As your eyes slowly allow themselves to peel open, the infamous words of Roger Murtaugh pop once more into your head: "I'm getting too old for tis shit!"
Last night you fought a fellow giant. This giant, though, was eighteen years your junior, and had both reach and muscle mass on you. If the kid had had any skill, you would have been carried out on a stretcher after the first round.
As it was, he still worked you over pretty hard.
As you slowly leverage your way out of your bed, it doesn't feel like there's any part of your body that isn't hurting.
For the umpteenth time, you decide to hang up your gloves and start your own MMA gym. As you slowly shuffle to the bathroom, wearing only boxers, you notice a faint blue glow emanating from underneath the door of your bedroom closet. Wondering what device you had thrown in the closet and left on, you open the closet door. Standing in the middle of your closet, bathed in a blue glow, was a twenty-five year old version of
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