Jack, Story of a Young Fighter P1

Our man Jack

“OOoof”

Jack’s day hadn’t started well. He had suffered abuse at work from both customers and his douche of a boss alike. In short, he was done with this day and wanted nothing more with humanity. After a long and painful ten-hour shift, he wanted to kick back a few beers and just relax. However, these guys seemed to have... other plans. He didn’t know exactly what happened, but before he knew it, three guys had grabbed him and drugged him outside. They didn’t even say why before the first fist flew. A hard jab to his face took him by surprise and snapped his head back. Another quickly followed, busting his nose and forcing it to bleed. Jack could taste his own blood but had no time to process it. Another hard cross to his ribs shocked him and stunned him stupid. Another series of jabs pushed him back against a wall, when, after a taunt about doing what they want, they began to work over his stomach. A strong fist, one far bigger than his own and seemingly made of rock, plowed into him again and again, shaking him and steadily increasing the need to throw up. A stiff uppercut came and connected with the upper portion of his stomach area, forcing out the air and having his knees go weak. He was relieved when the men allowed him to double over and fall to the ground. Hopefully, this meant the fight was over, and they would leave him be. 

It did not.

Blood dripped from his broken nose and beaten face; it would soon be joined with vomit from his abused stomach. With each hard slam of their boot onto his back, fresh pain and insult would assault his body and pride. These men, who were currently patting themselves on the back for a job well done, were laughing at him, mocking him, claiming him as just another prize for their wall of trophies.  Beating up a skinny kid was considered a job well done to three muscled men.

How nice.

A swift kick to the side came suddenly and made Jack scream out in pain. Worse yet, the force of the blow had flipped Jack around, so now he rested on his back, which too was in considerable amounts of pain. Again painful and hateful boots came slamming down onto Jack’s body, rocking his chest and stomach areas. Each blow came hard and fast, each blow shook him forcing him to cough up saliva and possibly blood. Each blow came with an equally stinging insult, this wasn’t a fight, this was a humiliation for the sake of humiliation.  One of the men, he couldn’t see well but they appeared to have a black shirt on, grabbed him by the hoodie and began pounding his face again. Jack’s head jerk to the side with each hit, unable to even bring up a basic defense.  Bone and tooth felt as it would crack and the loss of blood from his body began to rise. As the punches continued to explode on his face, as the pain shot threw his body, he broke down and begged the men to stop. He pleaded for them to show mercy and he would give them whatever they wanted. What he got was a mean fist, one that shook his face and broke his nose, shutting him up quickly.

“We didn’t say you could talk boy” one spat. 

To add insult to his already considerable injury, as if this was nothing more than a game to them, this coward of a man tagged in the other of his friends. What was this, the WWE?! Did he walk into a cage match or something? All this pain, all this suffering, would be nice if he was at least getting paid for it. The new man flexed his body hard, showing considerable muscle even threw his shirt. For a moment, it seemed his chest would burst from his shirt, so considerable the muscle was shown. But instead of showing off, the muscle man mounted Jack, using his on considerable weight to hold Jack down and, grabbed Jack by his shirt,  and began pounding Jack's face harder and faster.  Blood would flow like water, and like water, not seem to stop.

This man, this coward, was using Jack's face as if he was nothing more than a speed bag! He tried to call out, he tried to cry or moan in pain, but nothing came. His left eye or at least he thought it was because he was seeing stars, swelled up and was locked uptight. He coughed up blood and wished to end it all.

It did, but only briefly. 

Another laugh, another tag, another man to join in the show and have Jack pay for simply living. This, the last of the three, worse only a dark vest that showed off a huge muscled and haired chest.  This man was huge and was built like a truck. With all this considerable power, he effortlessly forced Jack to his feet. Unable to do so under his own power, and not even to hold himself up, the act ripped Jack’s shirt exposing his beaten body under.

“Ha! Look, not even man enough to have hair! Someone’s a bitch boy!”

Along with a weak frame and lack of any real muscle, it was true that Jack hadn’t developed much into manhood after his teen years. It was a sore point for him, and one he never liked being brought up. He wished he had some more, to show off some manliness, but it was something he just couldn’t control. But on this, he could not dwell for two strong arms had come from behind and was now holding him up. Worse yet, his arms were forced behind his head. He was open to all forms of abuse, and abuse it what he was going to get. He once again begged for the men not to continue, but all they did was laugh. He wasn’t human to them anymore; he was nothing more than a punching bag.

And so, one by one, they took turns brutalized his body. 

His body would shift and jerk from side to side as hooks were planted on his upper body. With not much muscle or even fat to speak off, the blows vibrated the skin and bones of Jack’s poor body. Blood would soon drip down his chest and stomach as he was unable to even spit it out anymore. It would just droll down as his head sagged from exhaustion and defeat. Uppercuts would soon be mixed in, forcing him off his feet. Each would produce a low moan of pain and regret of still being alive. Yet held in place, forced in this position of disappointment, he could not fall or defend.  He was a meat sack, a punching bag, his identity stripped and destroyed. Jabs would come interrupting thoughts, they would come hard and fast, they felt like they would fracture his spine. Soon his stomach area would become bruised and bloodied, and soft and warm to the touch. Any muscle there (he wasn’t very prone to gym trips) was tenderized and useless. His attackers knew this, so then moved to his chest. Sharp, well-aimed and trained fists would slam each side of Jack’s chest, causing him to scream out in pain. Maybe? He had no thought of time or sound anymore, his screams very well may just have been in his head.  When it seemed like his body could take no more, they simply dropped him and left him. It was like he was nothing more than a toy, a plaything to use and discard.

And there he lay, in a pool of his own blood and vomit, no longer a person of worth… or anything.

He just wanted to die.

"Please let me die...."

.

..

…

….

He could hear some sort of commotion, some short of yelling. 

They were probably jerking off to how well they did….

But there was more yelling, angry yelling…

It sounded like… someone’s head hit a wall?

Was he hearing things?

He wouldn’t know, at least for a while, but he did know one thing…

Before he finally blacked out, before he felt death coming for him, he heard someone say “don’t worry man, we got you”.

To be continued….