Chapter 2 - A friend in need
Submitted December 20, 2010 Updated December 23, 2010 Status Incomplete | Punch-Out is copyright to Nintendo. This is a Fanart-Central exclusive fan fiction for the Punch-Out character Aran Ryan. This is a prequel of sorts to Aran''''s appearance in Punch-Out for the Wii.
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Chapter 2 - A friend in need
Chapter 2 - A friend in need
Aran was remembering his 22nd birthday on a particularly misty St. Patrick’s Day some months ago...
“Ah, it’s good to be alive!” said Aran as his family and friends were enjoying themselves, eating, drinking, and singing merrily. Sharon gave her brother a tight, strong hug as Ma Ryan handed her son a present. “Happy birthday, son.” Said Da Ryan, “C’mon and open it up.” Aran unwrapped and opened his present. It was a new pair of boxing gloves, shorts, and boots. “And don’t you be ruinin’ these as fast as those last ones!” said Sharon. Aran experimentally tried on his gloves and punched the air rapidly and maniacally. “That’s my boy!” said Da Ryan, but soon he was punched in the head by Aran’s careless fervor. “Gaddammi—! Sorry, Da.” Said Aran as his father tried to regain his senses. “A-a-a-a-ah-h-h...” said Da Ryan dizzily, “You’re just like your ol’ Da, son... Ch-chip off the ol’ block, y’are...” Ma Ryan tended to her husband as Sharon presented a 1-year-old Irish setter with a ribbon collar. “You better not give this fella any lashes!” said Sharon, “This fella was this close to being euthanized, you know!” “A shelter dog?!” said Aran, “It’s not even a wolfhound!” “Yeah, but beggars can’t be choosers.” Sharon replied, “It’s an Irish setter, anyway, or at least it looks like one. Maybe it’s a lookalike mutt, but anyway, the poor little fella looked at me and I couldn’t just let him be put down!” Aran looked at the dog’s eyes, which despite their air of despair showed a wild side within. “Ha-ha! I like this dog!” said Aran, “I think I’ll call ‘im ‘Dillon’.” Aran gave Dillon a vigorous petting, which cheered up the setter.
Aran remembered the times that he and Dillon had together, from fetching sticks across the countryside, to hunting wild game. He also remembered practicing with his new boxing outfit at the WVBA gym, giving a rapid pummeling to a punching bag...
“Boy, you’re going to wear out those gloves if you keep doing that!” said a voice just outside the gym. Aran thought the voice belonged to his father, but it also sounded deeper with a slightly different accent. “Dad?!” said Aran, “What the hell are you doing at the stadium?!” It wasn’t his dad at all, but Aran’s new coach, Darrel. “I’m not your Da, Aran, but I know him rather well.” said Darrel as he approached Aran, “The name’s Darrel, Darrel O’Riley. I’m your new coach.” Aran was apprehensive, knowing that the only reason why Darrel was here was because he scared his old coach away as he became less of a brute and more of a maniac. “You’re giving me the creeps, Darrel!” said Aran, “What’s with the voice?” “What’s wrong with it?” remarked Darrel, “I’m Irish, just like you, but I’m from the Northern end, so I’m not all shillelaghs and shamrocks. I heard that you’re a little nasty towards any British blokes, so as a fair warning, I might be considered one of them!” Aran gave a chuckle, “Yer alright, Darrel.” Darrel bowed a little and removed his cap. Aran soon removed his gloves and sat down with Darrel, running his fingers through his untamed mullet. “Nice hair,” said Darrel, “you thinkin’ of joinin’ a Rock ‘N’ Roll band with that wild haircut?” Aran and Darrel shared a good laugh. “I like ya, Darrel.” said Aran, “You may be a Brit, but you still got that Irish cunning in ya, and I like that.” “Thanks.” said Darrel, running his fingers through his own short black hair.
Darrel and Aran were about to embrace, but they heard the titters of a young Canadian boxer who was peering into the gym. “Gaddammit, it’s a brat!!” Aran shouted as the kid tried to run across the gym but ended up tripping and falling into a padded mat. Aran laughed uproariously at the boy’s plight, but Darrel was concerned for the boy’s safety as he moaned in pain. Darrel went over to the boy and helped him up from the mat. “Thank you, sir.” said the young boxer to Darrel. Aran stopped laughing to see Darrel and the boy talking. “The name’s Dan McCrea,” said the boy, “but most call me ‘Little Danny’ after that American newcomer with the chocoholic coach, Doc Louis, I think.” “Newcomer?” said Darrel, “I knew Little Mac since the late 80s while I was visiting in America; he’s hardly a newcomer in the world of boxing...” Darrel and Dan continued to talk about Little Mac and his history as Aran eavesdropped on the conversation. Aran never heard of Little Mac before, but from what he heard, he was no better than the Canadian boy he called a brat, and he chuckled hearing that Mac could plow through the champions, the dream fighter, and even Iron Mike, winning many titles and belts while still in his teens. “Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!” Aran laughed and remarked to himself, “This Little Mac fella is just another American brat, and from the United feckin’ States, no less!”
Aran just stopped laughing as Darrel led Dan out of the gym and gave him his best wishes. “I hope to see you in the big leagues, boy.” said Darrel, “You got the makings of greatness in ya.” Dan smiled and ran happily out of the gym. Darrel turned to the smirking Aran with a sour look, which Aran mirrored, “Aran, you’re more twisted than I first thought.” “What’s it to ya??” Aran replied sharply. Darrel only cocked his head to the side and smirked, “I suppose I should’ve thought better, after all, they don’t call you ‘The Maniac’ for nothin’, do they?” Aran stood up and went to Darrel, smirking, “What gave ya the first impression: the wild hair or the wild moves??” Darrel knew that Aran was joking, but he was quite serious, “It’s the way you laughed at the boy when he fell; he could’ve been seriously hurt!” Aran let out a sharp breath, almost spitting. “All the better for me,” Aran remarked caustically, “we don’t need any more brats in the boxing rings!” Darrel only nodded in an odd half-yes-half-no fashion and neared the punching bag. “Aran...” said Darrel, “I just wanted to make sure the boy was all right; I would’ve done the same to you if you got hurt.” Aran gave another sharp breath and turned away. “Don’t you worry about me,” said Aran, “everyone knows that whatever doesn’t kill me only makes me stronger!” “...And more jaded!” Aran heard Darrel remark, but he was not there. As Aran spun around trying to locate Darrel, the last words he heard from him that day were “See you tomorrow, Aran...”
Back in the present, Sharon peeked into Aran’s room to see him and Dillon napping in the bed together. “Aran, if you lie down with dogs—!” Sharon joked, but Aran threw a disembodied stuffed doll’s arm at Sharon’s head. Sharon dodged and went to shove her brother out of the bed. “Get up!” shouted Sharon, and while Dillon complied and jumped out of the room, Aran didn’t budge. “Aran, dammit, get up!” yelled Sharon, “Don’t you know what time it is?!” “Time is not... Time is...” Aran mumbled, trying to keep himself on the bed. “It’s September 2nd, you git, and morning’s almost over!” Aran kept mumbling, clinging to the mattress, “It’s not... It’s Sebemmer 17th... Seventh of the saints be praised...” Sharon, now quite inflamed, cracked her knuckles and used all her strength to lift the side of the mattress, rolling Aran onto the floor, finally rousing him. “Dammit, Sharon!” yelled Aran as he tried to stand up and recover from the shock. “Mornin’, Aran.” Said Sharon, “Late morning, actually.” “Late morning!?!” Aran exclaimed in shock, “Gaddammit, Sharon! I gotta get going!” “Don’t you worry,” said Sharon, “You got 10 minutes before you’ll be late.” “I already am late, dammit!” Aran yelled as he frantically searched for his duffel bag. “I was only trying to help you out,” sneered Sharon, “but you were eager to sleep until sunset!” “Well, don’t just stand there!” Aran shouted, “Help me find my bag!” Sharon grinned and brushed off a mound of stuffing and doll parts, revealing Aran’s bag. Aran grabbed it swiftly and mumbled rapidly, “Thanks, Sharon, well, I gotta run, everyone, I’ll just grab something to eat on the way there, don’t worry about me! Farewell!” Aran hopped onto his motorcycle and drove off as his family waved goodbye.
“Ah, it’s good to be alive!” said Aran as his family and friends were enjoying themselves, eating, drinking, and singing merrily. Sharon gave her brother a tight, strong hug as Ma Ryan handed her son a present. “Happy birthday, son.” Said Da Ryan, “C’mon and open it up.” Aran unwrapped and opened his present. It was a new pair of boxing gloves, shorts, and boots. “And don’t you be ruinin’ these as fast as those last ones!” said Sharon. Aran experimentally tried on his gloves and punched the air rapidly and maniacally. “That’s my boy!” said Da Ryan, but soon he was punched in the head by Aran’s careless fervor. “Gaddammi—! Sorry, Da.” Said Aran as his father tried to regain his senses. “A-a-a-a-ah-h-h...” said Da Ryan dizzily, “You’re just like your ol’ Da, son... Ch-chip off the ol’ block, y’are...” Ma Ryan tended to her husband as Sharon presented a 1-year-old Irish setter with a ribbon collar. “You better not give this fella any lashes!” said Sharon, “This fella was this close to being euthanized, you know!” “A shelter dog?!” said Aran, “It’s not even a wolfhound!” “Yeah, but beggars can’t be choosers.” Sharon replied, “It’s an Irish setter, anyway, or at least it looks like one. Maybe it’s a lookalike mutt, but anyway, the poor little fella looked at me and I couldn’t just let him be put down!” Aran looked at the dog’s eyes, which despite their air of despair showed a wild side within. “Ha-ha! I like this dog!” said Aran, “I think I’ll call ‘im ‘Dillon’.” Aran gave Dillon a vigorous petting, which cheered up the setter.
Aran remembered the times that he and Dillon had together, from fetching sticks across the countryside, to hunting wild game. He also remembered practicing with his new boxing outfit at the WVBA gym, giving a rapid pummeling to a punching bag...
“Boy, you’re going to wear out those gloves if you keep doing that!” said a voice just outside the gym. Aran thought the voice belonged to his father, but it also sounded deeper with a slightly different accent. “Dad?!” said Aran, “What the hell are you doing at the stadium?!” It wasn’t his dad at all, but Aran’s new coach, Darrel. “I’m not your Da, Aran, but I know him rather well.” said Darrel as he approached Aran, “The name’s Darrel, Darrel O’Riley. I’m your new coach.” Aran was apprehensive, knowing that the only reason why Darrel was here was because he scared his old coach away as he became less of a brute and more of a maniac. “You’re giving me the creeps, Darrel!” said Aran, “What’s with the voice?” “What’s wrong with it?” remarked Darrel, “I’m Irish, just like you, but I’m from the Northern end, so I’m not all shillelaghs and shamrocks. I heard that you’re a little nasty towards any British blokes, so as a fair warning, I might be considered one of them!” Aran gave a chuckle, “Yer alright, Darrel.” Darrel bowed a little and removed his cap. Aran soon removed his gloves and sat down with Darrel, running his fingers through his untamed mullet. “Nice hair,” said Darrel, “you thinkin’ of joinin’ a Rock ‘N’ Roll band with that wild haircut?” Aran and Darrel shared a good laugh. “I like ya, Darrel.” said Aran, “You may be a Brit, but you still got that Irish cunning in ya, and I like that.” “Thanks.” said Darrel, running his fingers through his own short black hair.
Darrel and Aran were about to embrace, but they heard the titters of a young Canadian boxer who was peering into the gym. “Gaddammit, it’s a brat!!” Aran shouted as the kid tried to run across the gym but ended up tripping and falling into a padded mat. Aran laughed uproariously at the boy’s plight, but Darrel was concerned for the boy’s safety as he moaned in pain. Darrel went over to the boy and helped him up from the mat. “Thank you, sir.” said the young boxer to Darrel. Aran stopped laughing to see Darrel and the boy talking. “The name’s Dan McCrea,” said the boy, “but most call me ‘Little Danny’ after that American newcomer with the chocoholic coach, Doc Louis, I think.” “Newcomer?” said Darrel, “I knew Little Mac since the late 80s while I was visiting in America; he’s hardly a newcomer in the world of boxing...” Darrel and Dan continued to talk about Little Mac and his history as Aran eavesdropped on the conversation. Aran never heard of Little Mac before, but from what he heard, he was no better than the Canadian boy he called a brat, and he chuckled hearing that Mac could plow through the champions, the dream fighter, and even Iron Mike, winning many titles and belts while still in his teens. “Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!” Aran laughed and remarked to himself, “This Little Mac fella is just another American brat, and from the United feckin’ States, no less!”
Aran just stopped laughing as Darrel led Dan out of the gym and gave him his best wishes. “I hope to see you in the big leagues, boy.” said Darrel, “You got the makings of greatness in ya.” Dan smiled and ran happily out of the gym. Darrel turned to the smirking Aran with a sour look, which Aran mirrored, “Aran, you’re more twisted than I first thought.” “What’s it to ya??” Aran replied sharply. Darrel only cocked his head to the side and smirked, “I suppose I should’ve thought better, after all, they don’t call you ‘The Maniac’ for nothin’, do they?” Aran stood up and went to Darrel, smirking, “What gave ya the first impression: the wild hair or the wild moves??” Darrel knew that Aran was joking, but he was quite serious, “It’s the way you laughed at the boy when he fell; he could’ve been seriously hurt!” Aran let out a sharp breath, almost spitting. “All the better for me,” Aran remarked caustically, “we don’t need any more brats in the boxing rings!” Darrel only nodded in an odd half-yes-half-no fashion and neared the punching bag. “Aran...” said Darrel, “I just wanted to make sure the boy was all right; I would’ve done the same to you if you got hurt.” Aran gave another sharp breath and turned away. “Don’t you worry about me,” said Aran, “everyone knows that whatever doesn’t kill me only makes me stronger!” “...And more jaded!” Aran heard Darrel remark, but he was not there. As Aran spun around trying to locate Darrel, the last words he heard from him that day were “See you tomorrow, Aran...”
Back in the present, Sharon peeked into Aran’s room to see him and Dillon napping in the bed together. “Aran, if you lie down with dogs—!” Sharon joked, but Aran threw a disembodied stuffed doll’s arm at Sharon’s head. Sharon dodged and went to shove her brother out of the bed. “Get up!” shouted Sharon, and while Dillon complied and jumped out of the room, Aran didn’t budge. “Aran, dammit, get up!” yelled Sharon, “Don’t you know what time it is?!” “Time is not... Time is...” Aran mumbled, trying to keep himself on the bed. “It’s September 2nd, you git, and morning’s almost over!” Aran kept mumbling, clinging to the mattress, “It’s not... It’s Sebemmer 17th... Seventh of the saints be praised...” Sharon, now quite inflamed, cracked her knuckles and used all her strength to lift the side of the mattress, rolling Aran onto the floor, finally rousing him. “Dammit, Sharon!” yelled Aran as he tried to stand up and recover from the shock. “Mornin’, Aran.” Said Sharon, “Late morning, actually.” “Late morning!?!” Aran exclaimed in shock, “Gaddammit, Sharon! I gotta get going!” “Don’t you worry,” said Sharon, “You got 10 minutes before you’ll be late.” “I already am late, dammit!” Aran yelled as he frantically searched for his duffel bag. “I was only trying to help you out,” sneered Sharon, “but you were eager to sleep until sunset!” “Well, don’t just stand there!” Aran shouted, “Help me find my bag!” Sharon grinned and brushed off a mound of stuffing and doll parts, revealing Aran’s bag. Aran grabbed it swiftly and mumbled rapidly, “Thanks, Sharon, well, I gotta run, everyone, I’ll just grab something to eat on the way there, don’t worry about me! Farewell!” Aran hopped onto his motorcycle and drove off as his family waved goodbye.
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