In offensive terms:

In defensive terms:

Shaggy wiped his face with the back of his hand, a dark-red smear appearing on the side of his cheek.

Shaggy glanced at his bloodied hand, feeling affronted, but even more-so, impressed.

This man had managed to make a dent in his skin—granted, he had lowered himself to a lower power-level of 650 Shagawotts.

The opponent he was facing had a green complexion, shoulder-pads, and wore something akin to an Arabic head scarf.

His name? Piccilo.

"I'm impressed," Shaggy added, " I haven't had a challenge like this in weeks."

Piccolo smirked.

"How so?"

Shaggy straightened up, channeling more shagawotts through his system; his wounds knit themselves together, and no longer appeared as worn-down and disheveled as he had moments ago.

Piccilo flinched.

Shaggy rolled his neck around, an audible filling the air.

"Like, Scoob and I practice all the time, but he's in the Bahama's right now, so I don't have a buddy to spar with. But you put up a pretty nice fight."

Shaggy took a wide stance and channeled energy to his palm, making a glowing sphere appear in his hand; bubbles of gas detached from it in an orderly sense.

A gas bubble popped, and the contact to the atmosphere's oxygen caused a small combustion to occur; Shaggy had named this move Barbecue Burst.

Shaggy's glare hardened as he looked at Piccilo.

"Like, man, let's go for round two."