Big Eli stood exactly where he had been, wiping a streak of blood from his mouth with a greasy thumb. "You’re dead!" Trent hissed. He dropped his hands slightly, preparing for a takedown to mount the old man and cave his face in.
Big Eli sighed, a short, ragged breath. He rolled his broad shoulders. He stopped trying to look small. His stance shifted into a grounded, perfectly balanced base.
Trent charged, fanning a left hook and shooting straight for Big Eli’s waist.
Trent expected the old man to sprawl, panic, or stumble backward. He expected frailty.
Instead, Big Eli widened his base and simply dropped his center of gravity. As Trent slammed into his midsection, Eli didn't retreat. He brought his massive, grease-stained arms down, digging them fiercely under Trent's armpits—double underhooks.
Trent drove his legs, trying to lift the farmer, but it felt like trying to uproot a century-old oak tree with bare hands. Big Eli clamped his arms together behind Trent's back, locking his hands in a grip forged by forty years of hauling feed sacks and wrestling recalcitrant tractor tires. He spread his calloused feet and leaned all 240 pounds of his static weight directly down on Trent's neck and shoulders.
One minute, forty seconds left.
Trapped in the clinch, Trent began to panic. He threw short, frustrated punches into Eli’s ribs. Thump. Thump. Thump. Eli absorbed them. The pain was there, a dull, throbbing heat, but it was a familiar companion. It was nothing compared to shrapnel. It was nothing compared to the fear of losing the farm.
"Let go!" Trent gasped, the air being squeezed from his lungs by the sheer, unyielding pressure of Eli's chest. Trent tried to sweep Eli's leg, kicking wildly at the farmer's calves, but Eli's roots were planted too deep in the mat.
Big Eli breathed slowly through his nose. He didn't strike back. He just held on, pulling Trent into the deep water of exhaustion. Every time Trent exhaled, Eli tightened the grip by a fraction of an inch, suffocating the young fighter's explosive energy.