Volume Three

I didn't have any other type of life experience than fighting. I never experienced the love of a mother, the love I've received from my father was that of a master to a student. That type of love was only temporary. I hated that the most about myself, I could never get the full attention of my father no matter how hard I trained. Or even worse how hard I would destroy my body for the sake of my father approval. Growing up in that type of environment I couldn't understand some emotions. For example the most time I would experience Anger, mixed with desperation. That being the case with most of my life experiences. I did enjoy some aspects of my life, I enjoyed how much progress I've made of the years. He did show me compassion when I pass his expectations, that was very rarely though. I hated myself more than my father. I would have loved to seen him when I would be fully exhausted, seeing the pain in his son's eyes maybe that could have told him inside to stop this madness. I'm just pulling my own leg at this moment. I'm talking about the same man who once broke his own hand on purpose to say even with one hand I could still win. The sad part about that is that even with just one hand that is all he ever really needed to win a fight. He fully understands how to read every single body movever made, it's crazy to think about. Fighting meant everything to my Father. He could care less about holidays or religious ideas, he just wanted to see if anyone could defeat him. To his surprise nobody has done it so far. Even when he is drunk that's when he is the most scary. I saw him fight five men at the same time that were around his weight division. That's was something spectacular to watch, when he was drunk off of four 80oz bottles of vodka. Then about two and half 20oz bottles of fireball. With all that alcohol inside his system he never stumbled once, I couldn't believe that someone could do this feat. It's just unheared at the when it happened. These men were know for their strength and precise accuracy when it comes to fighting that meant nothing to him. He taught me so much about the human body more than any biology book he ever gave me, his idea was that if you knew more information about the human body. Than your opponent then you clearly have a advantage over him or her. His fighting techniques was nothing to the endurance training he put me through. His endurance wasn't just cardio. I wish it was just cardio, the reason behind his cardio actually made sense. The first step is to brake a bone. It didn't matter which one you broke, well to him some days it did matter. Monday was hand's, first two hours was practicing how long you endure the pain of having both index fingers broken. During the process of the endurance you would have to throw combination punches into a four hundred pound dummy. I asked him while doing this, I couldn't throw my punches the right way cause of my index fingers. I asked him. " Father can I put a splint in it.". He just shook his head out of disappointment, he pointed at the dummy that was Against the concrete wall. Sometimes I could land twenty to thirty combinations before I would collapse. The other day would be shoulder training. I hated this one the most, each time I would do a shoulder thrust. It would dislocate soon after landing the attack. My father would not help his soon pop it back into place, so I would slam myself into the walls. Fall onto the floor. I would try everything until they would pop back into place, the size of the bruises I would have after a day of training. These bruises would last for days. I didn't have days to wait until I could perform again, I loved the days when he would help me train my collarbone. It was a pretty simple task for to do. Laying down on the cold concrete floor, looking up at the man that nobody has ever defeated. The death in his eyes, this type of gaze was fearsome. I nearly wetted myself while patiently waiting for him to start the exercise. My father's size was quite impressive seeing how he would explain that his parents didn't have the right to give birth to him. He saw them as mere lice to him, he hated them with all his heart. He couldn't stand the fact that his father worked behind the desks for a toothpick company. Begging for customer to take an interest in their company, in his own words his father was the doorknob to the company. Everyone got a turn mocking the man. All he ever done was just laugh it off. I couldn't believe that the man I was supposed to to what to be when I grow up was just a useless asset to the company. He died in that company hunching over a desk begging for another poor soul like him to take stock. I sadly had to go to that poor excuse of a father funeral, of course my mother was crying. He wasn't worth the effort to cry for. Yes I lost my father, that was nothing to me. That title meant nothing to me. All that meant was he help my mother procreate. That's the only thing I can appreciate from my father is that the made me, the times when I was bleeding out crying for help. He would just turn on the porno he made with my mother to cancel our my voice. I stopped screaming after the second time. I just didn't want to hear the moans of my Mother l, knowing that it was cause of my Father's Penis.