The slow game

[Eamon Keane sits on the edge of a boxing ring in a dimly lit gym, the distant thud of punches echoing. He wipes sweat from his brow, smirking as he looks into the camera, his thick Northern Irish accent full of disdain.]

Eamon Keane: Thought I’d take a wee break from poundin’ the bag to have a quick word with ye. This Sunday’s not just any match—it’s a Beat The Clock Knock Out, and who’s the lucky lad standin’ across from me? Arthur T. Turtle—me former teammate, or so he thought.

[He chuckles darkly, shaking his head, as if Arthur’s challenge is laughable.]

Eamon Keane: Two weeks ago, we were in the same corner, workin’ together. But now, Arthur thinks he can knock me down ten times? Aye, he’s dreamin’, but even dreams can’t save him on Sunday night.

[Keane stands, pacing the ring with a mocking swagger.]

Eamon Keane: Arthur, I get it. Ye love playin’ the slow game, that whole “Turtle” act, thinkin’ ye can wear me down. Let me make it clear for ye, lad—I don’t do slow. When that bell rings, I’ll be comin’ at ye like a storm, and every knockdown? Just another nail in yer coffin.

[He stops, leans in, his intense gaze locking onto the camera.]

Eamon Keane: Betrayin’ me was yer last mistake, Arthur. By the time I’m done with ye, ye won’t even be able to get up once, let alone ten times.

[With a mocking grin, he raises a water bottle in a sarcastic toast.]

Eamon Keane: Here’s to Sunday, lad. Ten knockdowns to remind ye who’s the muscle—and who’s the fool.

[He takes a defiant swig, tossing the bottle aside as he walks off, leaving the air thick with the promise of pain.]