I see you there, eyes glinting in the dim light, a sneer disfiguring your face, as you caress your knuckles. With a confident air you strut towards the trembling heap that is your opponent, and spit in disdain. Such weakness, how pathetic.
The crowd waits with bated breath as the cowed figure struggles to stand. After so many fights, does any strength remain? You can taste victory and arrogantly raise your hands to the spectators.
Yet you underestimate me. I may have fallen many times, but each time I get up to fight once more.
The Night Shift 