Post by High Tide on Sept 11, 2017 14:51:59 GMT -5
As if I were lifted out of a fog, a haze, a thick mist, it all came back to me.
I had left for “the Docks” while it was still evening, the blaring sun low in the sky, but high enough that it couldn't be considered night quite yet. I was prepared for anything, as one did not just walk into the Docks without some sort of safety in mind. The place was crawling with pirate ships, and contrary to popular belief there was no honor among thieves, as least not most of them. Countless were the times that I had personally seen a pirate crew leave their ships, for no more than half and hour, just to return to an empty space where their ship had been. After all, where else was a better place to steal a ship than a pirate dockyard?
I remember that a lot had been on my mind. I wasn't doing particularily well inside the PCW ring, and it was weighing heavily, like an anchor on the bottom of the sea, on my mind. Though it was no surprise to anyone, much less and especially myself, I didn't exactly have the most winning record in PCW, and it seemed lately that was especially true. Sometimes fans think we don't hear them at all, but the truth for me anyways, is exactly the opposite. Sometimes I will hear one fan say something and then it's like I can hear them for the rest of the night. As if I were hyper focused on that fan, but it's a subconscious thing, I can't control it. I can't count the number of times I've heard “You're old Tide, time to retire,” or “You're beyond repairs, your ship is sunk,” (which I have to give it to the fans, that's pretty creative.) I remember feeling the full weight of this on that day.
I had broken my own first rule of keeping a clear head and a plan ready while at the Docks and I must have been broadcasting it, because two nobody pickpockets decided to try their luck. I snapped to while the first had his hand in my pocket, bringing my elbow down and back, hard. The strangely satisfying crack told me I had broken his wrist, a pickpocket's worst nightmare. The other was on me in a flash, a small knife whipped out before I could grab my own weapon. Thankfully I had a flashlight in my left hand, and although not my dominant hand I managed to get it up and out to deflect the wild slashing swing the second pickpocket aimed my way.
Reversing my momentum, I swung around while adjusting my grip on the flashlight in order to use it as a blunt weapon. The spin got me far enough out of reach of the small knife, but put me in the path of the second pickpocket, who had just stopped nursing his broken wrist, and now had his good hand flying through the air. I took the hit willingly, his aim low, connecting not with my chin but with my chest. The momentum of my spin caused me not to fall and with a large amount of force I brought the flashlight down my first hit landing square atop his head, stunning him. As the pickpocket staggered backwards, I showed no remorse, raising the flashlight high and bringing it down again swiftly, this time aiming for the young man's face. The hit was solid, landing squarely on and caving in the man's cheekbone. I felt no sympathy for the man as I spun back around, no time to even watch him fall.
The second pickpocket had gotten close by now, too close, and I felt a sharp pain as the tip of the knife caught me in the shoulder and dug in. With my free hand I grabbed the man's wrist, and pulled his arm back, removing the knife from my shoulder and putting him off balance at the same time. I yanked his wrist back, forcing him to drop the dagger, and at the same time dropped my own dented and damaged flashlight. Never letting go of the man's wrist, I pulled him forward and he caught me off guard by bringing a knee up into my stomach.
Gasping for breath, I let go of the pickpocket's wrist, winded, and pushed him back by the chest, just trying to get some space. I backpedaled, now very aware of just how close I was to the water as I slipped on the wet wood below my feet, barely regaining my balance before I would of inevitably fallen right off the dock. The pickpocket advanced slowly, also struggling with his balance. I was in the zone at this point, all my wrestling training coming to me in the moment. I watched his feet, waiting for a moment to strike, as I slowly crept forward myself, the area a lot dimmer now that my flashlight ceased to work.
I saw the young man dip down to pick up said flashlight and I struck. As his hands closed around the cold metal, I shot out wrapping my arms around his legs and taking him down hard on his back. I had the presence of mind once we were on the ground to dodge his strike, as he had held on to the flashlight, whipping my head erratically to the right. It wasn't a complete miss for the man, as my already bleeding shoulder took the brunt of the blow, knocking me back enough for the man to get out from underneath me. He came in hard and fast, a left, a left, and a right. I took his first left right on the jaw, feeling stars, but managed to dip under the next and catch his right. I used his momentum to pull him forward and took him down with a good old fashioned clothesline.
This time I didn't let up while on the ground. One, two, three, I hammered right's into his face, but the young man had a lot of stamina. He attempted to block my shots, and succeeded in deflecting a few, slipping off his hand and hitting his chest, shoulder, and once the wood below. I had a momentary realization that he was only defending with only one hand, and I quickly tracked his second hand. He had been reaching for the fallen knife and managed to get a hold on it, swinging it wildly forward. As his right hand shot in, my left hand shot underneath it, sending the knife high into the air. While he looked up at the knife, hoping to catch it, my right fist caught him between the eyes. His hand dropped and my left caught the knife and in the same fluid motion, I put the blade deep in his chest, receiving a blood bath quite literally for my troubles.
I dropped the knife, panting with exhaustion. The young pickpocket's eyes were wide open, his face frozen in a look of fear, his eyes lifeless. Damn it, I hadn't meant to kill him but I had acted on instinct and so it had played out. I tracked the second the pickpocket only to find, much to my surprise that he was nowhere to be seen. Shit, he had no doubt fled to bring back reinforcements, and I was in no shape to take on anyone else. My head was pounding and I was losing vision rapidly. Rising to my feet, I staggered over to the nearest boat, hoping to hide for an hour as I unceremoniously flopped over the rail of the boat like a fish out of water. If only I could have an hour, hidden, to recover. I would be able to make my way out, fighting or not. That was when the blackness had overtaken me.
I sipped the end of my rum and rum (my special remix of the classic rum and coke) and put the glass down, a smile on my face. Sometimes there were benefits besides being drunk to drinking. I thought it was funny PCW should put me in a bunch of underground matches in the future, because outside of the ring, I was a master of the underground.
Ahh, what the hell another drink wouldn't kill me. I skipped the middleman this time, and opted for the bottle, letting the savior liquid run through me, providing all the warmth I could ever ask for. I felt bad for the man they called Dominator. After all, who better to be Underground King than a pirate?
