Tch was quick. He hit hard, he moved fast, he bobbed, he stretched, he coiled, he dodged, he ducked, he switched directions. He used jabs, he confused his opponent, and he won. He won big. He won all the time.
Tch was a lightweight, but only because he had to be. He would have fought any sound that cared to take him on. Tch was tall and skinny and had stitches down the right side of his face, and though he acted modest in public, he relished the attention. He was a boxer, through and through.
He fought all kinds of sounds. He beat Ch without much of an issue, even though some had predicted it would be a close fight. Tch was infinitely sharper than Ch. Dge was a tough opponent, heavier than Tch, but not as fast, not as cutting. Tch was quick. His fight with Th wasn’t even close. Th was as soft as his sister, Sh. Neither of them were born to be boxers, but it seemed like only Sh realized that. As a publicity stunt, Tch once fought the twins, Ff and Ph, at the same time. Tch won handily; his speed ended up tripping his opponents over one another. Cl, Str, even X. Tch took them on and won.
Tch was mean. There wasn’t much doubt about it. He was practical, sure, and a little bit quiet, but he was mean. He hit his opponents harder than he needed to because he liked the noise that their head made against that last punch, the punch that sent the other sounds sprawling and that started the referee counting. He loved it when his opponent got back up, too; that was his favorite part. The other sound would be standing there, dazed, and the referee would drop his arm and before his victim would even get his gloves up Tch would wind up and send a right hook pounding into his head. He would fall back to the ground, and if he got up Tch would do it again, over and over, mercilessly, until the fight was over.
Tch was a fighter, and a topnotch one at that. Tch was the best.