The Knockout Artist

by Malaki Quest

Just gotta keep a cool head out there, the boxer reminded himself as he sat leaned back against the wall, both arms resting on the bench between his legs. To say that he was the underdog going into this fight would be putting it mildly. This was an eight person Smash including all manner of monsters, magical beings, gadget types, and many other warriors who didn't have to do much preparation beforehand. But he, a late teen from the Bronx, had no spells or special sword. And everyone that knew of him balked at the news of him qualifying for this free-for-all battle of professional combatants from every walk of life.

How, they would ask, was such a feat even possible for him. His recovery skills were nothing to boast about, and he had no projectiles whatsoever. But he didn't care. As far as he was concerned, he was born with everything he needed. The boxer looked down at the bulbous gloves on the end of the muscular missiles he called arms. Months of intense, deliberate training all came down to this. Was he ready?

It didn't matter, for in the next moment, his heavy set coach was standing in the doorway of the locker room calling him into action.

"Yo, Little Mac! It's time."