Post by High Tide on Oct 3, 2016 20:02:02 GMT -5
Warmth. Light. Noise. It was a treat for the pirate, all of these things he had once taken for granted. This was no ordinary day though, and there would not be another like it for some time to come.
In contrast the hotel was pretty ordinary, and even that was a generous word. A single bed, with a dark brown blanket the consistency of a burlap sack (and probably just as dirty.) No pillow. A table, small, also brown and one of it's legs looked like it was going to give at any moment. A small maybe twenty inch tube television sat on top of an ancient black dresser, blaring music from one of the local radio channels.
Yet he was inside safe from the elements. Safe from the wildlife and the constant threats his new life had brought to bear. Could he have afforded better? Of course, he laughed to himself this time having no qualms with the irrational amounts of rum entering his system. Yet he had bigger plans for the money he was saving, for living in hotels was so last year. No he would buy his rum, fine and strong like he liked, and skimp out on the one night hotel vacation. If it wasn't for the last match he was in, and the one coming up, he thought to himself as he threw one of his boots at some unidentifiable bug, he wouldn't have even treated himself to this luxury.
The match had gone fine, he had managed to squeak out a pretty solid win, but then there had been the little issue of some man they called Seromine. He wasn't even sure exactly what had happened. He remembered the men surrounding him, candles at the ready. He remembered the wild rush of thoughts in his head. Who the hell were all these guys? Why were they out there? Then suddenly he remembered no more, and had came to in one of PCW's illustrious bathrooms. The scene was familiar enough, waking up in a bathroom he didn't remember entering (a lot of rum will do that to you), but he couldn't help shake the feeling that there was something more to it. Something strange.
What the hell was with this place anyways? He was rising now, retrieving his bug splattered boot and putting it on before exiting his hotel room. He had been back only a short time, but already it seemed as though he was being jumped every damn match! First Lunacy's pals Mycock and Jackass and to top that off a nice big serving of Seromine and the Eight Dwarves. He was walking briskly now, lighting a brandless cigarette (another luxury he had gone without for some time that he had chosen to renew) and enjoying that deep, glorious first inhale.
They hadn't even given him any time to do anything that would warrant the attention! Sure, High Tide was a man of many thorns to stick in your side, and had caused his fair trouble of when he was last active and had been a stick in the side of many, but this time it seemed to be the reverse. Everyone was the stick in his side, and he had no goddamn room to breathe! He walked a little quicker, taking a few quick but deep drags off the cigarette, pausing only to cough and subsequently catch his breath.
That was how they wanted to play him? Press the returning wrestler hard enough that he would back into a corner? He stomped out the cigarette butt extra animatedly with his boot heel, imagining the faces of a couple of people while doing so. Then he smiled, not the kind of smile a child makes when he realizes he is going to get a whole second scoop of ice cream for the first time. No, it was more like the kind of smile that he imagined Grimm would get when someone told him they cut themselves shaving (because who would discuss shaving with the Bringer of Beards and not expect Grimm to smile at both their pain and stupidity).
They wanted to corner the pirate? The emotionally unstable, financially unstable, living in a forest, pirate? He shook his head. When would they ever learn. He turned around now as clouds had blocked the way of the moon's light and were beginning to provide a small drizzle of rain. Boots pounding the concrete as he worked himself up into a little jog, he smiled at their stupidity. How many times would it take them to realize that High Tide was the dirtiest of them all, dirtier than the most shit upon poop deck? A thousand seagulls could not compete with the underhanded tactics he was willing to undertake just to prove a point. To send a message that he was not going to be walked over and taken lightly again. No, he, High Tide, would once again have to send the message out to the PCW world that he was not to be trifled with. “Take me less than seriously at yer own peril,” he muttered to himself causing some old lady to nearly jump out of her skin.
And speaking of seagulls, he thought to himself looking around to make sure no cops were around before taking a quick swig of the elixir of life (rum of course) again, he seemed to be friends with all sorts of “flying creatures.” It was true enough that he had lost most of his family and friends since having his problems that had caused him to drop out of the spotlight, but he hadn't lost quite ALL of them. Not yet anyways, he chuckled to himself. No he still happened to have a certain black and yellow friend who could leave you stinging in the morning with only one kick. A certain friend who he had just so happened to call the week before and set him up with tickets to Deadly Intentions. What a coincidence!
So Seromine wanted to fuck with him? Fine, so be it, he thought as he entered his “luxurious” hotel room once again. Two could play at that game. “Red Rover, Red Rover, I call Seromine and his fucking goons over!” High Tide was laughing hysterically now, not even sure why that little line was so funny to him. He would face Seromine and however many of his little goons he wanted to bring at Deadly Intentions and he would not stand down. He would not be afraid. He would take that International Championship and if anything should go awry, well he just happened to have a little buzz he was keeping in his back pocket. And this buzz, well it had nothing to do with rum.
In contrast the hotel was pretty ordinary, and even that was a generous word. A single bed, with a dark brown blanket the consistency of a burlap sack (and probably just as dirty.) No pillow. A table, small, also brown and one of it's legs looked like it was going to give at any moment. A small maybe twenty inch tube television sat on top of an ancient black dresser, blaring music from one of the local radio channels.
Yet he was inside safe from the elements. Safe from the wildlife and the constant threats his new life had brought to bear. Could he have afforded better? Of course, he laughed to himself this time having no qualms with the irrational amounts of rum entering his system. Yet he had bigger plans for the money he was saving, for living in hotels was so last year. No he would buy his rum, fine and strong like he liked, and skimp out on the one night hotel vacation. If it wasn't for the last match he was in, and the one coming up, he thought to himself as he threw one of his boots at some unidentifiable bug, he wouldn't have even treated himself to this luxury.
The match had gone fine, he had managed to squeak out a pretty solid win, but then there had been the little issue of some man they called Seromine. He wasn't even sure exactly what had happened. He remembered the men surrounding him, candles at the ready. He remembered the wild rush of thoughts in his head. Who the hell were all these guys? Why were they out there? Then suddenly he remembered no more, and had came to in one of PCW's illustrious bathrooms. The scene was familiar enough, waking up in a bathroom he didn't remember entering (a lot of rum will do that to you), but he couldn't help shake the feeling that there was something more to it. Something strange.
What the hell was with this place anyways? He was rising now, retrieving his bug splattered boot and putting it on before exiting his hotel room. He had been back only a short time, but already it seemed as though he was being jumped every damn match! First Lunacy's pals Mycock and Jackass and to top that off a nice big serving of Seromine and the Eight Dwarves. He was walking briskly now, lighting a brandless cigarette (another luxury he had gone without for some time that he had chosen to renew) and enjoying that deep, glorious first inhale.
They hadn't even given him any time to do anything that would warrant the attention! Sure, High Tide was a man of many thorns to stick in your side, and had caused his fair trouble of when he was last active and had been a stick in the side of many, but this time it seemed to be the reverse. Everyone was the stick in his side, and he had no goddamn room to breathe! He walked a little quicker, taking a few quick but deep drags off the cigarette, pausing only to cough and subsequently catch his breath.
That was how they wanted to play him? Press the returning wrestler hard enough that he would back into a corner? He stomped out the cigarette butt extra animatedly with his boot heel, imagining the faces of a couple of people while doing so. Then he smiled, not the kind of smile a child makes when he realizes he is going to get a whole second scoop of ice cream for the first time. No, it was more like the kind of smile that he imagined Grimm would get when someone told him they cut themselves shaving (because who would discuss shaving with the Bringer of Beards and not expect Grimm to smile at both their pain and stupidity).
They wanted to corner the pirate? The emotionally unstable, financially unstable, living in a forest, pirate? He shook his head. When would they ever learn. He turned around now as clouds had blocked the way of the moon's light and were beginning to provide a small drizzle of rain. Boots pounding the concrete as he worked himself up into a little jog, he smiled at their stupidity. How many times would it take them to realize that High Tide was the dirtiest of them all, dirtier than the most shit upon poop deck? A thousand seagulls could not compete with the underhanded tactics he was willing to undertake just to prove a point. To send a message that he was not going to be walked over and taken lightly again. No, he, High Tide, would once again have to send the message out to the PCW world that he was not to be trifled with. “Take me less than seriously at yer own peril,” he muttered to himself causing some old lady to nearly jump out of her skin.
And speaking of seagulls, he thought to himself looking around to make sure no cops were around before taking a quick swig of the elixir of life (rum of course) again, he seemed to be friends with all sorts of “flying creatures.” It was true enough that he had lost most of his family and friends since having his problems that had caused him to drop out of the spotlight, but he hadn't lost quite ALL of them. Not yet anyways, he chuckled to himself. No he still happened to have a certain black and yellow friend who could leave you stinging in the morning with only one kick. A certain friend who he had just so happened to call the week before and set him up with tickets to Deadly Intentions. What a coincidence!
So Seromine wanted to fuck with him? Fine, so be it, he thought as he entered his “luxurious” hotel room once again. Two could play at that game. “Red Rover, Red Rover, I call Seromine and his fucking goons over!” High Tide was laughing hysterically now, not even sure why that little line was so funny to him. He would face Seromine and however many of his little goons he wanted to bring at Deadly Intentions and he would not stand down. He would not be afraid. He would take that International Championship and if anything should go awry, well he just happened to have a little buzz he was keeping in his back pocket. And this buzz, well it had nothing to do with rum.
