Carlo turns around to face the rebel. His face is plain and calm.
"You Couldn't even beat me! look at ya! your in rags!" The Rebel charged him. This maniac had some kind of death-wish. He was broad shouldered and almost as tall as Carlo, but lacked the posture and brovado of a fighter. He stood slumped over, and had his elbows pushed backward, leaving him very open. A bad way to stand while taunting a Brawler.
Carlo sent him three fists without any warning. The first was to the sternum, this launched the upper half of his body and his head, forward. While this motion was still in action, the same fist pulled back and struck again, meeting the man's neck on its way toward Carlo. Now he was traveling backward, but before he was upright again Carlo drew back and returned his fist, this time coming from above and directly down upon the mans nose. He fell backward, half onto a table, knocking all its contents to the floor. He flipped onto his front after hitting the table and landed on the floor. It was all blood and glass and cards down there. The man on the floor didn't move. Everyone was quiet again, shocked. One man cheered and before his first holler had ended the rest had joined in. Everyone enjoyed a knockout.
It was time to find a place to sleep.
Carlo wandered the camp, half drunk for the better part of the evening, sizing up everyone he saw. No one would look him in the eyes. The camp was small but had been around for a while, so there were some wooden structures, though most of the stations were tents. Upon losing his whiskey energy, Carlo knew it was time to turn in. He had come across a feild of tents, rented for a quarter a night.
" Ill have a tent then." Carlo handed the attendant a quarter.
"there, in the back. Second from the left." The geezer directed Carlo. He squints and points to the tent.
The tents were almost all occupied. There were some men who stood around still drinking and shouting at their fire to ' Grow! '. Some were face first in the dirt. Some had women in their tents, which shook and almost fell at every quake. The tents around where Carlo was directed were calm, mostly sleeping men. One had a woman in there with him but they were sound asleep. Their feet stuck out the back of the tent and were still. They both had multiple layers of stockings and the man wore his boots, to fight the cold.
Carlo crawled into his tent and wraped himself in his own arms. There was a small wool blanket but wouldn't provide any warmth. It was better to protect him from the dirt, and the bugs. He dug his fingers into his shirt and curled up. Sleep.
Though he dreamt, Carlo had always been more so the type to deny such silly things. Not showing much interest in the arts, or words. But his mind was flush with strange visions. This night, as with most nights on drunk, he dreamt elaborate, seemingly eternal dreams. They were all about conquest. The dreams never had any historical significance or accuracy, but rather portrayed a caricature of each of his fights. He was a commander sitting atop a gigantic black beast, a spear in his hand. He would shout to his warriors and direct them, pushing each group forward as if it were a fist being swung at his enemy. Carlo's voice would carry across the battlefield as clear as ever and charge his warriors with passion. Every time the enemy was defeated and everytime Carlo would behead the enemy leader, and awaken. This night, (as every night since Carlo heard the legend of Bill Waterloo) it was Bill's head on the ground before him. Carlo was just warming up.
The sun cooked the leather on his shoe and Carlo awoke.
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Sitting on the steps of his shack, Bill watched the sun come up, and craved his sport.
It had been only two days since his last brawl, and he already wanted to win again. Competition was growing scarce.
'Have you heard the Legend of Bill Waterloo?'
'Who hasn't?'
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