EPTOr maybe i just had a crazy year.
The following is the first in a series of retrospects.
June 12th, 2008 - Twenty-Three
I am accompanied by Amanda Austin, receptionist; Blake Gilroy, game design peer - Company of Heroes Online; Mike Doyle, producer, LIVE team. We're just infront of the front desk, doing another round of Canadian Club shots. Ceili's (pronounced "Kay-Lee's"), was our previous destination, where several of my friends and co-workers had gathered to celebrate my 23rd birthday. The 4 shots are arrayed rim-to-rim, adjacent to the "Guest Sign-In" sign afflicted with a broken base - probably the victim of a previous like night of shots.
Mike Doyle is a man's man. He likes to drink his beer, he likes his sports, he's generous with his bear hugs, he's threatening with his hand shake. He doesn't take shit from anyone. He likes to be in charge and he's a more than able producer. He used to be a lawyer. He's popular with the ladies, usually more than a few in the span of a week; not uncommon to be so popular in the span of a night.
We all down the shots. "Another year and you'll be completely bald kid".
I have a receding hairline. It's not subtle, but it's definitely not what one would call balding. Well, at least not if you're looking at me from head on.
"How old are you turning this year anyways Mike? like... forty... seven? isn't it?"
Mike is about 38 i think. And he also moves alot quicker than i thought he was capable of. Perhaps the booze may have been a contributing factor, but it seemed like in no more than 2 seconds, he had gone from his side of the lobby to mine, had me on my knees, and completely unable to breathe from his steel forearm pressed against my neck. Now, i'm not a fighter. I don't usually have scuffles at bars, and the last time i hit someone out of self-defense or anger was probably grade 6. I'd wrestled with a few of my drunken buds not uncommonly enough, but usually we tap out because of lack of endurance or taking a break to smoke a doobie; not usually because that's the only alternative to going unconscious.
It occurs to me that that's what Mike is waiting for, and i tap his ankle twice.
He lets me go and pushes me forward so i'm lying on the ground, choking, panting, and disoriented. It takes me half a minute to recover; but i manage to get up on wobbly legs and steady myself. Mike Doyle is killing himself with laughter - and seems open to an ambush. I launch myself at him moving faster than most people expect i can move, and have him down and on his back in less than a moment. It's at this point that i realized that for Mike, this is not just a not-uncommon occurence, it's a regular one. I, on the other hand, have no fucking clue what i am doing. He grabs me by the arm i had used to push him over my heel, and yanks me down on the ground beside him. I hadn't had time to even realize what had happened when he was atop my chest, completely pinning me to the floor, his right forearm supported but his left hand on his right wrist pressed against my windpipe a second time.
I tap out.
Now, on a regular day, i'm usually a pretty competitive person. I enjoy challenges and i love to win. This attitude is usually persistent in drinking, but on a typical night it's neither heightened nor lessened in intensity - i'm simply competitive. I think it was the whiskey in this case. I didn't want to give up.
I charge at him a second time, and this time he's not unprepared. Again, before i know what's happened i'm somehow on the floor again, trying to grapple and lock his arm away from my throat. It occurs to me that my chances are non-existant, my endurance waning, and that the only chance i might have is to give up. I let out my strength and the cinch closes in on my neck. I struggle for a brief moment, and then go almost completely limp, waiting for him to ease up the pressure. As anticipated, he lets up. I react quickly, gripping his shoulder in my right hand as fast and hard as i can move it, and flip him in that direction, rolling him and ending up on top. i'm ready to give it to him when he's gone truly limp, staring at the Relic ceiling unblinking. It was immidiately obvious that the lights were out. I'm too full of adrenaline to panic, but i slap his face a few times and call out his name. Amanda and rushes over to help rouse him and tells Blake to grab a glass of water.
Two minutes go by before Doyle finally comes-to. He suffers a 5 minute amnesia, remembering the beginning of our scuffle, but not what had happened in between. We make our way to Relic's Kitchen to clean up. My mouth is full of blood, having pierced by lower lip with one of my teeth; i have nice burns on both my arms from being dragged around on the carpet. Mike Doyle doesn't look that much better, still remaining disoriented and also with blood running down his chin. We give each other a huge grin and he grips me in a bear hug as Doyle does. "Not bad kid. You're OK".
![[image loading]](http://i540.photobucket.com/albums/gg356/Grobyc_/evolutiove0-1.jpg)
