somewhere in the frozen mid-west
Jan. 29th, 2014 11:49 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
out_on_the_matCharlie Kenton wasn’t a boxer anymore, but he kept in shape. Part of it was old habits, part was boredom (what else was he going to do between fights with his robots and schemes?), and part was because being able to throw a blow still came in handy when somebody wanted to kick your ass.
Sometimes it helped him make a buck or two, and sometimes (a lot of times) Charlie got himself in over his head.
Winter outside of Topeka: cold as hell, not a match to be had between here and New Orleans, and a bunch of guys used to being on the road snowed in at a middle of nowhere dive; cabin fever happens quick. Which was how the arm wrestling matches started. And Charlie being Charlie decided to throw his hand in.
And he was winning!
But, with five guys down and locked in with the sixth, Charlie was beginning to think maybe he was in trouble.
The trucker had at least fifty pounds on him and a grip like a vice. Charlie’s shoulder started to complain at the end of the last match, and now it was getting ready to scream at him as flexed muscles began to tremble, and perspiration formed on his forehead.
In that moment he was really regretting letting the past bets ride.
They were stalemated, but as the gathered crowd started cheering and jeering louder, and the guy across from him set his jaw in a scowl of determination, Charlie felt his strength ebbing.
“’Bout time I found a real match up,” Charlie said, working up false bravado. The trucker didn’t say anything and Charlie cast about looking for help.
What he found was his beer, and inspiration. Reaching over Charlie lifted the heavy stein and raised it to the crowd who cheered louder. The trucker wasn’t so impressed as Charlie took a drink while keeping up his grip.
Mouth full, Charlie gave the trucker a cheeky grin; the man growled and Charlie spit.
Fists pounded on wood as the trucker spluttered and Charlie slammed the man’s hand down. The bar erupted in raucous laughter and Charlie let go quick, turning around to throw up his arms in victory, then hurriedly collect his bets.
Most guys took it well, laughing or bitching, but paying either way. The trucker wasn’t so jovial.
“Hey, Kenton!”
“Come on, come on, come on,” Charlie urged the people he was collected from, feigning deafness for a moment.
He was able to snag the last few bills before the heavy hand landed on his shoulder and spun him around.
Charlie ducked the first swing and landed a hook to the man’s gut. The second tagged Charlie in the chin and that was the only stand up blows traded as someone came in at him sideways, tackling Charlie to the ground as the bar exploded around them.
Sometimes it helped him make a buck or two, and sometimes (a lot of times) Charlie got himself in over his head.
Winter outside of Topeka: cold as hell, not a match to be had between here and New Orleans, and a bunch of guys used to being on the road snowed in at a middle of nowhere dive; cabin fever happens quick. Which was how the arm wrestling matches started. And Charlie being Charlie decided to throw his hand in.
And he was winning!
But, with five guys down and locked in with the sixth, Charlie was beginning to think maybe he was in trouble.
The trucker had at least fifty pounds on him and a grip like a vice. Charlie’s shoulder started to complain at the end of the last match, and now it was getting ready to scream at him as flexed muscles began to tremble, and perspiration formed on his forehead.
In that moment he was really regretting letting the past bets ride.
They were stalemated, but as the gathered crowd started cheering and jeering louder, and the guy across from him set his jaw in a scowl of determination, Charlie felt his strength ebbing.
“’Bout time I found a real match up,” Charlie said, working up false bravado. The trucker didn’t say anything and Charlie cast about looking for help.
What he found was his beer, and inspiration. Reaching over Charlie lifted the heavy stein and raised it to the crowd who cheered louder. The trucker wasn’t so impressed as Charlie took a drink while keeping up his grip.
Mouth full, Charlie gave the trucker a cheeky grin; the man growled and Charlie spit.
Fists pounded on wood as the trucker spluttered and Charlie slammed the man’s hand down. The bar erupted in raucous laughter and Charlie let go quick, turning around to throw up his arms in victory, then hurriedly collect his bets.
Most guys took it well, laughing or bitching, but paying either way. The trucker wasn’t so jovial.
“Hey, Kenton!”
“Come on, come on, come on,” Charlie urged the people he was collected from, feigning deafness for a moment.
He was able to snag the last few bills before the heavy hand landed on his shoulder and spun him around.
Charlie ducked the first swing and landed a hook to the man’s gut. The second tagged Charlie in the chin and that was the only stand up blows traded as someone came in at him sideways, tackling Charlie to the ground as the bar exploded around them.
