MMA System: I Will Be Pound For Pound Goat

Damon sat in the passenger seat of the car as Victor drove through the city's evening traffic.

The lights of the passing cars streaked by, but Damon's focus was on the papers in his hands.

His brows furrowed as he read the pages, flipping through each one with increasing confusion and excitement. "I thought you said I was offered a role as a fighter. Something, something, someone dies or something," he said, shaking his head. "This is insane. This is like a full-on action movie."

Victor glanced over at him, his hands tight on the wheel, his brow raised. "Did I? Must have gotten things mixed up. I do remember something about an action movie…" He smirked, giving Damon a playful side-eye. "Action movie star, huh?"

Damon didn't even crack a smile, still scanning the pages. "This isn't just some cameo, Vic. This is a real script. A real movie."

Victor chuckled. "Looks like you're moving up in the world, champ. First it was cage fights, now it's the big screen."

Damon leaned back in the seat, the script still in his lap, his mind racing with the possibilities.

Damon wouldn't normally have been reacting like this, but he had accepted the role thinking it was a simple fighting movie, something close to home, something he could handle.

The idea of playing a fighter on screen felt like an easy transition.

But now, sitting in Victor's car, script in hand, he realized this was something else entirely.

This was a full-on action movie, with real dialogue, real scenes, something he had never imagined himself doing.

Victor kept his eyes on the road, weaving through traffic, but he could see the way Damon was gripping the pages. "Relax," Victor said. "You'll figure it out."

Damon exhaled slowly. "I don't know, Vic. I've never acted before. Not like this."

Victor shrugged. "Hey, you're a fighter. You perform every time you step in the cage. Just think of it like that. And besides, this is what they want. Damon Cross, the fighter turned actor. You're not supposed to be perfect."

They were driving towards the set now, the city skyline glowing in the distance. Damon could already see the lot ahead, trailers, lights, people bustling around.

He felt a flicker of nerves in his stomach. He'd faced world-class fighters, but this was a different kind of fight. One he hadn't trained for.

But he also knew that was part of the game. He'd accepted it, and now he'd see it through, just like he always did.

As they arrived and parked, Damon looked around, taking in the scene.

There were people everywhere, crew members in headsets, grips moving gear, actors in costume milling around in between takes. It felt chaotic, but also oddly familiar.

They soon met a man in a sleek black jacket, his hair slicked back, a warm smile on his face. "Hello, you must be Mr. Cross and Mr. Steele," he said, shaking their hands firmly. "It's a pleasure to have the world's best here."

Damon smiled politely. "Thank you."

The man gestured for them to follow, leading them through the maze of trailers and equipment.

Damon took it all in, the smell of coffee from the craft services table, the low hum of generators, the constant, organized chaos.

They finally stopped in front of a large trailer, its door marked with a simple star. "There's this guy I want you both to meet," the man said, his smile widening. "He's a really big fan."

Damon tilted his head slightly, curiosity piqued. He wondered who could be inside.

The door of the trailer swung open, and Damon's breath caught for a moment when he saw who stepped out.

It was Shack Morris, an older man, but there was no mistaking the way he carried himself.

He had the quiet, unassuming confidence of someone who'd been around the block more times than anyone could count.

He wore a weathered denim jacket, boots that looked like they'd walked a thousand dusty roads, and a battered hat that cast a shadow over his sharp blue eyes.

His beard was neat, his movements calm and controlled. He didn't rush, didn't try to fill the silence, he just stood there, hands at his sides, and let the world come to him.

He gave Damon a small, measured smile, the kind that didn't need to prove a thing. "You must be Damon," he said, his voice low and even, each word carefully measured.

Damon said nothing for a moment, caught off guard by the sudden, quiet power of the man standing in front of him.

The name came to him slowly, a memory from a thousand old headlines and interviews. Shack Morris.

Shack nodded once, the small smile never leaving his lips. "Good to meet you, son," he said, his tone warm but steady.

Damon just nodded, his own voice caught for a second as he tried to find the right words.

Damon cleared his throat, his mind catching up to the moment. This was Shack Morris.

He'd never been a huge fan, he hadn't watched many of the old movies, but who didn't know Morris?

The stories, the commercials, the aura. It was like shaking hands with a piece of history.

A grin spread across Damon's face. "Uh, Damon Cross," he said, repeating his name just to have something to say.

Shack Morris didn't even blink. His eyes, sharp and clear, almost playful, moved slowly over Damon, like he was taking the measure of the man standing in front of him.

"Damon Cross," he said, the words steady and calm. "Middleweight champion. Undefeated. Irish roots, fighting spirit. I know who you are, kid."

Shack's gaze stayed locked on Damon, his smile widening just a touch. "I heard we'll be working together, making a movie," he said in that steady drawl, his tone calm and certain. "Should be a hell of a time."

Damon nodded, the words sinking in with a mix of nerves and excitement. "Yeah," he said, his voice low but steady. "It's… something different, for sure."

Shack's eyes twinkled with that easy, self-assured humor he seemed to carry like a second skin. "Different, sure," he said, his words slow and deliberate. "But I figure if you can handle yourself in the cage, you'll figure it out just fine on set. It's all about keeping your feet under you, no matter what's coming at you."

He reached out, clapping Damon's shoulder with a firm, measured hand. "You've already got that part down."