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the gym ; tuesday afternoon
Tuesday, September 24th, 2013 12:14 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
flickofthewristAfter some conversations earlier in the week, Flick had realized he was going to start getting a little doughy if he didn't stop being so lazy. Back in New York, he'd always been on the move, always stealing something, running from someone, or beating the crap out of a meathead that he'd never had to worry about getting a beer gut going on.
But being stuck here meant he'd let his guard down somewhat and his instructors from military school would have been screaming (and thus, spitting) in his face if they could see him now. He didn't need to go back home and face down Mandel and his father as in worse shape than he'd been before. That wouldn't work at all. He needed to be lean and he needed to be toned and he needed to be dangerous.
The gym seemed like a good place to start since he wasn't up to finding people to start fights with right now. There was a heavy bag and there were gloves. It'd do. He stripped down to his tank top and pants and slid the gloves on.
He started slow, just getting a feel for the bag and his stamina. Once he got himself going, he fell into a fierce, bruising rhythm. His hands smacked the bag, making satisfying sounds each time. He kept pounding and planned to keep going until his knuckles started hurting and his shoulders burned.
[Gym's an open place. Talk to Flick or use it for yourself]
But being stuck here meant he'd let his guard down somewhat and his instructors from military school would have been screaming (and thus, spitting) in his face if they could see him now. He didn't need to go back home and face down Mandel and his father as in worse shape than he'd been before. That wouldn't work at all. He needed to be lean and he needed to be toned and he needed to be dangerous.
The gym seemed like a good place to start since he wasn't up to finding people to start fights with right now. There was a heavy bag and there were gloves. It'd do. He stripped down to his tank top and pants and slid the gloves on.
He started slow, just getting a feel for the bag and his stamina. Once he got himself going, he fell into a fierce, bruising rhythm. His hands smacked the bag, making satisfying sounds each time. He kept pounding and planned to keep going until his knuckles started hurting and his shoulders burned.
[Gym's an open place. Talk to Flick or use it for yourself]
