Choose!
Nov 29, 2022 15:16:31 GMT -5
Post by Radrook Admin on Nov 29, 2022 15:16:31 GMT -5
Choose!
by Radrook
by Radrook
I had hit the canvas on the flat of my back unconscious, but as usual, I had immediately regained my senses. I could feel blood trickling from my nose, my eardrum was busted, my jaw felt unhinged, and my right eye was swollen shut. I had just taken a low blow which sent me to one knee, and then an illegal right-hook to the jaw that put me down. But instead of giving me the mandatory five minutes to recover, the ref, who bore an uncanny resemblance to an obese Adolph Hitler, was rapidly counting me out in this strong German accent.
"Eins! Zwei! Drei! Vier! Funf! Sechs! Sieben!" he growled as he hovered over me in his starched, white blood-spattered long-sleeved shirt
Frustrated as hell, I gritted my teef and was about to come to my feet, when suddenly, as I got to one knee, this strong intestinal urge to use the stadium latrine, located in one dark corner of the grassy parking area in front of the stadium, stopped me cold. So before I could embarrass myself, I rolled under the ropes and headed that way at a limping sprint, while the audience jeered and shouted:
“Coward! Scum-bag! Wimp! Pussy!” and pelted me with empty beer-cans and paper cups.
One cadaverous-looking lady with curly bluish-white hair, who seemed somewhere between eighty or ninety, and more fit to be in a casket than at a sport's event, tried to brain me with her metal cane, but I was lucky enough to see her and weaved out of the way. She did get to splatter my back with her tobacco spittle though, to the cheers and applause of angry fans.
Once I finally got to the rickety, dilapidated Latrine, and even before I could unlace and remove my gloves so I could take care of business,, I found that my strong urge to take a dump had just been intestinal gas. But it was then too late.
In the near distance, I could hear the damned announcer calling the other fighter the winner and still un-defeated. Then I heard the fighter being interviewed on national TV, calling me a sniveling coward, and claiming that he had known all along that I would throw in the towel sooner or later due to his withering attack.
Angry as hell, I quickly pulled up my silk, black, gold-trimmed, rented trunks, which had cost me an arm and a leg, and flung open the flimsy latrine door so I could go back and set things straight. But halfway there, I ran straight into Francis, this huge, black, neighborhood Pitt Bull who had a reputation for savaging people. In fact, he had already sent several people to the ER and only bribery had prevented him from being euthanized by local pet control authorities.
There he was, in all his intimidating canine muscular glory, standing just a few feet away between me and the heavy mahogany stadium entrance-door approx. fifty feet away, staring and growling something fierce as I yelled for help at the top of my lungs, but, nobody seemed to hear.
Well, we stood there for about twenty long seconds sizing each other up. I’d cautiously and slowly walk left and he would swerve to his right at the same pace to stay right between me and the stadium door. I’d slowly backed up a few steps, he’d slowly advance a few steps, as if waiting for me to bolted and turned my back on him.
Of course, if I had turned my back run and hide in the Latrine, Francis would have easily overtaken me and clamped down on my neck with those deadly jaws. Even If I had managed to reach the Latrine first, I had left the door wide open and I would not have had enough time to close it. But even if It had been closed, the pause needed to open it would have given Francis the time needed to clamp its deadly jaws on my neck. I would either be trapped outside or else inside with Francis. So I didn’t try it.
"Easy boy! Easy now!" I says im, and he responded with a deep, menacing guttural:
"Grrrrrrrr! Ruff. Grrrrrr Ruf!"
Then I hear another comment from inside the stadium about my being a sniveling coward unfit to be called a professional pugilist, and the crowd celebrating it with cheers, and clapping in agreement. That did it! Counting on my boxing reflexes, I feinted as If to go to the left with my torso, and Francis darted to the right. Then I bolted right at an angle towards the door. But It didn't work.
Quickly recovering from his mistake, Francis headed like a bullet with gaping jaws straiught for my leg. Soon he had my right ankle firmly clamped in a vice-like grip and wouldn’t let go no matter how many punches I rained on his snarling snout.
Then suddenly, the ferocious growling slowly faded. For a very brief moment, there was only silence and deep darkness. Then I abruptly found myself slumped in a seat in the semi-dark, empty stadium, dressed in a shabby custodian uniform, with this mop handle in one hand, and a large, rusty, metal bucket dangling from my other.
To my far right, on the concrete isle steps, I saw the red glint of a pool of blood and smelled a pool of beige vomit dotted with what looked like a partly-digested pepperoni pizza mixed with the strong scent of beer. Next to this nauseating mess, was a small, dead, black Siamese cat partly covered with wriggling maggots. Was this what the pail and the mop was for? Had it all been just a janitor’s dream? A dream fed by al the fights I had seen while doing janitorial work there? I inspected my ankle but there was no sign of blood nor injury. My hands were not wearing the boxing gloves I had just had on. There was no sign of Francis.
Then I heard a deep calm voice that seemed out of nowhere and everywhere at once say.
“Choose!"
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Shorter Version
I had hit the canvas unconscious but immediately came to. Blood was trickling from my nose, my eardrum was busted, my mandible felt unhinged, and my right eye was swollen shut. I had just taken a low blow which sent me to one knee and an illegal hook to the jaw. But instead of giving me the five minutes to recover, the ref, who had an uncanny resemblance to Adolph Hitler, was rapidly counting me out in a strong German accent.
"Eins! Zwei! Drei! Vier! Funf! Sechs! Sieben!"
Frustrated as hell, I gritted my teef and was about to come to my feet when a sudden strong intestinal urge to use to the stadium latrine, located in one dark corner of the grassy parking area, stopped me cold. So I rolled under the ropes and headed that way at a limping sprint while the audience jeered and shouted:
“Coward! Scum-bag! Wimp! Pussy!” and pelted me with empty beer-cans and paper cups.
One cadaverous-looking lady, who seemed somewhere between eighty or ninety, and more fit to be in a casket than at a sports event, tried to brain me with her metal cane but I was lucky enough to see her and weaved out of the way. She did get to splatter my back with her tobacco spittle though to the cheers and applause of angry fans.
Once I got to the dilapidated Latrine, I found that my strong urge to take a dump had just been gas. In the distance, I could hear the damned announcer calling the other fighter the winner and still un-defeated. Then I heard the fighter calling me a coward and claiming he had known I would quit cause of his withering attack sooner or later.
Angry as hell, I quickly pulled up my gold-emblazoned, rented trunks, which had cost me an arm and a leg, opened the rickety latrine door to go back and set things straight and ran straight into Francis, this black, neighborhood Pitt Bull who had a reputation for biting people. He was growling something fierce as I yelled for help but nobody seemed to hear.
We stood there for about twenty seconds sizing each other up.
"Easy boy! Easy now!" I says and he responded with
"Grrrrrrrr! Ruff. Grrrrrr Ruf!"
Then I hear another comment about me being a coward and that did it. Counting on my boxing footwork reflexes, I made as if to go left and went right instead . Francis was on me like horseflies on manure! Had me by my right ankle in a vice-like gripe and wouldn’t let go no matter how many punches I rained on his snarling snout.
Then suddenly, the ferocious growling and sharp pain faded and I found myself slumped in an empty stadium-seat, dressed in a grey, shabby custodian uniform with sponge-mop in one hand and a rusty pail in my other. To my right, on the wooden isle steps, I saw and smelled a pool of beige vomit dotted with what looked like a partly-digested pepperoni pizza mixed with the strong scent of beer. Next to it was a dead black cat partly covered with wriggling maggots.
Then a deep voice that seemed out of nowhere with the words.
“Choose!"