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Hunted: The Life and Times of Rowan Wilton, Griffon

by alCROWholic

Chapter 1: BDSM Barfights

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BDSM Barfights

It started out like any other chapter in my life, under the heavy rain of a winter evening; I huddled under my raincoat as I dashed towards my favorite place of refuge, the titular Red Gryphon which shone brightly over the wet streets.

The shindig smelt of beer, fags and dried blood as always. The rumbling ambiance of the jaunty patrons conversing about violent confrontations, close calls and one night stands were met with thunderous laughter as I approached the bar. My favorite seat, to the far left of course; beckoned me, bringing up memories of many wondrous, hazy nights spent drinking and fighting on the dubiously sticky flooring.

I happened a glance up to meet the eyes of an impatient looking waitress, her white and purple feathered hair nearly blasted me back to the 80’s; along with matching purple eyeshadow. By far the strangest part were her eyes, they were a striking gold that contrasted the purple motif she was rolling with. If looks could kill, I’d have died right there.

Not because she was pretty (which in all honesty she was) but due to the piercing gaze she wore on her tanned visage. Of course, most patrons to the Gryphon were naturally grumpy; as such is nature it was rare to find a woman here. Considering the nature of the patrons it wasn’t surprising.

“I’ll have a lager love.” I grunted, which seemingly cured her impatience as she quickly strided over to the taps to get my order. I happened a glance behind me before groaning in frustration, the hicks were there again.

I’m not certain if they were actually called the hicks, but I considered it a fair assessment from the embarrassment that naturally plagued them; making them the butt of several maliciously aimed comments from bigger, and tougher drinkers. So as usual, they sat there and took it.

The problem was, those idiots had no problems with harassing me, despite the fact they look like a bunch of retards crashed into a BDSM shop. The larger was unceremoniously placed in front of me, I shuffled in my pocket before placing a five pound note on the bar.

“Keep the change.” I didn’t look up, but I felt the eyes of the waitress boring into the top of my skull. I took a drink before slowly lifting my gaze to meet hers once again, she grumbled before stuffing the note into the till and leaving to tend the other patrons.

It continued like that for a while, sitting there idly drinking the night away as the atmosphere of the lively bar faded into the background. That is, until a very stubby finger tapped my shoulder. I blinked out of my little daze and turned to see one of the BDSM wannabes looking at me with what I assumed was meant to be a threatening glare. His friends were all watching with baited breath as the slobbering eldritch horror attempted to tower over me.

“Heh heh! Look who’s here again boys! Seems he didn’t learn after his last beat down.” His proclamation was met with whooping and hollering from the rest of his wanker friends, while the rest of the bar quickly descended into hushed silence. I look from left to right, all eyes were on us; as they knew what was about to happen. I allowed a smirk to grace my rugged features and I rose from my stool, turned around and faced him.

He was a head taller than me and a few cows wider too. Several effective and equally humiliating ways of dispatching him entered my mind as I cycled through them, before deciding that today I felt particularly cruel.

“What's the matter? Shocked into silence?” More hooting followed.

“Nah, I’m jus’ not into beating people with special needs.” I responded coldly.

Fatty threw the first punch, a pathetically weak affair that was easily blocked by holding up my arm. I knew punching that oversized fat arse wouldn’t do much, so I braced myself against the bar behind me before giving him a double booted kick to the stomach; causing him to ungracefully stumble backwards before crashing through his table.

I didn’t exactly know whether I had knocked him out, or that he was just stuck on his back like some kind of tragic turtle. It wasn’t really the focus as his friends stood up abruptly and advanced towards me.

I don’t consider myself a violent man, it’s too bad I’m a compulsive fucking liar.

A quick bash from a bottle dropped the first, a punch to the jugular stopped the second and a good old punch to the forehead topped the third. Much to my amusement, they all flopped over at the same time like some kind of corny samurai movie. The other patrons cheered as usual, and the unconscious losers were thrown out of the door.

I returned to my drink as the rabble calmed down, the table was cleared and it was almost like it had never happened, I failed to notice the awed look on the waitresses face; I assumed it was awe, it was her first night working there after all.

A lot of people might think I’m weird for having such intimate knowledge on how to drop a person in one punch; I like to think I’m just prepared. Hell, one of my old friends used to say I was like a lion, or maybe an eagle; I used to just laugh him off though.

If only he could see me now. I stumbled home, and fell asleep.

The cold winter sun creeped around the edge of my curtains, rousing me from another night of restful sleep. I stretched and yawned as I scratched one of the many scarred patches dotting my body, before hastily donning my clothing and preforming my morning routine.

For once I had some work to do; my good friend Dick had asked me to help him fix his car. Maybe not “asked” per say, but I wasn’t going to discuss my potential involvement in the initial breakdown.

His house wasn’t far from mine, calling it a house was a bit of a stretch; the peeling and stained walls of the former council home he inhabited left a lot to be desired.

I approached the dilapidated garage to find a lovely view of his arsehole, as he was bent over in the hood of his (suitably damaged) ford escort. I couldn’t help but snicker at the plumbers’ crack he was running with.

“Yeah, yeah, laugh it up chuckles.”  He warned in his oddly nasal voice. “’bout time you showed up anyway.”

“Sorry for being late Dick, had to deal with some interesting patrons last night.”

“You KNOW how much I hate being called Dick, its RICHARD!”

This argument continued for several minutes, eventually coming to the conclusion that Dick was a big whiny cunt… Well that was my conclusion anyway; not sure if he’d agree.

We eventually set about the task of fixing his shit heap of a car, the work was pretty elementary; even for me, a man who has never owned a car himself. What? That shits expensive! Have you seen the price of petrol these days?

Dick was talking, I wasn’t listening. This tirade was eventually broken by the sputtering of the engine starting again. “Wipe that smug grin of your face you bloody arse.” He said, clearly not happy that I could fix it with such ease, then again Dick wasn’t renowned for his intelligence.

I held out my arm and he slapped a twenty pound note into my palm. “Thank you very much.”  I stated before quickly walking away, leaving him dumbfounded.

I knew exactly where I was going, the Red Gryphon.

The bar was as lively as ever, thankfully the idiots from yesterday were absent. I quickly took up my seat and waited for the waitress. She took my order and quickly returned with my drink, strange considering the dirty look she gave me yesterday.

Her eyes darted around, before she quickly slid me a note, hastily written. “Meet me out front in 2 hours.” It said, I tried to raise an eyebrow to her but she was already gone. Whatever, the beer was calling for me. Though it did taste a little strange, I know my beer very well.

An hour and a half later and I was sure I had made a terrible mistake; it felt like my stomach was trying to propel itself out of my mouth using a stream of shit. I was reconnecting with my old friend, Mr. Sick filled toilet when I heard a commotion outside the door.

It was suddenly kicked inwards by a group of men in suits, not conspicuous at all mind you. Who proceeded to sweep every stall for somebody who wasn’t there? You can probably see where this was going can’t you? Anyway, my lovely view of the toilet was interrupted by some arsehole pulling my head back suddenly. I had luckily emptied my rebellious organs, so it did little but intensify the pounding headache I had developed.

Which was odd, I’ve never had a drink induced headache in my life.

I had little time to ponder this important conundrum, as the man had quickly resorted to pointing a gun in face. I was dragged to my feet and pulled out of the stall, and presented to a rather short old man, and another very fat motherfucker. Now there were one of two possibilities, either I was going to have a very sore bum by the end of this, or my inclination for violence had finally caught up with me.

Thankfully it was the latter; the scowl the old man wore could melt steel. It made me feel slightly uneasy… okay I was close to bricking myself; it’s not everyday somebody has a gun indented into their jaw.  These guys clearly meant business. I hoped they weren’t after me.

“Hello Mr. Wilton.”

Fuck.

To be honest, I really wasn’t surprised they were here for me. The real issue was I couldn’t remember why, I beat up a hell of a lot of people on a weekly basis. Well it had come to bite me in the ass, as I was currently at the barrel end of several angry mobsters.

Despite this, I was more concerned with the odd effect my sudden illness, the walls began to melt around me. The lines of the grubby tiles becoming blurred, my heartbeat swelled up into my ears causing everything else to becoming meaningless. There was only me and the rhythmic beating of my heart.

The old man who was mouthing off at me slowed down, I blinked.

Everything returned to focus; it was almost like being thrown forward at a hundred mile per hour. The walls rebuilt themselves, my heartbeat faded into the background and I was hit with a sudden rush of clarity towards my surroundings. In fact everything seemed clearer! I could see the individual hair on the old man’s chin; I could identify that mysterious stain that coated the sink to the left.

I could hear their heartbeats. Almost like my hearing had gotten better in the several seconds I was stood there gormlessly.

It was clear that they noticed my stupefied expression, and one of the thugs quickly smacked me around the head.

“Pay attention you piece of shit! I won’t ‘ave you nodding off when you did that to my son!”

“Was he the fat bastard in the BDSM gear?”  

Another blow to the head, I’m sure that isn’t healthy. My brains cells are crying, well that is if they weren’t drowning in alcohol.

“Kill him.”

That caught my attention. The goon to my left pointed his gun at me, but before he knew it I had grabbed him arm and dragged him to the floor; giving him a nice punch to the forehead, out cold.

I slipped the gun under one of the stall with my foot, before intercepting a punch from my right, I slipped my arm under his and smashed his head against the sink, smashing the porcelain and releasing a cloud of white dust into the air.

Finally I reached forwards and grabbed the old bastard by his tie, before swinging him and throwing him to the other end of the room. He stumbled and shielded himself with his hand, turning around to meet my boot.

Ding ding ding.

The adrenalin eventually wore off, at which point I voiced my opinion.

“HOLY FUCK!”

With that said and done, I went to the surviving sink and washed the blood splatter of my hands. I splashed some cold water on my face and looked up, only to meet two very piercing green eagle eyes. Okay, I thought; I must be really fucking smashed!

I heard somebody clapping from the entrance; I turned to meet the golden eyes of the waitress from before, clearly having forgone our meeting.

“That was pretty impressive Dweeb.”

Great I moaned internally, a bloody yank.

“My names Gilda, what’s yours?”

This was going to be a long night.

Next Chapter: Self Help Estimated time remaining: 16 Minutes

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Hunted: The Life and Times of Rowan Wilton, Griffon

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