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How To Become Hard To Kill.

From: The Desk of Maverick Brenton.
Subject: Training To Be A Bad Motherfucker.
___

His bare knuckles are dirty and covered in grease.

Each one of them glimmers as they come for the corner of my jaw.

The world around me has gone quiet.

The shouts of a bloodthirsty crowd have vanished.

All I can hear is my heart thumping.

All I can feel is my adrenaline pumping.

Crack.

I don’t feel his heavy hand connect with my jaw – the adrenaline and anger has blunted all of my senses.

Crack.

I don’t feel my head slam into the concrete, splitting it open.

The world’s a blur now.

Where am I?

What is happening?

My chest begins to feel as though it is being crushed as a dark figure looms above me, getting in position to finish me off.

Vision has returned I’m pinned to the concrete with one heavy son of a bitch sitting on my chest.

His fist rises into the air above us both, then those knuckles come for me again.

Fuck! I scream inside my mind.

Already a mess and bleeding from the head, I take another hit to the eye, splitting it open and sending blood squirting over us both as my head slams into the concrete again.

The fist rises once more – I gotta get out of this, or I am done.

More adrenaline is released as I start to realise I am in a bad situation.

I twist to the side as those dirty knuckles come down, trying to avoid the blow, and they scrape the side of my forehead as they fly past.

Now I wrap my arms around his torso and yank him to the ground – his body is heavy, it is hot, it is covered in my blood.

With my back against the ground, I drive my right knee into his rib cage with all the strength I can muster.

The first one misses.

The second connects.

He wheezes in pain and rears back up into the same beat down position as before, too fast for me to stop him.

The fist rises again.

I cover my face – knowing that it can’t be stopped.

Crack.

It smashes straight through my guard and splits my other eyelid open, slamming my already cracked head back into the concrete.

But I don’t feel a thing.

The fist rises again, hardly visible through my swollen eyes.

And now my will to survive kicks in: I need to get him off me.

Then the fist comes once more, looking for my soul this time.

I dodge the blow by millimetres, sweep both legs out from underneath him, wrap them around his torso to prevent him from escaping – then I drive both of my thumbs deep into his eye sockets and scream with rage, refusing to let go.

He rears back trying to escape, yelling in agony, stumbling over my body and falling to the ground.

I crawl free, get to my feet and wipe the blood from my eyes.

Looking down at my hands and arms, I notice that they are bright red.

My is blood everywhere.

The sight of this red fluid from my own body – does something to me.

Something consumes my soul.

I want more of this raw and brutal experience.

We are wild dogs fighting to the death, warriors of a time long gone – more alive than any of the people watching us.

Everything is still silent, I can’t hear a thing, and now he gets to his feet, blinking rapidly and rubbing his eyes.

Then, after coming to, he fixes a furious gaze on me, beginning his second march.

I get ready, rip off my shirt and smile at him through my bloody mouth, making him feel fear for the first time in his life.

Like gladiators we circle each other, both covered in the blood from my body.

Let’s go motherfucker! I scream at him in fury.

Unable to feel anything, unable to stand up straight, unable to hear anything, and with my world spinning, I wait for him – looking to kill.

I want to destroy his soul. I want to eat his fucking heart. I want to rip his face apart.

As he approaches, I prepare, and rear back.

Then, as he enters the kill zone: I launch a kick at his head, brushing his chin with my toes, missing my target by no more than two inches.

The force of the failed kick throws me into the air, off my feet and spins me around.

I go down again, before enduring more blows to the head.

Somebody rips him off me but as soon as we get to our feet we are brawling again.

And we kept going, bloodthirsty, until both of us were restrained by numerous people.

Fifteen minutes later I was laying in a hospital bed, barely conscious, having my face stitched up.

That’s when the headache began to set in, along with the pain of a broken body.

I was willing to fight until death, I had not given in, but I had been physically decimated in front of more than 50 people.

And so it was on my bed in that quiet hospital, dwelling on defeat – that my training philosophy was formed.

From that moment forward, I would no longer train to look good.

I would no longer waste my time trying to build a chiselled six pack or well-defined arms.

When I was getting my ass handed to me and fighting for my life, my six pack and my well-defined arms didn’t do a fucking thing.

Not a fucking thing.

You see it’s easy to convince yourself that you’re a bad man if you have a good body and never use it for anything except doing curls.

It’s easy to think you are dangerous, when you sit in front of the computer watching MMA videos.

But when you are pinned to the ground and having your face smashed into a concrete slab, dancing with death, you learn very quickly that looking good has absolutely no value in the arena.

What has value in the arena?

Pictured above is Fedor Emelianko.

He is one of the most dangerous men currently walking planet earth.

Does he have six pack abs and a well-defined chest?

No, he does not.

But he could, alone, wipe out an entire room full of grown men, because he has two things:

He has physical strength and he can fight better than everyone else.

Those two things are the only things that matter when shit hits the fan.

How you look does not matter.

Knowing Brazilian Ju Jitsu and being strong would have helped me when I was on the ground – but I had neither of those things.

Back then all I had was a six pack.

That’s why after the fight, I decided that I would turn myself into a bad motherfucker.

I would no longer train to look pretty like the guys on the magazine covers.

I would become hard to kill.

You want a reason to get in the gym and get strong?

You want a reason for learning how to fight?

Have another man try to kill you and almost succeed – that will do the job better than any YouTube video, any book, or any motivational speech.

I often hear people talk about how violence is a bad thing, and how it should be avoided at all costs.

But my question to them is: what happens when you can’t avoid it?

What happens when your life, or the life of somebody you love, is at risk?

Shouting peace and love isn’t going to stop some savage motherfucker from killing you and raping girlfriend to death in a dark alleyway.

Being a strong son of a bitch and knowing how to kill somebody with your bare hands is the only thing that will help you, when nothing else can.

This world is not what new age hippies wish it to be.

This world is not full of love and kindness.

This world is what it is: an unfair, unjust, immoral, dangerous place for the weak, and a limitless playground for the strong.

So as a man, having physical strength and the ability to defend yourself and those you love – is not optional.

It is a necessity.

There’s a paradox to being a good man and that paradox is this:

To be good, you must know how to be bad.

___

Years ago, long after that gruesome fight, I was training with an old friend of mine and during our session, he asked me what I was.

“So, what are you bro?”

I looked at him with a confused face.

“What do you mean what am I?”

“Are you a bodybuilder, powerlifter, strongman? What are you? What’s your training for? You don’t seem to follow a normal routine.”

I didn’t say anything for a moment. Then I looked up at him.

“I’m not a bodybuilder, I’m not a powerlifter, I’m not a strongman, I’m not a part of the fitness industry – I’m none of those things.

I don’t train for looks, for girls, for any bullshit like that.

I train for war.”

____

Your man,
Maverick Brenton.

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