Post by Raymond Reznik on Nov 11, 2019 19:54:33 GMT -6
"Someone get that fat bastard out of here!"
A gruff voice filled the air and spread like a virus toward the wall of trees that stood firm and proud at the edge of the nearby forest. A small crowd of men were gathered only a few hundred yards from the Fort à la Corne Provincial Forest near the city of Prince Albert, Saskatchewan. Their initial purpose for being there was to work the land and ensure the local wildlife remained unchanged, despite their logging in designated areas. A few of the men quickly scooped up a larger man that was lying prone on the ground; his chest heaving to show that he was alive but his face bloodied and starting to swell quickly from an apparent beating he'd taken. Some stood by to watch their colleague being taken to a nearby over-sized log cabin that had been built years before, acting as a break room and bathroom for those working in this part of the province. Those who carried him - four of them, in fact, one to each limb - struggled under his weight and the distance they had to move to get him medical attention.
Others stood in both shock and awe, their eyes fixed upon the cause of such injuries; an American man with closely cropped hair, a trimmed goatee beard and tattoos all over his back, arms and shoulders. Or, at least, what they could see of his skin, beneath his black tank top. Only scuff marks and dirt on his jeans, plus bruised and bloody knuckles, betrayed any hint that this man had been fighting only moments before. He stood calmly and with no trace of damage on his person as he counted a wad of money that he'd been given. One of those watching him in the nearby group of men furrowed his brow, anger washing over his features as he began to walk towards the stranger in their midst.
"Hey, asshole."
The tattooed man either didn't hear him or intentionally ignored him, continuing to count the notes in his hands. The absence of acknowledgment further angered the approaching worker, finding himself closing in rapidly and shoving the stranger's arm.
"I'm talking to you, asshole."
The shove stopped the counting in its tracks, but the words that followed caused the stranger to turn his head toward the worker in question, his eyes staring as if to question who would dare interrupt him.
"I said I'm talking to you."
With a contrite sigh, the target of this man's anger turned a little more to address him.
"What do you want?"
Bemused, the worker steps back in mock surprise.
"What do I want? What do I want?! Who the fuck are you to come here, fight one of my buddies and take our money like that?"
"So putting your money up against me and betting on your friend, then watching me kick his ass...That's cheating, to you? Huh."
"Hey, fuck you, asshole!"
Taking a step back himself, looking toward the forest with an indignant smirk on his face, the stranger takes a moment.
"You want your money back?"
The silent rage emanating from his counterpart, plus his eyes remaining fixed on the cash in his hand, tells him that the answer is yes.
"Same offer your friend had. If you beat me in a fight, you get all of this back. If I win, again..."
He pauses but it's broken by the worker throwing the first punch. His head recoils due to the blow but all he does is wipe a hand down his face, grin widely and hand the wad of money to the person who gave it to him in the first place. The worker who punched him stands in a fighting pose, fists raised but doesn't count on the stranger suddenly lunging; both hands grabbing his shoulders and a knee planted firmly in his exposed abdomen doubles the over-confident worker in two. A loud and violent wheezes ecapes his body as he collapses to his knees on the ground before the stranger, who simply smirks and turns to reclaim the money he'd earned from the previous attempt to fight him.
As he begins to walk towards a wooden picnic table, the same worker he'd dropped to the ground takes a run and shoves him in the back, causing him to stumble a few steps forward. Putting the money in his pocket, the stranger turns to face the idiot who doesn't know when to quit, wide and bulging eyes to show his own anger and ill intent. The worker rushes forward again but his right fist flies past its intended target when the stranger sidesteps to avoid it. Following through with a right hook of his own that connects squarely in the cheek of the worker when he begins to turn around, the stranger slips behind him and bodily throws him overhead; the worker crashes to the ground in a crumpled heap and a coughing fit. Dragging this worker by his clothing, the stranger hoists him up with all of his strength and manages to slam him back-first onto the table, causing another agonized groan to emerge from his lips.
The stranger stares at the worker's face and gently slaps his cheek a few times with a smile on his own visage. Once the worker shows no sign of continuing the fight, the stranger grasps his leather coat - previously folded up and placed onto the table - and unfurls it. He starts to put the coat on as he walks away, reaching into a pocket for a pair of sunglasses to put over his eyes, one final and mocking wave toward the man he'd left sprawled on the table.
Onto the next town. He couldn't help but feel the joy from making such easy money against willing men with too much testosterone and too little brain cells.
A gruff voice filled the air and spread like a virus toward the wall of trees that stood firm and proud at the edge of the nearby forest. A small crowd of men were gathered only a few hundred yards from the Fort à la Corne Provincial Forest near the city of Prince Albert, Saskatchewan. Their initial purpose for being there was to work the land and ensure the local wildlife remained unchanged, despite their logging in designated areas. A few of the men quickly scooped up a larger man that was lying prone on the ground; his chest heaving to show that he was alive but his face bloodied and starting to swell quickly from an apparent beating he'd taken. Some stood by to watch their colleague being taken to a nearby over-sized log cabin that had been built years before, acting as a break room and bathroom for those working in this part of the province. Those who carried him - four of them, in fact, one to each limb - struggled under his weight and the distance they had to move to get him medical attention.
Others stood in both shock and awe, their eyes fixed upon the cause of such injuries; an American man with closely cropped hair, a trimmed goatee beard and tattoos all over his back, arms and shoulders. Or, at least, what they could see of his skin, beneath his black tank top. Only scuff marks and dirt on his jeans, plus bruised and bloody knuckles, betrayed any hint that this man had been fighting only moments before. He stood calmly and with no trace of damage on his person as he counted a wad of money that he'd been given. One of those watching him in the nearby group of men furrowed his brow, anger washing over his features as he began to walk towards the stranger in their midst.
"Hey, asshole."
The tattooed man either didn't hear him or intentionally ignored him, continuing to count the notes in his hands. The absence of acknowledgment further angered the approaching worker, finding himself closing in rapidly and shoving the stranger's arm.
"I'm talking to you, asshole."
The shove stopped the counting in its tracks, but the words that followed caused the stranger to turn his head toward the worker in question, his eyes staring as if to question who would dare interrupt him.
"I said I'm talking to you."
With a contrite sigh, the target of this man's anger turned a little more to address him.
"What do you want?"
Bemused, the worker steps back in mock surprise.
"What do I want? What do I want?! Who the fuck are you to come here, fight one of my buddies and take our money like that?"
"So putting your money up against me and betting on your friend, then watching me kick his ass...That's cheating, to you? Huh."
"Hey, fuck you, asshole!"
Taking a step back himself, looking toward the forest with an indignant smirk on his face, the stranger takes a moment.
"You want your money back?"
The silent rage emanating from his counterpart, plus his eyes remaining fixed on the cash in his hand, tells him that the answer is yes.
"Same offer your friend had. If you beat me in a fight, you get all of this back. If I win, again..."
He pauses but it's broken by the worker throwing the first punch. His head recoils due to the blow but all he does is wipe a hand down his face, grin widely and hand the wad of money to the person who gave it to him in the first place. The worker who punched him stands in a fighting pose, fists raised but doesn't count on the stranger suddenly lunging; both hands grabbing his shoulders and a knee planted firmly in his exposed abdomen doubles the over-confident worker in two. A loud and violent wheezes ecapes his body as he collapses to his knees on the ground before the stranger, who simply smirks and turns to reclaim the money he'd earned from the previous attempt to fight him.
As he begins to walk towards a wooden picnic table, the same worker he'd dropped to the ground takes a run and shoves him in the back, causing him to stumble a few steps forward. Putting the money in his pocket, the stranger turns to face the idiot who doesn't know when to quit, wide and bulging eyes to show his own anger and ill intent. The worker rushes forward again but his right fist flies past its intended target when the stranger sidesteps to avoid it. Following through with a right hook of his own that connects squarely in the cheek of the worker when he begins to turn around, the stranger slips behind him and bodily throws him overhead; the worker crashes to the ground in a crumpled heap and a coughing fit. Dragging this worker by his clothing, the stranger hoists him up with all of his strength and manages to slam him back-first onto the table, causing another agonized groan to emerge from his lips.
The stranger stares at the worker's face and gently slaps his cheek a few times with a smile on his own visage. Once the worker shows no sign of continuing the fight, the stranger grasps his leather coat - previously folded up and placed onto the table - and unfurls it. He starts to put the coat on as he walks away, reaching into a pocket for a pair of sunglasses to put over his eyes, one final and mocking wave toward the man he'd left sprawled on the table.
Onto the next town. He couldn't help but feel the joy from making such easy money against willing men with too much testosterone and too little brain cells.
