“Yeah, I got some last words for you. Get your fat ass off of me you no good piece of shit bug fuckah, let me go so I can beat your weak ass up. I sweah, you gimme just one second on my feet and you’ll be...”
It turns out that Cannon does, in fact, have lots of last words. Many of them are colorful and creative and not appropriate to relay to your sensitive little eyes. It’s endless. He’s just spouting out curse after curse, insult after insult, taunt after taunt. It’s fun for him. However, there’s a bit more to it than that. In the same way that a world class soccer player can juggle a soccer ball while simultaneously having a completely unrelated conversation with someone, Cannon can have a rambling, ranting external monologue while having his own unrelated inner monologue. He’s a master of talking too much, his brain basically doesn’t have to do any executive function for his mouth and tongue to deliver lashing after Boston flavored lashing. So, he bides his time.
From this looks of things, this little last ditched effort to buy himself a bit of wiggle room is actually paying off. Daisy probably didn’t actually care about Cannon’s last words, she probably meant it as more of a rhetorical question. Still, though, she’s enjoying this. Cannon is turning this execution into quite the show, and she loves having an audience. Even more than that, she loves playing with her food. Cannon is the mouse, Daisy is the cat, and all of the bar goers are singing fanciful songs about Rum Tum Tugger and Mister Mistoffelees. She’s milking the situation for all it’s worth.
While the bar is in its metaphorical refrain of Jellicle Cats, which in this case is manifested in them uproariously chanting for Daisy to turn Cannon’s head into a watermelon under a hydraulic press, Cannon is trying to figure out how to not fucking die. He’s trying a few things out. He can’t really move his arms; his right bicep is binned by her left hand, and his left bicep is pinned under her right knee. His chest may as well be nailed to the floor by her other knee. His legs can kick a little bit, and, believe me, he’s kicking, but they aren’t accomplishing a whole lot. Really, the only thing he can move is his forearms.
Forearms, that’s a good place to start. His monologue veers into the direction of Daisy’s mother as he starts experimenting with what his forearms can do. His lacrosse stick is still in his right hand, so he tries whacking Daisy with the net end of the stick. Doesn’t do a whole lot, he has basically zero leverage. What else can he do? His mind races. Her knee feels like its plunging deeper and deeper into his chest. His padded armor has kept airflow strong enough until now, but its starting to buckle under the weight. His mouth is a Gatling gun and his lungs are desperately trying to keep the ammo belt feeding smoothly. They’re starting to give out. What’s worse, Daisy doesn’t seem to like this mother-based line of insults. She’s looking like she’s about ready to sing Old Deuteronomy’s final song. Time’s almost up. Think, Cannon, think. You got this. Game time. Eyes on the prize.
Wait a minute. Eyes on the-- eyes. Well, that’s an idea. With what little arm mobility he has, Cannon twirls his stick around so that the blunt end is towards Daisy just as she’s winding up for her book ending punch. As her big, meaty haymaker rockets towards Cannon’s small, fragile face, he thrusts his stick towards her. Cannon isn’t able to get almost any power behind the thrust, but he’s well-trained enough to make up for the lack of power with pinpoint accuracy. His jab lands exactly where he wants it to, and not a moment too soon. Just as his face is about to be turned into a waffle with four large knuckle shaped dimples, the blunt end of his lacrosse stick embeds itself deep into Daisy’s left eye socket.
The guttural howl that explodes out of Daisy’s throat silences the bar. Immediately, both of Daisy’s hands recoil up to cover the new wound. Cannon capitalizes on this, catching her off balance and rolling her off of him. He scrambles to his feet and puts some distance between himself and Daisy, running to the table she’d been sitting at before the fight started. He grips his lacrosse stick hard, knuckles white. He loads a lacrosse ball and cradles it back and forth. Daisy’s slowly starting to recover, building herself up from fetal position to her hands and knees. Cannon knows that one more well placed shot to the eye will end this for good. He cradles the ball a few more times, takes his aim, and--
Oh shit. Wait. He gets very distracted very quickly. He catches a whiff of something. Something that shines above the stinky haze of stale beer and blood that permeate the bar. An olfactory diamond in the rough. He looks beside him and sees two of his pizzas still on the table. He does some quick mental math, which we already know he’s both bad at and refuses to actually do. He decides that he can finish this fight in a minute. He’s hungry, this whole ordeal has done a number on his stomach. He pops open box number two and starts devouring the pizza in a way that’s almost more graphic than what he just did to Daisy. It’s still hot and it’s still delicious.
At this point, Daisy is back on her feet, a mess of blood and jelly where her left eye used to be. “Pizza boy,” she grumbles, her voice like a lawn mower, “You have no idea who you’re messing with.”
“Nope,” Cannon says, already halfway through his fifth pizza slice. His mouth is on fire, that’s how hot this pizza is. He does a quick little hatchatcha with his mouth to cool it down. “Not a goddamn clue. You’re a losah and a nobody and if you’ah not gonna pay me, I’m just gonna eat your pizza.” He conveyor belts the last three slices into his mouth. When it’s all down the hatch, he gives the bar a nice little burp, followed by a polite bow that nobody asked for.
Daisy roars and charges towards Cannon, grunting and foaming at the mouth like a wild boar. Cannon readies his lacrosse stick, but decides that he has a better idea. While she’s barreling towards him, he shoves the empty second pizza box onto the floor and opens up box number three. When Daisy is just about a yard away, Cannon throws the open pizza box at her like a clown with a cream pie. Unlike a clown pie, though, this pie is piping, scalding hot. Daisy finds out just how hot the pizza is when she feels her skin sizzling against the hot cheese. The rest of the bar finds out half a second later when Daisy recoils back and screeches in agony. She pulls the pizza off her face, seeming to pull her skin off with it. It’s tough to tell where her face ends and the gooey, cheesy goodness begins.
Cannon stretches his arms out wide like Russell Crowe in gladiator. “Two lessons for everyone here,” he shouts, turning around so everyone can hear him. “Lesson one: Cannon from Old Boston makes the best goddamn pizza you’ll evah have in your entiyah life, and it comes to you pipin’ hot for your eatin’ pleasuah.” He loads up his lacrosse stick with a ball, cradles it, then launches it into Daisy’s gut. She groans and doubles over. “Lesson two: You do not fuck with Cannon from Old Boston.” He trots over to Daisy and grabs her head with the net of his stick, then spikes it straight down into the floorboards. Wood and blood explode into the air like fireworks.
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The bar goers are mesmerized. There’s no cheering, no congratulating, no yelling, just panicked whispering. Daisy is in very, very bad shape. Unconscious? Dead? Not quite, she’s definitely breathing. She has just enough gusto left for one final threat.
“I’ll kill you, pizza boy, if it’s the last thing I do.”
With that, she’s gone. Still breathing, but barely. X’s on her eyes, little birds flapping around her head, she’s down for the count. Cannon rummages through her pockets and finds a few fistfuls of coins. He jams them into his messenger bag and scans the room. All eyes are on him. People silently exchange money. He shakes his head and leaves, the crowd parting for him as he makes his way to the door.
Outside, the cool air feels nice. Behind him, he hears conversation starting to return to the bar, the sounds becoming muffled as he closes the door behind him. He looks around for his bike, more than ready to go home, but he’s stopped when he hears the bar door opening again.
“Excuse me! Hi! Hello, hi.”
Cannon turns around and sees a portly kid running up to him. He’s wearing weirdly nice clothing to have been hanging around at a place like this, and the soft youth of his face doesn’t match the energy of the bar at all.
Cannon says, “Say two more words and I’ll put your head on backwahds.”
“Ooh, okay, let me just, take a step back here, away from you, give you some space. Hi. Sorry to bother you.”
“I ain’t a math guy, but I’m pretty sure that’s more than two words.”
“Yes, yes, you’re right. Sorry. Just, I’m a bit nervous. That was just-- that was so cool. What you did back there, I mean. I just had a question for you. A proposition, I guess.”
“You want a pizza, send a lettah to the shop.”
“Um, no, I don’t want a pizza. Well, no, that’s not true, I literally always want pizza. But that’s not what I wanted to talk to you about.”
“Spit it out, kid.”
“Oh. Uh, yeah. It’s just that, you see, it’s kinda a private question. Kinda sensitive. Maybe we could go somewhere less out in the open?”
“Kid, you got five seconds before I get on this bike and get outta heah.”
“Okay. Okay.” He takes in a deep breath. “Look. I want you to help me.”
“Nope. Bye.”
“No no no, wait. Please. I need you to escort me to Atlantis.”
Cannon laughs. “Yeah, alright. Buh bye.”
“No, I’m serious.”
“Yeah, me too.
“Aren’t you gonna, I dunno, ask me why I need to go to Atlantis?”
“Not unless you’re gonna pay me to ask.”
“What if I pay you 10,000 York to take me there.”
Cannon looks at the kid, dumbfounded. In a stunning display, Cannon is speechless.
“Um, I-- did you hear me? I said I’d pay you 10,000 York.”
“I heard you, I’m just tryin’ to figyah out if you’re wastin’ my time on purpose or if you’ah just stupid.”
“I’m not wasting your time. I, well, also, I’m not stupid. I just, I need someone big and strong to help me get to Atlantis. I had another guy, but, it, didn’t, you know-- he’s not really around anymore. And, yeah, now I need you.”
“Why me?”
“Because that back there, that was the coolest thing I’ve ever seen! That girl was like, 10 feet tall, but the way you were smacking her with that weird stick thing, throwing those balls at her, the thing you did with the pizza, then slamming her face into the floor? That was awesome! I happen to be a very good judge of character, and I can tell that you’re exactly the kinda guy who can get me to Atlantis safely.”
Cannon crosses his arms, incredulous. “You do know that Atlantis is like, a hundred thousand miles away from heah, right? Unless you got a good rig, that’d take like, what, two yeahs? Longah? I got a life to live, pal.” He pauses for a moment. “Family to get back to.”
“Um, right, so, it’s actually more like two thousand miles, and it’d probably take a month or two. But, either way, you’re right, 10,000 York probably isn’t enough. I can pay you 50,000.”
Cannon’s jaw drops open, again speechless.
“Um, hello? Did you hear me? I said--”
“Who ah you?”
“Oh, you know, just, a guy.”
“A guy with 50,000 York in his pockets?”
“Not in my pockets, exactly. And please, don’t shout that, I don’t think I want everyone in town to hear.”
“Tell me what the catch is right now or I’m outta heah. What’s your angle?”
“No catch, no angle. But, again, I’d really love to not have this conversation right here in the middle of the street. But, okay. Listen, come in close here. Between you and me, I’m the prince. Of New England. Lexington Adams, my father is King Washington Adams.”
“Yeaaahh, okay. I’m gonna go.”
“What? Why?”
“I don’t wanna get tangled up in whatevah fantasy world you’ah in.”
“I’m not-- I’m serious! My father sent me on a quest and I need your help.”
“The prince of New England by himself at a dive bar in Camp Trin. That’s rich.”
“Please, I need someone!”
“Good luck, kid. Hope you get to Atlantis, and I hope the weathah is good in la la land. Adios!” Cannon mounts his bike and starts pedaling away toward the main entrance at the north side of town.
Lex kicks the air in front of him and pouts. “Dang it. Where am I gonna find someone else as badass as him?” He looks around. There seem to be a lot of guards congregating near the tunnel that separates this district from the central district. They’re probably just getting ready to send folks into the bar to quiet things down. If he’s going to find another badass bar brawler, he should probably go in quick before the place gets closed down for the night. He’s about to turn around to head back in when he feels a hand on his shoulder. He yelps and spins around to see a woman wearing a beige tunic and green shorts, her thick black hair tied up in a bun. She smiles at him.
“Excuse me, but I couldn’t help but overhear the situation you’re in. My name is Tay, and I would be honored to be your escort to Atlantis.”