Last 30 Days

T Minus 22 Days

Why was Luigi so good in Smash nowadays?

Practice.

Lots and lots and lots of practice.

Just because he had those awesome combos didn't make him better than everyone else, after all. His combos were only as good as the effort he put into them.

And so, after breakfast, before his first match of the day, he'd hit the Training Room and warm up on a Sandbag.

In between matches, he'd practice as well. He couldn't practice his throws on the Sandbag, but he could practice the nifty little set-ups for a grab. One of his favorites was a fireball into a jab or jab lock. It was such an easy set-up. The hitstun from the fireball, especially, would give him time to grab. And if the opponent shielded, then he could poke through their shield with a crisp kick before grabbing.

Sometimes, he'd practice throwing out his aerials as quickly as possible, sharpening his reaction time. He had to make sure his n-air was polished—it was a c-c-c-c-combo breaker! The flying kick was a long-lasting move which came out relatively quickly, and he could fast-fall and counterattack. People thought they had him—till he escaped with his Golden Leg! That was his pet name for his n-air—the Golden Leg. His Combo Breaking Golden Leg.

For hours and hours, Luigi would practice combos and setups on the sturdy Sandbags. His iPhone would blare hardcore workout hits, and when he was by himself, the volume would be as loud as his eardrums could tolerate. His breathing would whistle sharply from his mouth. Sweat would shine on his face and neck. And on his face would be an intense, focused expression, eyes narrowed and flashing. Body dodging and weaving as limbs lashed out, quirky scuttle jumps propelling him into the air. He'd work the Sandbag relentlessly, and when the canvas started to wear, he'd start in on another one.

About halfway in, he'd get hot enough to the point he'd unbutton his overalls, pull off his sopping shirt and then re-clasp the overalls, using the green garment as a sweat towel. Then, he'd really lunge into his workout, allowing himself a few open-mouthed breaths and increasing the power, speed and drive behind his blows. Warm, sticky perspiration oozed down his upper chest and slid beneath his overalls, coating and forking down his arms. The windows were always open, sending a breeze to cool him. He felt lulled by the breeze and by the sensation of the sweat rolling off him.

Luigi enjoyed training to better himself. It was a good time to think about things and about certain people in his life. Preferably aggressive things he needed expelled from his system. If he had a fight with someone, this was how he cleared his head. If his mind was all over the place, this was how he unscrambled it. It felt good, and when he was finished, he felt completely relaxed. Most of the time, he'd find a good rhythm and then close his eyes, letting the music and his motions fill him, releasing himself until he could barely land another strike. Then, he'd sit against a wall, sports drink in hand, feeling the layers of sweat drying on his skin. The cool wall against his back. His breathing slowing to a normal pace. His thoughts, rearranging. No Smasher appreciated this kind of release like him.

There were people who liked to peek in and watch him train. The ladies would mill around, not paying that much attention until that shirt came off, and then they'd giggle amongst themselves and drink in his surprisingly fit physique as he went at the Sandbag, cords of muscle flashing across his chest, muscles in his pumping arms flexing, tensing and relaxing, his shoulder blades working. And then that face, that adorable face, flushed, forehead decorated with strands of hair, glued there by sweat. Tracks gliding from his forehead to his nose, tracing his cheekbones, cheeks and jawline, dipping down his chin, neck and finally his chest. The cadence of his hits and his dipping body, skin flashing and shimmering in the sun and the sound of his whistling breaths made the ladies breathless themselves. The guys would be dumbstruck by Luigi's strength and his low, emphatic, masculine grunts. Their mouths would gape open, and they'd whisper among themselves as he wore down Sandbag after Sandbag, enviously drinking in his sweat-slathered form and his combo strings and the way he bit back his exhaustion. He had a lot of resiliency for a timid man!