The captain knew this could not last. That one of these nights would have to be his last. His body would give up after an inordinate amount of brutal batterings. That even if he somehow made it out of the brawl unscathed, his own hands would bear the brunt of his pain. With every calculative punch thrown, he’d not only harm his opponent but himself. With the power behind the blows, the soft tissue would tear, sprain, or fracture altogether. He didn’t know the extent of it. He was no doctor, but he could feel the grating of his joints even now. And the memories of his past, with what he’d been through, he knew there were not many years left before the pain started to catch up to him. Achille would tsk at himself, but the sound would be submerged among the men that currently surrounded him. The raucous din of the pub felt far off, as if the chaos was happening in another building down the street as he appraised his own raw and bloodied fingers.
It was only when a sweaty, muscled mass fell into the chair beside him that Achille stirred from his silent musing. And flexing his fingers, he’d glance sidelong at the newcomer. Faust, himself a retired pugilist. The Queensberry regulations had not been established in his day. Faust would have been a worthy mentor to Achille if the man was not perpetually at the bottom of a barrel. Achille’s wins had likely funded the man’s whiskey intake since he’d started placing his bets on him. The captain was quite inured to the man’s penchant for belching and crass demeanor. But he was also grateful to him regardless. Faust coordinated these fights for him. And the way the captain saw it, the less he had to organize, the better.
”I’ve got another one for you.” Faust breathed, and Achille would attempt not to retch at the man’s stench. With watering eyes, the captain turned his midnight gaze towards the man the drunkard indicated. Alone, standing timidly amongst brutes twice his size, was a grubby ginger watching the current match within the ring.
”The boy?”
”Aye, he’s a tiny thing, but he said he’d take any match I could give him. He’s got a good spirit, scrappy, but raring for a fight. Might make a boxer of him yet, so do us a favor and try not to kill him.” Faust would belch and clap the captain’s shoulder before staggering off towards the bar, leaving Achille to study his new opponent.
What was Faust thinking pairing him with someone under his weight class? Achille had trouble imagining the upcoming fight lasting more than five minutes. But to his credit, there was something more to the boy. Achille couldn’t quite put his finger on it. Perhaps there was an angle the captain had not considered. Had this boy outpaced the men of his own weight class? Was he then looking for more challenging opponents? Achille had seen fighters like that in the past. They were not uncommon. But Achille did not typically see them in venues like this. I must be careful not to underestimate him. Achille decided, swallowing the bile in the back of his throat.
He would get to his feet when the time finally came and his bruised fingers were carefully wrapped. Ducking beneath the ropes, he would settle in the corner to shed his shirt and face his contender. Achille would shake out his fists as he stepped forward towards the center.
It was only when a sweaty, muscled mass fell into the chair beside him that Achille stirred from his silent musing. And flexing his fingers, he’d glance sidelong at the newcomer. Faust, himself a retired pugilist. The Queensberry regulations had not been established in his day. Faust would have been a worthy mentor to Achille if the man was not perpetually at the bottom of a barrel. Achille’s wins had likely funded the man’s whiskey intake since he’d started placing his bets on him. The captain was quite inured to the man’s penchant for belching and crass demeanor. But he was also grateful to him regardless. Faust coordinated these fights for him. And the way the captain saw it, the less he had to organize, the better.
”I’ve got another one for you.” Faust breathed, and Achille would attempt not to retch at the man’s stench. With watering eyes, the captain turned his midnight gaze towards the man the drunkard indicated. Alone, standing timidly amongst brutes twice his size, was a grubby ginger watching the current match within the ring.
”The boy?”
”Aye, he’s a tiny thing, but he said he’d take any match I could give him. He’s got a good spirit, scrappy, but raring for a fight. Might make a boxer of him yet, so do us a favor and try not to kill him.” Faust would belch and clap the captain’s shoulder before staggering off towards the bar, leaving Achille to study his new opponent.
What was Faust thinking pairing him with someone under his weight class? Achille had trouble imagining the upcoming fight lasting more than five minutes. But to his credit, there was something more to the boy. Achille couldn’t quite put his finger on it. Perhaps there was an angle the captain had not considered. Had this boy outpaced the men of his own weight class? Was he then looking for more challenging opponents? Achille had seen fighters like that in the past. They were not uncommon. But Achille did not typically see them in venues like this. I must be careful not to underestimate him. Achille decided, swallowing the bile in the back of his throat.
He would get to his feet when the time finally came and his bruised fingers were carefully wrapped. Ducking beneath the ropes, he would settle in the corner to shed his shirt and face his contender. Achille would shake out his fists as he stepped forward towards the center.
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