Post by James Edwards on Feb 8, 2019 21:17:18 GMT -5
"Why are you wearing black? You look like you are going to a funeral, Mr. James."
The translator's English is crisp and concise. It's too perfect. It is too rehearsed.
Just like this damn car. Leather seats. Little TVs in the headrests. French mineral water.
Who the hell do they think I am?
"It's just odd for someone to wear all black in the summer. Asian summers are brutally humid. Don't you agree?"
I wonder if they think I'm who I used to be. The punching bag for The Demon Brigade. The man with the glass knee that cost him a belt and a shot at another. The failed import who should've been the company's first heavyweight champion instead of that howling shithead Mike Musket. The fighter who is a shining star in North America and an afterthought in Asia.
"We can stop and buy you clothes that will be much more comfortable. Would you like that, Mr. James?"
The translator looks at me and smiles. His teeth shine brilliantly. They are too damn white.
I shake my head. Comfort is the last thing on my mind. I need to feel a hawk's talons digging at the back of my head. It keeps me irritated. It keeps me focused on the task at hand.
"Mr. James, would you like some chilled water? I hear that proper hydration is key for athletic competitors."
His hospitality grates my ears like a rake going down a piece of sheet metal. It's too personal. Too tailored to ensure I'll have a pleasant experience.
I wave him off.
I'm not on this trip for a good time. I'm not here to catch up with some old opponents in Lion's Road for laughs. I'm not here to wow people with my fighting spirit.
Hell no, this month is about me putting a hurting on some bastards. It's about reminding some of these arrogant pricks who I am. Every move by my hands and feet is designed to prod their memories loose. They won't have a choice but to---
"Would you like for me to arrange a wakeup call once we get to your accommodations?"
Does this asshole ever quit with the questions? I shoot him a look daring him to ask me another.
The translator smiles and nods.
Is this how people see now? Like some toothless old dog howling at the wind? Maybe they do need a reminder after all.
I'm the man who ended Johnny Ajax's career. I looked Alexander Irvine in the eyes, didn't blink and knocked his ass out. I drove AJ Knight crazy for over a year and a half.
I was violence incarnate cloaked in an aura of intimidation. Other fighters looked in my eyes and saw the edge of the abyss.
That's the man they'll damn well remember by the tour's end.
"You said I'm dressed like I'm going to a funeral, right?"
The translator's ears perk up, and I have his undivided attention.
"Well, I am going to one. I plan on killin' the spirit of every fighter that crosses paths with me."
The translator's English is crisp and concise. It's too perfect. It is too rehearsed.
Just like this damn car. Leather seats. Little TVs in the headrests. French mineral water.
Who the hell do they think I am?
"It's just odd for someone to wear all black in the summer. Asian summers are brutally humid. Don't you agree?"
I wonder if they think I'm who I used to be. The punching bag for The Demon Brigade. The man with the glass knee that cost him a belt and a shot at another. The failed import who should've been the company's first heavyweight champion instead of that howling shithead Mike Musket. The fighter who is a shining star in North America and an afterthought in Asia.
"We can stop and buy you clothes that will be much more comfortable. Would you like that, Mr. James?"
The translator looks at me and smiles. His teeth shine brilliantly. They are too damn white.
I shake my head. Comfort is the last thing on my mind. I need to feel a hawk's talons digging at the back of my head. It keeps me irritated. It keeps me focused on the task at hand.
"Mr. James, would you like some chilled water? I hear that proper hydration is key for athletic competitors."
His hospitality grates my ears like a rake going down a piece of sheet metal. It's too personal. Too tailored to ensure I'll have a pleasant experience.
I wave him off.
I'm not on this trip for a good time. I'm not here to catch up with some old opponents in Lion's Road for laughs. I'm not here to wow people with my fighting spirit.
Hell no, this month is about me putting a hurting on some bastards. It's about reminding some of these arrogant pricks who I am. Every move by my hands and feet is designed to prod their memories loose. They won't have a choice but to---
"Would you like for me to arrange a wakeup call once we get to your accommodations?"
Does this asshole ever quit with the questions? I shoot him a look daring him to ask me another.
The translator smiles and nods.
Is this how people see now? Like some toothless old dog howling at the wind? Maybe they do need a reminder after all.
I'm the man who ended Johnny Ajax's career. I looked Alexander Irvine in the eyes, didn't blink and knocked his ass out. I drove AJ Knight crazy for over a year and a half.
I was violence incarnate cloaked in an aura of intimidation. Other fighters looked in my eyes and saw the edge of the abyss.
That's the man they'll damn well remember by the tour's end.
"You said I'm dressed like I'm going to a funeral, right?"
The translator's ears perk up, and I have his undivided attention.
"Well, I am going to one. I plan on killin' the spirit of every fighter that crosses paths with me."