Post by Mrs B on Nov 19, 2007 18:54:10 GMT -5
A REAL TOUGH GUY
by masterofdisaster
A fan fiction inspired by characters created by Sylvester Stallone
Rocky Balboa didn’t look like much in front of Jack Herlihy.The plucky, sinewy fifteen year old with jet black locks of hair and deep-set eyes was about three inches shorter and thirty pounds lighter than the big Irish bully, who was reputed to never have lost a street fight.
In his nervousness Rocky tried to sidetrack that voice in his head that was telling him he was crazy. He tried to focus on trivial things - the smell of the hot dog stand, the noise of the busy street a block and a half over, and the harsh November nip in the air that had descended upon Philadelphia that morning.
“I think I ought to remind you that this is where we hang out, and your sort ain’t exactly welcomed here. I’m gonna ask you nicely one time to go away, and if you don’t, I don’t think you’re gonna like what happens,” the tank-sized 17 year old street punk explained. “I’m gonna bash your face in if you don’t take off.”
Rocky stood, defiant and in an aggressive posture. He said, “What have you got against Mike Gianetti?”
“Nothing, except that he was a wop who was trying to put the moves on Tom’s woman. Now like I said, get outta here or you’re gonna get stomped.”
“I only came for you.” Rocky replied, “I got no problem with these people here,” and gestured to the other boys, Jack’s thuggish companions. “I wanna settle this with you,” Rocky continued, “What you did to Mike, I’m gonna do to you. And I don’t want no interference from your buddies.” All of them laughed at him.
“Well now, look at what we got here,” Jack chuckled, “let him fight me. You guys can stay out of it. I’m gonna teach this wop not to start any shit with the East Siders.”
The bulky Irish kid from the bad side of the tracks backed away from Rocky suddenly and stripped his leather jacked away with one swift motion. Rocky had no jacket, but held his clenched fists high and said, “Come on.”
Jack Herlihy was a very large boy. At 17 he was fully grown, and had worked on a demolition crew ever since dropping out of high school a year and a half before. He was massive and strong, and well conditioned for a boy of his girth. He also had a chip on his shoulder ever since his father lost his job and developed a pattern of binge drinking and violence. He took his anger out on other kids.
Rocky wondered for a brief moment if his audacity had been too rash, when Herlihy popped him toe to toe with a couple of jabs and crosses. Jack had learned to fight watching matches on television, and beating up other kids at school. Rocky seemed no different to him. But Rocky was different.
Rocky had been training to fight at home ever since he’d begun visiting the local boxing gym, Mighty Mick’s. He was only a towel boy, but he learned things. He watched, and he listened. Rocky was no novice at fighting, and expressed it to Jack Herlihy by nearly taking his face off with a powerful left hook.
Jack had barely known what hit him when Rocky moved in and delivered an underhand thrust to his body so hard it nearly knocked the wind out of him. Another left hook put the bigger kid on his toes, and Rocky tried for a finishing right hook. He tagged Herlihy hard, but the big boy had more chin left, and drubbed Rocky with two hard hooks to the body.
Rocky came back with a big shove which knocked Herlihy to the ground. Rocky grabbed the bigger kid by the collar and began raining blows as hard as he could manage. Suddenly, Rocky felt the sting of brass knuckles against the side of his head. He should have anticipated a little interference. The next thing he knew, Rocky was being dragged, punched, and kicked by four thugs.
He would always remember the duration of the beating as an eternity, but at some point, he heard gunshots echoing against the brownstone buildings. He felt himself freed from a choke hold and falling to the ground. A few moments later, Rocky got up from his beaten daze, barely able to keep his balance. He saw a man in an Italian suit, with a thin moustache and wire framed glasses. He smirked and nearly began to chuckle as he approached Rocky from across the street. The Irish teen thugs who were going to bash him to death were nowhere to be seen.
“You’re that Balboa kid, ain’t you?” Rocky nodded. “I’m Tony Gazzo. Your old man used to boss one of my crews down at the docks before he had his heart attack.” The bruised up teenager looked up, seeming heartened at the mention of his late father, but said nothing.
“I had to get those little bastards off you with my rod. A couple of warning shots and they scatter like a bunch of cock-a-roaches, ya know what I mean?”
Rocky didn’t answer, and the man paused to light a cigarette.
“What the hell were you thinking starting trouble with a bunch of Mick kids all two years older than you?”
“I didn’t start it, sir,” Rocky answered, “That one guy Jack, he hurt my friend Mike. Hurt him real bad.”
Gazzo repressed another smirk, “So you’re a real tough guy, huh? I saw you get the upper hand there at first. But it’s dumb to think you can take on one of these guys and not all, capisce?”
Rocky nodded, hanging his head.
“Cheer up why don’t ya? You’re alive, thanks to me. Listen kid, I’ll tell ya what. You show up at my place across the street there, 9 in the morning and you come to work. And I can promise you one thing. Those punks won’t be bothering you or your friends anymore. Have we got a deal?”
Rocky looked behind Gazzo to the place he’d referred to. The sign read Mr. Quick’s Pawn & Gun. “What would I be doing?”
Gazzo laughed as he exhaled the last drag of his cigarette and flattened it underfoot, “Think of it like an internship. You know what that is? It’s when you learn a trade. Well, have we got a deal?”
He thought it over for a few seconds. Mr. Gazzo had made a favorable impression on Rocky, and you could never have too many friends. “Sure. I’ll be there.”
Gazzo smiled and turned away, walking back across the street. He turned glanced back at Rocky over his shoulder, and said, “Tough guy.” He laughed knowingly, and disappeared behind the iron-bars on the pawn shop’s glass door.
THE END
by masterofdisaster
A fan fiction inspired by characters created by Sylvester Stallone
Rocky Balboa didn’t look like much in front of Jack Herlihy.The plucky, sinewy fifteen year old with jet black locks of hair and deep-set eyes was about three inches shorter and thirty pounds lighter than the big Irish bully, who was reputed to never have lost a street fight.
In his nervousness Rocky tried to sidetrack that voice in his head that was telling him he was crazy. He tried to focus on trivial things - the smell of the hot dog stand, the noise of the busy street a block and a half over, and the harsh November nip in the air that had descended upon Philadelphia that morning.
“I think I ought to remind you that this is where we hang out, and your sort ain’t exactly welcomed here. I’m gonna ask you nicely one time to go away, and if you don’t, I don’t think you’re gonna like what happens,” the tank-sized 17 year old street punk explained. “I’m gonna bash your face in if you don’t take off.”
Rocky stood, defiant and in an aggressive posture. He said, “What have you got against Mike Gianetti?”
“Nothing, except that he was a wop who was trying to put the moves on Tom’s woman. Now like I said, get outta here or you’re gonna get stomped.”
“I only came for you.” Rocky replied, “I got no problem with these people here,” and gestured to the other boys, Jack’s thuggish companions. “I wanna settle this with you,” Rocky continued, “What you did to Mike, I’m gonna do to you. And I don’t want no interference from your buddies.” All of them laughed at him.
“Well now, look at what we got here,” Jack chuckled, “let him fight me. You guys can stay out of it. I’m gonna teach this wop not to start any shit with the East Siders.”
The bulky Irish kid from the bad side of the tracks backed away from Rocky suddenly and stripped his leather jacked away with one swift motion. Rocky had no jacket, but held his clenched fists high and said, “Come on.”
Jack Herlihy was a very large boy. At 17 he was fully grown, and had worked on a demolition crew ever since dropping out of high school a year and a half before. He was massive and strong, and well conditioned for a boy of his girth. He also had a chip on his shoulder ever since his father lost his job and developed a pattern of binge drinking and violence. He took his anger out on other kids.
Rocky wondered for a brief moment if his audacity had been too rash, when Herlihy popped him toe to toe with a couple of jabs and crosses. Jack had learned to fight watching matches on television, and beating up other kids at school. Rocky seemed no different to him. But Rocky was different.
Rocky had been training to fight at home ever since he’d begun visiting the local boxing gym, Mighty Mick’s. He was only a towel boy, but he learned things. He watched, and he listened. Rocky was no novice at fighting, and expressed it to Jack Herlihy by nearly taking his face off with a powerful left hook.
Jack had barely known what hit him when Rocky moved in and delivered an underhand thrust to his body so hard it nearly knocked the wind out of him. Another left hook put the bigger kid on his toes, and Rocky tried for a finishing right hook. He tagged Herlihy hard, but the big boy had more chin left, and drubbed Rocky with two hard hooks to the body.
Rocky came back with a big shove which knocked Herlihy to the ground. Rocky grabbed the bigger kid by the collar and began raining blows as hard as he could manage. Suddenly, Rocky felt the sting of brass knuckles against the side of his head. He should have anticipated a little interference. The next thing he knew, Rocky was being dragged, punched, and kicked by four thugs.
He would always remember the duration of the beating as an eternity, but at some point, he heard gunshots echoing against the brownstone buildings. He felt himself freed from a choke hold and falling to the ground. A few moments later, Rocky got up from his beaten daze, barely able to keep his balance. He saw a man in an Italian suit, with a thin moustache and wire framed glasses. He smirked and nearly began to chuckle as he approached Rocky from across the street. The Irish teen thugs who were going to bash him to death were nowhere to be seen.
“You’re that Balboa kid, ain’t you?” Rocky nodded. “I’m Tony Gazzo. Your old man used to boss one of my crews down at the docks before he had his heart attack.” The bruised up teenager looked up, seeming heartened at the mention of his late father, but said nothing.
“I had to get those little bastards off you with my rod. A couple of warning shots and they scatter like a bunch of cock-a-roaches, ya know what I mean?”
Rocky didn’t answer, and the man paused to light a cigarette.
“What the hell were you thinking starting trouble with a bunch of Mick kids all two years older than you?”
“I didn’t start it, sir,” Rocky answered, “That one guy Jack, he hurt my friend Mike. Hurt him real bad.”
Gazzo repressed another smirk, “So you’re a real tough guy, huh? I saw you get the upper hand there at first. But it’s dumb to think you can take on one of these guys and not all, capisce?”
Rocky nodded, hanging his head.
“Cheer up why don’t ya? You’re alive, thanks to me. Listen kid, I’ll tell ya what. You show up at my place across the street there, 9 in the morning and you come to work. And I can promise you one thing. Those punks won’t be bothering you or your friends anymore. Have we got a deal?”
Rocky looked behind Gazzo to the place he’d referred to. The sign read Mr. Quick’s Pawn & Gun. “What would I be doing?”
Gazzo laughed as he exhaled the last drag of his cigarette and flattened it underfoot, “Think of it like an internship. You know what that is? It’s when you learn a trade. Well, have we got a deal?”
He thought it over for a few seconds. Mr. Gazzo had made a favorable impression on Rocky, and you could never have too many friends. “Sure. I’ll be there.”
Gazzo smiled and turned away, walking back across the street. He turned glanced back at Rocky over his shoulder, and said, “Tough guy.” He laughed knowingly, and disappeared behind the iron-bars on the pawn shop’s glass door.
THE END
