[align=center][div style="borderwidth; width: 400px; padding: 1px; text-align: justify; color: #4B3E2D; line-height: 14px; font-size: 11pt; font-family:timesnewroman"]"speech" 'thought' text
tw: mentions alcohol, blood, profanity, themes of violence
Mike wasn't an easy going man by nature, he'd never been entirely affable, and had usually let his temper get the better of him in most situations involving violence. This was no different, he could have as easily used words or brushed off the silly stick poke from Brendan, but his mind went full on red at the attack and push into his personal space. No, Mike did not, would not tolerate it, especially because of the broken ribs (but mostly because it had really pissed him off.)
And so, like most other ill advised fights he entered (not because he'd lose,) he'd let his anger take the wheel and had started a fight. He wasn't one to just let someone assault him. And the staff being inserted into a pained rib had been very annoying to say the least. But, after the boy had reeled back, and Mike hoped that the fight was over, (spoiler alert, it wasn't) he was stunned to find the boy's foot connecting painfully with his jaw.
If he hadn't meant the punch to be an end to the fight maybe he'd have been ready for something, but he hadn't expected this, perhaps he should have. But he had been trying, oh so trying to be restrained, not actually severely injure the boy like he had... certain other teenagers who were little shitheads too. "You little bastard!" Mike spat at the kid spitting out saliva mixed with blood, he was pretty sure that his jaw would be bruised, though, that would pale in comparison to what he was about to inflict on Brendan.
Cracking his jaw, and then his neck, the man stepped forward his expression icy. With a swift motion, he grabbed for Brendan's shoulder, aiming to secure it in his right hand, while angling his left fist into the soft, solar plexus of Brendan's stomach. It was a good way to incapacitate an opponent, though Mike would hardly call him such. He stepped back from Brendan, and eyed him warily. "Fuck," Muttered under his slightly heavy breath.
"Shit's really hit the fan," Cat would not be happy, the Lodgers would not be happy, chances were he was in for a lovely afternoon and evening. And when he got back to the Casino... if he got back, Cat'd be pissed to, and probably punish him. Ah a delightful day, delightful. "I-" He broke himself off, unsure of what to say to Brendan, who he'd just assaulted without any real reason... except for being poked. "I-..." Another oath, "Fuck," he cut off the rest of his rant, face impassive once more, if he was furious with himself or anyone else it would be hard to tell.
His hands hovered halfway in the air, tiny beadlets of blood forming on the hand that had punched Brendan's face. He supposed he could just turn tail and run, but he'd probably not get far, and once Cat found out his hide would be worth about as much as a two week old newspaper advertisement. He grimaced at the thought, yep he was fucked, to put it politely.
He flexed his hands, balling them into fists, and then opening them again, was he supposed to carry Brendan back to Flintlock? Call for help? Wait for someone to come across this odd scene? He was at a loss, usually so good at thinking on his feet, he was unable to think of the best course of action. He swallowed the lump forming in his throat, and looked at Brendan, was he sorry? No, he didn't feel sorry, the little shit had it coming.
Would he have done it again? No, if he could go back and change it, he would not have punched Brendan... either time. It would have been much more useful to let it go, brush it off, be a damned adult about it instead of losing his cool like he had.
tw: mentions alcohol, blood, profanity, themes of violence
Mike wasn't an easy going man by nature, he'd never been entirely affable, and had usually let his temper get the better of him in most situations involving violence. This was no different, he could have as easily used words or brushed off the silly stick poke from Brendan, but his mind went full on red at the attack and push into his personal space. No, Mike did not, would not tolerate it, especially because of the broken ribs (but mostly because it had really pissed him off.)
And so, like most other ill advised fights he entered (not because he'd lose,) he'd let his anger take the wheel and had started a fight. He wasn't one to just let someone assault him. And the staff being inserted into a pained rib had been very annoying to say the least. But, after the boy had reeled back, and Mike hoped that the fight was over, (spoiler alert, it wasn't) he was stunned to find the boy's foot connecting painfully with his jaw.
If he hadn't meant the punch to be an end to the fight maybe he'd have been ready for something, but he hadn't expected this, perhaps he should have. But he had been trying, oh so trying to be restrained, not actually severely injure the boy like he had... certain other teenagers who were little shitheads too. "You little bastard!" Mike spat at the kid spitting out saliva mixed with blood, he was pretty sure that his jaw would be bruised, though, that would pale in comparison to what he was about to inflict on Brendan.
Cracking his jaw, and then his neck, the man stepped forward his expression icy. With a swift motion, he grabbed for Brendan's shoulder, aiming to secure it in his right hand, while angling his left fist into the soft, solar plexus of Brendan's stomach. It was a good way to incapacitate an opponent, though Mike would hardly call him such. He stepped back from Brendan, and eyed him warily. "Fuck," Muttered under his slightly heavy breath.
"Shit's really hit the fan," Cat would not be happy, the Lodgers would not be happy, chances were he was in for a lovely afternoon and evening. And when he got back to the Casino... if he got back, Cat'd be pissed to, and probably punish him. Ah a delightful day, delightful. "I-" He broke himself off, unsure of what to say to Brendan, who he'd just assaulted without any real reason... except for being poked. "I-..." Another oath, "Fuck," he cut off the rest of his rant, face impassive once more, if he was furious with himself or anyone else it would be hard to tell.
His hands hovered halfway in the air, tiny beadlets of blood forming on the hand that had punched Brendan's face. He supposed he could just turn tail and run, but he'd probably not get far, and once Cat found out his hide would be worth about as much as a two week old newspaper advertisement. He grimaced at the thought, yep he was fucked, to put it politely.
He flexed his hands, balling them into fists, and then opening them again, was he supposed to carry Brendan back to Flintlock? Call for help? Wait for someone to come across this odd scene? He was at a loss, usually so good at thinking on his feet, he was unable to think of the best course of action. He swallowed the lump forming in his throat, and looked at Brendan, was he sorry? No, he didn't feel sorry, the little shit had it coming.
Would he have done it again? No, if he could go back and change it, he would not have punched Brendan... either time. It would have been much more useful to let it go, brush it off, be a damned adult about it instead of losing his cool like he had.
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MICHAEL FORD
Michael Ford is a 45 year old, man, he's stubbornly loyal to whatever cause he chooses, protective of his family and friends, he's a member of the Badlands. Michael has issues controlling his anger in most situations. He is a difficult opponent and well trained, feel free to power play nonviolent interactions though.