|
|
|
|
| |
| |
Part Four, p2 | |
|
"That's my girl!" Giovanni encouraged and I was back on my feet. My corner man, the old bald guy was pleased at my performance, wiped Olga's blood off my gloves and gave me a quick standing massage from my broad shoulders down to my big hard calves. He replaced my mouthpiece and fed me bottled water through a tube. He threw water over my face and slapped me on the back. I felt so appreciated; I certainly didn't want to disappoint him or Giovanni. 
She couldn't get her arms around my 42-inch chest and I easily shoved her off. While her big arms were flailing at her side, I brought down my glove in a solid smashing blow that crushed her nose flat, cartilage and blow pouring into her mouth and she withered to the mat like she had been deflated! Her eyes rolled back in her head and she was flat on her back, brood discharging out of her face like a broken sewer main. I was so happy that I was beating Olga half to death and watched with glee as her people lifted her by the arms and legs and carried her back to her corner. The four men that had to haul the heavyweight looked like they were straining to hold up the bruised and busted up female boxer. She had weighed in at 275 lbs., after all! Once they had her sitting upright and waved smelling salt under what was left of her nose, she revived quickly, her bleeding eyes flashing hostility and she pushed them all away and jumped to her feet. | |
|
|