The Cinderella Man
08-30-06, 05:39 PM
((Closed to Daggertail, Lavinian Pride, Lucien and Krugor.))
[Present day, Unknown location...]
“Man, did somebody catch a glimpse of that carriage driver that ran me over?”
Victor felt like he was at a party where he was the piñata and the partygoers beat the shit out of him until something start falling out. It was probably mostly teeth and blood and maybe even half-digested lunch and bile, but it was most definitely not candy. Strangely enough, they seemed to only hit him on the ribs and in the face because even now, when he laid half-conscious, those were the two places that hurt the most. It wasn’t a sharp kind of pain that would signify that he was beaten recently, but the dull, tomorrow-morning kind that lay dormant amiably until you made a move with one of your extremities.
The beaten prizefighter didn’t open his eyes momentarily. He was too tired and too sore and just wanted to sleep the ache away. However, even as he tried to remain as motionless as possible, he could feel a cold chill sweeping over him, amplifying what seemed like a moist, squishy feeling all over his back. He was probably in a gutter, he thought, or just having a nightmare that he was in a gutter. His hands made a move – despite the protest of his hurting muscles – for a blanket but found none. Then they moved to pull his coat or his shirt closer together, but there was none of that on him either. The realization of nakedness managed to snap him out of his this sleep. His eyes shot open, his elbows pushed against the soft, damp surface beneath him and Victor didn’t know what made his head ache more; the injury that formed a lump on the back of his skull, the recollection on how the injury came to existence or the environment that his eyes ascertained.
[Previous night, Radasanth Battle Arena “The Blood Pit”...]
He didn’t stand a chance. The bookies and their odds made it rather clear that he wasn’t an underdog in this one, he wasn’t even going to lose badly. He would have the god and all his angels beaten out of him tonight. Jack “The Fist” Dolianni was a mountain of a man, seven feet of muscles that all joined in a mission to pulverize each and every opponent. He didn’t have remarkable speed, but with that ginormous size he didn’t really need to. One look at the muscles of that half-giant made it clear to Victor that no matter what he threw at his opponent – including chairs and other inanimate objects – would do no good. He was up to get pounded like a little bitch. It was a suicide mission, everybody knew it. Victor knew it too. So why was he stupid enough to show up for the bout?
Money.
The battle organizers had it, Victor Callahan didn’t. The purse for the loser was two-fifty, mostly because nobody had the guts to stand in front of Jack. “Padre” probably didn’t have the guts either, but playing safe wasn’t an option when desperation came knocking. So he put on his lucky shorts, pulled on his gloves and entered the fray. The fray that came to an end in the first round. “The Fist” bombarded him like a rabid grizzly and in less then two minutes fired an uppercut that hit Victor in the chin and sent him over the ropes and into the first row of the bleachers. Then the world went black. And then the defeated prizefighter woke up in...
[Present day, Unknown location...]
Somebody was playing a goddamn prank on him. It had to be. Victor Callahan was lying on a large moist sponge that serenely floated in the middle of what seemed like a clogged sink. The murky water around him might’ve smelled like soap once, but the submerged dishes – plates, cups, trays – seemed to be there long enough to kill any trace of detergent. To the left of him, on the “shore”, several empty wine bottles rested next to a pile of utensils. Each one was about as large as Victor.
“HOLY CRAP!!!” was the first reaction of the prizefighter who propped himself up on his elbows, observing the unfathomable environment. Around him was what seemed like a rather large kitchen, unremarkable in any other aspect except the fact that it was so large that Victor felt like a doll that just strolled out of its dollhouse and into the real world. His mind consolidated soon enough though. “That bastard Jack certainly hits like a hammer. This is probably the weirdest dream ever.”
It didn’t feel like a dream though. It should’ve felt like a dream, but his butt was getting wrinkly from the moist sponge and no matter how loud he screamed inside of his aching head to wake up, it didn’t seem to be working. If this was a dream – or rather, a nightmare – it was a creepily realistic one.
“I gotta get out of this sink.” he said to himself, leaning towards the edge of the sponge just enough so he could paddle with his hand. “I can’t believe I just said that.”
[Present day, Unknown location...]
“Man, did somebody catch a glimpse of that carriage driver that ran me over?”
Victor felt like he was at a party where he was the piñata and the partygoers beat the shit out of him until something start falling out. It was probably mostly teeth and blood and maybe even half-digested lunch and bile, but it was most definitely not candy. Strangely enough, they seemed to only hit him on the ribs and in the face because even now, when he laid half-conscious, those were the two places that hurt the most. It wasn’t a sharp kind of pain that would signify that he was beaten recently, but the dull, tomorrow-morning kind that lay dormant amiably until you made a move with one of your extremities.
The beaten prizefighter didn’t open his eyes momentarily. He was too tired and too sore and just wanted to sleep the ache away. However, even as he tried to remain as motionless as possible, he could feel a cold chill sweeping over him, amplifying what seemed like a moist, squishy feeling all over his back. He was probably in a gutter, he thought, or just having a nightmare that he was in a gutter. His hands made a move – despite the protest of his hurting muscles – for a blanket but found none. Then they moved to pull his coat or his shirt closer together, but there was none of that on him either. The realization of nakedness managed to snap him out of his this sleep. His eyes shot open, his elbows pushed against the soft, damp surface beneath him and Victor didn’t know what made his head ache more; the injury that formed a lump on the back of his skull, the recollection on how the injury came to existence or the environment that his eyes ascertained.
[Previous night, Radasanth Battle Arena “The Blood Pit”...]
He didn’t stand a chance. The bookies and their odds made it rather clear that he wasn’t an underdog in this one, he wasn’t even going to lose badly. He would have the god and all his angels beaten out of him tonight. Jack “The Fist” Dolianni was a mountain of a man, seven feet of muscles that all joined in a mission to pulverize each and every opponent. He didn’t have remarkable speed, but with that ginormous size he didn’t really need to. One look at the muscles of that half-giant made it clear to Victor that no matter what he threw at his opponent – including chairs and other inanimate objects – would do no good. He was up to get pounded like a little bitch. It was a suicide mission, everybody knew it. Victor knew it too. So why was he stupid enough to show up for the bout?
Money.
The battle organizers had it, Victor Callahan didn’t. The purse for the loser was two-fifty, mostly because nobody had the guts to stand in front of Jack. “Padre” probably didn’t have the guts either, but playing safe wasn’t an option when desperation came knocking. So he put on his lucky shorts, pulled on his gloves and entered the fray. The fray that came to an end in the first round. “The Fist” bombarded him like a rabid grizzly and in less then two minutes fired an uppercut that hit Victor in the chin and sent him over the ropes and into the first row of the bleachers. Then the world went black. And then the defeated prizefighter woke up in...
[Present day, Unknown location...]
Somebody was playing a goddamn prank on him. It had to be. Victor Callahan was lying on a large moist sponge that serenely floated in the middle of what seemed like a clogged sink. The murky water around him might’ve smelled like soap once, but the submerged dishes – plates, cups, trays – seemed to be there long enough to kill any trace of detergent. To the left of him, on the “shore”, several empty wine bottles rested next to a pile of utensils. Each one was about as large as Victor.
“HOLY CRAP!!!” was the first reaction of the prizefighter who propped himself up on his elbows, observing the unfathomable environment. Around him was what seemed like a rather large kitchen, unremarkable in any other aspect except the fact that it was so large that Victor felt like a doll that just strolled out of its dollhouse and into the real world. His mind consolidated soon enough though. “That bastard Jack certainly hits like a hammer. This is probably the weirdest dream ever.”
It didn’t feel like a dream though. It should’ve felt like a dream, but his butt was getting wrinkly from the moist sponge and no matter how loud he screamed inside of his aching head to wake up, it didn’t seem to be working. If this was a dream – or rather, a nightmare – it was a creepily realistic one.
“I gotta get out of this sink.” he said to himself, leaning towards the edge of the sponge just enough so he could paddle with his hand. “I can’t believe I just said that.”