THE SAGE MONGOOSE
Somewhere in the dark recesses of Monty Boxa Isle, an old medieval castle ingrained from the rocks which it so boldly stands on, a pugilist prepares. The sky behind the structure is gloomy with a two-tone look, indicating sun-down. A worn-out bestus tied to a flag pole waves in the wind on the tallest keep of the castle. A storm is brewing. A cloaked pugilist rests at his study in the corner. Half of his figure cascaded in shadow. He taps his index finger incessantly on his temple as if pondering a pounding philosophical punch.
“What do you think of The Mack?” a nameless Pusha says flipping through a compendium pile of prospects.
“A Mack fighting against a Kount? Who owes who money… I wonder,” the cloaked pugilist verbally counters.
The Nameless Pusha takes the folder and puts it on top of a stack higher than the one he got it from. “Ok… what about Korn-Box-hehe, I can already telegraph the answer to that one.”Pusha repeats his tactic from before. He grabs another file, “Hmm, what about this Ganja Grin cat?”
The shrouded pugilist stops tapping. A light, a fire, has been lit in the dark hubris of his eye. “What’s his B-Steez?” he asks.
“A test-tube boxa… uses ginga tactics… fights with a wired grin… apparently had BEF with lil’ Seymour and slipped being lights out, can ya jab-it? The Carswood Project dubs him, The Box Vill’N.”
The Kount gets up from his rested position and looks at a series of photographs on a fire mantle. He abruptly stops at one and picks it up. “My protege.” Dancing light from the mantle reveals half of his face, while the other half is still shrouded. The Kount’s eyes glow red. “Hmm, I can see it now– The Kount of Monty Boxa Isle. BEFs the egregious Box Vill’N: The Ganja Grin. Sounds like a damned duel between two box’n abominations!” A sinister smile arises with teeth as sharp as vampire fangs.
Ganja Grin awakens from his twin-sized canvas in a cold sweat. He looks at the clock on top of his wooden dresser. It’s four-forty in the morning.
“Grin and grits.”
After an hour of internal shadow boxing between punching consciousness and eternal bliss, the grinning bastard gets ready for roadwork. Ganja puts on his regular combo of his short sleeved green hoodie and jab’d-up joggers.
Ganja roadwalks to the end of Jabbity Klub Drive, the city laid out before him, a two tone color scheme between the flickering sun and the darkness that enveloped it.
“The ring is mine,” Ganja grins.
Ganja passes by the usual landmarks of Carswood. King’s Store had yet to be open, but that of course was only a front for the grin’n dork. Along the memorial wall of Roadwork Alley, many tribes with their names graffitied in wildstyle letters, a missing poster of an elderly man that went by the name of Augustus Monsieur, and an old Boxroy symbol from The War. Upon the trail to Slim’s Park, Ganja sees two ill-clad fist fiends holding an old man against his will.
“This roaming punchuko makes for a perfect punching bag dontcha’ya spot-punch?” Fist fiend One winds up a tactic.
“Practice on him, will make ya’ Grandmaster in no time,” the second fiend adds to the verbal combo.
This strikes an internal cord deep within Ganja. “W-why… don’t ya p-punks… stop the presses, and fight a grinna who is raw!” Ganja huffs.
The two fist fiends look Ganja’s way. They recognize him as, The Box Vill’N, loosening their grip on their would-be OPP. “Check it, it’s The Ganja Grin son!
“What a Grin’N Gackass! Let’s BIP him and earn us a spot at The Project!”
“Young Gluv, don’t intervene,” Ol’ Gluv said. “Well… the hell you Geechies waiting for a bell?”
Fist fiend One throws a haymaker at Ol’ Gluv’s mug, but the impact slides off as the cunning vagabond turns his head ever so slightly. Confused, as if tripping on Lace, he hurls another cross and misses as Ol’ Gluv maneuvers the tactic. Ganja stands in awe, witnessing the display of the One Inch Slip, a tactic only few pugilists know. “Stand still punchy!” The fist fiend goes for a big final blow, until Ol’ Gluv dodges, and bloxay-bloxay-blah the other fist fiend gets hit.
Ol’ Gluv grins. “It’s mug-twisting season!” With hands free, he plants an overhead right digging into the fist fiend’s mug. The two fist fiends roadi-five-thousand out of Slim’s Park.
“Geah, geah, you punks better exit ring-right!” Ganja grins and continues on a verbal tactic. “Gemini and grin, those fist fiends couldn’t even lay a bestus on you. Who are you Ol’ Gluv?”
“Just call me Reh, Young Gluv” The Ol’ Gluv staggers to his makeshift tent with hands outstretched in front of him. Reh’s steeze consisted of a bandana over his head, holes cut out for eyelids, thick oversized dark lens shades, and a big green parka jacket with muted orange jumpsuit pants.
Ganja follows his newfound fascination. “You ever BEF for The Project before?
“In another life, Young Gluv, and technically those geechies did hit me, I just maneuvered in a way that mitigated the damage.”
“Grin and grits, your B-Steeze is dope; you think you could jab it to a punk pugilist like me?”
“Sorry Young Gluv, but like I said in another life,” Reh verbal combos.
“Grin-grin then Reh, guess I’ll jab back to my roadwork.” Ganja reluctantly prepares for his roadwork until–
“Slow ya’ roll Young Gluv, you give up too easily. Reh stops Ganja before he leaves, I’ll teach you my tactics under two conditions. One is to answer my question: Why ya BEF for The Project?”
Reh’s lens reflects images of A Show with each question he asks.
“Is it BEF-stamps?” A blank silhouette of a pugilist stands in the ring surrounded by the finest untold riches. The bestus itself is encrusted in the finest materials known throughout Canvas.
“Is it fame?” Another blank-faced pugilist stands triumphant in the ring. Spectators cheer and applaud while Boxa Honey Ice Teas throw themselves at their feet.
“Or is it power?” A crown sits over the blank-faced pugilist. The entity sits on a throne like a drunken king possessed with unrivaled ambition.
Ganja tilts his head down, mug shrouded in shadow as he contemplates Reh’s verbal jab. He tilts his head up ever so slightly and grins, “It’s simple… I just want something to grin about. Jabbing in the ring gives me that something.”
“Odd answer from a pugilist. But I’ve heard more deranged ones,” Reh tilts his shades up in approval. He extends his hand and instructs Ganja to grab it. The test tube does as he is told until Reh spot-punches, “Ah, I see.”
Ganja returns from his roadwork to T-Raw’s Krib to get his gear. Pusha T-Raw prepares for his nine-to-four at Ring Depot.
“Took you longer than usual dork,” T-Raw pops his wrinkled-out collar. “You gonna be down to train later?”
“Sorry T-man, training with a bum, jab-check me later punk!” Ganja roadi-five-thousands out of the house with a GLUV, shovel, and K-board.
“I swear that pugilist ain’t right sometimes,” T-Raw looks on with incredulity.
A reverse puppet, whose strings attached to the infinite canvas above holds an inverted position for as long as punch-stakingly possible. The puppet falls back down, unsuccessful in his handstand. “Good googly grin Ol’ Gluv! Thought you were gonna jab me that move you did against those fist fiends.”
“You getting ahead of yourself Young Gluv,” Reh says, poached in his tent on a stool. “I said I’d teach you my tactics, not just one little stance. By checking your hand I deduced you needed to work on upper body strength. Like my Mami used to say: Once a tactic is begun, a geechie never gives in until it is dun’. This is just a warm-up.”
Ganja attempts another handstand before falling back down. Ganja grins, “Next thing I know you’ll be teaching me the GLUV on, GLUV off tactic. Slip in, jab out.”
After an odd set of warm-ups, Ol’ Gluv Reh instructs Ganja to use the shovel from T-Raw’s Krib to dig a hole in the sand pit of Slim’s Park. The nomadic pugilist meticulously jabbed pointers to the grinning imbecile on proper form and technique. “Don’t round ya’ shoulders and back like a geechie, Young Gluv. Stick ya chest out and pinch those shoulder blades!”
After a week of odd training, Ganja loses all notion of learning a useful tactic from the old coot, so he formerly goes to give his grinning resignation. “I wanna jab you a thanks Ol’Gluv, but I got some real training with my Pusha I have to get back to so–”
“Hold on Young Gluv,” Reh faces off with his egregious pupil. “You know you can tell alot just from a pugilist’s hand. The mark of an immature pugilist is that they want to die nobly in the ring, while the mark of a mature pugilist lives to fight another day,” Reh lifts his shades, his eyes nothing but a glass fog that once held such vibrant color, long beaten out by past traumas. “Dying in the ring with a grin plastered to your face is neither salvation nor glory. It’s just you being a Gackass.”
The sage pugilist gets in his original B-steeze. His lead arm is tucked around the jaw and mouth, while his rear hand covers his abdomen. Without a word, Ganja mimics his puppet master. “This is the stance of the Mongoose, Killer of Snakes, and the basis of the defensive tactic I will teach you. Slip the jab on the inside, ready? BEF!” Reh throws a jab as Ganja slips in. Staying in that position, Reh tells Ganja to pin his right GLUV to his.“Keep it sturdy, that’s what those exercises were for. From there you can either go to town on the slab or his grinna.”
Ganja grins finally having learned something relatively useful. “But you were able to dodge without the use of your hands.”
“Years and years of practice. I’ve traveled the Canvas and spot-punched a few geechies in my time. You’ve been hit with the fundamentals, now it is up to you to hone them,” Ol’ Gluv Reh starts to gather a few of his belongings.
“Wait, will you be here tomorrow? It’s okay with my punk Pusha– he’s been working overtime anyway – maybe you need a place to stay? T-man wouldn’t mind, thats just who he is. You could be a part of the Grin Unit, Ol’ Gluv.”
“Sorry Young Gluv, but I’m a traveling pugilist, pushing through space and time,” Reh says gathering his belongings in a knapsack. Just before the sage pugilist departs, he jabs to Ganja “Oh– that second condition I mentioned earlier. Don’t tell anyone who or where you got that stance from, ya dig?” Reh says with a glimmer reflecting off the right lens.
“Grin, grin,” Ganja grins.