Post by Dru Tha Merc on Aug 25, 2010 20:01:29 GMT -5
A single text message changes the life of Andrew Malachi Dallins the second, tonight. It all starts with a rather interesting night at The Hydeout, a single game of 'Shots' between he and his younger brother, Lyndon Dallins. The two brothers are going back and forth, flipping a single quarter and trying to aim it into the shot glass to make the other brother take a drink. Andrew, better known as Dru Tha Merc in most circles, takes a glance at his phone. It's a simple sentence on his phone, a single text message, as simple as possible.
Dru glances at it and mutters something to himself as he clicks it open. He stares at it for a few moments in surprise, expecting it to say exactly what it does.
Dru silently glances at Lyndon Dallins. The former King of Muay Thai just stares back at Dru with a shake of his head. He can already assume what it says. They have had this argument for days, weeks... Even months, nearly a year. Dru smirks gently and shrugs, a lackadaisical, careless attitude. Lyndon says absolutely nothing at first, twitching across the side of his lip as Dru laces up his Lugz, and straps on a pair of fingerless weightlifting gloves.
”So you're really gonna do it aren't you? You are really gonna go through with that and just ignore the fact that you JUST got signed with an actual wrestling federation?”
”...It's money, nigga.”
Lyn only stares at his older brother for a few moments, prepared to shake his head but instead he merely takes an empty, thoroughly used shot glass and slams it down on the table. The shot glass has a mere four words on it, and Lyn often saw it as good luck for using it a few days before a match. He slides it over to Dru. It offers merely those four words as Lyn pours his older brother a shot of hard Gin.
Dru stood up after that single shot of hard, clear Gin and dusted himself, putting on his black baseball cap and muttering a simple 'Don't Wait Up'... Lyn said nothing to reply, merely shaking his head. His older brother made a lot of stupid decisions. A lot of stupid, reckless and dangerous situations. Every day it was always the same. Rail this one girl, she almost goes to term with pregnancy and then boom, she either miscarries, or losses the child, or get rids of it. Worse yet, they always seemed to get younger, the older Dru seemed to get.
- - -
Dru stopped just outside of the large club door, plush crushed red velvet and velour cloth, looking around. He takes a thirty second glance up at the sign. Bright blinking lights of a violet throne, flashing every once and a while into a more intricate crown of gold and purple lights. So many times had Dru stopped and walked into this night club during business hours, taking a sip of Conjure Cognac, Nos, and Orange Gatorade, mixed up all together in a wild slurry of energy and debauchery. That was during business hours. After hours, a lot of the clubs in Ybor and around the Tampa Bay area hosted something that made much more money. Underground fights.
You go in, watch someone get the life-shit stomped out of them, depending on who you bet on, you either walk home with enough earnings to keep the lights on and the air conditioner running in this god forsaken place, or you wonder what type of rough trick and his treats you are gonna have to turn to make ends meet this week.
As Dru passed by Otis Rodriguez, a bouncer at the usual clubs, the bald-headed, stocky former marine eyed up Dru wildly, before recognizing him. They quickly bounced fists and Otis opened the door, giving Dru Tha Merc the nod in.
”Business or pleasure this time, Dru?”
”Shiiittt Big O... You know how I get, high. One for my buddy, two for the cutty.”
”Aye cabron... That madicon you're fighting tonight for Willis. He needs to be put in his place. Thinks he's the hottest shit ever. Smoke him. Toke him. Do what you gotta do.”
Dru nodded his head slowly. Not too hard considering as he was quite happy to not have to ever face Otis in a fight. The Mexican always had this nervous twitch about him, like he'd seen too much real shit over there. Dru looked around. The stair-banister was taped up and closed off, as it was the ground level every one was most interested in. A sneer played up on The Gangstar's mouth as a few choice goons and some mark-ass tricks, skanks, skops, skeezes, and scallaywags all eyed him up. He was better then every other fuck in this club and could prove it. He had won his share of fights, lost his share of fights, but he was a veteran over here.
He took a quick a look around, for a second time. Maybe he was a small bit nervous... Nah, it was just those jitters, before taking someone out. Already his mind was formulating how to win this little fight. Three are three empty bottles on the black bar, and the bartender looks too lazy to take care of it. A few chairs can be picked up. They're metal at least, and look sturdy enough to give a few- -
Dru's opponent comes into focus... Tall and lean, wearing a white 'Free Weezy' shirt, black letters smattered across his chest, the shirt seemingly so long it could qualify as a dress. Dru met his opponent's eyes. Pretty, pretty brown eyes. In Dru's mind, a couple of bitches were probably salivating over this fake-ass chump nigga. As Dru's vision went back downward, he realized this fool was wearing some skinny jeans, a pair of Blue Vans...
...Wait, a pair of Blue Vans?
Why...?
Dru's eyes raked across the hairline of this fool who had apparently fallen into a Goodwill Store's 'Teach Me How to Dougie' section. His face twitched slowly, a miserable, bubbling look of disgust flashing across Dru's visage. The young guy looked at Dru with less than an amicable interest and turned, muttering something to one of tricks, a skinny little freckle-faced girl, couldn't be paler than a piece of paper, or smarter then a box of tacks. She shrugs slowly and pats 'Dougie' on the chest and leans in, licking him across the earlobe. Dru seemed to feel a sudden physical revulsion from that. How could she put her tongue on that... Thing.
The DJ up in the booth, a gunmetal affair yells over his microphone...
”Welcome to Club Throne... After HOURS! We got a match tonight made thanks to one of our better veterans of the underground fight circuit, Willis. Now Willis can't make it tonight, apparently he got some important shit to take of, so in his place, he has called for one of other veterans, an oldie but a goodie, Dru Tha Merc! ...Now tonight's challenger was lookin' to make a name for himself by beating Willis, this little nigga callin' himself Young Don. This will be his first dance so Dru... Try not to kill the kid...!”
Young Don looks over at Dru, before the two of them walk into the center of the dance floor. Suddenly it seems like there were more people to watch then anticipated as the DJ begins to blare wicked music and the folks in attendance begin screaming and cheering, three or four in the crowd even holding out the weapons. Dru cracks his neck twice, once again taking in his surroundings. There's a guy holding a steel pipe, someone holding a tire iron behind the little git... A few empty bottles on the bar, and one on the nearby table on his left...
A punch to the face thrown by the young upstart makes Dru suddenly realize the fight has started. Dru looks at Young Don, completely unfazed, as the young fighter looks around, completely shocked that The Gangstar seems to brush the punch off similar to a fly. Young Don begins to throw fists wildly as Dru ducks, dodges, and slides out of the way, leaning forward to headbutt the poor kid in the push, before he picks him up with a simple lift and slams him through a table. Dru dusts his hands of the situation, stomping the kid in the face for good measure and now going over to talk to Young Don's 'trick'.
As Dru talks to her, or at least talk to her, Don's mind is addled, surely enough from being thrown through a table and getting his face stomped on, but as he sees Dru Tha Merc talking to his girlfriend, he seems to feel a sudden rush of adrenaline. He grasps a nearby glass bottle and pulls himself. Dru takes a rather 'bored' look at him then grabs a glass beer bottle him. This seems to perplex Young Don, and actually slackens his grip on the bottle for all of a second.
Stupid mistake. Dru swats it out of his hand, slamming his fist into the kid's wrist from underneath, grasping the bottle in the air, and smashing both over the kid's skull. As Young Don screams in pain from glass shards across his temples, he starts fluttering backward, only to be pushed forward by the crowd. Dru slams his fists repeatedly into his own chest... Young Don never knew what hit him as he got lifted up and thrown, headfirst into the concrete, his rear sticking out before Dru takes a running start and kicks him as hard as possible where the sun don't shine.
Young Don by now is in too much pain to even feasibly scream, not knowing much more as he is lifted and squeezed into a body-snapping bearhug, being shook left and right as he tries to uselessly elbow at Dru's head, before trying to claw at The Gangstar...
...All a moot point.
Eventually Young Don would pass out from the air extinguished and rolled out of his lungs and the sudden attack of lightheadedness... Then it finally came. The inky blackness of unconsciousness. Dru dropped his opponent, letting him slink and drop to the ground as he stared down at him with a slight gleam in his eye, a shake of his head. He glanced at Young Don's girlfriend one more time, stomping on his opponent's chest, a rictus glee across his face. The young lady looks around, a moment of hesitation, as Dru outstretches his hand. She takes it and he forces her to walk over her boyfriend...
As they leave together, Dru looks at Young Don once more, and shakes his head in disgust. A single word leaves him.
”Rookies.”
Dru leaned forward and spat on the poor kid's shirt for his trouble. Dru hated rookies.
- - -
Dru Dallin's fax machine began to whirl and echo, beeping frantically as it printed something straight from KoP headquarters...
...Apparently it was the match card.
Dru glances at it and mutters something to himself as he clicks it open. He stares at it for a few moments in surprise, expecting it to say exactly what it does.
'Daughters B-Day. Need Ur fists. 1 Final Time. Promise'
Dru silently glances at Lyndon Dallins. The former King of Muay Thai just stares back at Dru with a shake of his head. He can already assume what it says. They have had this argument for days, weeks... Even months, nearly a year. Dru smirks gently and shrugs, a lackadaisical, careless attitude. Lyndon says absolutely nothing at first, twitching across the side of his lip as Dru laces up his Lugz, and straps on a pair of fingerless weightlifting gloves.
”So you're really gonna do it aren't you? You are really gonna go through with that and just ignore the fact that you JUST got signed with an actual wrestling federation?”
”...It's money, nigga.”
Lyn only stares at his older brother for a few moments, prepared to shake his head but instead he merely takes an empty, thoroughly used shot glass and slams it down on the table. The shot glass has a mere four words on it, and Lyn often saw it as good luck for using it a few days before a match. He slides it over to Dru. It offers merely those four words as Lyn pours his older brother a shot of hard Gin.
'One For The Road'
Dru stood up after that single shot of hard, clear Gin and dusted himself, putting on his black baseball cap and muttering a simple 'Don't Wait Up'... Lyn said nothing to reply, merely shaking his head. His older brother made a lot of stupid decisions. A lot of stupid, reckless and dangerous situations. Every day it was always the same. Rail this one girl, she almost goes to term with pregnancy and then boom, she either miscarries, or losses the child, or get rids of it. Worse yet, they always seemed to get younger, the older Dru seemed to get.
- - -
Club Throne (After Hours)
Ybor City – Tampa, Florida
Ybor City – Tampa, Florida
Dru stopped just outside of the large club door, plush crushed red velvet and velour cloth, looking around. He takes a thirty second glance up at the sign. Bright blinking lights of a violet throne, flashing every once and a while into a more intricate crown of gold and purple lights. So many times had Dru stopped and walked into this night club during business hours, taking a sip of Conjure Cognac, Nos, and Orange Gatorade, mixed up all together in a wild slurry of energy and debauchery. That was during business hours. After hours, a lot of the clubs in Ybor and around the Tampa Bay area hosted something that made much more money. Underground fights.
You go in, watch someone get the life-shit stomped out of them, depending on who you bet on, you either walk home with enough earnings to keep the lights on and the air conditioner running in this god forsaken place, or you wonder what type of rough trick and his treats you are gonna have to turn to make ends meet this week.
As Dru passed by Otis Rodriguez, a bouncer at the usual clubs, the bald-headed, stocky former marine eyed up Dru wildly, before recognizing him. They quickly bounced fists and Otis opened the door, giving Dru Tha Merc the nod in.
”Business or pleasure this time, Dru?”
”Shiiittt Big O... You know how I get, high. One for my buddy, two for the cutty.”
”Aye cabron... That madicon you're fighting tonight for Willis. He needs to be put in his place. Thinks he's the hottest shit ever. Smoke him. Toke him. Do what you gotta do.”
Dru nodded his head slowly. Not too hard considering as he was quite happy to not have to ever face Otis in a fight. The Mexican always had this nervous twitch about him, like he'd seen too much real shit over there. Dru looked around. The stair-banister was taped up and closed off, as it was the ground level every one was most interested in. A sneer played up on The Gangstar's mouth as a few choice goons and some mark-ass tricks, skanks, skops, skeezes, and scallaywags all eyed him up. He was better then every other fuck in this club and could prove it. He had won his share of fights, lost his share of fights, but he was a veteran over here.
He took a quick a look around, for a second time. Maybe he was a small bit nervous... Nah, it was just those jitters, before taking someone out. Already his mind was formulating how to win this little fight. Three are three empty bottles on the black bar, and the bartender looks too lazy to take care of it. A few chairs can be picked up. They're metal at least, and look sturdy enough to give a few- -
Dru's opponent comes into focus... Tall and lean, wearing a white 'Free Weezy' shirt, black letters smattered across his chest, the shirt seemingly so long it could qualify as a dress. Dru met his opponent's eyes. Pretty, pretty brown eyes. In Dru's mind, a couple of bitches were probably salivating over this fake-ass chump nigga. As Dru's vision went back downward, he realized this fool was wearing some skinny jeans, a pair of Blue Vans...
...Wait, a pair of Blue Vans?
Why...?
Dru's eyes raked across the hairline of this fool who had apparently fallen into a Goodwill Store's 'Teach Me How to Dougie' section. His face twitched slowly, a miserable, bubbling look of disgust flashing across Dru's visage. The young guy looked at Dru with less than an amicable interest and turned, muttering something to one of tricks, a skinny little freckle-faced girl, couldn't be paler than a piece of paper, or smarter then a box of tacks. She shrugs slowly and pats 'Dougie' on the chest and leans in, licking him across the earlobe. Dru seemed to feel a sudden physical revulsion from that. How could she put her tongue on that... Thing.
The DJ up in the booth, a gunmetal affair yells over his microphone...
”Welcome to Club Throne... After HOURS! We got a match tonight made thanks to one of our better veterans of the underground fight circuit, Willis. Now Willis can't make it tonight, apparently he got some important shit to take of, so in his place, he has called for one of other veterans, an oldie but a goodie, Dru Tha Merc! ...Now tonight's challenger was lookin' to make a name for himself by beating Willis, this little nigga callin' himself Young Don. This will be his first dance so Dru... Try not to kill the kid...!”
Young Don looks over at Dru, before the two of them walk into the center of the dance floor. Suddenly it seems like there were more people to watch then anticipated as the DJ begins to blare wicked music and the folks in attendance begin screaming and cheering, three or four in the crowd even holding out the weapons. Dru cracks his neck twice, once again taking in his surroundings. There's a guy holding a steel pipe, someone holding a tire iron behind the little git... A few empty bottles on the bar, and one on the nearby table on his left...
A punch to the face thrown by the young upstart makes Dru suddenly realize the fight has started. Dru looks at Young Don, completely unfazed, as the young fighter looks around, completely shocked that The Gangstar seems to brush the punch off similar to a fly. Young Don begins to throw fists wildly as Dru ducks, dodges, and slides out of the way, leaning forward to headbutt the poor kid in the push, before he picks him up with a simple lift and slams him through a table. Dru dusts his hands of the situation, stomping the kid in the face for good measure and now going over to talk to Young Don's 'trick'.
As Dru talks to her, or at least talk to her, Don's mind is addled, surely enough from being thrown through a table and getting his face stomped on, but as he sees Dru Tha Merc talking to his girlfriend, he seems to feel a sudden rush of adrenaline. He grasps a nearby glass bottle and pulls himself. Dru takes a rather 'bored' look at him then grabs a glass beer bottle him. This seems to perplex Young Don, and actually slackens his grip on the bottle for all of a second.
Stupid mistake. Dru swats it out of his hand, slamming his fist into the kid's wrist from underneath, grasping the bottle in the air, and smashing both over the kid's skull. As Young Don screams in pain from glass shards across his temples, he starts fluttering backward, only to be pushed forward by the crowd. Dru slams his fists repeatedly into his own chest... Young Don never knew what hit him as he got lifted up and thrown, headfirst into the concrete, his rear sticking out before Dru takes a running start and kicks him as hard as possible where the sun don't shine.
Young Don by now is in too much pain to even feasibly scream, not knowing much more as he is lifted and squeezed into a body-snapping bearhug, being shook left and right as he tries to uselessly elbow at Dru's head, before trying to claw at The Gangstar...
...All a moot point.
Eventually Young Don would pass out from the air extinguished and rolled out of his lungs and the sudden attack of lightheadedness... Then it finally came. The inky blackness of unconsciousness. Dru dropped his opponent, letting him slink and drop to the ground as he stared down at him with a slight gleam in his eye, a shake of his head. He glanced at Young Don's girlfriend one more time, stomping on his opponent's chest, a rictus glee across his face. The young lady looks around, a moment of hesitation, as Dru outstretches his hand. She takes it and he forces her to walk over her boyfriend...
As they leave together, Dru looks at Young Don once more, and shakes his head in disgust. A single word leaves him.
”Rookies.”
Dru leaned forward and spat on the poor kid's shirt for his trouble. Dru hated rookies.
- - -
Dru Dallin's fax machine began to whirl and echo, beeping frantically as it printed something straight from KoP headquarters...
...Apparently it was the match card.
