Post by Deleted on Feb 24, 2014 22:30:56 GMT -5
It smells like salty ocean garbage water. But man, am I glad to be home.
Whitey chuckled in spite of himself, not caring that nobody was around to hear him either. He sat on a weather-beaten train trestle, his feet dangling forty feet above the roaring, roiling water that plunged down over the steep rocks and into the river. The noise drowned out the sound of the cars crossing the Great Falls Bridge which linked Lewiston and Auburn, the twin cities of Maine. The strange smell of the Androscoggin River somehow paired nicely with the calm, still air of a late winter’s night. The train trestle was a half mile from a road, and although that distance isn’t very great the spot was still quite secluded from most of society as it was surrounded by thick forest. Plus, it was unlit. It was a perfect spot to find some piece of mind.
In all honesty, Whitey knew there was a fifty-fifty chance of him losing his match against Murdoc. The time he’d been in jail had allowed him to bulk up a bit, but he had lost some speed and dexterity as well; something his body wasn’t used to performing without. Still, he had nearly pulled off a victory before being hit with that double axe handle. The result of the match didn’t bother him. But that fact…that he WASN’T on a violent rampage about losing…that bothered him.
Ever since being forced to become sober while incarcerated, things had been changing. While he still drank on occasion, more so than the average man, it was no longer to the dangerous extent that it was before. Deep inside, Whitey Ford knew that he was a better man because of cutting back. His body and mind felt healthier than they had in years. He’d inevitable live a longer natural life, barring unforeseen circumstances. Also, his physical performance could only get better from here.
Then why am I afraid?
Deep down, he knew he was better. Truer words have never been spoken; but he couldn’t explain the doubt that seemed to grow from the pit of his stomach. For years, all he’d known was being blackout drunk and defiling himself and everyone and everything around him with drug use. And for years, he had been successful. Now suddenly, over the course of a few short months, he was changing his formula for success and trying a new path that he assumed would take him to heights reserved only for the gods. What if the booze and the drugs were what made him great? What if they made him unpredictable and ultra-violent, past what a normal state of sobriety could have? Ford had asked himself that question before walking out to face Murdoc on his return match.
Taking that loss, cleanly, should have only cemented one thing in his mind, and should be where the doubt he felt was stemming from.
But it’s not.
Doubting one’s self is normal, especially when trying to step out of the shadow of an addiction. Whitey Ford knew that, and knew that he had to keep his mind sharper than his doubts. He had to keep reminding himself of that, and he didn’t do so in a self-condescending manner. Normally, he’d be furious that he doubted himself. Now, calmness filled his mind and replaced blind rage, mixing with the confidence that had never left. Ford was walking into Trauma in a few days, teaming with the Hobo King, against The Untouchables. Last he had seen his opponents, they writhing in pain from the beating he had given them with a steel chair. The matchup would be tough, and he’d have to put forward an A-plus effort…but Whitey knew he’d get his vengeance against Murdoc, and take another step closer to challenging Eira for the coveted PCW World Title. A smirk grew over his face; everything was going to be fine.
Although…Whitey wondered as he swung his feet up onto the trestle and pushed himself to a standing position, feeling a slight tinge of vertigo from standing up so fast while looking straight down. We’ll see how this positive outlook bullshit works if I can’t pull it off… Whitey was about to mentally scold himself for spending all this time at the trestle thinking and convincing himself he’s as good as he says he was, but…
Voices.
If I were drunk, I’d probably have fucking heard it earlier… The thought was probably untrue, but Whitey quickly silenced his mind, listening into the darkness and wondering whether his mind was playing tricks on him. The voice he had heard was low and hushed like a whisper, and if someone were to ambush him on the trestle itself, he could be in a lot of trouble. It wouldn’t take much to be caught off guard and pushed to a cold, wet death. Still he listened, not daring to move in case he made any noise. For all Ford knew, it was just some kids walking down the railroad tracks to get high. For all Ford knew it could be…
Nothing. No more voices. Christ, man, it was probably just some kids who you spooked when you stood up. They’re probably more scared of you than you are of them. Whitey thought as he stood up straighter and started walking the few feet it was to be back on land and not on the trestle itself.
“I’m not fucking afraid of anything.” Whitey argued out loud to himself.
Something rustled in the bushes to his left, and Ford lowered that shoulder, bring his right hand up to swing on a moment’s notice. “Oh yeah?” A foreign voice called out from the bushes, and then…BAM.
A rock thrown from the opposite side of the railroad tracks connected squarely with the back of his head, and Whitey stumbled to one knee. Instinctively he grabbed at his wound and felt his hands grow slick with blood. All of that rage and spontaneous violence that he thought he had control over flooded back into his mind and everything that he saw, like his crimson palm, was red. The attacker who caused the distraction came rushing from the bushes, expecting Whitey to be just another man who could be taken out by blunt force trauma to the head.
Just another man? The time for thinking was over, the time for action was upon him. As soon as his attacker, a black man with a wiry build, was within range Ford sprung to his feet, a different rock clenched in his hand, and swung a haymaker that started from the ground and ended with the front of the man’s face. Whitey swore he could see teeth fly from his assailant’s mouth as he spun around backwards and collapsed in a heap. A set of arms wrapped themselves around his chest, and he could hear the approaching sound of footsteps vaguely over the din of the nearby waterfall. How many of them there were, Ford couldn’t tell, but he knew he had to act fast. Whitey threw his head backwards blinding, wincing in pain as he connected, but growling with satisfaction as he felt his head wound crunch the cartilage of the second attacker. As he whirled towards the sound of footsteps…
Wait, how the fuck did I get on the ground? Whitey awoke, his entire world ringing and blurry, and tried to roll over onto his side. His eyes could barely make out the forms of three men standing over him, all of them of Somalian descent. Troves of Somalian refugees had moved to Maine years and years ago to escape violence. But some of them tended to bring it with them as well. The apparent leader, a man with a white wife beater, black jeans and untied work boots with the tongues spread over the cuffs of his pants, was saying something that Ford couldn’t quite make out. In his hand was a sizeable pine tree branch. As his body regained some feeling from being knocked out cold for a moment, he realized his forehead had been busted open as well. He must have been hit just as he turned around with that club.
Ford laughed out loud as everything started coming back into focus. “What’s so funny, white boy? Think you’re a big man? Think you’re tough? Fuck you!” The leader of the group continued his stream of obscenities, but Whitey didn’t hear them over his own laughter. He managed to get to one knee, and held out his hands to try and silence the man with the branch.
“Ok, man, listen. I don’t know why you hit me in the fucking head, but that’s fine. Yes, I fucked your girlfriend. Yes, I slapped your mother, and yes I stole your bag of weed. I’m sorry, there. It was one of those three things, right? You fucks are always mad abou—“
The tree branch was swung so quickly that Whitey had no time to move whatsoever. It connected with the side of his face, sending him reeling back onto his back. “I’m doing it because I can, fool! Nobody fucks with us, this is OUR town!” The man screamed out, toying with the former PCW International Champion. Whitey rolled onto his stomach, spitting out in the direction of the muggers.
“You know, dickhead, you’re a Somalian beating up someone with a god damned club.” Ford pushed himself up so he was on all fours. The idea of him mouthing off was that if he could buy just a few more seconds, he might be able to spring up and surprise at least one of them before being taken down again. “You’re just begging me to make a racist joke. If you were using a spear, I’d have—“
Another shot by the club, this time straight down to the back of his head. His mind was clouding over, and he vaguely realized how bad the situation really was. The Somalian man struck him again, but he could barely feel it. He waited for the next blow to come…but all he heard was shuffling. Maybe they’re fighting over who gets to hit me next? Ford thought grimly. Wait for it…
Wait for it…
Another blow never came. Whitey once again rolled over, this time in a sitting position. He looked around for a moment, his head still throbbing and his vision blurry around the edges and saw a group of half a dozen or so men standing ten feet away. Confusion washed over him, but he immediately pushed himself to his feet, a rock in each hand, and waited for them to rush him. It was then Whitey noticed the four prone bodies on the ground all around him. His attackers were all unconscious.
“We’re not here to hurt you, Whitey. Although I wouldn’t mind hurting you EVENTUALLY…” A man shuffled slowly forward from the looming group of derelicts.
“I know you!” Whitey spat out, his speech still a bit slurred from the repeated blows to the head. “You’re one of Non Comp…Nen Comp…Compos…you’re one of the fucking homeless army!”
“It’s Tal.” He spoke quietly and with disinterest, making it very obvious that he didn’t want to be in the company of Whitey Ford. “I have orders, you know, to protect you. I know that it was meant in the PCW sense, but…well, Whitey, I don’t fucking trust you.”
Whitey snorted as he started to get his sea legs again, so to speak…but he didn’t let his guard down one bit, holding onto the rocks for good measure. “And I don’t trust you…any of you. I didn’t need your help, either; I had them right where I wanted them!”
There was no further argument from Tal, who apparently had no wish to continue the conversation with Whitey. He backed away a few steps. “I’m catching the next train down to Carolina, so you’re on your own from here. And after Trauma…when NCM is done with you and he moves on to better things than teaming with someone so…under him…we won’t be here to have your back again.” Tal turned around then, and with his pack of hobos he headed down the railroad tracks.
“Wait.” Whitey called out, and the pack stopped abruptly. Ford knew he wasn’t safe, but they didn’t turn around…yet. “You tell your boss something for me. I don’t need his fucking help, I don’t need YOUR fucking help…but on Trauma, we’re on the same page. One night only. Let’s dismantle The Untouchables.”
The pack of hobos said nothing, and didn’t even give an indication that they heard Whitey. But they continued on down the railroad tracks. Ford stood there in the cold, dark night, bleeding from the head and feeling like a train wreck. He looked around at the carnage that surrounded him before stumbling in the opposite direction of Tal. One thought consumed his mind as he crossed over the trestle once more.
So this is the ‘sober’ life?
Whitey chuckled in spite of himself, not caring that nobody was around to hear him either. He sat on a weather-beaten train trestle, his feet dangling forty feet above the roaring, roiling water that plunged down over the steep rocks and into the river. The noise drowned out the sound of the cars crossing the Great Falls Bridge which linked Lewiston and Auburn, the twin cities of Maine. The strange smell of the Androscoggin River somehow paired nicely with the calm, still air of a late winter’s night. The train trestle was a half mile from a road, and although that distance isn’t very great the spot was still quite secluded from most of society as it was surrounded by thick forest. Plus, it was unlit. It was a perfect spot to find some piece of mind.
In all honesty, Whitey knew there was a fifty-fifty chance of him losing his match against Murdoc. The time he’d been in jail had allowed him to bulk up a bit, but he had lost some speed and dexterity as well; something his body wasn’t used to performing without. Still, he had nearly pulled off a victory before being hit with that double axe handle. The result of the match didn’t bother him. But that fact…that he WASN’T on a violent rampage about losing…that bothered him.
Ever since being forced to become sober while incarcerated, things had been changing. While he still drank on occasion, more so than the average man, it was no longer to the dangerous extent that it was before. Deep inside, Whitey Ford knew that he was a better man because of cutting back. His body and mind felt healthier than they had in years. He’d inevitable live a longer natural life, barring unforeseen circumstances. Also, his physical performance could only get better from here.
Then why am I afraid?
Deep down, he knew he was better. Truer words have never been spoken; but he couldn’t explain the doubt that seemed to grow from the pit of his stomach. For years, all he’d known was being blackout drunk and defiling himself and everyone and everything around him with drug use. And for years, he had been successful. Now suddenly, over the course of a few short months, he was changing his formula for success and trying a new path that he assumed would take him to heights reserved only for the gods. What if the booze and the drugs were what made him great? What if they made him unpredictable and ultra-violent, past what a normal state of sobriety could have? Ford had asked himself that question before walking out to face Murdoc on his return match.
Taking that loss, cleanly, should have only cemented one thing in his mind, and should be where the doubt he felt was stemming from.
But it’s not.
Doubting one’s self is normal, especially when trying to step out of the shadow of an addiction. Whitey Ford knew that, and knew that he had to keep his mind sharper than his doubts. He had to keep reminding himself of that, and he didn’t do so in a self-condescending manner. Normally, he’d be furious that he doubted himself. Now, calmness filled his mind and replaced blind rage, mixing with the confidence that had never left. Ford was walking into Trauma in a few days, teaming with the Hobo King, against The Untouchables. Last he had seen his opponents, they writhing in pain from the beating he had given them with a steel chair. The matchup would be tough, and he’d have to put forward an A-plus effort…but Whitey knew he’d get his vengeance against Murdoc, and take another step closer to challenging Eira for the coveted PCW World Title. A smirk grew over his face; everything was going to be fine.
Although…Whitey wondered as he swung his feet up onto the trestle and pushed himself to a standing position, feeling a slight tinge of vertigo from standing up so fast while looking straight down. We’ll see how this positive outlook bullshit works if I can’t pull it off… Whitey was about to mentally scold himself for spending all this time at the trestle thinking and convincing himself he’s as good as he says he was, but…
Voices.
If I were drunk, I’d probably have fucking heard it earlier… The thought was probably untrue, but Whitey quickly silenced his mind, listening into the darkness and wondering whether his mind was playing tricks on him. The voice he had heard was low and hushed like a whisper, and if someone were to ambush him on the trestle itself, he could be in a lot of trouble. It wouldn’t take much to be caught off guard and pushed to a cold, wet death. Still he listened, not daring to move in case he made any noise. For all Ford knew, it was just some kids walking down the railroad tracks to get high. For all Ford knew it could be…
Nothing. No more voices. Christ, man, it was probably just some kids who you spooked when you stood up. They’re probably more scared of you than you are of them. Whitey thought as he stood up straighter and started walking the few feet it was to be back on land and not on the trestle itself.
“I’m not fucking afraid of anything.” Whitey argued out loud to himself.
Something rustled in the bushes to his left, and Ford lowered that shoulder, bring his right hand up to swing on a moment’s notice. “Oh yeah?” A foreign voice called out from the bushes, and then…BAM.
A rock thrown from the opposite side of the railroad tracks connected squarely with the back of his head, and Whitey stumbled to one knee. Instinctively he grabbed at his wound and felt his hands grow slick with blood. All of that rage and spontaneous violence that he thought he had control over flooded back into his mind and everything that he saw, like his crimson palm, was red. The attacker who caused the distraction came rushing from the bushes, expecting Whitey to be just another man who could be taken out by blunt force trauma to the head.
Just another man? The time for thinking was over, the time for action was upon him. As soon as his attacker, a black man with a wiry build, was within range Ford sprung to his feet, a different rock clenched in his hand, and swung a haymaker that started from the ground and ended with the front of the man’s face. Whitey swore he could see teeth fly from his assailant’s mouth as he spun around backwards and collapsed in a heap. A set of arms wrapped themselves around his chest, and he could hear the approaching sound of footsteps vaguely over the din of the nearby waterfall. How many of them there were, Ford couldn’t tell, but he knew he had to act fast. Whitey threw his head backwards blinding, wincing in pain as he connected, but growling with satisfaction as he felt his head wound crunch the cartilage of the second attacker. As he whirled towards the sound of footsteps…
Wait, how the fuck did I get on the ground? Whitey awoke, his entire world ringing and blurry, and tried to roll over onto his side. His eyes could barely make out the forms of three men standing over him, all of them of Somalian descent. Troves of Somalian refugees had moved to Maine years and years ago to escape violence. But some of them tended to bring it with them as well. The apparent leader, a man with a white wife beater, black jeans and untied work boots with the tongues spread over the cuffs of his pants, was saying something that Ford couldn’t quite make out. In his hand was a sizeable pine tree branch. As his body regained some feeling from being knocked out cold for a moment, he realized his forehead had been busted open as well. He must have been hit just as he turned around with that club.
Ford laughed out loud as everything started coming back into focus. “What’s so funny, white boy? Think you’re a big man? Think you’re tough? Fuck you!” The leader of the group continued his stream of obscenities, but Whitey didn’t hear them over his own laughter. He managed to get to one knee, and held out his hands to try and silence the man with the branch.
“Ok, man, listen. I don’t know why you hit me in the fucking head, but that’s fine. Yes, I fucked your girlfriend. Yes, I slapped your mother, and yes I stole your bag of weed. I’m sorry, there. It was one of those three things, right? You fucks are always mad abou—“
The tree branch was swung so quickly that Whitey had no time to move whatsoever. It connected with the side of his face, sending him reeling back onto his back. “I’m doing it because I can, fool! Nobody fucks with us, this is OUR town!” The man screamed out, toying with the former PCW International Champion. Whitey rolled onto his stomach, spitting out in the direction of the muggers.
“You know, dickhead, you’re a Somalian beating up someone with a god damned club.” Ford pushed himself up so he was on all fours. The idea of him mouthing off was that if he could buy just a few more seconds, he might be able to spring up and surprise at least one of them before being taken down again. “You’re just begging me to make a racist joke. If you were using a spear, I’d have—“
Another shot by the club, this time straight down to the back of his head. His mind was clouding over, and he vaguely realized how bad the situation really was. The Somalian man struck him again, but he could barely feel it. He waited for the next blow to come…but all he heard was shuffling. Maybe they’re fighting over who gets to hit me next? Ford thought grimly. Wait for it…
Wait for it…
Another blow never came. Whitey once again rolled over, this time in a sitting position. He looked around for a moment, his head still throbbing and his vision blurry around the edges and saw a group of half a dozen or so men standing ten feet away. Confusion washed over him, but he immediately pushed himself to his feet, a rock in each hand, and waited for them to rush him. It was then Whitey noticed the four prone bodies on the ground all around him. His attackers were all unconscious.
“We’re not here to hurt you, Whitey. Although I wouldn’t mind hurting you EVENTUALLY…” A man shuffled slowly forward from the looming group of derelicts.
“I know you!” Whitey spat out, his speech still a bit slurred from the repeated blows to the head. “You’re one of Non Comp…Nen Comp…Compos…you’re one of the fucking homeless army!”
“It’s Tal.” He spoke quietly and with disinterest, making it very obvious that he didn’t want to be in the company of Whitey Ford. “I have orders, you know, to protect you. I know that it was meant in the PCW sense, but…well, Whitey, I don’t fucking trust you.”
Whitey snorted as he started to get his sea legs again, so to speak…but he didn’t let his guard down one bit, holding onto the rocks for good measure. “And I don’t trust you…any of you. I didn’t need your help, either; I had them right where I wanted them!”
There was no further argument from Tal, who apparently had no wish to continue the conversation with Whitey. He backed away a few steps. “I’m catching the next train down to Carolina, so you’re on your own from here. And after Trauma…when NCM is done with you and he moves on to better things than teaming with someone so…under him…we won’t be here to have your back again.” Tal turned around then, and with his pack of hobos he headed down the railroad tracks.
“Wait.” Whitey called out, and the pack stopped abruptly. Ford knew he wasn’t safe, but they didn’t turn around…yet. “You tell your boss something for me. I don’t need his fucking help, I don’t need YOUR fucking help…but on Trauma, we’re on the same page. One night only. Let’s dismantle The Untouchables.”
The pack of hobos said nothing, and didn’t even give an indication that they heard Whitey. But they continued on down the railroad tracks. Ford stood there in the cold, dark night, bleeding from the head and feeling like a train wreck. He looked around at the carnage that surrounded him before stumbling in the opposite direction of Tal. One thought consumed his mind as he crossed over the trestle once more.
So this is the ‘sober’ life?