Was this standard procedure?  John ached all over as the trainer knocked him down again with a running shoulder block.  John had no idea how many bumps he had taken.  For some reason, the number thirty-four kept ringing in his ears, but he imagined that he had taken considerably more than that.  Like a cow being led to slaughter, John quickly got back to his feet only to be knocked down once again.  Sometimes John wondered if the trainer was something of a sadist, finding pleasure in toying with a sixteen-year-old student.  Other times he didn't think at all.  John was always a smart kid, he knew full well that if he ever complained he'd just be worked harder.  In reality though, the trainer, a native of Mexico City, picked on John in particular because of what he was - a rich, extremely intelligent American kid who'd given up a life of luxury to move to Mexico and wrestle.  In a class full of twenty-somethings learning the trade to feed their families of their drug habits, John stood out.  This was in spite of the fact that he was a quiet young man with no physically discernible features.  He was tall, but not overwhelmingly so.  He was lean, but not to the point of anorexia.  Even his shoulder-length hair was such a shade of brown that seemed to just fade into any surroundings.  And his voice - dull, monotonous - did absolutely nothing for the Rapid City, South Dakota native living alone in the heart of Mexico City.

"Enough.  Gather round!"

Just as John took what may have been his three-hundredth bump of the morning, the trainer called a break.  Everyone gathered around the bulky trainer, a former Mexico City Wrestling Organisation mainstay before being fired for alcoholism and beating a girlfriend.  John, a good five years younger than most of his contemporaries, scanned his class mechanically.  Seeing how his fellow class men looked at the trainer made him sick to his stomach.  The trainer was a vile, overweight, racist scumbag.  John loathed him.  Furthermore, John loathed everyone else in the small dingy gym for the way they looked at the aforementioned scumbag.  The trainer's name was Hector Cervantes, but he insisted on being called "Skip".  John had always wanted to call him by his first name, but he could never bring himself to doing so.

"Maggots, what we've seen from Taylor today was good..."

John let out a quiet sigh of relief to himself until Skip continued.

"...But I'm not training you scumbags to be good, I'm training you to be THE BEST!!!"

With that, Skip floored the young John with a hard back-hand shot.  It hurt like hell, but the shame of being embarrassed in front of his fellow trainees hurt him considerably more.  Laying on the ground as Skip proceeded to lay into his relatively small frame with hard toe kick after hard toe kick, John wondered if this was what Skip's girlfriend had gone through some time earlier.  The class group of about nine lingered awkwardly inside the ring, forming a crude circle around the trainer and his victim.  One or two looked as though they were considering intervening, but not one did.  John's gut began to swell as Skip continued his assault.  It had nothing to do with wrestling or wrestling training.  This was above and beyond "tough love".  This was simply a bitter, aging man abusing his power and taking out some well pent-up frustration on a sixteen-year-old boy.  Still, nobody intervened.  John rolled over onto his stomach and tried to scramble to his feet, but suddenly he forgot all that he had been taught.  For a moment, he considered the possibility that this was merely a test to see if John had what it took or to see if he would crack under pressure.  The reasoning seemed sound.  It was a test.  John sucked it up and rolled away before perfectly shooting to his feet and charging at his trainer.

Was it a test?

John tackled a shocked Skip to the mat and proceeded to lay into him with a series of furious rights and lefts directly to the face.  And he didn't stop.  The cold, unforgiving slap of his knuckles colliding with Skip's selfish, narrow-minded skull quickly brought the young man back to reality.  Instinctively, he rose to his feet.  As his classmates looked on in disbelief and disgust, John examined his now-trembling fists.  Skip's blood decorated his hardened knuckles.  He almost cracked a smile, but found himself twitch instead.  The twitch brought him back to reality.  Was it a test?  It didn't fucking matter anymore.  Two students stepped forwards and helped Skip to his feet.  Blood dripping from his mouth, the foul trainer stared at the confused and delirious John.

"What the FUCK was that, Taylor?"

John found his bottom lip jittering like mad.  He wanted to scream ten things at once, but wisely thought against it.

"I... I thought it was a test, Skip..."

John stared anxiously at the bloodied trainer, perhaps wishing for approval.  John didn't even know.  A part of him wished that Skip would provoke him again.

"A test, boy?"

"Well...  Yeah-"

"...A TEST?!  Do you see any pads or pencils, you spoilt bastard?"

For the first time in the three months of training, John refused to play up to the power-mad Skip.  He just stared straight back at him.  Skip seemed genuinely surprised and took a moment to come to terms with it before speaking up himself.

"This should be your ass, Taylor...  If your parents weren't your parents, you'd be out that door with about nine guys worth of beatings.  We're a fuckin' team, boy.  It's all about teamwork and solidarity.  Your wily fists will do nothing to help that..."

Again, John just stared straight back at him.  From the look in Skip's eyes, however, John could tell that the scumbag was looking at a changed boy.