Post by Travis Tusk on Jan 24, 2016 13:13:10 GMT -5
13 days ago
Morning
Travis Tusk HQ
a.k.a. The T.N.T.B'n'B
a.k.a. Apartment A
Travis Tusk awoke in pain. He dragged himself to the bathroom mirror to inspect the damage. The most easily visible proof that the previous night had not been a dream was the black eye. Travis thought back to what could have caused it, and remembered the standing boot to the face from Stuart Slane. He smiled. He lost, as anyone could have predicted, but he felt that he had competed well and did not embarrass himself. At this point he was awake enough to organize his thoughts into complete sentences:
Well. I'm too hurt to go out again next week, but at least it meant I got to stop off at home. All the times I imagined being in a situation like this, I didn't consider all the travel. At least I'll be able to see all the places I couldn't before. Miami. Los Angeles. For someone who just got his face beaten in, I feel pretty lucky.
He went about his morning routine. The sun was just barely starting to peek out from the horizon, but he finished dressing by putting on a pair of sunglasses. He looked in a mirror next to the front door and frowned. His favorite Wayfarers did a poor job of covering up the bruise. He switched to aviators and walked out the door, satisfied with the choice.
Evening
Travis entered his basement apartment, throwing his keys on the small, square dining room table. As he had become a serious worker since joining WCF, his day would have normally consisted of training. However, he had been advised before his match to rest for at least a day after, and the soreness he still felt over his entire body made that decision even easier. Aside from coffee and meals, he had spent a good chunk of the day at the local “barcade” - One of the perks of living in a college town, he told himself – playing old arcade games and drinking craft beers.
Not a terribly exciting day. Maybe one day I'll have one of those lives in which WCF cameramen follow me around to cover the action. Do I even want that?
He took off his sunglasses and shoes, and sat down at the computer to research his next opponent. He already remembered that he was going to have to go back to the mid-Atlantic states for his next fight, but he had never been told who it was against. The WCF employee portal gave him the answer. He furrowed his brow, unable to match a face to the name. A couple more minutes of typing revealed the rest of what he wanted to know. He re-read the screen twice, because he wanted it not to be true.
A sumo wrestler.
I'm dead.
Morning
Travis Tusk HQ
a.k.a. The T.N.T.B'n'B
a.k.a. Apartment A
Travis Tusk awoke in pain. He dragged himself to the bathroom mirror to inspect the damage. The most easily visible proof that the previous night had not been a dream was the black eye. Travis thought back to what could have caused it, and remembered the standing boot to the face from Stuart Slane. He smiled. He lost, as anyone could have predicted, but he felt that he had competed well and did not embarrass himself. At this point he was awake enough to organize his thoughts into complete sentences:
Well. I'm too hurt to go out again next week, but at least it meant I got to stop off at home. All the times I imagined being in a situation like this, I didn't consider all the travel. At least I'll be able to see all the places I couldn't before. Miami. Los Angeles. For someone who just got his face beaten in, I feel pretty lucky.
He went about his morning routine. The sun was just barely starting to peek out from the horizon, but he finished dressing by putting on a pair of sunglasses. He looked in a mirror next to the front door and frowned. His favorite Wayfarers did a poor job of covering up the bruise. He switched to aviators and walked out the door, satisfied with the choice.
Evening
Travis entered his basement apartment, throwing his keys on the small, square dining room table. As he had become a serious worker since joining WCF, his day would have normally consisted of training. However, he had been advised before his match to rest for at least a day after, and the soreness he still felt over his entire body made that decision even easier. Aside from coffee and meals, he had spent a good chunk of the day at the local “barcade” - One of the perks of living in a college town, he told himself – playing old arcade games and drinking craft beers.
Not a terribly exciting day. Maybe one day I'll have one of those lives in which WCF cameramen follow me around to cover the action. Do I even want that?
He took off his sunglasses and shoes, and sat down at the computer to research his next opponent. He already remembered that he was going to have to go back to the mid-Atlantic states for his next fight, but he had never been told who it was against. The WCF employee portal gave him the answer. He furrowed his brow, unable to match a face to the name. A couple more minutes of typing revealed the rest of what he wanted to know. He re-read the screen twice, because he wanted it not to be true.
A sumo wrestler.
I'm dead.
