Suffer a Fool- Chapter 0
Disclaimer- Namco's, not mine.
The single-malt scorches your throat, and it already feels like there's a stone's worth of lead behind your forehead, but you force it down anyway. You've got twenty-thousand yen riding on your consciousness, and only a bottle of whiskey and that Asian punk with the dyed hair sitting across the table stands between you and twenty-thousand more. Hopefully forty- thousand is enough for a ticket back to England and then some; hopefully you won't pass out just yet.
The King of Iron Fist Tournament ended two days ago and you didn't win- didn't even make it to the final round. Fourth in the ending ranks, and now just an uppity has-been boxer wanted by the Mob. Being stuck in Japan with barely enough money to keep your coffin-sized hotel room and eat rice balls, much less buy a plane ticket, is also unpleasant. So here you are, sitting on your white British arse in front of one of those low Japanese tables, swilling scotch you can't afford across from a prick in leather chaps, and making a pathetically desperate grab at some cash while surrounded by a posse of equally drunk onlookers.
You set your shot glass down and watch your opponent pick up a full glass. You remember him, he was in the tournament too; a Korean, H-something-or- other. You won against him, but only by a hair's breadth. He puts the glass to his lips and looks at you. It would have been a piercing glare if his eyes were focused and his head wasn't swaying unsteadily. Nevertheless, he swallows his portion in one breath, and remains upright as he slams the glass upside-down in front of him.
"Ju-hachi!!!" says your makeshift referee, who happens to be the only sober person in the room. You know it's a number for the beginning of another round, but not which one. It must be at least ten, or twelve, or fifteen by now; you lost track several ounces ago.
Someone's already replaced your empty glass with a full one. You groan inwardly- just looking at the ounce of amber liquid is making you ill. Nevertheless, you hoist the glass, fingers only slightly trembling, to your lips and toss it down. You can feel your stomach protesting down to your toes, but you keep it down as you watch the dizzy red blur of your challenger's hair sway while he tilts his head back to drink. He tilts forward again, setting his empty glass awkwardly down and staring at you from under straight black eyelashes. You still feel extremely dizzy.
The referee gets to "Ju-" when your rival speaks up. You watch his mouth move and he might have said something, but the last thing you remember is some awful-smelling stuff coming out of his mouth onto the table and you falling straight towards it. At least that makes it a tie.
Disclaimer- Namco's, not mine.
The single-malt scorches your throat, and it already feels like there's a stone's worth of lead behind your forehead, but you force it down anyway. You've got twenty-thousand yen riding on your consciousness, and only a bottle of whiskey and that Asian punk with the dyed hair sitting across the table stands between you and twenty-thousand more. Hopefully forty- thousand is enough for a ticket back to England and then some; hopefully you won't pass out just yet.
The King of Iron Fist Tournament ended two days ago and you didn't win- didn't even make it to the final round. Fourth in the ending ranks, and now just an uppity has-been boxer wanted by the Mob. Being stuck in Japan with barely enough money to keep your coffin-sized hotel room and eat rice balls, much less buy a plane ticket, is also unpleasant. So here you are, sitting on your white British arse in front of one of those low Japanese tables, swilling scotch you can't afford across from a prick in leather chaps, and making a pathetically desperate grab at some cash while surrounded by a posse of equally drunk onlookers.
You set your shot glass down and watch your opponent pick up a full glass. You remember him, he was in the tournament too; a Korean, H-something-or- other. You won against him, but only by a hair's breadth. He puts the glass to his lips and looks at you. It would have been a piercing glare if his eyes were focused and his head wasn't swaying unsteadily. Nevertheless, he swallows his portion in one breath, and remains upright as he slams the glass upside-down in front of him.
"Ju-hachi!!!" says your makeshift referee, who happens to be the only sober person in the room. You know it's a number for the beginning of another round, but not which one. It must be at least ten, or twelve, or fifteen by now; you lost track several ounces ago.
Someone's already replaced your empty glass with a full one. You groan inwardly- just looking at the ounce of amber liquid is making you ill. Nevertheless, you hoist the glass, fingers only slightly trembling, to your lips and toss it down. You can feel your stomach protesting down to your toes, but you keep it down as you watch the dizzy red blur of your challenger's hair sway while he tilts his head back to drink. He tilts forward again, setting his empty glass awkwardly down and staring at you from under straight black eyelashes. You still feel extremely dizzy.
The referee gets to "Ju-" when your rival speaks up. You watch his mouth move and he might have said something, but the last thing you remember is some awful-smelling stuff coming out of his mouth onto the table and you falling straight towards it. At least that makes it a tie.
