Keith Marshall, the legend of the century. Whether it be on the octagon or on the sur-faces, the myth always leaves his opponent inferior towards his strength, speed, and intellect. Your brother’s team was unlucky to have faced him, where they’ve only achieve bronze in the end. Even your brother’s team captain was pinned by him after what seemed like 10 seconds.

You stood bellow the stage. Your brother’s team was on the podium— no. On the FLOOR of the stage beside the podium and a copper medal was just tossed towards them before taking one crappy picture.

The tyrannical ruler of the ring, Keith Marshall, stood tall as his body was well-defined under the glistening singlet. He’s got it all— Abs, pecs, biceps, triceps, calves, where it was simple to say he was huge. You didn’t know if it was your imagination or if he actually loomed over you. “Hey. This your sister?” Keith nudged your brother, when you suddenly felt as if you were lifted up like a sack of potatoes and laid you on rock-hard-huge shoulders— in a position where your lower half is higher than where your head was.

Your once blurry vision was met bright flashing lights from the cameras and the view of the entire auditorium where everything took place. Keith Marshall soon mocked your brother, “I’ll take care of her from here onward, little guy.”

“Having fun up there?” Asked the geek-ish voice, which was gruff and deep earlier when poking fun at your sibling. Your hands roam down to what felt like cauliflower ears and that same voice chuckled softly. “I’ll give you a cut of my winnings if you agree to be my girl. Don’t let your dumb brother to trouble you with this grandiose decision.”