They called him Horse Meat Owens because when he was a few hits away from knocking out his opponent, his eyes would bulge and his lips would draw back like a frightened horse. His muscles would tense and blood vessels would rise like ropes underneath his skin. When Horse Meat Owens came at you with his match-ending fists, you’d best drop before he could hit you.
Not because you wouldn’t be able to get back up or that it would hurt a lot…it’s just that sometimes he didn’t know when to stop. His body knew the fight was over but his brain wasn’t satiated. If he was having a bad week, Horse Meat Owens would pound your face in so hard and so fast, you’d be lucky to have a structurally sound nose before the referee could pull him away.
It was just last night that Horse Meat Owens’s opponent didn’t fall quickly enough. Had he preemptively hit the floor of the ring, his chances at keeping a pretty face would’ve been quite high. Horse Meat Owens didn’t like to beat excessively guys that knew when to surrender. If he had been in the military, he would take a peaceful surrender. Some believe there is no honor in it, but Horse Meat Owens saw no point in wasting bullets or life or limb on principle. By the time he was done bashing in Hamstring Greyz’s face, there was hardly a nose left to reconstruct.
The referee and the trainers for both fighters pulled Horse Meat Owens off of Hamstring Greyz. I watched all of it happen from a slit beneath the announcers’ booth. The scent of sweat, musk, and iron wafted through the air like a misted air freshener. I didn’t like what I was seeing but I couldn’t stop watching. There was such determination in the downward whooshing of his gloves — in a different context, he could have been chopping firewood or demolishing drywall.
I was supposed to interview Horse Meat Owens before the match during the press conference but my iguana wouldn’t eat her dinner and then wouldn’t get back into her enclosure so I had to pick her up (which meant two scrapes to my hand that had to be disinfected). By the time I got to the coliseum, the press conference was over and I found myself underneath the announcers’ booth.
I am not discounting the talents and skills required to be an effective boxer, but where does the inspiration come from? What reservoir of rage must exist to guide the movements and focus of a successful boxer? Horse Meat Owens has been on the amateur circuit for just under three years and he hasn’t lost once. Who pissed him off in a past life that could sustain that kind of intense energy?
And can he teach me how to wield mine?
The above is entirely fictional. I felt like writing and the name “Horse Meat Owens” came to me.