by Imagine » Thu May 24, 2007 4:39 pm
Robert "The Brawler" Weylin had been sleeping quite peacefully on the floor of this wonderful house that was odiferously pleasant at first, but now stank of Herrold, Just Herrold's scurrying whine. It made Bobby, as his Momma would call him, quite cranky. So, to avoid that ridiculous chatter -- because everyone else didn't really bother him at all, just the unrelenting pleading -- he slept. Which is what he'd been doing for the past week and a half to heal up on his wounds. Which were quite extensive, honestly, though he was loathe to admit it. After all, he was The Brawler. It wasn't a brawl, till Bobby Brawler was present. And so, how could he be refusing a fight when a fight presented itself. In the middle of town. While he was really just out shoppin' for Momma.
He loved his Momma, after all. This one time, he was fightin' with his twin brother Billy -- he was really named William, but that was so high-class-soundin' that his Momma would have none of it; 'lest they conjure up some horrible haunt of a sophistic playboy father whom flew the coop, after a roll in the hay and a failed attempt at making omelettes on a Tuesday mornin' three days after the boys were born -- and his Momma plucked him up by the ear, but he was still swingin' and hollerin' and he scored a hit right on her jaw.
Momma had stopped and locked gazes with him and declared that he was a "Baby-bawlin'-no-good-son-of-a-wannabe-prissface brawler", but that he had a fantastic left hook. She had then proceeded to knock him out with a slap to the back of his head that had him reeling forward and into the unknown depths of ow. Which really only prompted him to keep fighting more, but to aim better and keep his right fist up while dipping low to avoid cheapshots at the ear and unfair targetting of his head's backside.
Thus, after years of inane brawling, he had hit the mother of all brawls while out shoppin' for his Momma -- Billy had thought to have been victorious when he'd won the cointoss and got to fix the chair instead of shop for clothes and groceries. His Momma would have been proud of his ducking and rolling and swinging and punching, without really having any clue as to why he was fighting at all. As he had told Herrold, during one of the scrawny behind's less whiny phases, "Oh. I didn't know somethin' was goin' on aside from fightin'. And I fight. So I fought. And there was much fightin'. An' I was happy. An' punched in the gut, face, shoulder, side and groin. So I'm kinda hurt too. But fight I did, and the fightin' was good."
Which brought him to why he was now in the teahouse. Sleeping. Like a baby. Most of his wounds had healed, and he could walk normally enough. He had been a little worried about his... jewels... having been punched there and all. But his stretched time at the teahouse -- with its very fine and genteel ladies -- had proven that he was perfectly fine and very, very healthy. The problem now was that he should be going home. Truly, he was healthy enough to do so. The richly colourful bruise on his ribs had turned into a mottled yellow-brown, but he could breathe and not want to die, so that was a good thing. Really, it was. The bad thing, however, was that he should be leaving and heading home to Momma. The problem with that being he had done absolutely no shopping. And his Momma would have his jewels -- no matter how healthy or injured they were -- on a plate and elbowdrop him on the ear for good measure due to his heinous misdeed of shoppingless return.
So, he slept. And he slept so well, that he did not even hear ever-respectful constables rush on in and tell 'em all to boot the Hell out. He woke with a jolt as a heftier-sized constable poked him with a foot in his bruised rib, pain shooting into him like fire. "Augh! Momma! Five more minutes, please!" And he fell back asleep. Honest.
Sing me something pretty...