities, were "too fer show -- too, whachamacallit, sterile," or so he'd ranted.

"And'ja know anotha woid for sterile, don'tcha? Impotent! Ya wanna be trainin' wit all dem other schmucks on impotent t'ings?"

Jam had had to excuse herself from the room, but didn't make it out of earshot before dissolving into giggles, and it only seemed to deeper etch the fierce old cock's scowl into his maw.

So there they were: The contender, his third wheel, and his trainer, away from the razzle, dazzle, and cleanliness of Hot Constellations, standing in an alley between Mack's gym and a drug store. In considerably higher spirits than he'd likely been in the entire time Rock and Jam had known him, the oddly spry-looking fowl rocked back and forth on his heels, feathered fists on his hips, and a devilish grin plastered across his break.

Even the redder primate's snickering didn't seem to bother him today.

"Are ya ready, kid?"


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With wide, slightly mad-looking eyes, the rooster took a couple of almost challenging steps toward the monkey, squaring his shoulders as he grunted, "Ready t'chase me."

Jam, in poorly stifled hysterics, fell off the garbage can she'd been nesting on.

"Ya gotta chase me, Rock!" he exclaimed with a little too much bravado for his proximity. "Now, look kid, talkin' about speed, nobody gives a s**t about anything but Sonic these days, but back when I was trainin', everybody knew ya built up foot speed by catchin' chickens."

He looked very proud of himself.

Instantaneously, that enthusiastic failed attempt at a smile was replaced with an embittered grimace.

"I'm sorry," he growled, "I must 'a missed the part where you decided you was yer own damn traina'!"

Snorting out his nose, and taking a step back, he continued, folding his arms over his chest, as his brows furrowed over the beady-eyed stare he fixed on the monkey.

"Do you think it's might be possible that I might know somethin' about boxin', huh? Now, come on, Rock! Yous got power like a bulldozer, but 'cher slow like one too! Catch me, an' y'can catch greased lighting!"

"Yeah, well, we'll see about that," challenged the fowl haughtily.

He grinned in anticipation as Rock moved forward, springing back and away with surprising vigor, which unfortunately, didn't seem to make up for his protege's lack thereof.

"What is dis?! Y'ain't even tryin'!" Mack yelled unnecessarily from all the five yards of distance he'd gained. "Ya wanna win, ya gotta catch th'little chicken! Catch me, damnit!"

He spun on his tread-worn sneaker, and streaked off in a flurry of pitifully threadbare feathers.

Now well into training mode, Mack zipped around the alley with erratic, unpredictable paths, and random maneuvers. For all the trouble he was giving Rock, though, he seemed lively and engaged.

"Well, neither do you look very intelligent!" he countered with an almost maniacal laugh, wall-kicking (...wut) off the side of the alley, into a triple axle spin, and dismounting with uncanny grace into another mad dash.

"And you'll look even stupider," he called over his shoulder, "when dat Flex punk makes ya his woman fer da evenin'!"

And of all the times for him to show up...

Ace the serval strolled along the sidewalk leading to the alley the three of them were... doing, whatever in. And he almost seemed like he was about to keep walking for a moment, but by his third step, his tracks stopped cold. He didn't even turn his head to face them. He just stood there, nigh motionless, brows thoroughly furrowed as he stared into the horizon with his hands in the pockets of his famed forest green jacket.

But, he had to turn around eventually, and he did, stepping towards the more colorful of primates keeping the same blank-faced visage as he asked in the wake of Rock chasing around an obviously elderly, yet indistinctly able-bodied rooster:

"Should I even bother asking?"

The best approximation of a straight face that Jam could adopt for their approaching familiar, was sandwiching her lips between her clenched teeth, and trying as best she could not to let Mack enter her peripheral vision. It took a great deal of premeditated self-control for her to open her mouth without being reduced to a rollling-on-the-ground, air-kicking fit of laughter, but her effort was valiant.

"They're..."

At that very inopportune moment, Mack unfortuitously decided to lead the pursuit right in between Jam and Ace, leaving a small pillow's worth of those pitiful feathers dancing on the breeze in his wake, all while screaming, "Y'not even tryin' Rock! Catch th'damn chicken!"

"Training," finished the strawberry-hued simian with a very slow, deliberate blink, folding her hands delicately in front of her. She smiled innocuously.

"Can't you tell?"