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AUTHOR'S NOTE: This story is a commission request from the user Naga Shark. This user has been a great supporter and dear friend to me.

Like most days, the home of Martin and Olivia McGregor was filled with the sounds of their one dozen folf pups running around, tearing the place apart, saying they were hungry. Squabbles amongst the siblings were frequent, but Martin and Olivia were not without help. Martin's parents, Bradley and Tori, along with Olivia's mother and father, Will and Johnna, could usually be found there at the house assisting in the raising of such a large brood.

"Alright, you rowdy pups," said Martin in a loud voice. "All of you come into the living room."

"What's going on?" asked Ian, the oldest of the twelve pups.

"We're going to have story time," said Olivia to her son.

"What's the story about?" asked Luke, the second oldest of their brood.

"It's about great-grandpa Martin," answered Martin about his namesake. The father of twelve watched as the pups all trickled into the living room and found places to sit. Three year old Hunter, the youngest of the twelve, waited until his father had sat down on his chair before jumping up in his lamp. Smiling, Martin ruffled his little boy's ears, making him giggle. Martin looked around the room, seeing that everyone was in place.

"You sure you don't want to tell the story, Dad?" asked Martin to his father.

"It's your house," said Bradley, putting his arm around his vixen wife, Tori. "Besides, you were named after him, so I know how important it is for you to be the one to tell it."

"Okay," said Martin. "It all starts a long time ago when great-grandpa was still a teenager . . ."

The Bronx, New York City, USA, April 1981

Daylight had barely broke on the horizon in the city, but in New York, the city that never slept, urban noise filled the area. Cars hoking their horns, animals of all species walking around on foot from block to block, angry citizens yelling at each other for seemingly minor offenses or even non offenses. It was all part of the urban experience.

There in the 15th district, one of the poorest in the nation, and the poorest in all New York City, a single figure, dressed in gray sweat pants and hooded sweatshirt, completely blocked out the myriad of urban clamor. He'd already been up for more than an hour and was close to completing his daily morning run. The eighteen year old wolf didn't wasn't even phased when he heard the sound of multiple gunshots off in the distance only ten minutes ago. Unless one of those bullets had struck him, he wasn't going to stop . . . for anything.

Panting, with sweat running down his forehead and into his eyes, he took the sleeve of his sweatshirt and swiftly rubbed away the sweat, clearing his vision once more. He was almost at the end of his journey, just two more city blocks at he would be done.

He kept running, never slowing down, but pressing ever forward, his feet hitting the paved sidewalk. As he made it to the final block, he could see the sign of his salvation. "Sully's Gym" a large, but slightly faded sign grew ever larger as he moved closer. With all his strength and determination, he felt his legs, tired and soar, make the final steps to the gym door. With his morning run at an end, he leaned against the door, panting heavily, his heart beating like a jackhammer. He looked down at the stop watch he used to keep track of his run time. Though spent for the time being, he took great pride in having beaten yesterday's run time by more than a minute. He waited a few minutes before opening the door and walking inside.

The urban racket melted away, now the sound of the gym lights could be heard as the wolf shut the door. He pulled off his hooded sweatshirt, tossing it to the side. He fluffed his sleeveless shirt, trying to cool himself off from the five mile run he'd just undertaken.

"Hey," yelled a gruff voice. "Didn't your mother teach you not to throw your clothes on the floor, pup?"

The wolf turned around, knowing that voice from anywhere. There stood James "Sully" Sullivan, an old bulldog with only one eye, glaring at him menacingly. The wolf went over and picked up his hooded sweatshirt and neatly folded the sweaty article.

"Sorry, Sully," he said. "Won't happen again."

The old bulldog laughed. "Aw, you know I'm just joking with you, pup. How'd the run go, huh?"

"Best time so far," said the young wolf. "Clocked in at 26:47."

"That's more'n a minute better than yesterday," said the bulldog, surprised to hear the news.

"I just kept at it like you told me, Sully," said the wolf.

"Good boy," said Sully. "You know, Marty, I gotta say, I didn't think much of you when you stepped into the gym four years ago. Dirty, torn clothes, the souls of your shoes bein' held together with duct tape. Looked like you were about ten pounds underweight. You were quite the pitiful sight. You told me you wanted to learn to box, and I told you must be suicidal, thinkin' you could get in the ring and trade punches with somebody. But you didn't let that bother you. You were hungry, real hungry. You kept coming back, day after day, never had no attitude, never did nothin' half-assed. I saw you go in the ring, take a beatin' from bigger guys, even get knocked down, but you always got up and went back for more. Now look at you, six foot two, looking like a real warrior."

Martin looked over himself. He had indeed come a very long way in four years of training. His once scrawny frame had slowly been bulked up and sculpted into a lean, muscular frame with nary an ounce of fat on it. He flexed his arms for Sully, making the old bulldog cackle.

"That's good, pup," he said. "How 'bout you go get yourself a bottle of water, huh? Looks like you need it."

The still sweaty Martin found that to be an excellent idea. He went over to the gym's refrigerator, pulled out a large bottle of spring water and unscrewed the lid. Knowing better than to simply gulp down the entire thing, the young wolf took small sips, not wanting to cramp up or have his stomach feel like someone had kicked him. Sully had trained him well about all the steps necessary to condition properly. He sat down on one of the chairs along the gym wall, waiting to see what his trainer wanted him to do next.

"Marty," said Sully, having disappeared while Martin got his much needed drink of water. "I gotta tell you something."

"What's that, Sully?" asked the wolf

"Got a call last night right after you left to go home from a boxing manager down in Louisiana."

"Louisiana?"

"Yeah," said Sully, grasping a rolled up magazine in his paws. "This manager's got himself a guy who's the NABF champion right now."

"North American Boxing Federation" asked Martin.

"That's the one," said Sully. "Guy's named Bruno "The Creole Destroyer" Calypso. Lot of the sports writers are sayin' this guy's gonna be the next heavyweight champion of the world. Here, take a look at this."

Martin watched as the bulldog unfurled the magazine in his paws. It was April's issue of The Ring, the Bible of boxing magazines. Opening the pages to the center of the magazine, Martin got his first glimpse of Bruno, a huge lion with golden tan fur, blood red mane and emerald green eyes. Not only was he the centerfold of that month's issue, an entire article had been dedicated to him, talking about his beginnings, his record and the prospects of his becoming the next undisputed heavyweight champion of the world in boxing.

"How big's this guy?" asked Martin, not taking his eyes off the centerfold poster.

"Stands six foot eight, weighs 495 lbs, got an 85 inch reach on him," said Sully.

"Wow," said Martin in hushed awe. "Record?"

"Thirty-two and zero," answered Sully. "All of his wins were knockouts, eighteen of them in one round alone."

Martin was overwhelmed. Bruno's definite height and reach advantage, his superior record and extraordinary knockout record. It was a lot to take in for the eighteen year old wolf, who had only had thirteen professional fights, though all ended in wins for him.

Far away from the urban jungle of The Bronx, a large lion was busy doing his daily strength training regimen deep in the bayou of Louisiana. Lying on his weight bench, he pumped the weights in his bench press exercise. His massive chest heaved up and down as he moved the weights up and down, over and over again until he could do no more. One of his handlers, a lion, picked up the iron weight laden bar and placed it on the rack. Bruno got up, wiping the sweat away from his head.

"How'd I do, Rene?" he asked.

"You did good," said Rene. "Ain't nobody could get the best of you in the ring right now."

"That's what I hope, little brother," said Bruno. "Where Daddy at?"

"Right here," said an older lion, approaching the two. "Bruno, I got you good fight soon. You wanna here?"

"Course I do, Daddy," said Bruno, wiping the sweat away from his forehead.

"Listen to this," said the older lion, Pierre. "There this young wolf been fighting up in the North. Name's McGregor. He call himself "Mighty" Martin McGregor. His manager call me last night, say he lookin' for a big fight for his boy, wanna give everybody a good show. He only got thirteen fights, but from what I hear, those fights be good ones. His trainer, James Sullivan, he got good respect in boxing, trained up a lot of good boys, but he's looking to get something for his new boy. You wanna hear more?"

"Sure, Daddy," said Bruno.

"This boy, he a wolf," said Pierre. "Stand six foot two, 'bout 220 pounds. He only got himself thirteen fights, but he win all of them. Knocked out all them boys he fight. Sound good?"

"I make quick work of him, Daddy. You know I do," said Bruno.

"Course you do, boy," said Pierre, patting his son on the back. "He nothin' but a bum, you know? Boy put some muscle on himself and he think he gonna be a champion. Look to me like he just a puffed up cruiserweight. Nothin' you gotta take serious, Bruno boy."

Bruno grinned from ear to ear, soaking in his father's praise. "I make him into gumbo, Daddy. You watch, I tell him so before the fight."

Martin was taking in all the statistics of his potential next in the ring. It was a lot to consider. The young wolf, thought long and hard about the challenge. He'd never backed down from an opponent thus far, even when the odds were against him. He might take a beating, but still he would not back down.

"Sully, what's the purse riding on this fight anyway?"

"Your biggest one yet, pup," said the old bulldog. "Bruno's promoter said he'd put up $400,000."

"You . . . you serious?" asked an awestruck Martin.

"Damn right, pup," said the old bulldog. "They were sayin' that the split would be seventy-five to twenty-five since he's the champion."

"So," said Martin, grinning. "In other words, he'd get the lion's share?"

Sully took the magazine, rolled it back up and smacked the young wolf upside the head. "You're a smart-ass, you know that?"

Martin just laughed off the smack. "How much?"

"They're wantin' to give us a seventy-thirty split, but I can get them to give us a sixty-forty split if I push it."

Martin leaned back in his chair. "Ah, that would be great, Sully. With that kind of money, I could get Mom into a better apartment, even get some money to get Mikey a lawyer for his appeal."

Sully, old, hard-boiled, felt his heart melt at the wolf's words. "Aw, I tell you, pup, that's sweet of you. You know, I've been doin' this a long time and you know what most guys wanna do after they get some money in this sport, hmm? They blow it, faster'n they make it. Snort it up their nose, spend it on fast cars, big houses, broads, but you know what? I gotta say, you're doin' the right thing, wantin' to spend it on your mom and tryin' to get your brother an appeal so he can get outta prison. You're such a good pup."

"That's why I got into boxing, Sully," said Martin. "I wasn't looking for fame or glory. Just wanted to make some money to take care of my family."

"And I'm sure you will, pup," said Sully, trying not to shed a tear in front of the young wolf. "Now, whadda ya think about this fight?"

"Gonna be a challenge, Sully," said the young wolf. "Bruno's a lot bigger than me. Looks like he could really cream me if he wanted to."

"He could," said Sully. "But you're forgettin' somethin', pup."

"What's that?" asked Martin.

"You look at this big bastard, whadda ya see?" asked Sully. "You look at him and think there's no way you could beat him 'cause he's bigger'n you. Well, that's crap, pup. I been at this a long time. Long time, Martin. Let me tell you, everybody thinks the advantage is for the bigger guy, but it's wrong. You see, the smaller guy can take the advantage away from the bigger guy by makin' himself smaller, crouching down, you can get underneath the punches, slip 'em, come up and take it to his body. You think that big frame of this cat's is an advantage. Bullshit. Big guy like this, he's a lumbering giant. You can get on the inside, pound away, move to the outside and keep him outta reach. You believe that, pup?"

"Yes I do, Sully," said Martin, growing more confident.

"Look, Martin," said Sully. "I know we're in the age of big heavyweights, but let me tall you something . . . all those guys that came before 'em, they weren't no giants. Go look at those posters on the gym wall, Jack Dempsey, Gene Tunney, Joe Louis, Rocky Marciano, Floyd Patterson, those guys were barely two hundred pounds. Shit, lot of 'em weren't even that much. But you know what? They were all champions, and all because they were the best, regardless of weight, reach or height. They all had something you got, hunger. Hunger to be the very best."

Martin stood straight up out of his chair, a steely look of determination showing on his lupine face. "You call that lion's camp. Tell 'em I'm ready whenever he is, Sully."

The old bulldog gave a raspy laugh, slapping the young wolf on the back. "Knew I could count on you, pup. You're gonna show that big bastard a thing or two."