Post by High Tide on Sept 19, 2016 19:31:47 GMT -5
The sun shone brilliantly through the copse of trees, and High Tide wished his spirits did the same. He was sitting in his ten dollar camping chair (a luxury in his opinion, but one he needed nonetheless) in his little forest home. It was early in the morning, and so the sheer brightness of the sun had startled him awake. He had downed a half cup of McDonalds coffee he had saved from the night before, another luxury but one he could afford, as walking the long distance required to get more this early was not an option.
So now he sat there in his green camping chair, with a large flask of rum in his left hand and a cigarette in his left (he had taken up smoking again, and thankfully he knew a guy who knew a guy who was friends with a guy who's roomates uncle's coworker sold discount smokes, and cheap at that,) wondering how on Earth he had lost his return match. He shook his head as he let the tender, loving, liquid caress his tongue and throat, bringing an inadvertent smile to his face. Sure it hadn't been fair, Lunacy and his goons had got him good, cheated him out of his return to the high life, but it made sense. God only knew that the excuse for a wrestler couldn't do it himself.
Yet just being in the match had netted him enough cash to get by and a lot better off than he had for the last couple months. He brushed a fly off of his shoulder, careful not to burn himself with the almost spent cigarette. He took the final few drags, careful to put out the butt in a small glass jar with rainwater he kept for just that purpose. The last thing he needed was a forest fire right in his home.
He heard a loud rustling not too far away from him and quickly capped his flask, setting it on a low lying branch he had fashioned into a shelf. He was on instant alert, you had to be when you lived in a forest because there was no telling what sort of animal was going to be around. Yet this was too loud for an animal, no animal could possibly that much noise even if they tried there very hardest. No animal besides humans that was, and judging by the (no doubt drunken) laughter that followed the loud crashing, it definitely was humans.
He shook his head. Why was anyone this deep in the forest, drunk or not? He had specifically chosen his spot this deep in so that he wouldn't have to deal with the roaming, wandering eyes and the comments that would follow. He wasn't exactly nobody, sure at the end of the day he was just another wrestler, but how many pirate wrestlers were there? He had a look that was hard to shake outside of his job.
His boots his the ground hard but quietly, taking care not to crunch too many of the dry, crackling, newly fallen leaves underfoot. He had been living in the forest for some time now, and slowly but surely his capacity for traveling stealthily was improving. It was sure to do wonders in the ring, and he could use every advantage he could get his hands on. Swiftly but silently he moved, knowing the layout of the immediate area as though it were his childhood home. The voices got louder and more clearer as he got nearer, a brash vocal assault in the otherwise peaceful, quiet forest. Even the birds, usually chatterboxes in the morning time, had fallen silent.
Checking the foliage for thorns before making any unfortunate movements, High Tide quickly got into place, hiding behind a bush (free of thorns thankfully for him) and scouting out the intruders. There were only two of them, twenty something white males. Both were dressed in tees (one white, one brown, both American Eagle branded) and matching blue and white plaid shorts. White shirt carried a knife in his right hand nonchalantly slicing at innocent, undeserving tree trunks, branches, pretty much anything wooden and in arm's reach. Brown shirt had a twelve pack of beer under his right arm. Both had open beers in their left hands.
“Who the fuck are you and what are you doing near my home?” High Tide was sick of sneaking. After all in his profession, these guys wouldn't hack a single match, let alone a career. If he hadn't died at the hands of some of PCW's most elite talent, two little shits with half the brains Whitey Ford possessed combined certainly weren't going to have him resort to hiding.
“Who the fuck are... are you High Tide? The pirate wrestler? You live in a fucking forest?” Brown shirt yelled right back a satisfied grin spreading across his annoying face.
“Yeah what the fuck do you mean who are we? I can tell you what we aren't. We aren't a delusional manchild who thinks he's a pirate. We aren't a washed up wrestler, living in the damn trees. And Dontevius get me started on your love life,” White Shirt was rude and was laughing at his own little joke.
Clever little fuck, High Tide thought to himself, taking a moment to remember that his next opponent was Dontevius Ellis, hence White Shirt's play on words. Yet he wasn't liking where this was going, and seeing White Shirt so nonchalantly mutilating the forest he lived in had already got his blood up. One more too close to home comment...
“When was the last time you seen your kid Mr. High and Mighty Tide? I heard you lost all your right after that bitch took half your cash and ran off. Maybe that's why you live in the forest eh?” White Shirt went on, and now both young men were practically incapacitated for their drunkenness had only increased how funny they thought they were, and they were besides themselves laughing.
High Tide sprang into action. His right boot had been firmly planted for at least the last fifteen seconds and he pushed off now, closing the distance quicker than either of the drunk twenty somethings could react. He never imagined he'd pull a wrestling move off in a fight, but High Tide was clearly a veteran when it came to dealing with his liquor and so the young men could only start to react when he sent them crashing to the forest floor with a double clothesline. The sound their bodies made crashing into the twig blanketed hard dirt was surprisingly beautiful to his ears.
To their credit they made it back to their feet. High Tide put a knee in Brown Shirt's gut, causing him to lurch forward holding his stomach. Tide already had his knee pulled back and it was crashing forward again, connecting with the very exposed face of Brown Shirt. He dropped and didn't move. White Shirt was already coming at him, his knife in front of him. Tide barely had time to step back, putting his forearm out to block the knife's path and receiving a shallow cut across it in return.
White Shirt came forward again but stumbled, drunk and not at home on the uneven forest floor. High Tide stepped to the side and lashed his foot out sideways. His kick hit home, his boot smashing across the side of White Shirt's face. Still the stubborn young man didn't yield, bringing himself to his feet once more, this time without a knife as it had flew from his hands when he was kicked. Tide didn't hesitate a moment, and the second the rocked young man had brought himself vertical again, Tide put his lights out with one of (in his opinion) his most perfectly executed superkicks. White Shirt hit the ground hard, his arm landing awkwardly beneath him, and he too did not rise.
Tide panted, a little out of breath. His adrenaline was still pumping, but the anger was gone; he had taught the little punks a lesson they either wouldn't remember or would never forget. He spotted something that caught his fancy, and he walked over to it. It was the fallen knife, nothing fancy, but certainly serviceable in the forest. He pocketed it and then walked over to Brown Shirt who was stirring but slowly. Very slowly. Tide took the dropped twelve pack of beer (which was really only ten beers) and figured it was a good payment as any for his troubles.
If his next match against Dontevius went anything like his last match, he was going to need those beers for the morning after, he thought to himself slowly leaving the scene of the altercation and heading back for his own private little sanctuary. His home.
