i intended to skip the afternoon class tonight and just go in and do some bag work on my own. "strictly technique." i promised myself.

so i ran, did the morning class, then went for breakfast. over the course of my meal i became utterly engrossed in a gripping tale of conan and his adventures on the high seas with belit, then upon meditating for a moment on how that most glorious cimmerian would spend his day, found myself in a beach chair watching the waves break on the sand. what a sight of natural beauty these white sand beaches are; that wondrous display was however counterbalanced and then some by the sweating horrors of european men in speedos and middle-aged women with their leathery tits out for crom. far be it for me to speak for one of the old gods but somehow i have my crawling doubts that crom is pleased by this sort of display...

nonetheless the hours slipped by as conan hacked his way through ancient and sinister beasts in search of treasures always just out of reach and the sun continued its inexorable path until finally my stomach roared a savage battle cry and my spirits rose to meet it on the field of burritos. i assure you i was definitely wary of having a burrito in thailand but holy gods it was fantastic. i haven't had bad food here yet.

i returned to camp around 3.30, not long after eating. the first afternoon class started at three so i figured to slip in around four, do some light work on the bags and slip back out after five when the second afternoon class starts. i get changed, hide in the lengthening shadows, and creep slowly towards the bags...

"heeeeyyy ! riree !"

"hey oron, just going to do a bit of bag work."

"hey ok no problem."

i hit the bag for half a round and oron comes back with pads.

"hey you work with me ok !"

"oh, i was just going to do a bit of bag--"

"yab !" he yells. i jab. "1-2 !" i do, lightly. the ghost of burritos past squirm about in my stomach in spite of having been bested in one on one combat. they whistle in low ominous notes; portents of a future they somehow know.

"1-2 ! hard !" i do. we run through countless boxing combinations with tons of movement; up and down, slipping, breaking, twisting and turning back and forth through the midsection like a washing machine set to vomit. he has me running 20 punch combinations, yelling "faster riree !" all the time. i'm shouting with the punches "ha ha ha ha !" and oron is shouting back "hey hey hey hey !" we do seven rounds of this and i'm fucking dying. sweat pouring off in buckets, shoulders aching, calves cramped viciously, stomach haunted by burrito ghosts.

"back to bag !" oron announces. fuck. finally ! just gonna tap away at the bag with some quarter speed jabs and elbows while oron goes SOMEWHERE FUCKING ELSE.

except he doesn't. he stands there with his watch and whistle and barks "faster riree !" every time i slow down from top speed. "now squats !" he counts them off. "back to bag !" he says, smirking and holding back laughter. he knows what he's putting me through and he can see me suffering and he's loving it.

"why you motherfuck--" i think to myself, yet i can't help but smile.

"ok riree, goooood." he says after another round. i start to relax but-- that fucking smirking. "now." he points to the ring. "crinching !" he announces. grueling fucking clinching. my stomach cowers in terror as the burrito hauntings continue.

but what luck is this ? i'm paired with a chubby redhead who meekly mumbles, "i've only done a couple days of this so..."

"hey man, noooo problem. we'll go up real light and feel it out." my muscles finally start to relax as a third of the round slips by and the timekeeper says "one minute goooone !".

oron finally at his wits end has seen enough of this disgusting display and says, "no. you-" he grabs pasty red and pairs him up with a guy sitting on the ring apron, "and you. crinch. riree, other ring."

finally just accepting this is the way it's going to be, i fall into clinching with oron. he's relatively gentle in his clinchwork with his arms, but he drives hard knees into my body and the burrito hauntings reach a feverish pitch, howling and wailing and such as you would expect from food in a belly getting kneed by a guy who has focused his entire life's energy into learning to knee things REALLY FUCKING HARD.

we clinch for a few rounds, and then i actually think we're done when the rest of the class is done for some bizarre reason. i really have no explanation for what was going through my head there and fully accept my shortcomings in the field of the brainiac.

"riree, you good boxer. you get," oron points to his teeth, opens and closes his jaw, "get mouth, mouth..."

"mouthguard !" i offer helpfully, then wince as if his smirk carried the weight of one of his vicious legs.

"yes ! mouthguard. we spar."

okay are you fucking KIDDING me ?! you just put me through a grueling workout and watched and laughed and now you're going to spar with me. dear PROFESSIONAL THAI FIGHTER, FUCK YOU.

but i still laugh and smile because he IS fucking kidding me, despite being serious. this is his idea of a fun time and in sickly it is also my idea of a fun time (okay the ghosts of burritos lunch'd maybe not so much, but otherwise).

i put in my mouthguard and the first round goes surprisingly well for me, but i'm not so stupid as all that. i know he's reading my movement, my timing, my style and is planning the counters in his head. in response i try not to show too much beyond a stiff jab and lots of movement, which normally, no problem but in this instance wears me out quickly after the preceding workout and the waves of undigested burritoghoul induced nausea.

"round two !" announces some fucking DUDE i've never even seen before and i realize he's watching and smirking that same fucking smirk as oron.

we move to the center of the ring and oron reaches out to touch gloves (a sign of sportsmanship that's traditional when sparring). i reach mine out and he breaks left and launches an uppercut into my guts.

the burrito ghosts howl their approval as their corpses fills my mouth and i drop to a knee. i swallow it like a classy motherfucking gangster of love and look up to see oron parading around the ring like it's the fucking main event at lumphini stadium and the DUDE watching has put a count on me !

"two ! three !"

i flop to my side for comedic effect but holy fuck my guts are trembling and miserable and i probably would have fallen over even if i hadn't intended it. the ghosts are positively shaking with ecstasy at their victory.

"five ! six !"

i get up to one knee. oron taunts me by holding his stomach and shaking his knees. the ghosts are suddenly concerned and voice their disapproval.

"seven ! eight !"

i get up. the ghosts swim about in a blind fury but i'm determined-- i'm sure i won't beat this thai man but victory over my digestive system is something i believe in.

"okay oron. that's war just so you kn--" he blasts me with a straight right to the stomach. it hurts but i at least am expecting the punch and can flex my KILLER ABS to absorb some of the sting.

he attacks my stomach relentlessly. i try to counter but he's very fast and his defense is excellent. i land very few shots on him except to the body, which he responds to with an angelic smile and return fire. he comes forward relentlessly, forcing me to move. i'm totally exhausted, waiting for a round-break that doesn't come. we go for ten straight minutes until finally oron says "okay, good yob." without even a suggestion of fatigue. i would hate him for it if i had the energy but instead i just crumple in a heap and give silent thanks to crom for putting war in a man's soul, and for the burrito ghosts who couldn't chase me out of my home, a curious smirk crept across my lips.