Table of Contents [Report This]
Printer Chapter or Story


- Text Size +
Story Notes:

Hey lovelies! So, I took TMV down because I wasn't too happy with the direction it was going in and there were a looooot of loose ends. I tweaked it a bit and am now ready to upload it again! Hope you enjoy! 




Author's Chapter Notes:

Here we go again! 




Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.


Omari's eyes scanned the room, ensuring that all of the furniture was in its proper place. He inwardly scoffed at the disgustingly bright paintings he had hung in the expansive room, wondering how anyone could tolerate staring at the pictures of flowers. His boss, Gary, emerged from the bedroom and he winced at the bright paintings, muttering something about how girly the room is. While the two of them locked up the condominium, Omari's thoughts were on the upcoming fight he had scheduled. Being a mover was his job, but being a fighter was his calling, his passion.

Gary sighed tiredly, stretching his creaking muscles. "Well, kid, you wanna grab a beer since that was our last stop?"

"Nah, let's head out."

Gary grinned, waggling his eyebrows. "You gotta hot date? Why are you so eager to get home?"

"No," Omari replied, "I have to go home and train for my fight this week."

The grin fell from Gary's face and he watched the young guy with weary eyes. "Why do you fight? You're smarter than any of the guys I've ever worked with. You could easily be doing something else, something that doesn't destroy your body."

"We've talked about this, Gary. I'm not rehashing it. Let's just go." Omari could feel his blood boiling merely from Gary's probing and he knew it was time for him to go. Omari often times fell victim to his anger growing up and after failing for so many years to control it, he gave into it, allowing it to make and mold him. The anger he felt all culminated from his less than stellar childhood. The grief he felt over his mother's death morphed into rage and uncontrollable anger. Anger at himself; anger at his father, worst of all, anger at God. It didn't make much sense to be angry at himself; he was a young boy incapable of doing anything to prevent his mother's death. Yet it still angered him to know that he was so helpless. Omari shook his head to scatter the reoccurring thoughts and trudged over to his motorcycle, hoping to speed directly to the local gym.

After a satisfying workout and training session with his coach, Ron, Omari remembered his empty fridge and stopped off at the nearest grocery store. After gathering his usual dinner of fresh chicken breasts, spinach, and a case of mineral water, he walked down the frozen food aisle to quickly check out his items. He noticed a woman studying the freezer full of TV dinners, but paid no real attention to her and continued to walk towards the register.

"Excuse me, sir?" A voice called out causing Omari to stop in his tracks. He counted to ten and slowly turned to see who was addressing him. To his annoyance, it was the same woman and a sheepish smile was on her face.

"What?"

She blinked before responding, more than likely taken aback at his short response. "Can I get your opinion? Should I choose the Salisbury steak or chicken nuggets?"

Omari tried his best to hide the frustration on his face, but it was obvious to him that he failed miserably when she opened her mouth to apologize. He spoke up, "The chicken nuggets look a little more edible than the steak.”

"I do like chicken nuggets a lot," her eyes landed on his small basket full of fresh seemingly healthy food, "Although, I’m sure you can’t possibly relate to my tastes in food." She laughed a little and Omari forced a cordial smile. He always felt uncomfortable interacting with people he knew, let alone strangers.

She rambled on, "You look good. I-I mean, I'm sure you haven't consumed carbs in years. I'm talking too much; Cory Stone is my name." While it usually would've been endearing to listen to a pretty girl nervously ramble, Omari felt indifferent and really just wanted to go home.

"Yeah. I've gotta go." Cory's face fell and she struggled to say something, but Omari had already left and was walking away. He paid for his items, placed them in his backpack, and drove to his apartment. It was finally starting to get cooler; Omari's favorite season was rapidly approaching. Fall reminded him of growing up in Portland with his Aunt Dena and Uncle Clark. The very thought of them now pricked his heart; he'd been avoiding them since moving to New York City immediately after graduating high school. The little bit of money he had saved up from his amateur fights was enough to secure a small shoe box of an apartment. Rather than being a disappointment to his parents, he fled and never looked back. His parents and siblings still tried to keep in touch with him, but he couldn't bring himself to ever reach out to them. His father would deposit ten thousand dollars into his account every month, but Omari didn't touch the money; the guilt would consume him.

The next morning, Omari woke up promptly at six and changed into his jogging clothes before exiting his home to run five miles, a daily ritual he'd started. It was a crisp morning, a white cloud of air left his mouth with each breath as he ran to clear his mind. His eyes observed the sanitation workers removing the bags of garbage from the curbs. He watched as a group of homeless people rummaged through the bags of trash, eager to find a meal for the morning. New York City was such a stark contrast to what he was used to. He was born in Kyoto, Japan, lived there for a few years before fleeing to the United States with his mother. New York was...diverse, to say the least. Omari had met a number of characters he'd never forget, Gary and Ron, in particular. Gary gave Omari a job when he first arrived to New York. He took one look at the muscular teenager and decided that he'd be perfect for his moving company. Ron was hesitant to coach Omari for mixed martial arts once Omari revealed to him that he'd been fighting illegally. The older man only agreed after Omari convinced him that fighting was the only thing keeping him alive; he had nothing else to live for.

The cold air energized his muscles and helped him become alert, prepping him for his fight later that evening. The fight was with an opponent from Brooklyn, an apparent hot-shot. As much as Omari enjoyed fighting, it quickly became a chore once the fights stopped being a challenge. Omari was larger than most MMA fighters at six-foot-three, two hundred and twenty-five pounds. It's why he shied away from fighting professionally and enjoyed his legal fights less than the illegal ones. The fights in the underground circuit were more brutal and less about rules; it was all about destroying your opponent, something Omari had mastered. He was undefeated and most of his wins were by TKO. It was something Omari prided himself on. It was why they called him The Mamba.

After running back to his apartment, he whipped up his customary breakfast of egg whites and turkey bacon. As he ate his food in silence, his phone vibrated and he knew who the message was from. He sighed and tapped the screen, opening the text.

I love and miss you so very much. Always know that.

He swallowed around the lump of guilt creeping up his throat and rapidly closed the text, choosing to ignore it rather than responding to his mom. Every morning, his Aunt Dena would text him telling him just how much she loved and missed him. At first it was annoying to him, but six years later, it made him miss her even more. His family wanted him to stop fighting, but he couldn't stop. He craved the adrenaline, the abuse his body went through twice a week. The fighting cleared the negative thoughts that permanently permeated his mind. For the few rounds he was in the octagon, the dark cloud that had settled over him would dissipate for that brief moment in time.

///

Omari drove his Kawasaki Ninja HR2 to the gym where the fight was to be held as music from his phone blasted in his ears. He went into a whole different world before his bouts; only focusing on his training and the anger that was eager to spill from his depths. When he arrived at the gym, the sound of the crowd cheering and screaming elevated his heart rate which temporarily caused him to lose focus. Turning up the music resonating in his ears to drown out the distractions, Omari proceeded to do a few warm-ups to prepare him for his upcoming bout. He wasn't worried about his opponent; no matter how many fights he may or may not have won, he didn't stand a chance against Omari. He was sure of it. The door creaking open drew his attention towards the locker room door where his coach entered and Omari noticed the frown on his weathered face.

"You're in for a fight, kid. This Robinson guy ain't no joke," Ron warned.

"It doesn't matter and I don't fucking care." He extended his hands to Ron, waiting impatiently for him to tape them.

Ron scratched his cheek and sighed, taping Omari's hands for his fight. The music, still at its top volume, settled any nerves Omari might’ve felt. He jumped a few times and brought the necklace he never parted with to his lips. The obsidian crystal was a gift from his Aunt Dena after he revealed his less than conventional hobby. Regardless of where their relationship stood, Omari kept the necklace on as a reminder that he was still loved. He kissed the stone, muttering a prayer of protection, and followed his coach towards the ring. The crowd's applause and screams were thunderous as Omari approached the octagon; he was a crowd favorite due to his brutal fighting style and undefeated record. Anthony Robinson, his opponent, watched him with cold and calculating eyes. Omari felt his murderous gaze, but it didn’t affect him. He was ready for every punch this guy would throw at him. After going through the customary pre-fight motions, the two fighters bumped gloves and then it began.

Within the first thirty seconds, Omari noticed that his opponent was arrogant; he taunted Omari and attempted to goad him. Omari played it smart. He didn't feed into his opponent's meager attempts, rather he moved swiftly around the octagon and waited right till his opponent stuck his chin out and landed a jab with his right hand. Robinson jerked his head back to avoid another punch and finally put his hands up to guard his vulnerable face. Omari smiled once he noticed his opponent go into a defensive stance and he readied himself for whatever punches Robinson would try to land. The two skipped around the octagon, studying one another until Omari finally decided to take the initiative. He could sense that Robinson wasn't used to a striker and that was one of Omari's best attributes. He swung fast and hard, landing a few punches to Robinson's cheek and nose. Robinson reared back and swiped at his rapidly bleeding nose. His face contorted in anger as he swung his left arm, but Omari blocked it and went into a clinch, gaining close-quarter control. Robinson tried to perform a duck under, nearly escaping the hold until Omari wrapped Robinson up in a bear hug and slammed him onto the ground. Robinson immediately guarded his face, anticipating the ground and pound that was bound to happen.

Omari took advantage of Robinson's exposed abdomen and landed powerful right and left hooks into Robinson's ribs. He grunted with each punch, quickly moving up Robinson's torso to put him in a North South choke. Once Omari firmly wrapped his arm around Robinson's neck, he proceeded to squeeze with every fiber of strength within him. Robinson's nose was bleeding profusely, so Omari knew he was having difficulty breathing; it made rendering him unconscious even easier. His teeth gritted as he watched the light in Robinson’s eyes gradually dim until the referee tapped Omari's squeezing bicep and yelled that his opponent was successfully out.

Omari didn't stop choking him; he kept going until finally Ron and Robinson's coach physically pulled him away from his opponent’s lifeless body. Omari stood back, watching as the medical staff attempted to wake Robinson. The crowd was screaming and cheering loudly, chanting his moniker, "Mamba"; Omari won another fight. He was victorious.






Chapter End Notes:

I'm going to start pumping out these chapters, so be on the look out! :)







Enter the security code shown below:
Note: You may submit either a rating or a review or both.

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.