The house rattled with each blow; the rafter creaked everytime the bull hide bag was hit, but the man didn't stop. The place he once called home wasn't much of one, now - there was barely anything left, save for the punching bag and a cheap cot. There wasn't even any silverware, furniture, decorations, anything - he'd sold them all. All just to meet a petty payment.
So in a bare house with bare rooms, there was just the punching bag. It was this that caused stress to the house's structure; but more specifically the man propelling it.
Allen connected with another, and then another - all the while dancing around the bag, catching it at all sorts of angles. Pure power packed behind each assault, every muscle in his body pouring into each punch at the time.
A dead friend of his had told him, after he'd been knocked out, that it felt something like a catapulted brick hitting him in the face. Of course, people were prone to exaggeration. If he had that much force, why, he could be a human wrecking crew...
But for all that power, Allen was still as good as dead on Saturday. There was another payment to be made, and not only that, some foolish promises were made to make up for some others. So far, he had almost nothing. And the clock was still ticking.
He was covered in a fine coat of sweat, and it felt good. Relaxing. It cleared his mind enough to allow him the knowledge of what he had to do, as much as he really didn't want to. His life was on the line, and be damned if he was going to die in this hell hole. In debt, no less.
Allen gave the bag a final thunderous blow before the rafter gave up, wood cracking away at the point of connection. The bag hit the ground with a thud and fell over with yet another, and a silence fell over the house.
Silence to be eliminated as the wood squeaked ever so softly under the big man's steps.