“Any injuries?”
“Besides that eye of his, no.”
“How’d that happen?”
“That there’s a long story.”
“Are you his trainer?”
“And friend.”
“What is he skilled in?”
“Clayvon’s a street fighter; a brawler.”
The whole time Black Jesus and the Brutus were conversing, Clayvon was in his zone shadow boxing. His mind had transported him to a place where he was all alone and free to train as he pleased. He was a cat six foot three in height with a muscular physique. He wore his hair in six fuzzy cornrows. An eye-patch lay over his left-eye. A worn brown leather belt held up his green corduroy pants, which lay over his black steel-toe boots.
Forty minutes later
“Gentlemen, may I have your attention, please?” A tall, slender light skinned dude spoke into a microphone. He was dressed in all whit
