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Valenzuela vs. Blackwell: In the Prism Club For Underground Boxing

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Starring

Valenzuela

Willow Blackwell

<Scene> The Prism Pit: Welcome to The Prism Pit, New London’s most infamous underground fight club, hidden in the basement of a rundown building in the town centre. The bar glows with flickering neon signs, and a haze of smoke, alcohol, and adrenaline. In the center of the room stands the crown jewel: a raised boxing ring surrounded by ropes that shimmer in shifting neon hues; blue, magenta, green, and gold, giving the pit its name.

Above the ring, ancient ceiling fans spin lazily, and a crooked hologram screen displays stats, bets, and snarky commentary. Around the edges, grizzled regulars slam back drinks while newcomers shout and wave digital credits, feeding into the betting system built into the bar’s aging terminal. The referee, a gruff, one-eyed bartender named “Rigs”, stands ringside, one hand holding a half-drunk glass of something amber, the other adjusting the mic hanging from the lighting truss. He doubles as the bar’s bouncer, medic, and odds-setter. There are unlimited 3 minute rounds, with a one minute break between rounds.

<Valenzuela> I’m in my tiny changing room, now ready in my black sports bra, blue jean cutoffs, white boxing boots, and green and red 8 oz gloves.

I’m thinking, she’s tall. Lanky. Got that reach. Her arms look like they could jab me from across the fucking ring. She’s young too. Nineteen. Legs that don’t stop moving, and she’s probably faster than me. I’m thirty-two. Ain’t like I move the way I did at twenty-two. But I don’t need to move like that. I just need to move forward, come inside her guard, real close, and pop that chin up and out of the ring. Yeah! I hear it’s time to go ring side…so out I go down the hallway, and then stop at the entrance to the bar.

<Valenzuela> 🎤Announcer Intro: The lights dim, and the crowd quiets. A spotlight hits the center of the ring as Rigs clears his throat, feedback screaming briefly from the mic before the beat drops and his gravelly voice echoes through the Prism Pit: “Laaaaadies and scum, degenerates and digital fiends… welcome to FIGHT NIGHT at the PRISM PIT! Where pride hits harder than payday and blood flows smoother than moonshine whiskey!” “Tonight’s feature: a classic clash of youth versus fury, reach versus pressure—brains versus pain!” “First to enter the ring, and in the red corner, fighting out of Durango, Mexico, a veteran of the underground boxing scene, known for leaving ribs cracked and pride shattered. She’s 5 foot 3 and 125 lbs of pure Mexican mayhem, stepping in with a jaw like iron and fists that don’t stop until someone hits the floor… give it up for CARLA ‘LA PRINCESA’ VALENZUELAAAA!!”

<Valenzuela> So here I go, gloves raised over my head, I strut out to the ring, and climb the steps to the ring apron. The multicolored ropes shimmer as I duck under the top strand and step into the ring. I roll my shoulders, bounce twice on the balls of my feet, and then I throw out a sharp double jab, slicing through the air with a pssst-pssst! like a snake ready to strike. Then a quick step-in right hook, twisting my hip with authority. I bob and weave low, head snapping side to side beneath invisible punches, then pop up with a ripping uppercut like I’m trying to tear someone’s jaw off. Then my left digs to an invisible body, my right follows with a tight overhand that echoes through the room with the pop of leather on air. I pause, exhale slowly through my nose, and run a glove across the sweat already building on my brow. Oh yeah baby, it’s claro, I’m here to hurt someone.

<Valenzuela> Then the announcer continues: “And now, fighting out of New London, standing at 5 feet 10 inches, 140 lbs, our very own, long-limbed and cold as a January alley brawl… the silent storm, the queen of counters, WILLOW BLACKWELL!!!!!” “Place your bets. First to hit the mat, or first to say stop. Either way, it ends one-on-one, no way out.”

<Valenzuela> I have invited @Willow_Blackwell to join #Willow_vs_Val.

<Willow_Blackwell> The Prism was one of the three main underground rings in New London. Though countless others could be found in the innumerable cracks and crevices throughout the megatropolis, the pit was special. I'd come a long way to get here, starting in the smaller circuits as a regular at 16. Three years in, I was headlining the main show in every single circuit that mattered. This night promised to be one of my biggest challenges yet. Not literally mind you, but I was concious of the fact that size wasn't everything... A veteran with thirteen years of age on me, she could have started this game before I was even born. Was I concerned by that? No, but experienced fighters were that much more gratifying to defeat. With three years of these fights under my belt, I was getting to the point where I could call myself experienced too, and I would demonstrate it tonight. I slipped into my usual attire; tight black shorts, a white sport bra. I gave myself a once over in the dingy mirror, plywood walls around me forming some ramshackle changing stall. For all the money that flowed through this place, it never seemed to get any tlc. Right as I'm slipping a brand new pair of pearly white leathers over my paws, I heard the call out. The faintest hint of a smile washed over my lips before it flickered away and I made for the ring.

<Willow_Blackwell> My walkout was poised, graceful steps but direct and purposeful, as if I was already making a beeline for you. I slipped through the flashy ropes, the lightshow still hadn't lost its allure. My icy blue eyes fix on you from across the ring, a flat face, stoically scanning and sizing you up and finding a compact and muscular package. Even with my fifteen extra pounds, it was stretched over my seven inches of extra height, from first impressions it was hard to imagine there was much disparity between us in terms of stopping power. I stepped to center ring to greet you, silently peering down at my older opponent, exuding an unintentional air of superiority. I wasn't trying to be menacing, I just had little to say, if you had any words, I'd pay them little attention as well. "Alright ladies, keep it clean-ish, theres money on this one... I want a bloodbath though!" Rig gave the final orders, and I regarded them by simply taking a few strides back on my long legs. I loosened up my limbs and rolled my neck, shortly after the much anticipated sound of the bell rang out. It was time to see if your years of experience could match my raw talent. I would start things off slow, orthodox stance, hands up, elbows tucked, my light footwork already on display as I drifted to center ring, cold eyes never leaving your own...

<Valenzuela> Here she comes, my gringa opponent, staring at me with those icy blue eyes like she’s already reading the script of this fight. I don’t flinch. I lock my dark Latina gaze onto her, steady and smoldering, like I could burn a hole through her with my stare. Rig, our so-called “ref,” gives a half-hearted rundown of the rules. It’s a joke, he’s got one eye under a patch and the other probably half-blind from whiskey. This isn’t a sporting event. This is the Prism, and in the Prism, it’s a fight. There’s no glove tap, no fake smiles. Just two women about to find out who’s better with their gloved fists. That suits me just fine. I think about saying something slick, something to get under your skin, but your silent, stoic. Not worth wasting breath. I already know how this will go. You’ll try to dance., use your reach, stick and move, jab and pivot. The tall ones always do, but I’ve got something else in mind. I’ll drag you into a war, up close and ugly. Mexicana style. I step back to my corner, rolling my shoulders, throwing a few sharp shadow punches to loosen up as I start bouncing on my feet, not for show, but to settle my nerves. I have a bad habit of coming out too hot, too reckless. It’s cost me badly before. But tonight, I’m gonna break this lanky 19-year-old gringa in half. I bounce on the balls of my feet, coiled and ready. Then DING DING DING!!!!!!!!!!! Rig waves us forward with a crooked grin. “BOX!!!!!” (R1 3:00)

<Willow_Blackwell> The final moments before the match are always a sort of climax to anticipation. I looked forward to every chance I had to get in the ring. To dismantle anyone dumb enough to get in the ring with me. You were no exception, I'd heard of your reputation for brawling, and truth be told I was no stranger to a close quarter mix-up myself. That would come later though, first, a boxing lesson. I kept you at the edge of my range, circling with smooth footwork, a shift of my head and shoulders in the opposite direction, I flicked a feint towards you with my left. Then a split second later, I changed my steps from clockwise to counter-clockwise, in one concise motion ripping that same left hand into a blistering hook for your rib cage. I was looking to shock you right out of the gate with my blend of power, speed and above all precision. My plan is dynamic, it will evolve alongside the fight. The directive won't change though, leave the boxeadora broken at my feet.

<Valenzuela> We meet and start circling in the ring entre, and boxing is all about motion, and using motion to confuse, intimidate, and dominate. Your left comes out, and then you change your direction, and here we go! That change in direction catches me off guard, and suddenly CRACK! A vicious hook flys out and slams into my ribs, but I twist just enough with the impact to my right, gritting my teeth and rotating my torso with the punch so it doesn’t land flush. It hurts, and my right elbow instinctively tucks tighter to my side, soaking up the tail-end of the force. It’s like catching a punch while rolling with it, takes the sting off, buys me a second to breathe. OK….this blue eyed wonder is precise and fast, but I already figured this before stepping in the ring. So now I step in fast, I bob left, then right, and feint low left hook like I’m gonna go for a liver shot. But then sweep the hook high, trying to drive it over your right shoulder, wanting to hit that jaw, and show you I can aim high. (R1 2:40)

<Willow_Blackwell> I have my expectations of you, just as you do of me. I know your aggressive charge is coming soon, but you start with some clever weaving. At your feint, I dart backwards. A good thing too, as it buys me time to see the loaded followup hook coming high. Not too eager to taste your power yet, I leaned out, just shy of your glove. Quickly, I stabbed at the same spot on your ribs with a low uppercut, trying to sneak it in before you could reset, then I looked to beam your left eye socket with a heavy right cross, a simple but effective combination, carefully selecting my targets and doing my best to show up the veteran fighter in front of a crowd.

<Valenzuela> I get a sharp taste of your speed now, your footwork is slick, and you’re gone before my left hook even comes close. I’m left swinging at empty air, off-balance, looking like I’m punching ghosts. The crowd eats it up, hooting like vultures catching a scent of blood. Then you make me pay. You dart in, and your left uppercut slams into my right ribs with a POP! leather clad fist smashing into bone. I grit my teeth as the pain flares, but I don’t flinch. I’ve taken worse so I absorb it, force my body to stay upright. But your follow-up’s already coming, your right cross flashing out like lightning. This time, I’m ready. Being seven inches shorter has its perks, so I dip my knees, low and sharp, and your glove cuts clean through the air where my head used to be. Now you’re open. I drive forward, stepping into your space, real close, where your reach doesn’t mean shit! I twist and rip a left shovel hook toward your liver, aiming to sneak my glove under that long, extended arm of yours. I follow it with a snappy right uppercut, straight at your chin, trying to rattle the head and maybe even shut off those flashy blue eyes! (R1 2:20)

<Willow_Blackwell> 'Shit' was my only thought as I watched my glove sail over your head. I had the ring IQ to know what happened next, but I was too out of position to do much about it. You were going for a low kill shot early, a liver shot that I can't do much to dimish. I twisted a bit but it still commected enough that I felt a familiar searing pain wash over my body. If I took it direct it might have freezed me up entirely. So you are dangerous after all.... that uppercut comes in as a quick followup and rattles me a bit, but I'm far from fragile. I didn't want to end up this close this soon, but I had to adapt. I was looking forward to outboxing you, but beating you at your own game might even prove more satisfying. With a snarl, I drove a left handed uppercut low for your solar plexus, looking to take some gas out of your tank, a twist and shift to my right and I unfurl a nasty right hook for your left eye socket, getting to work on shutting them in a semi-permanent wink that would last for a week after the fight. With that quick combo, I'd try to reset to at least a medium range, more to make you work harder than anything else.

<Valenzuela> I drive my left glove into your liver, and though I feel you twist just in time to take some of the sting off, smart move as it still has to burn. That kind of pain lingers. My right uppercut follows clean, landing solid, but you brace for it, stiffening your neck so I don’t get that satisfying snap I wanted. No knockout, but it scores, and I’ll take that. Then I catch your left hand starting to drop, your uppercut cocking into motion, but I’m already on the move. I crash forward, ramming my body into yours to stuff the punch before it can fire. The collision knocks me back a half step, but I stay locked in. I see your right hook coming telegraphed, and really? Did you learn nothing? I duck low again, knees bending, and your glove sails overhead. Now I’m inside, close. You’re open, and I rip a right hook towards your lower floating ribs, aiming to suck the wind out of you, then follow with a sharp left uppercut straight towrds your solar plexus trying to knock the breath from your lungs and put a dent in your will to fight. I’m gonna keep you close in baby and give this cocky 19 year old a real boxing lesson! ( R1 2:00)

<Willow_Blackwell> Another string of expletives dart through my mind, as I see your advance. It's going to be back to the drawing board for me as you absorb my body blow and slip another head shot. I gave you another gift of an opening and you took it with a sharp two-punch combo, the first shot to the ribs catches me exhaling, then then I'm inhaling as thr solar plexus shot comes in, that one choking my up and making my mouth water. Suddenly, I was taking your experience seriously, I couldn't afford to treat you like anyone I'd previously met in this ring. My ego was more battered than anything else though, for now I knew I just needed to collect some air back and keep you off of me. I fought against my lowered oxygen reserves, stressing my lungs a touch to pepper you with a pair of defensive jabs, one to the chin the other the chest, not my hardest punches but firm enough to hopefully keep you at bay as I again tried to circle out, using my long legs to create space and buy some time. My stoic gaze had turned into a bitter glare, frustrated by the opening minute of this fight but also silently analyzing you. I'm the subject of some boos now, as your high octane style is much more what these people like to see, but I don't care what any of these drunks think, I only care about beating you.

<Valenzuela> Okay, that’s lesson one in infighting, chica, and so far, I’ve been lucky enough to drag you into my kind of fight. That last one-two to the ribs and solar plexus? Beautiful, it hurt. I see it written all over those icy blue eyes of yours. You’re winded, rattled, and now you’re pulling back, using those long legs like we just switched from boxing to a fucking track meet. The crowd doesn’t like it, I don’t either as I want to stay in close, but I can’t blame you. Distance is your safety net. You start circling out, smart move, but for once I don’t charge in like a hotheaded Latina bitch and walk into something stupid. I circle right along with you, measured, stalking. Then I lift my glove, give it a little wave, c’mon then, that universal dare. Let’s see if you’ve got the guts to dance in close again… or if those legs of yours are just for running. (R1 1:40)

<Willow_Blackwell> I retreat just long enough to get my bearings, pissed off by your antics more than anything. But I knew how to control that anger, I knew how to use it as a cudgel without getting careless. So, for now I let you settle in, thinking you have me intimidated. My backwards movement halts just as I get my lungs back to capacity, and this time I start to throw another high right, a convincing feint, letting you think that I'm a very slow learner. I wait a split second for your head movement, counting on another slip from you. You wanted me in close? Well careful what you wish for, because if you took the bait, or even if you didn't, I surged in with a laser beam left straight, looking to flatten your nose, stepping in and letting my recoiling left return in a pistoning uppercut to the navel, then a solid right uppercut seeks the chin, hoping my sudden switch between evasion to aggression cuts through and gives you something to think about. My wiry muscles burn with the effort as I look to halt your momentum and take the fight to you.

<Valenzuela> I have no doubts that you are still dangerous, and maybe I tempted fait to taunt you, I motion for you to bring it, and then you do! I know someone 19 years of age has boundless energy compared to me, but I still have a few tricks, wow…..that right starts to fly, but this time rather than slipping it, I raise my guard higher intending to parry the blow, but it does not come. Instead, a straight left shoots out, but with my guard up, it bangs into my gloves, pushing them back into my face, momentarily obscuring my vision. I don’t see the left uppercut coming, and it SLAMS into my belly button, making me gasp, my mouth opening in a big O, spit spraying out. I bend forward slightly from the impact and see the big right uppercut coming, but I am quick and lunge into you, trying to wrap my arms around your middle, and use my lower centre of gravity to pressure you backwards towards the ropes, hoping to get my bearings in a clinch. (R1 1:20)

<Willow_Blackwell> I sunk the body shot into you, managing to penetrate hat thick layer of muscle beneath your latin curves. It's a nice reward seeing your face contort in pain, even if the spray of spit is a bit unpleasant, flecks landing on my arm. You seemed adamant on charging headlong though, stopping my momentum before I could get too much going. You go for the clinch and I see it coming, managing to snake my long left arm up above your grasp. Half clinched, you try to wrestle me back, but I dig in and make it a struggle, using my rare weight advantage to its fullest. My free left tries to excavate your obliques with repeated shovel hooks twice, before I try to snake my sweat slicked right arm between our bodies, digging a sharp elbow into your abs and pressing to create enough room. With a snarl, I pivot my hips, and try to club your temple with a hard left hook in the clinch, I'd try to fully push out and free myself after that one, venom in my every move now, I wanted nothing more than to hurt you.

<Valenzuela> We’re locked in a dirty tangle, wrestling for dominance, but the tide shifts in your favour, I feel it happening. You get your left arm loose and punish my side with short, choppy hooks to the obliques. Each thud rips a breath from my lungs. Then oooooof!......your right elbow drives into my belly like a spike, sharp and mean. I can’t hold this clinch. I stagger back, sucking air, just in time to see your follow-up hook whip in front of my temple, missing. But I’m not giving you space so I lunge right back into range, reckless maybe, but an opportunity. My gloved fists shoot out in a fast left-right-left combo, all straight shots, all aimed dead at your nose. I want to rattle your skull, crack that calm mask you wear, and maybe break something in the process. (R1 1:00)

<Willow_Blackwell> I was starting to wisen up, I had underestimated your speed at the start of this, and your ability to capitalize on any mistakes I made. Seeing my white leather cleave through empty space, I instinctively leaned my head back, still eating the first of your string of punches on the nose, cartilage tweaking slightly and forcing a sniffle. I got my left back in place for the next one, blocking the right, then parrrying the second left with a flick of my wrist, your blow diverted but still thuds against my shoulder as I bring a quick response, a right cross to the chin, over the top of your outstretched left. I follow through with the blow, bending at the waist and leaning to my left, again blending grace with savagery, I use my low side angle to try and club you with a critical left hook to the liver, returning the favor for your cruel targeting from earlier. I'm not backing down anymore, content to stand and mix it up with you, wanting to prove that I could handle you at any distance.

<Valenzuela> One of my straights snaps against your nose, and I catch the tiniest smirk curling across my lips, but no blood. My right gets swallowed up by your guard, and you parry my next left out wide. Then you show that speed CRACK! A straight right blasts over my extended arm, slamming flush into my chin. My head jerks back, mouthguard nearly unseated as I bite down hard, my lips puffing from the jolt. I brace for your left, no clue if it’s coming high or low, so I twist sharply to my right. It pays off, your glove only scrapes across my stomach, a glancing shot. We're separated now, more than I’d like, but that twist leaves me perfectly coiled in a textbook orthodox stance. I snap out a double jab toward your nose, aiming to sting and distract, then plant my lead foot and twist into a driving right straight toward your solar plexus, throwing every ounce of torque I’ve got into it. (R1 0:40)

<Willow_Blackwell> The flow of our close range battle was starting to pick up. I was keenly aware of every twitch, every twist your body made. I needed to be, or this was going to be a dangerous place to stay. When I see my glove merely scrape across your tanned and toned physique, I halt it and begin to retract myself. My feet pushing off the canvas and my upper body tilting to the inside, I manage to only take the first of your doubled up jabs, it tags me on the cheek. I'm still watching your power hand closely however, and I can see the force you're loading up. I got my lead left in front of me, a bent elbow, bicep catching the blistering right, the force still nudging my upper body a bit. I used the momentum to skip to the right, shifting into another gear I picked up my pace to unload a fast hook at your jawline in passing. Once I stepped around you, my left would look to spear your in the navel yet again, trying to bury a uppercut in there, then snap a feint of a jab up high, while my right hand unfurled a low hook to your ribcage, now I was driving forwards on you, looking to up the pace and pressure, seeing how well your older set of lungs could keep pace with mine when I really turned up the heat.

<Valenzuela> My jab clips your cheek, and I feel the impact... but you're already shifting, coiling like a spring. I throw my right hand, loaded with power, but your bicep catches it clean. You absorb the blow like you were waiting for it... using the momentum to pivot. CRACK! Your right hook blasts into the side of my jaw as you skip past me. I roll my face to the right to soften some of the impact... but not all of it. My head snaps, spit flying from my lips, and I stumble a half step, blinking hard. I try to turn with you... but you're already in my flank, slipping inside like a ghost. UGHH! Your uppercut drills into my navel. I tighten my abs to absorb the shot... but it still folds me forward slightly. As I instinctively drop my guard to cover my belly, you flash a feint high... and I react, bringing my arms back up to block. That’s all the opening you need. THUD! Your right hook crashes into my ribs just beneath my sports bra, digging in deep. I grunt, staggering... my right side flaring with sharp pain. You're on me like fire now... pouring on the pressure, trying to melt me down. At this pace, I can feel the difference in our age. You're using speed... angles... aggression... trying to overwhelm me. I can’t box with you at this range. But as you keep driving forward... I do what I do best. I step in hard... close the distance completely... and clinch you up. I try to lock my arms around yours... tucking my forehead into your collarbone and leaning into you, forcing you to carry my weight. I want to slow you down... shut down your barrage... and start grinding you out. R1 (0:20)

<Willow_Blackwell> My white leathers were like daggers, finding gaps in your armor and digging in wherever they could. Each one I landed felt clean this time, even if you had done your best to mitigate them. By now I know you're hard headed though, both literally and figuratively, as you keep coming at me. It was going to take a lot to put you in reverse, maybe you didn't even have a reverse, but if that was the case, the only way you'd end up going was down. You cast your wide drag net again, short wingspan thrown wide, head driving low and at me. I take the opportunity to step into you as well, a loaded left uppercut seeks the same spot on your belly yet again, wanting a deep purple bullseye to form there eventually. I sacrificed my lead arm, but again had the fight sense to pull my right arm up, and over your grasp. You drove your forehead to my collar bone, while I used my right to palm press your neck roughly aside, hoping it strained some of the muscles and made your head a bit more floppy for future impacts. I jerked my own weight hard to the left as I did this, a twist of the hips as I tried to sort of hip toss you towards the ropes and a looming neutral corner. My long, slender legs still bulging at the quads when I drove my posterior chain forwards, I wouldn't be bullied in this clinch, not easily. I pulled my right back and then brought it in a low hook for your obliques again, all the while trying to drive you into the corner, youthful energy making me seem almost feral as I refused to relent anything to you.

<Valenzuela> I go low, arms wide, head tucked, trying to drag you into a clinch and smother you from picking me apart at a distance, neutralise your considerable reach advantage, but you’re already stepping in. UGHH! your left uppercut pummels into my gut again, landing in the same sore spot as before, right below my navel. I grimace as pain ripples through my core, and I can already imagine the deep purple bruise blooming there. I feel your body crash into mine as I try to lock up, but your right arm’s not where I want it... you’ve raised it over my grip, easily done with your height advantage, and before I realise it, you’re palming my neck, pressing hard into the side like you’re trying to twist my head off my shoulders. My muscles strain, my spine shifts... the discomfort in my neck makes me wince. This grappling move is breaking my balance, dominating, dirty, smart, so that when you jerk your weight hard to your left by pivoting your hips and driving your legs, my lighter weight body is slammed into the padded turnbuckle by this skinny looking 19 year old. I’m the one who initiated the clinch... but somehow... I’m the one being controlled. Your right glove comes back and BAM! slams low into my side, just under my ribs, annoying, but not too bad given the awkward angle. But more importantly for me... you gave up control of my neck to throw it, and that’s my opening. I dig a couple of short shovel hooks toward your side with my left, and at the same time I pop my head off your collarbone, aiming it toward your jaw. I know exactly where the bony, armor-plated crown of my skull is and at my height, it’s a perfect battering ram. And now the 10 second warning claxon sounds…… (R1 0:10)

<Willow_Blackwell> I'm able to wrangle you with ease, keeping a dominant control of the action, even when it slowed down. I was never much of a grappler, but I had learned to deal with clinchers quite early, you weren't the first opponent I rendered desperate for a hug, and you wouldn't be the last. This hug was barbed though, interlaced with a desire to return to hurting one another. Surely enough, you begin to throw your leather at my flanks again, and much the same as my right to your side, they aren't devastating but the sting is there. Seeing your dark crop of hair fling forwards, then feeling the thundedclap of a headbutt to my jaw, my head is thrown back, my own raven locks fly and my eyes narrow. A mixture of a wince and the dirtiest look anyone had ever given, flit across my delicate features. With that right arm still free, I kept my head back enough to slip my forearm between us, then leaned into it, trying to suffocate you with my forearm. Even when enraged, the firey emotion instead looked like rime on me, no real emotion in my eyes anymore as I literally went for your throat. Regardless of how successful this was, the attempt alone clearly crossed a line, even for the Prism. There was no ounce of sportswomanship left to be found in me, only ice cold ire that I was intent on making sure that you felt. The savagery only truly halted at the sound of the bell and a few insistent calls to break it up from Rig and the crowd alike. I instantly shut it off, storing the energy away and concentrating it for the next round, almost robotic as my long gait carried me back to my corner.

<Valenzuela> I can still feel the click of your jaw against my forehead and I know I landed it clean. You didn’t go down, but your expression cracked, just for a second, with that look you gave me. If it could kill, I’d be a corpse slumped in the ropes. And then fuck, you’re back on me, jamming that long forearm arm across my throat like a crowbar, and i begin to gag, my face turning purple, eyes bulging as I stare into your ice cold blue eyes. My heels skid against the canvas as I squirm, trying to pull your arm off. You’re not trying to win right now, you’re trying to break something. I feel the crowd stir, that ugly shift in energy when something goes too far. Even Rig’s voice cracks with urgency, shouting at us like he's calling back a pair of wolves mid-fight. And I’m still choking, still clawing at your forearm, but I’m not panicking, as I've been here before. The bell rings and it’s like a switch flips in you. That scary, robotic calm takes over as you just walk away, leaving me in the corner coughing and catching my breath. But I’m watching you with my dark Latina eyes. I drag myself upright, aching from the pummeling you gave me in round 1. Now thinking about round 2 as I return to my corner, sweating.

<Valenzuela> I drop onto the stool arms resting on the ropes, chest rising and falling in tight, shallow bursts. My mouthguard feels thick in my mouth, gummy and hot, like it’s soaked up the heat from my body. I spit it into my glove and lean forward, as the team splashes some water on my face. I can still feel your forearm against my throat, like a memory my body isn’t gonna shake off anytime soon. But at least I provoked you, and it stopped you from working me with your fists. That's a win, right? I stare across at you....and make an exaggerated kissing sound with my lips at you. Want to see your reaction. And then all too soon, the warning sounds and I rise to my feet.....gloves ready.

<Willow_Blackwell> I returned to my corner and took a seat, even those motions were directed by a sense of grace and rigidity. Perfect posture, gloves on my lap, eyes forward. My corner spashed me with some water, wiped me down and rubbed my tense shoulders. I just stared across the ring at you, my target. The aches and pains accumulated from the first round were dull, easy enough to shake off for now, so I'd return relatively fresh. Another boon of youth being the quick recovery. You, on the other hand looked a little worse for wear, but even if I loathed you, I wouldn't dispute your toughness. There was just as many rounds left in you as there was in me, and that was a problem I'd need to rectify still. Your little kissing gesture is met with the same flat glare, a machine processing a human gesture, I didn't have time to be taunted, instead I just blinked at you and let you make a fool of yourself. At the warning, the ivory tower that was my body rose yet again, strict movements looking as if I had practiced the most minute motions for countless hours. Then came the bell, and up rose my white leather, that acted both as sword and shield. It was time to pick up where I left off.

<Valenzuela> DING! DING! DING! I don’t have your height, your reach, your speed, your stamina or your recovery ability, being older, but I’ve got grit and determination. To stop you, I have to surprise you with motion and confusion, and the best time to show you something is right off the bat, when you expect me to be cautious, I will go wild! So in spite of my tiredness, and my battered body and bruised pride, I surge off the stool like I’ve already made peace with the pain. No hesitation at all, I move at you fast, skipping towards you, no circling or dancing around. I weave low, real low, like I’m gonna dive for your waist to clinch, or launch some punches below your navel, hoping to force your guard to dip with me, but then I pop back up, jumping off my feet, with a tight, looping overhand right aimed straight at your temple, trying to go over your guard that you might have loward. It’s meant to shake you, force you to reset, confuse and baffle you, make you realize you’re not dealing with a battered dog. Then I pivot around your lead foot, shifting inside your stance, and rip a left shovel hook toward your body, dipping at my knees so I can try to bang that liver as hard as I can…..If I land a solid punch right there, it could be game over, or at least remove your speed advantage, slow you down with bad, bad pain. (R1 2:50)

<Willow_Blackwell> There it was, that intensity picking up right where we left off. In response to my cold and calculating style, you bring a searing hot ruthlessness. Charging right for me is bold, but I've come to respect your boldness if nothing else. Your low dive makes me narrow my eyes, loading up my right even as I move a half step back, my left drops to cover my body a bit, anticipating a quick assault. It's instead a blistering quick overhand right that catches me entirely by surprise. I tried to resist the stagger effect but it still made my long legs flex to keep position. The world blurred briefly, but as you pivot, I get the hint to move. My boots skid across the canvas as I backstep with urgency. I didn't know if you were going to go high or low, but getting the fuck out of the area code of that glove seemed the best option. Just as fast as my slide step out, I shift the weight back to my front foot and beam a straight left for your nose in response. I know you're likely to keep on coming, so I decide to set a trap for you. My right sets up that favored high hook that I had struggled to catch you with all night, but it's a feint. I count on your lowered head, eyes tracking its movement as my left foot stamps down and drives a sharp uppercut at your jaw, a long step to my right and I issue another spear like left straight for your solar plexus, right hand tucked and ready, head and shoulders in motion, and my rear heel peeled up off the canvas, ready to dance circles around you. You were maybe not a battered dog, but a hound nonetheless in my eyes, and I was going to put you down like one.

<Valenzuela> The overhand right cracks against your temple, and I feel the satisfying jolt in my knuckles through the glove, the kind that tells me I landed clean. You don’t drop, but your legs stutter for just a breath, and your eyes go glassy for half a heartbeat. I pivot around your lead foot like I planned, staying low, and rip that shovel hook toward your liver, but you’re already back pedalling, FUCK!!! boots squealing across the canvas. I give chase. Just as I step in, I see your left is flying at my face. I tuck my chin, raise my right glove, and let it glance off. Then I see your right shoulder twitch like you’re about to throw that high hook again. I bring my right glove out wide, ready to parry the blow, and as soon as it crashes in, I plan to fire another overhand right at your face, since you seem to be a real sucker for overhand rights. Only, the hook never comes. Instead, a sharp left uppercut threads right between my more open guard, slams into the hinge of my jaw, and snaps my head back. My footing wobble, I stumble a step back, trying to clear the sudden static in my skull. You move right like a ghost, and send a spear-like left straight toward my solar plexus, but my staggered retreat puts just enough distance between us that it falls short. I keep drifting back, taking a couple more steps to reset, gloves rising, blinking hard, jaw clenched. That uppercut rattled something loose in my head. I need a moment to shed those cobwebs clogging my brain. (R1 2:30)

<Willow_Blackwell> Another flash fire exchange breaks out between us, and this time it's me rattling your brain. The fog in my own head was still dissipating as I fought through it. It was a high risk, but a higher reward, to see you suddenly halt. You were human after all, I was able to cease your constant forward movement, if only for the moment. You're trying to create space, which means you're hurting, and I shouldn't let up. I take a long step that equated to your short shuffles, closing fast and shooting a simple but blistering jab-cross combo, jabbing at your chin, a quick step left to get you at the side angle, the cross looks to track your temple down and keep you rattled, before I made my own rush in at you, seeking your liver as I bend at the waist and go for a bombing run with my left hook in passing. My body flowing like water as I attack then quickly try to reset and keep you at a medium range, locking onto a few of my next potential targets with that same razor sharp glare.

<Valenzuela> I clock you coming in fast—those long legs eating up the distance with a giant stride. You snap a jab at my chin, but I’ve got my guard up. I bring my right out to block, but the impact drives my glove back into my own face, knocking my head slightly. Then comes the cross, higher and sharper, so I lean back to avoid the worst of it, but it still clips the top of my head hard enough to send a spray of sweat flying off. It sends me stumbling a step back, but as I regain my footing, you dip low at the waist, coiling for something nasty, but I don’t wait to find out what. I shoot a quick left-right straight combo straight towards your head, which is on level with me, trying to catch you mid-motion, cut off your next punch cold before it gets any momentum going. I begin to retreat to recover from that blow to my temple, breathing heavily, nearly panting, but hopping I've frustrated you again! (R1 2:10)

<Willow_Blackwell> Every exchange between us is a manic, violent blur. This one is no exception, as I feel my glove clip you. I'm already mid sway when a left smacks me clean in the face, a jolt of pain as it connects just under my eye. The right catches me in motion and smacks into my chin. The sharp blows were quick and startling, as I shifted back upright, just a brief moment of wide eyed shock from being intercepted. My attempts at playing chess with you worked sometimes, but not consistently enough for me to relax. I have no choice but to allow you to retreat this time, as I do the same, shaking off the sudden two punch combo that I ate clean. I circle wide and shift my jaw a bit to ease the pain, a reddening of my pale skin making the sore spot clear, I know it'll be a target, just like the ones I was picking on your body. My eyes were smoldering now, it might have just been an arranged match with nothing personal behind it, but for now it certainly felt personal. My mind was already formulating, eyes fixed on you, muscles tensed, ready for reengagement whenever you initiated it.

<Valenzuela> I’m feeling pretty damn good, having tagged you with a clean straight left just under your right eye, then followed it with a crisp right to your chin. That cold blue stare of yours is gonna look real nice ringed in a deep bruise. A little purple halo for the ice queen! This chica’s showing you who la jefa is, the hard way. Not bad for an old bitch! You tried to hunt my liver like a kid sneaking into the candy jar, but I caught you and punished you. And now, you’re not rushing in anymore. We circle, and I use the time to breathe, reset. I need the recovery more than you, no shame in that. I’m holding my own and then some against someone with a high fight IQ. I keep staring at that eye, hoping you feel every blink. Then I drop low, feint a jab at your navel, just enough to make you think it’s another body dig. As I rise, I snap a short left hook at your right glove, swiping at it, trying to knock it just slightly off center. And then I fire a right cross straight for that same bruised eye. If I can land it clean, maybe I close that eye for good and end this fight before stamina really becomes a serious issue. R1 (1:50)

<Willow_Blackwell> I HATED being shown up. It happened, even in matches I dominated, everyone lost an exchange here and there. But that one just got under my skin. I stifled the anger again though, adept at swallowing my feelings. The rage could wait to be let out when I had you where I wanted you. The moment of silence is welcome for me as well, still full of energy but slightly tilted from those head shots, I let my vision clear up and the faint dizziness subside. No more stupid moves, no more getting carried away. You fixated on the little ring around my eye, and I already knew that was where you'd be looking to score. Fortunately, my sight was still 20/20, so when you close in with that feint, I get a read on your positioning. Your feet don't look right, your shoulders are already transitioning for something from another angle. I'm sure something is coming up top. Sure enough, your left bats at my right glove, and you got at least part of what you wanted, knocking it out of place. I'm already swinging my rear foot out to the left though, shifting my body perpendicular to yours as that right cross whizzed just inches from my face, a hurricane force gale emanates from it. Still, I'm looking at you with an outstretched right, standing at your right flank, outside of your arm. I don't hesitate to rocket a brutal right uppercut counter for your jaw. I'd shift the weight through my long legs and into my toes as I popped up with the blow, then keeping my right arm bent, I'd try to tangle your arm up, stepping back to my right behind vicious left hook to the temple, tugging at your arm to keep you flat footed before shoving off of you and reseting in a tight defense. I wasn't going to get greedy anymore, a concise and vicious counter for vital points, then a tactical retreat would serve me better. I could do this all night if I had to.

<Valenzuela> I fire my right cross like a missile, knowing it’s gonna hurt you bad, having shifted your right guard, it was mean and straight, something designed to wreck that pretty eye again, but whaaaaa…. it misses. My right arm just overextends into empty air space, a feeling of shadow boxing that I loathe. That cold, calculating face disappears like a blurr off to my right, as you pivoted, slick and quick, a masterful move! BOOM!!!!!! a right uppercut rockets up into the right side of my jaw over my extended arm. It was a short and sharp punch that I never see coming, as you out flank me. My teeth slam together, and my knees buckle for a half-second, like someone pulled the floor out from under me. I try to pull my right arm back to guard, but it’s caught, trapped because you kept your right arm angled over mine, a nasty little trick combining a little grappling with boxing, and bringing panic and fear into my mind. I twist, try to yank it free, but you’ve already turned, stepped out to your right, and your grip tugs me forward like a fucking dog on a leash, into a nasty left hook. CRACK!!!!! That left smashes into the side of my temple. Not a full wind-up, but still it has enough torque, enough snap. My skull rattles, and my brain aches, things seem to blur for a moment, and my legs stagger, one foot crossing over the other as I stumble sideways, the crowd is roaring loudly now, seeing this masterclass in boxing developing. My left side bounces into the top rope, which keeps me erect, and I quickly reorient myself to face you, bring my gloves back up. I bite down on my mouth guard, breathe through the spinning, and dig my feet in knowing you won’t give me any recovery time. You just totally outclassed me, made me look clumsy, and punished me for it, and I can’t let this happen again. (R2 1:30)

🎤 RING COMMENTATOR FOR VIDEO RECORDING: “ Did you SEE that?! “Blackwell… cool as ice... just ghosted around that wild cross, slid outside the veteran’s flank and uncorked a right uppercut straight to Val’s jaw! “Val’s knees nearly buckle! You could see the lights flicker! And Blackwell traps Valenzuela’s arm under her own right arm, and rips a left hook to the temple sending La Princesa stumbling sideways into the ropes! “ Valenzuela’s still on her feet, but her skin’s pale under the sweat, her breath’s shallow, and she’s blinking like she’s trying to figure out what the fuck just happened!” “Her gloves are up! .” “Across from her, Willow Blackwell, tall, sleek, and stone-faced is……………” yt

<Willow_Blackwell> I wasn't able to keep my eyes on your head for the entire motion, but I got the tactile confirmation of a wellstruck blow, plus the audible clattering of your jaw. When I move back and sink the hook, a wicked grin flits across my face, thinking back to your mocking gesture between rounds. Let's see if you stayed that glib after this round. Provided you survived it. I watch you hit the ropes and the. Spin back to face me, in that moment I'm already closing in. I tilt my body to the right and flick a convincing left handed jab towards your high guard, hoping it clamps down long enough for me to blast your belt line with a right hook. Right after that, I'm looking to flex my youthful agility again. A sudden burst of overwhelming aggression, I let a simple but effective jab-cross combo go for your right eye and bridge of the nose, then another, seeking your forehead then chin, then another final set, with the jab stabbing at your solar plexus then the final cross seeking your nose. I let all this go in a frantic blur, wondering just how well you can weather the storm when I really let my hands go.

<Valenzuela> I’ve decided that I’m no going to let your school yard bully boxing tactics continue, I’m gonna put you down hard. But that uppercut to my jaw and the hook to my temple, while not mean enough to knock me out, has mee feeling woozy and unsteady, and my reflexes are not the best now, but even so, I’m gonna fight you. But thinking this, and actually doing it are two different things. As I came around from the ropes, to square off with you, you are already there! I move my gloves higher to intercept that jab that’s coming my way, but it does not come, instead a right hook comes in at my belt line, it was a hard, nasty blow that makes me gasp, my mouth opening in a big O shape. It feels like I just can’t catch my breath, panic sets in, and I lower my guard, and then the next two seconds is just a blur as your white gloves start to fire off like rockets. A big blur of white snaps into my right eye a split second after you launch that jab, snapping my head back, then the power right cross hits the bridge of my nose, opening a deep cut, and as my head bobs forward, it snaps back again as the jab hits my forehead, and then the power right punches hard into my chin. It’s like you’re working over the speed bag in the gym….the jab into my solar plexus launches a wave of pain through my midsection, as knees wobble….I just get a glimpse of white as your power right smashes hard into my nose, blood dribbling now onto my chin….my mouth guard nearly out as I use my lips to pull it back in….my vision in my right eye blurring….I could not keep up with your speed over the last three seconds, and begin to loose my balance so I open my arms and try to wrap them around you but as I open up, my knees begin to cave in and drop towards the canvass….

<Willow_Blackwell> I'm as much bystander as competitor, watching my fists fly almost on pure instinct. The fireworks display of blood and sweat showering the canvas and dribbling onto me as I ping pong your head around. Every punch seems like a barbaric attack, but there's a surgical precision behind each one. I watch your face contort through different stages of shock and pain, before your eyelids simply flutter and I can tell you're out. As you pitch forwards, I step back, blowing a gloved kiss mockingly at you, hoping its the last thing you remember as I step just shy of your tumbling form. When you land at my feet with a thud, where you should be. I loomed over you for a moment, you were still. It'd take a miracle to come back from that onslaught, so I casually sauntered to the neutral corner and watched the count tick by. I didn't feel an ounce of sympathy for you, nor much joy, just a neutral acceptance that things were as they should be. I expected to unseat the veteran tonight, and I did in spectacular fashion. That said, you put up a fight, and for all the exchanges of disrespect, I still had some respect for your tenacity. The count ticked by without any signs of life from you, and I raised a glove, limited fanfare for the crowd at the prism, a mixture of boos, cheers and slackjawed shock filling the crowd. I left you there in that ring, slipping through the vibrant ropes and disappearing into the dark. Better luck next time, Val.

<Valenzuela> I feel the canvas hit me almost as hard as that Blackwell bitch has hit me! My gloves hit the mat, then my forearms, then my cheek. For a moment, I smell old sweat and cheap disinfectant. My mouth’s open, dragging in short, ragged breaths Blood’s dripping from my nose now and my lips keep twitching like they’re still trying to hold in my mouthguard, but that flipped out when she punched my chin. My eye is throbbing and turning black and blue already. It’s surreal, as I can hear the crowd screaming, roaring even in my unconscious state. A few moments pass, as I begin to regain a semiconscious state, and hear the ref shout TEN!!!!!!!!!!!!! The whole world tilting, I’m not asleep, but wish I was still KO’d, because my face and head and body just hurt so fucking much! And I feel the deep shame of another defeat by a 19 year old, she had greater reach, stamina and speed, but I also know deep in my heart she outclassed me, and probably would have whooped me even if I was 19. END

<Published> 14 days ago, viewed 63 times.