There was always someone comparing themselves to the unstoppable force or the immovable object. There were few who could make such a boast let alone make good on it with any real credibility.
Bashir was not one of those people.
He had been fighting most of his life, both in the streets, and in the ring. He was as obdurate as a mountain, and moved for no one. Opponents had exhausted and broken themselves against the shores of his indomitable will long before he dared lay true hands on them. He was known for leaving his opponents slumped in the ring, a victim of a well-placed fist that could have been a wrecking ball for all its weight and force. Yet, for all that, one might call Bashir a gentle giant. Once the fight was done, so too was Bashir, and he did not suffer fools who thought to carry that beef outside of the allotted time. And he certainly didn’t take kindly to those who sought to fight others who lacked the capacity to truly defend themselves. So he began to act as an enforcer in Goa, and its bulwark. So long as he was around, the people never lacked for protection. And his enemies never lacked for the inevitability of his fist.