Post by Doyle Smithe on Jun 6, 2007 14:23:19 GMT -5
"Five! Five on the coon!"
"I'll raise ya ten if the Newf wins!"
"Agreed!"
Two scabrous looking individuals spat simultaneously in their hands and shook on their agreement as they pushed and shoved their way through a vast crowd of miscreants that had packed themselves around a circular boxing ring. Bales of filthy hay and straw marked the boundaries of the make-shift ring, keeping back the tide of shouting viewers while two men prowled in a circle, sizing up one another like a pair of fighting dogs waiting to be unleashed.
"Lookit the size of that coon. Blimey he must weight more than twenty stone!" A wide-eyed youthful ruffian exclaimed as one of the fighters stalked past him, a good head and a half taller than most of the men assembled.
"Aye he does. Straight from Africa and bought by Johnny Cutlass." An older man standing beside him growled as he nodded to wards a figure standing close to the ring, surrounded by men cheering the African slave on. The man was dressed in finery that belonged to the ton of London and not the swills of a pirate port, but when you had the amount of coin Johnny Cutlass had, anything was possible.
"Word has it he's killed a lion with his bare hands." Another gent piped up behind the two before he shouted out his own bet, 3-1 that the African would win in the second round.
"I heard he's killed three." Muttered a grizzled looking sea dog that had a peg leg and a filthy eye patch over his left eye.
"So he's killed a few cats. A slave's a slave. Put twenty on the Newf!" A pimp cried out as he kept a protective arm around the waist of a flighty looking bit of tail that simpered and giggled behind an ostrich feathered fan. "Newfies always got somethin' ta prove. Irish decent an' all."
And so the bantering, bartering, betting and name-calling continued as final bets were placed against who would walk away at the end of five rounds. Despite all the noise and caterwauling around him, Doyle kept his eyes on his much larger opponent that glared down at him from the other side of the ring. Being an even 5'5, Doyle's head just reached the other man's chest, who stood more than 6'4 and was as broad as he was tall.
"Are ye insane man! He'll snap you in 'alf and eat ye fer breakfast." An old coot with a head of wild gray hair shouted out to Doyle before he was bodily shoved aside as three other men merged forward to place their bets. Doyle resisted the urge to glance over his shoulder as he shook his head, clearing his mind of any doubt. If he doubted now, he wouldn't last a single round.
"RIGHT! BETS ARE OFF! BETS ARE OFF!" The pirate who was writing down all the bets in his chicken scratch handwriting shouted at the top of his lungs and the noise increased as he slammed shut the betting box and locked it with a hefty padlock, just in case anyone got any ideas of making off with the money.
Doyle snorted and rotated his neck as his opponent flexed his huge biceps and grinned, flashing Doyle a mouthful of pearly white teeth in defiance. Doyle's grey eyes narrowed as he growled deep in his chest and whipped off his linen shirt, tossing it onto one of the hay bales. It was his good shirt and only shirt, so he wasn't about to get it dirtied or torn in a scrap. If he bled, better it went everywhere else than on linen because it would be impossible to get the stain out.
Doyle was a large man in retrospect of his size. Broad shoulders, thick chorded arms and legs and a barrel chest to be proud of but when he moved to the center of the fighting ring, it was as plain as day to see who had the advantage. The African was covered in tribal tattoos and markings that made him appear like a dark monster from a nightmare and a few of the spectators edged back slightly as he moved past to meet Doyle in the middle of the ring.
The only markings Doyle had on his body were the criss-crossed scars on his back from the cat's lash and a strange looking tattoo over his heart. It was practically impossible to make out what design or shape it was from a distance and only a few ever got close enough to see it fully.
"Ye know the rules. First man down who stays down loses." A man with a tattered cap said to the two fighters before he whipped the cap off his head and held it aloft. An instant cheer rose up as the cap was waved about and everyone waited for it to be lowered so that the fight would begin.
"Good luck and try not ta kill each other." He muttered to the two before he lowered his arm and leapt out of the ring like a scared rabbit. And it was a good thing too because when the cap came down, the fists started to fly.
"I'll raise ya ten if the Newf wins!"
"Agreed!"
Two scabrous looking individuals spat simultaneously in their hands and shook on their agreement as they pushed and shoved their way through a vast crowd of miscreants that had packed themselves around a circular boxing ring. Bales of filthy hay and straw marked the boundaries of the make-shift ring, keeping back the tide of shouting viewers while two men prowled in a circle, sizing up one another like a pair of fighting dogs waiting to be unleashed.
"Lookit the size of that coon. Blimey he must weight more than twenty stone!" A wide-eyed youthful ruffian exclaimed as one of the fighters stalked past him, a good head and a half taller than most of the men assembled.
"Aye he does. Straight from Africa and bought by Johnny Cutlass." An older man standing beside him growled as he nodded to wards a figure standing close to the ring, surrounded by men cheering the African slave on. The man was dressed in finery that belonged to the ton of London and not the swills of a pirate port, but when you had the amount of coin Johnny Cutlass had, anything was possible.
"Word has it he's killed a lion with his bare hands." Another gent piped up behind the two before he shouted out his own bet, 3-1 that the African would win in the second round.
"I heard he's killed three." Muttered a grizzled looking sea dog that had a peg leg and a filthy eye patch over his left eye.
"So he's killed a few cats. A slave's a slave. Put twenty on the Newf!" A pimp cried out as he kept a protective arm around the waist of a flighty looking bit of tail that simpered and giggled behind an ostrich feathered fan. "Newfies always got somethin' ta prove. Irish decent an' all."
And so the bantering, bartering, betting and name-calling continued as final bets were placed against who would walk away at the end of five rounds. Despite all the noise and caterwauling around him, Doyle kept his eyes on his much larger opponent that glared down at him from the other side of the ring. Being an even 5'5, Doyle's head just reached the other man's chest, who stood more than 6'4 and was as broad as he was tall.
"Are ye insane man! He'll snap you in 'alf and eat ye fer breakfast." An old coot with a head of wild gray hair shouted out to Doyle before he was bodily shoved aside as three other men merged forward to place their bets. Doyle resisted the urge to glance over his shoulder as he shook his head, clearing his mind of any doubt. If he doubted now, he wouldn't last a single round.
"RIGHT! BETS ARE OFF! BETS ARE OFF!" The pirate who was writing down all the bets in his chicken scratch handwriting shouted at the top of his lungs and the noise increased as he slammed shut the betting box and locked it with a hefty padlock, just in case anyone got any ideas of making off with the money.
Doyle snorted and rotated his neck as his opponent flexed his huge biceps and grinned, flashing Doyle a mouthful of pearly white teeth in defiance. Doyle's grey eyes narrowed as he growled deep in his chest and whipped off his linen shirt, tossing it onto one of the hay bales. It was his good shirt and only shirt, so he wasn't about to get it dirtied or torn in a scrap. If he bled, better it went everywhere else than on linen because it would be impossible to get the stain out.
Doyle was a large man in retrospect of his size. Broad shoulders, thick chorded arms and legs and a barrel chest to be proud of but when he moved to the center of the fighting ring, it was as plain as day to see who had the advantage. The African was covered in tribal tattoos and markings that made him appear like a dark monster from a nightmare and a few of the spectators edged back slightly as he moved past to meet Doyle in the middle of the ring.
The only markings Doyle had on his body were the criss-crossed scars on his back from the cat's lash and a strange looking tattoo over his heart. It was practically impossible to make out what design or shape it was from a distance and only a few ever got close enough to see it fully.
"Ye know the rules. First man down who stays down loses." A man with a tattered cap said to the two fighters before he whipped the cap off his head and held it aloft. An instant cheer rose up as the cap was waved about and everyone waited for it to be lowered so that the fight would begin.
"Good luck and try not ta kill each other." He muttered to the two before he lowered his arm and leapt out of the ring like a scared rabbit. And it was a good thing too because when the cap came down, the fists started to fly.