I was a wanderer in my youth. I settled down when I got old, and the
traveler life was no longer viable. I don’t regret the way I was, and I
don’t regret ending it when I did. I don’t care that I can’t afford to be in
a nice facility. It’s got a bed, and they feed me twice a day, which is more
than I can say for some periods of my past. There was a time when I could go
anywhere in the world with no problem. Hiking, hitchhiking, sneaking onto
trains; everything was easier before. I suppose I started doing it out of
necessity. I had a normal upbringing, and a regular job, but then I lost
that job, and couldn’t get a new one, so I sold most of my possessions just
to get by, including my car. Once I realized there was nothing left for me
there, I skipped town, and began to make my way to other places. Sometimes I
found a good job that could have lasted, and sometimes not. If it was the
former, I would inevitably quit, and move on anyway. You see, I get bored
quite easily. The scenery, the people, the restaurants; I like them when
they’re new, but I inevitably eventually lose interest. One time I managed
to scrounge up enough cash to get on a boat to the New World. It’s not like
I had a dream to make a better life overseas. I just figured things would be
different enough, and thus more interesting to me. They weren’t really;
things are pretty much the same no matter where you go. But I never went
back, because I felt like I was done with Europe by then. I spent a lot of
time in the rural parts, which is where our story really begins. My life up
to this particular point, and all the time after that, was generic and
boring, but I finally got an adventure. I just wish it hadn’t been so
bloody. Still, at least I have something to say for myself. I saved lives.
I was wandering through the woods one early afternoon, hoping to find a spot
to make camp, when I started to hear a ruckus beyond the trees. It wasn’t my
business, but I’ve always been curious—disappointed, ultimately, but curious
until I learn the truth. So I kept walking, and found myself overlooking a
fighting ring down the hill. It was a huge operation, lookin’ so strange
since it was in the middle of nowhere. Three Ring Circus is what they called
it, unoriginal as that was. A third of the audience was watching a cock
fight, the other third a dog fight, and the final third a human fight. Some
people acted like they could smell me—it was weird—they turned around, and
gave me the stink eye. A couple of rednecks started to walk up towards me.
It was clear that I was unwelcome there. I don’t know how they figured out
who was excited for the violence, and who didn’t approve, but they seemed to
know right away that I did not like what I was seeing. The humans, I didn’t
care about. They made their choices, as far as I was concerned, but the
animals were innocent, and were never given any options. I. Went. Crazy. I
had been in a number of fights myself over the years. Some places just don’t
like strangers, even if you mean them no harm. I was never formally trained,
though, so I was kind of surprised at how much I had picked up from
experience. I took down the men they sent after me, and then I went after
everybody else. Some were afraid of getting caught by the authorities, so
they bugged out, but others tried to defend their territory. You might not
believe it, but I took on at least twenty men all on my own, including the
human fighters whose entire reason for being was hurting others. Once it was
over, and I left, having freed the poor creatures, I’m sure the people who
ran the show just started back up again, but I still felt satisfied by
giving them a taste of their own medicine.
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