Harumi Nemoto vs. Tina Louise

Tina Louise versus Harumi Nemoto

(Results: Lookout!, Words: Revolution Boxing)

She must have batteries in her boobs.

Round seven, and Harumi seemed as fresh as ever. I could feel the lactic acid pooling in my muscles, though I tried not to show it and give it away that the fight might go sour for me, that she was closer than she realized. Her tempo is just ever so slightly faster than mine, a little more forte, a tiny bit more allegro. I suppose I should have expected this after seeing Harumi finish Jennifer so dominantly in four, but I have not yet been forced to pay the iron price for my folly, and that meant I was still in the game. I could still win.

But if I do not find a way to get off the back foot, eventually the match will go against me. Yet her speed remains a problem. Duck, dip, dodge - no matter how hard I try, some defy my defense, but they are only glancing blows, hard enough to hurt but not so as to decisively end the match.

A shower of droplets spray from my gloves as a powerful jab slams into them. Then came another. And another, almost as if I'm Dio Brando. Each is a kill shot, forcing me into high gear just to make sure I don't eat one. She has me pinned against the ropes, unable to attack.

But I can still dodge, so I slip out from under her and blow her a kiss.

That is all I can manage, though. No further mental abuse follows, for she is on me like a tempest of the seas or gale of the air, fists swarming through the air at me like a nest of angry bees. My guard rattles like a Ukrainian house, and shockwaves reverberate throughout my body with each heavy blow. But none slip by. I am not taking blows, glancing or straight, any longer. Her movements seem to be bigger, too, almost as if she thinks brute force alone can break my guard. She can, but I’m not about to let her.

Let’s roll.

She comes straight at me and I dodge left. But she is ready for that maneuver and lands a right hook on my cheek like a Russian missile. Thankfully I don’t recover right into a straight drive that would have killed my hopes.

Harumi seems to think that she broke my guard with pure power, and comes at me harder than ever. Slower than ever too, for that is the price of power. I land a shot squarely on the nose, not enough to knock it out the back of her head, but enough to make it bleed. She opened her mouth to breathe.

Then I find myself dry-heaving like a Heimlich victim, my gag reflex forced into action by her fist. I catch a blow to my gut that sends me down low, and suddenly I am reminded of the Dempsey Roll with which Harumi had so spectacularly decided her match with Jennifer. I’m not in the best position for a roll, but I’ll have to make do. The longer I wait, the more chance she has of knocking me out. I stagger to the side, pretending like the gut punch ripened me for the kill.

As surely as the tsunami follows the earthquake comes her hook, and I step back and rise to dodge it. Even so it clips my nose, twisting my head to the side and busting it up. Within a heartbeat, I can feel the blood welling from the broken capillaries. Another moment, and I would have been senseless on the canvas. But I’m not.

The hook has taken her off balance, for she expected resistance where there was none; and the arm that was not extended was drawn back and down low, perhaps in readiness for a follow-up, leaving her entire body open. Her mouth is open because of the blood in her nose. So I wind up, lunging at her as she lunges at me, and raise my left in an uppercut that goes between her enviable breasts, into the valley and under the string, then snapping her entire top off her as my gloves rapidly approaches her chin.

We hit each other at the same time: her uppercut and mine, one to the chin and one to the solar plexus. It must make a comical sight, us, each throwing and taking the same move, and the audience gasps and cries out with a mix of emotions too various to tell apart, perhaps racing with the thought of a double knockout, or the scenes in the old westerns where the cowboys draw and both shoot, but we are only shown their silhouettes and it is not known who has been shot.

But there’s absolutely a reason that headshots mean more in just about every video game made. Her blow knocks the breath out of me, and I struggle to stay on my feet, doubling over, but I’m in no danger of losing from that alone.

Her, though? Thank you, and good night. Gave it everything I had. It was a perfect blow, lifting her onto her toes, rocking her back, and she teeters, swaying, as I transition into an Oscar-worthy bow, twirling to face the crowd and throwing my arms out with a flourish just as she hits the mat with a final-sounding thud.

I totally didn’t bend over because I was hit - it was absolutely calculated and planned to give the audience a good show.

Despite all, though, as I expected, the match is mine - by KO7. It doesn't matter how much power you have when I can cut the wires.