Yousef pulled his tray up and set it upright.  Snagging a magazine to take his mind off f the cowboy.  Skymall, the crap that nobody buys, but always act like they are.  He glanced out the window as a bird flew by and saw the cowboy American with Mea again.  Except this time she smiled and fixed hr hair... The vein in Yousef's neck bulged and his tray cracked off of its arm when he breathed in.  Once more he sheepishly looked up and at one of the stewardesses.<br/><br/>"Sorry, plane is just not meant for man of my size." and he scooted up and away to the one room that he knew he could not break anything... besides he really needed to work off some frustration and a certain speedbag was calling his name in an American voice.<br/><br/>He tossed his harness aside and stripped off the upper portion of his suit, using the sleeves as a belt.  Not even bothering to put on gloves, he didn't even wrap his wrists, just simply walking straight to the bag, his back to the entrywway.  Chorded muscle rippled as he started swinging, slow and easy, simply finding a rhythm. Scars and bullet wounds over tattoos and even more scars and wounds.  His body a testament to his strength and toughness, his endurance showing as he lightly began to perspire, little beads starting and coming together before racing down his rolling back.