Post by anthonyksavage on Jul 4, 2021 13:59:22 GMT -5
North London Boxing Gym
7:20 AM GMT
'Sup, man?! Looking a little winded, bubba.
Tony likes to get camera jockeys involved first-hand in his life. After all, some random person wants to point a lens at him and film his life, he was damn certain going to make them understand first hand what he goes through to be the man folks see in the ring. Ricky, that poor unpaid intern/cameraman doing the lens jockey gig for a few credits, had no idea he rolled like this. Hell, he thought "I made it, man! Tony's letting me crash at his crib in Kensington. This is so kush; I've got servants bringing me my Cocoa Puffs. This is great!"
At 5:30 in the morning, Tony woke him with a bucket of cold water in his face, bellowing "WAKEY WAKEY; TIME TO MAKE YOU ACHEY, LI'L BITCH!" Something told him those 3 hours of Mass Communications credits weren't worth it. Yeah, a grill soaked in water left in the fridge overnight tends to change perspectives.
Ricky found out this guy runs AT LEAST 10 miles a day, 6 days a week. The lad thought they toured the entirety of London on their Nikes. When they finally got to N.L.B.G., Rick's lungs are on fire, and his legs are boiled fettuccine. Tony...
That cocky blonde bastard, despite being soaked in sweat, is still bouncing and boisterous, like he could do another ten miles no problem.
Fuck....*huff* *wheeze*....you....
He couldn't finish; he was down on one knee clutching his chest. Tony's laughing, sipping Aquafina.
Your little soft ass...get up! Seriously, you need to keep moving or you'll end up hyperventilating. Just take it slow...
It takes minutes for Rick to get his shit together. Tony hooks him up with some water.
This is almost everyday shit, bro. We're just getting started. We're not leaving this joint 'till the afternoon. Don't worry, *pats him on the back* I'm not gonna make you put in the work in the ring...yet!
10:31 AM
Hey, Petey, if your lazy ass is gonna be in the church all day taking selfies near heavy bags instead of punching them, pack your shit, get the fuck out! The only curls I see you doing is lifting that Samsung up to your fucking face! Let somebody who WANTS to be a fighter use it!
Tony doesn't like to stop sparring for anything, especially to enforce gym etiquette to somebody who's supposed to be a pro. But Petey Charmichael's notorious for fucking off constantly. That's why he hasn't made a dent in the pro ranks; local North London tough who's big and bad in warehouse and gym scuffles, but put him under the hot lights and he folds like origami. But the big lug thought Tony wasn't going to enforce protocol. What happens after Pete decided to let his jaw muscles do the work, it was not pretty.
"Don't take the piss wit' me, turnbuckle chewer. You're the fucking poser here; Mr. grappler turned boxer!"
He didn't even look up from his Samsung when he spat out a suicide note. Tony fumed, looked at the head of the gym, and this barked out his mouth.
Jerry, either you make the Instagram champ get in this ring with me, or I'ma go down there and dog walk that fucking pussy and post the footage on Youtube! I'm the one with the ranking fight coming up while you're still doing bare-knuckle dust-ups in Hackney, piece of shit!
Petey; *still wasn't looking up* Yeah, this won't take long.
It didn’t. Oh, Petey got in some good licks, but Tony dismantled him. He couldn’t match the counter punches, got gassed within minutes, and looked like a rank amateur. Hard work>posing that day. They were still dragging Pete out of the ring, when Tony announced the store was still open for business.
“Anybody else want some of this?”
He didn’t act this way to intimidated, Rick observed. He was trying to light a fire under asses. The embers sparked a blaze. 5 more guys stepped onto the canvas, this time, for the purpose of training. Rick made a mental note: “This guy’s not out to intimidate, but elevate." No winners, no losers. Just real fighters doing the thing, putting in the hours. Tony put in a lot of in the office. They didn’t leave until 3 that afternoon.
Just another day at work. Rick was about to clock in a lot of overtime with this man.
For the next few days, Ricky witnessed something in his duties as a cameraman; how NORMAL Tony was. Too often, wrestlers don’t lift the curtain back. Hell, some of them sleeping in their ring gear and masks. So afraid to expose their vulnerabilities or their real selves, Tony remarked, they end up with more holes in the damn than they can plug up.
He was cooking for his son, Robert in the kitchen of his Kensington estate. He had a house staff, but one of Savage's favorite times was putting a good meal in his prince's stomach. Tony was steaming crab legs and chopping veggies for a side dish. Rick saw that Army side of him in that knife work of his on the cutting board. It was quick, smooth, precise. Only a man who had experience using steel had the dexterity.
Alright, little man, how many legs you want?
Robert was a spitting image of dad, a little blonde bomber who had that Savage attitude hardwired in his DNA.
All of them!He sticks his tongue out, going back to his Nintendo Switch.
What's your stepmom gonna eat, if your little butt gonna eat everything?
Tony starts tickling his boy, and that light in his eyes is on high beam mode.
Yeah, if Cass mom doesn't get to eat after that staff meeting, she gonna whoop BOTH of us!
Rick met the wife; another oddity in the wrestling game. She had very LITTLE to do with the game. In fact, when he found out what "my queen" does for a living, it blew the intern's mind.
Lovely to meet you, Richard. Dr. Cassandra Savage, professor of economics at the University of London.
Rick looked at her, then, Tony, then back at her confused...
She...you...how...?
How did people like us get together? I still wonder that myself. Must've been the alcohol! *sticks her tongue out*
We both stopped drinking; you don't have any excuses anymore, woman. *laughing*
Dinner was great. Netflix and chill afterward. They even went into the studio they built to record music to tickle the keys on the Bosendorfer piano. There was that little spat about who played better, but what's a marriage without a little heat to keep it from freezing. Tony was peeling back layer after like an onion. But onions also stung, and there was another layer Richard would behold; the one that when pushed, would pull the figurative and literal trigger on somebody.
Royal Air Force base at Chelveston. A few days later
Tony didn't earn all his money with his fists; guns and knives still put bread in the basket. Anthony Savage was also a controlling investor in a firm called Carlyle-Baker-Savage, a defense contracting firm that also provided muscle for hire. Heavy hitters, too. Rick met former U.S. Marines, SEALS, and Green Berets. Royal Marines and S.A.S. paratroopers. Yavi, his lieutenant, was a former god-damn Israeli Shin Bet operative. And they were up before dawn, loading and checking gear. Tony wasn't going with them, but he was right there in the mix, making sure his crew was war-ready.
Make sure all your (para)chutes are packed correctly. When you get to Lagos, report all your gear and ordinance to the Federal authorities. I don't wanna fuckin' repeat of last month. It cost money to have equipment sitting in a bonded warehouse.
Who was this man, Rick wondered? He fell off over a year ago, and those pics leaked of him in rehab, drawn and sweating, were a far cry from this dapper, fit beast. He was a great wrestler with a bad rep. A gentleman with a thousand-yard murder stare in his eyes. He ate grits and did tea services. he could speak multiple languages, yet, chatted gutter fluently. London shine with Atlanta grime. Rick tried to decypher a man checking the tactical scope on an M4 assault rifle wearing a Dior suit with a Chronographer watch on his wrist.
Tony said his farewells to his men, going off to Nigeria to help the government put the boots to the necks of Boko Haram. He used to go with them often in his off time. Good practice dealing with fake ring psychopaths by killing REAL ones.
Tony and Rick watched the cargo plane takeoff, and Rick asked...
So, who are you, Tony? Killer? Wrestlers? Father? Recovering addict?!
he only had one word to respond as they walked off the tarmac to his Astin Martin, shining that trademark wolfish grin.
Yes!
Not an Icon, Lord, Bonecrusher. Not a King, Queen, demon, superhero. He was Tony. Once upon a time, it was a name that trumped ALL those ignorant ass titles.
Soon, he was gonna remind the world again why all he needed....was the name on his Nation Health Service card.
7:20 AM GMT
'Sup, man?! Looking a little winded, bubba.
Tony likes to get camera jockeys involved first-hand in his life. After all, some random person wants to point a lens at him and film his life, he was damn certain going to make them understand first hand what he goes through to be the man folks see in the ring. Ricky, that poor unpaid intern/cameraman doing the lens jockey gig for a few credits, had no idea he rolled like this. Hell, he thought "I made it, man! Tony's letting me crash at his crib in Kensington. This is so kush; I've got servants bringing me my Cocoa Puffs. This is great!"
At 5:30 in the morning, Tony woke him with a bucket of cold water in his face, bellowing "WAKEY WAKEY; TIME TO MAKE YOU ACHEY, LI'L BITCH!" Something told him those 3 hours of Mass Communications credits weren't worth it. Yeah, a grill soaked in water left in the fridge overnight tends to change perspectives.
Ricky found out this guy runs AT LEAST 10 miles a day, 6 days a week. The lad thought they toured the entirety of London on their Nikes. When they finally got to N.L.B.G., Rick's lungs are on fire, and his legs are boiled fettuccine. Tony...
That cocky blonde bastard, despite being soaked in sweat, is still bouncing and boisterous, like he could do another ten miles no problem.
Fuck....*huff* *wheeze*....you....
He couldn't finish; he was down on one knee clutching his chest. Tony's laughing, sipping Aquafina.
Your little soft ass...get up! Seriously, you need to keep moving or you'll end up hyperventilating. Just take it slow...
It takes minutes for Rick to get his shit together. Tony hooks him up with some water.
This is almost everyday shit, bro. We're just getting started. We're not leaving this joint 'till the afternoon. Don't worry, *pats him on the back* I'm not gonna make you put in the work in the ring...yet!
10:31 AM
Hey, Petey, if your lazy ass is gonna be in the church all day taking selfies near heavy bags instead of punching them, pack your shit, get the fuck out! The only curls I see you doing is lifting that Samsung up to your fucking face! Let somebody who WANTS to be a fighter use it!
Tony doesn't like to stop sparring for anything, especially to enforce gym etiquette to somebody who's supposed to be a pro. But Petey Charmichael's notorious for fucking off constantly. That's why he hasn't made a dent in the pro ranks; local North London tough who's big and bad in warehouse and gym scuffles, but put him under the hot lights and he folds like origami. But the big lug thought Tony wasn't going to enforce protocol. What happens after Pete decided to let his jaw muscles do the work, it was not pretty.
"Don't take the piss wit' me, turnbuckle chewer. You're the fucking poser here; Mr. grappler turned boxer!"
He didn't even look up from his Samsung when he spat out a suicide note. Tony fumed, looked at the head of the gym, and this barked out his mouth.
Jerry, either you make the Instagram champ get in this ring with me, or I'ma go down there and dog walk that fucking pussy and post the footage on Youtube! I'm the one with the ranking fight coming up while you're still doing bare-knuckle dust-ups in Hackney, piece of shit!
Petey; *still wasn't looking up* Yeah, this won't take long.
It didn’t. Oh, Petey got in some good licks, but Tony dismantled him. He couldn’t match the counter punches, got gassed within minutes, and looked like a rank amateur. Hard work>posing that day. They were still dragging Pete out of the ring, when Tony announced the store was still open for business.
“Anybody else want some of this?”
He didn’t act this way to intimidated, Rick observed. He was trying to light a fire under asses. The embers sparked a blaze. 5 more guys stepped onto the canvas, this time, for the purpose of training. Rick made a mental note: “This guy’s not out to intimidate, but elevate." No winners, no losers. Just real fighters doing the thing, putting in the hours. Tony put in a lot of in the office. They didn’t leave until 3 that afternoon.
Just another day at work. Rick was about to clock in a lot of overtime with this man.
For the next few days, Ricky witnessed something in his duties as a cameraman; how NORMAL Tony was. Too often, wrestlers don’t lift the curtain back. Hell, some of them sleeping in their ring gear and masks. So afraid to expose their vulnerabilities or their real selves, Tony remarked, they end up with more holes in the damn than they can plug up.
He was cooking for his son, Robert in the kitchen of his Kensington estate. He had a house staff, but one of Savage's favorite times was putting a good meal in his prince's stomach. Tony was steaming crab legs and chopping veggies for a side dish. Rick saw that Army side of him in that knife work of his on the cutting board. It was quick, smooth, precise. Only a man who had experience using steel had the dexterity.
Alright, little man, how many legs you want?
Robert was a spitting image of dad, a little blonde bomber who had that Savage attitude hardwired in his DNA.
All of them!He sticks his tongue out, going back to his Nintendo Switch.
What's your stepmom gonna eat, if your little butt gonna eat everything?
Tony starts tickling his boy, and that light in his eyes is on high beam mode.
Yeah, if Cass mom doesn't get to eat after that staff meeting, she gonna whoop BOTH of us!
Rick met the wife; another oddity in the wrestling game. She had very LITTLE to do with the game. In fact, when he found out what "my queen" does for a living, it blew the intern's mind.
Lovely to meet you, Richard. Dr. Cassandra Savage, professor of economics at the University of London.
Rick looked at her, then, Tony, then back at her confused...
She...you...how...?
How did people like us get together? I still wonder that myself. Must've been the alcohol! *sticks her tongue out*
We both stopped drinking; you don't have any excuses anymore, woman. *laughing*
Dinner was great. Netflix and chill afterward. They even went into the studio they built to record music to tickle the keys on the Bosendorfer piano. There was that little spat about who played better, but what's a marriage without a little heat to keep it from freezing. Tony was peeling back layer after like an onion. But onions also stung, and there was another layer Richard would behold; the one that when pushed, would pull the figurative and literal trigger on somebody.
Royal Air Force base at Chelveston. A few days later
Tony didn't earn all his money with his fists; guns and knives still put bread in the basket. Anthony Savage was also a controlling investor in a firm called Carlyle-Baker-Savage, a defense contracting firm that also provided muscle for hire. Heavy hitters, too. Rick met former U.S. Marines, SEALS, and Green Berets. Royal Marines and S.A.S. paratroopers. Yavi, his lieutenant, was a former god-damn Israeli Shin Bet operative. And they were up before dawn, loading and checking gear. Tony wasn't going with them, but he was right there in the mix, making sure his crew was war-ready.
Make sure all your (para)chutes are packed correctly. When you get to Lagos, report all your gear and ordinance to the Federal authorities. I don't wanna fuckin' repeat of last month. It cost money to have equipment sitting in a bonded warehouse.
Who was this man, Rick wondered? He fell off over a year ago, and those pics leaked of him in rehab, drawn and sweating, were a far cry from this dapper, fit beast. He was a great wrestler with a bad rep. A gentleman with a thousand-yard murder stare in his eyes. He ate grits and did tea services. he could speak multiple languages, yet, chatted gutter fluently. London shine with Atlanta grime. Rick tried to decypher a man checking the tactical scope on an M4 assault rifle wearing a Dior suit with a Chronographer watch on his wrist.
Tony said his farewells to his men, going off to Nigeria to help the government put the boots to the necks of Boko Haram. He used to go with them often in his off time. Good practice dealing with fake ring psychopaths by killing REAL ones.
Tony and Rick watched the cargo plane takeoff, and Rick asked...
So, who are you, Tony? Killer? Wrestlers? Father? Recovering addict?!
he only had one word to respond as they walked off the tarmac to his Astin Martin, shining that trademark wolfish grin.
Yes!
Not an Icon, Lord, Bonecrusher. Not a King, Queen, demon, superhero. He was Tony. Once upon a time, it was a name that trumped ALL those ignorant ass titles.
Soon, he was gonna remind the world again why all he needed....was the name on his Nation Health Service card.