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Search and Rescue
Topic Started: Feb 1 2013, 04:34 PM (303 Views)
nick
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Pro Member
[ *  * ]
“Praise the lord, praise the lord, and pass the ammunition, praise the lord, praise the lord, and pass the ammunition, praise the lord, and pass the ammunition and we’ll all stay free…”

My voice dropps into from a lovely baritone to a simple whistle as I walk past a police officer. Now one would not be condemned for questioning me as to why I’d stick around Georgia, let alone go farther down into Atlanta when the next show for ACW was in Greenville. The answers are myriad and range from the quality of McDonalds happy meals being greater in Atlanta, to the fact I still harbor fantasies about burning Ryan Pugh’s house down. All but one of those valid answers are not the truth, and my objective will show itself soon enough, as soon as I find my man…

“Mr. Haute?”

Ah, there he is, just as he said he’d be, a scrawny latino in a cheap suit and a greasy haircut. The errant coke-addict sniffs and the cigarette hanging loosely out of his mouth were not part of his description, but given the circumstances I gathered as much. I crack my knuckles and whistle to get his attention, motioning for him to come over.

“Are you Raul?” I ask, arching an eyebrow.

“Yeah man, you Mister Haute?” Well he hasn’t said anything in Spanish yet, so this isn’t a total debacle.

“I understand you answered my little missing person report,” I scratch my nose a bit

“Yeah man, yeah. You got the cash?”

I hold out a stack of twenties, he makes a grab but I’m too fast for him, I wag my finger, “Ah ah ah, you know how capitalism works, Raul, you don’t get paid until I get what I’m paying for.”

He sniffs again, looking disgruntled, “Yeah, alright man, this way.”

He begins leading me down the nearby alleyway, looking over his shoulder every so often.

“Now you’re absolutely certain you’ve found him?” I ask doubtfully, “I can tell you now I’ve been fielding false reports ever since I put the call out.”

“Don’t worry, man, don’t worry,” He bites his lip, coming close to drawing blood, “It’s him, I know it.”

“I hope so, otherwise you’ll have to look elsewhere for someone to fuel your drug habit.”

We continue on, slipping back further and further into backstreets I’d never thought Atlanta had, getting glares from the shadows as we continued on. Ah the land of poverty, what’s that old adage? If you’re neighbor’s homeless, it’s a recession, if you’re homeless it’s a depression.

There are sounds in the darkness ahead, grunts of pain and the raw dull thuds of fists on flesh. A picture is beginning to form in my head. I think I understand how my little friend has survived these past years in poverty all by his lonesome.

“GAAAAAAAAH!”

All too well.

“We’re getting close,” Raul tells me, “Might wanna pull that hat lower, man.”

I keep it up, the hat only comes down when I don’t want to see things.

We come to a circular pseudo crossroads in the alleys, almost as if the city’s human drainage all emptied out here, though literally it’s just a grated drain over the sewers. The place had been revamped into the sort of thing Mad Max movies and the Fallout games are made of, a makeshift arena with ramshackle fences keeping the fans out and keeping the shambling heaps of human garbage in.

The two…men, I hoped they were men, in the middle were currently stumbling around one another, stepping in here and there to throw punches with arms that should have contracted rigor mortis ages ago.

“Bum fights, I thought these were a Vegas thing,” I cross my arms, “Not to mention virtually extinct.”

“All great business models gotta have duplicates, man,” Raul looks the scene over, “The guy you want is Trent, he and his college buddies run this little operation. Film the fights, distribute the videos, buy the meat the bums fight over, he’ll know where your guy is.”

“Of course,” I sigh, and hand half the twenties to Raul, “Stay here, you’ll get the rest when I’ve finished here.”

“You got it, man.”

I step away, ignoring the horrid sight of the two men trying to savagely beat into each other (trying being the operative word) and circling the hooting lay-abouts cheering on whichever deranged war veteran they wanted to be able to eat tonight. Finally I come upon the one person with enough money to buy deodorant in the place. The kid has the look of a college senior or a college dropout (hard to tell these days), holding up his little iPhone to take video of the spectacle.

“Grand enterprise you have here friend,” I say as I approach, “A modern day Roman Emperor, shame the standards for gladiators have lapsed in that time.”

He turns his head towards me, he looks irritated, irritated and scared, like a kid caught with his hand in a cookie jar, “What’s it to you, pal?”

“To me it appears to be an operation I’m all too familiar with,” I stand next to him, surveying the scene, “Dollar Store MMA, can’t afford St. Pierre and Chael Sonnen, come see Old Stink Bag and Moldy Joe slug it out over a fucking sewer grate.”

“Hey man, don’t tell me what I’m doing here, I’m just making money like everyone else,” He’s defensive, as he should be, I could be a cop for all he knows.

I put my hope towards him not reaching that conclusion, fuckhead looks like the type to carry some kind of firearm.

“I know that, but I’m here because of a certain person you’re making money on,” I put my hand in my pocket and retrieve the picture I’d posted on the internet, “Recognize this man?”

He leans down and squints, there’s a split-second grimace, then a shit-eating grin, “Never seen him.”

I smack him across the face, his iPhone goes flying. He swears and goes for the gun I’d surmised was in his waistband, I grab his arm and punch him in the face, he freezes.

“Don’t fuck around with me here, you little shit,” I growl, “You’ve got god knows how many derelicts in this hell hole, all I want is one, now where is this man?”

There’s a little blood coming out of his nose, he looks afraid, “N-near the northwest corner, in the black jacket…”

“Good boy,” I pat his head, “Now get that nose cleaned up, I think your fighters can smell blood, they’re like sharks in that respect.”

I step away and look for this northwest corner, trying my best to stay clear of contact highs and probably the only American-borne versions of malaria in existence. It takes longer than I really wanted, but I find him huddled over an empty coffee can, mumbling to himself.

He’s in the same clothes he’d been in the day he’d disappeared, his brown hair has grown out into a stringy oily mess, his Court T-shirt is a mess of holes like his jeans, and his jacket is stained with god knows what. He doesn’t notice me, his wild eyes are on the coffee can, I don’t know why and I don’t really care.

“Caden Bell…what the hell has the world done to you?”

His eyes turn to me, wincing a bit as he tries to put a name to my face.

I lean down and try to pick him up, “Come on, man, you need help.”

“Nngh…” Well he’s got the first letter right at least, hope to god a few years of poverty haven’t rendered him incoherent.

I half-drag, half-walk him back to Raul, giving him a look and tossing him the rest of the twenties and starting off back the way we came, leaving the reality of Caden’s existence behind us.

I had plans to make, cars to rent, lives to rebuild, and most importantly…

I had a pirate to fight.
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