The kick to my shin was searing and carried with it more than enough power to indicate to me that I didn't want, nor need, another! But as I stand, in my newly revised defensive guard, that's what you offer, a swapped focus for your attack, but the same strategy. Foolish to underestimate me as a complete rookie you are, one must be quick on their feet to earn themselves a shot in the pit, and I'm not going to stand here and allow you to just fire of kicks to your hearts contempt. Instead, I plan on taking the fight to you. Hard!
As you step in towards me, planting your weight on your right foot behind you, and driving your left foot out towards me, I step inside your guard, your leg sailing past me, as I drag my own left leg in under you, slamming my somewhat sore shin into your knee, looking to give you a fair dosage of your own medicine, and send you crumbling. My shin connects beautifully, but then, of course it would, with you positioned like a fucked up tea-pot, there was nowhere for you to go, or move, or hide.
But to crumble you isn't enough, not on its own. I want the audience to hear this impact, to feel it, as you hit the mats first, and with your balance already skewered, my hands grab for your shoulders and give you an encouraging push over, helping you headfirst to the floor, as I look to loom over you in the middle of what you'd describe as 'your arena'. Off to one side, of course, to avoid your 'graceful decent' with sprawling legs and flailing arms.
