"Fucking no-name pricks in the higher ups thinkin' they can push me around like a fuckin' cart, who the fuck do they think they are?"

The punching bag rocked heavily under the impact of Galen's fist, the chains holding it up staying strong as the bag swayed in the air, rocked back by the force of Galen's fists raining down upon it. Every stinging jab, every hard-landed blow, each one more violent and uncontained then the rest.

Oh yeah, he was pissed.

First that Dominic Pericolo punk thought he could show off against him and catch a couple of good shots in, acting like he'd take him out in a few seconds. Problem was the little piss-ant did take him out fast. So Galen lost and the new kid kicks shit all over his reputation, so what? By now, it really didn't matter...so many people had already that he'd given up aring, and rather did all he could to beat someone's ass. He was struggling to reclaim his fallen legacy, and it really wasn't working.

And now the little bastards up top thought it'd be funny to stick him in a match against the same boy who took down the king of Fight Club and humbled him in front of all of his people. The little bugger that showed the world David could still kick Goliath square in the balls.

"Shit, I hope the kid has enough dough for the medical bills I'll be wracking up on'm..." growled Galen, who shook his head--he'd heard stories of poor bastards who had to stay messed up from fights simply because they couldn't afford to fix themselves up...but then again, after what Dominic did to him, maybe it was better that way.

He could get his revenge for the little fucker taking his spotlight away and sending him spiralling down, that was for sure.

Finally, the ever-constant rain of punches upon the heavy bag had stopped, allowing it's rocking to slow to a halt after a few moments. Galen's fists were stinging from the punches he'd delivered, but he simply blocked it out. He stepped over to the bench and lifted his towel from it to wipe the sweat from his body, beads of perspiration dripping down his face, arms, chest and back. He had been training for God knows how long now, and had decided to finish it off by letting his frustrations out. It was a good workout, definitely let out the anger he'd needed to release, but the frustration still remained.

And the frustration was what caused the problem in the first place.

Galen tried his best to focus his mind on something else; something to ignore the frustration still dwelling within him like a serpent waiting to strike. He went through everything he could think of, from life on the outside to life on the inside. All the rules of Fight Club--'You do NOT talk about Fight Club...' he would think to himself in his constant attempts at blocking that frustration. When that wouldn't work, he'd think about the fear he used to put into people's hearts during his prime, all the faces he'd bashed in just to prove he was the best...but memories of his current self swept in to take out the better times and replace them with shame.

Inevitably, all of his attempts at such a thing were for none. He just couldn't do it, the frustration seemed to respond to being ignored by building itself stronger, until a point where Galen had a metaphorical dam built within his body about ready to break under the pressure. No matter how hard he'd tried throughout the day, the frustration refused to release itself from it's ever-constant battering on his mind. His chest felt tight and his abdomen tighter from the stress it was forcing upon him.

"Yo 'Sean!" called forth a voice from across the room, a voice belonging to a person who was blissfully unaware of the reasons for Galen's stress--much less the fact that he was under stress to begin with. "You ready to put the rookie sensation to shame? We think ya' finally got'm beat this time, ya' know what to expect so he won't whip ya' ass pilla' ta' post like the first time, right?"

Galen turned slowly, glaring directly into the man's eyes as suddenly he felt himself breaking under the pressure of his glare. The man glanced about nervously, looking over at the very-much pissed off Sean Galen. He let out a nervous chuckle, scratching the back of his head.

"So I take that as a yes then, man?" he said meekly.

"Get the fuck out of here, and tell the bitch I'm about ready to break his fucking face in." Galen said coldly, his voice dripping with malice and anger. The dam had broken from the pressure, and this guy in front of him stood with the very sledge hammer that helped break it inside his mouth. Had he kept that mouth of his shut, then maybe his tounge wouldn't have brought forth the verbal hammer. And had that verbal hammer not been brought forth upon Galen, perhaps this 'rookie sensation' wouldn't get the thrashing of a life-time.

The guy scampered out of the room to the others as Galen finished wiping the sweat from his body, staring down at the ground. He didn't want to break the guy or anything--he wanted to murder him. The kid'll be lucky if he can move in the morning, that's for sure.

And in Galen's mind, there was another thing that would be made certain leading into the fight and coming out of the fight. A certainty that this was it--that today he would finally turn things around and set things straight for himself, and re-arrange the kid's face for good.

He wanted to end this kid's career, not just beat him--and he'd be damn sure to do just that.