The Vegan: Seven Round Stream of Slugfest Consciousness

b1: A champ's champ

Bell rings to start bout
The Butterflies barnstorming
Beat or be beaten

Round 1:

I know I'm in over my head, but, hey, doesn't everyone dream of dethroning the champ? I'm no different, except, perhaps, for the fact that I'm getting a crack at it. I'm not going to let my chance slip away...

DING!

I come out swinging with the alliterative vowel challenge.

BOOM! I let my fist down for a second and he smacks my puss with a quick all "a" alliterative jab.

Shake it off! Honoring a great like Rosa's no problem, but Georgey? I'll tie 'em up into a combo and hope for the best.

Got lucky. Think I landed a shot to the body that'll make him think twice about another Republican taunt.

BAM! I knew he'd throw a good Yoko at me, but I wasn't quick enough on the duck. Now I know why he's the champ, and, brother, does it smart.

DING DING!

Well, nothing's broken yet, that I can tell, and I think I held my own. At the very least, I didn't go down like a chump in the first round.


Round 2:

DING!

Gotta keep this guy on his toes. Maybe I can distract him with a little juvenile, "is that a roll of quarters in your pocket," shot.

Pip! Pap! He didn't quite land that Gerard-styptic double jab. Maybe my plans working. No time to over-analyze; I'm going for it.

BOOM! That's right! Hoosier daddy now, huh?! I saw the knees buckle, but ...

DING DING!

... damn, no time for a bout-ending blow just yet. Still, I bet he stops prancing around the ring like he owns it now.

Round 3:

DING!

I don't want him getting any ideas about recovering during that break.

POW! Yeah! Dishing it like God with some Old Testament style wrath.

OOF! Not so quick. He's obviously got some sturdy legs, and that bird flu fist foists fury. Dodged that Didi dish.

He's too quick, though. Can't land the definition hook-u.

DING DING!

Need some water and a breather.


Round 4:

DING!

POOMPH! Hand renting? More like, "rending," as in, "my ribs!"

One good render deserves a double fender-bender. That got his attention but ...

KABAAM!!!

... where am I? How many fingers IS that that guy holding up? Wait a minute. That's the ref. Gotta get back on my feet, and fast.

DING DING!

Saved by the bell. I got a little too cute and left myself open for that pummeling "play."


Round 5:

ding.

Was that the bell? Hard to tell with the constant buzzing that's now in my ears.

I'll decline his hearing aid swipe, though. If I hadn't juked that second swing, however, he'd be trumpeting about it. I don't wanna be hearing that.

You're dead meat, buddy! I'll teach you to mock me, turkey. The jab glanced, but I pipped him with the hook.

Bap. Nice try, bomber, but you're not going to show me the other side of the coin this time.

DING DING!

Hey, at least my hearing seems to be coming back.


Round 6:

DING!

Waldo? Whatever. You're going to have to do better than that, Mr. Prizefighter.

My turn now. I'd like to throw a heymaker, but my fists feel like lead under the weight of all these syllables. I can barely lift them to protect my face, much less finish the ol' one-two punch sequence, alphabetical or not.

WHAP! Is that blood I feel on my face now? Is this guy trying to send me to an early transfusion?

DING DING!

Shite! I can definitely feel my eye swelling up. Doc! Cut me quick.

He's got one more chance to shut the other one, but I ain't envisioning that.

Round 7:

DING!

Survival. That's all I'm askin' for. I don't wanna come this far only to not reach the finish line.

POW! Now, he's just toying with me and treasuring it. Gotta keep moving and backpedalling or this guy's gonna pillage the prize.

I'm swinging wildly to terminate this guy. It's Miller time; I've got to get one more punch in to sway the judges.

BIFF! One more "Bangor" to the head, but I refuse to lose by K.O, technical or otherwise.

DING DING DING DING DING!!!

Cripes! I don't know who won, or even care at this point. I'm just thanking the cosmos to have gone the distance. My brain is hurting from harrowing hammering the haiku champ hefted on my head, and my ribs are screaming with each draught of air my lungs pull.

Speaking of draught, is that the final tally being "captained" up to the ring? Talk about giants of the verse. Those judges are legends in their own right and could probably bring a "hellish" haiku heymaker or two if they stepped in the ring right now. They've earned my respect, and whatever they say is paramount. You'll hear no bellyaching from me, other than my actual belly aching.

The Decision:

What's that? The bomber takes it? Yeah, I expected it, and wouldn't disagree. By rights, that "towering" blow should've ended it. I actually still feel like a winner just for bringing the ship home after that blast to the bow.

Yeah, I'll shake your gloves, bomber. True, I respect you now more than ever, but I'll bet you return a little of it, too ... and that's enough for me at the end of the match.

At the very least, you know my name, now: The VEGAN!

That's right, I'm the veg that can sledge, and I allege my verse is leading edge. I'll see you back in the ring, b1, and I know you won't hedge.

Peace!