All I got for my birthday was an RAF beatdownSubmitted by Cracked_out_cali at 2005-12-23 18:20:44 EST
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Well, yesterday was my birthday and I’m still stuck over here in Mildenhall, training with some RAF pilots on a little bit of this, and a little bit of that. But mostly a little bit of that.
One of them had caught wind that it was my birthday and offered to treat me to a night out at the bars. I was more than honored to take him up on the offer. Well, maybe ‘honored’ isn’t the right word. It’s more like I was relieved that I wouldn’t have to spend my birthday watching BBC comedy marathons.
I should have spent the evening with John Cleese…
A couple of Flight Lieutenants, Thomas and James, took me out to a very small tavern about 30 minutes away from base. The place didn’t look like much, but it had a great atmosphere, and some awesome people.
After about 3 hours of drinking and telling stories, I begin to feel like these two guys are growing on me. It’s a well known fact that you make friends about 10X faster while intoxicated. It’s also a well known fact that after an extended period of drinking, you start making an ass of yourself.
Me: “You know guys; I think women with British accents are unbelievably hot. They can be a toothless whore, but when they speak, it’s like angels are singing.”
James: “Is that so? I can honestly say that’s the first time anyone has told me that.”
Me: “Oh, god, definitely. If I had a British woman, I would make her read me a bedtime story every night. But men, on the other hand… you guys sound pretty queer.”
Thomas: “Excuse me? What the Hell do you mean by that?”
Me: “Well, to my American ears, you guys just sound so soft spoken, so proper. How can anybody take you seriously in any kind of confrontation?”
J: “Well, I don’t think that is hardly a fair thing to say…”
Me: “I don’t think that’s a fair thing to say”, I mock in probably the worse attempt to sound British, ever. “See? You guys lack intimidation. You need to get up in my face and yell ‘Don’t fuck with me bitch, or I’ll kill you!!!”
Everyone in the bar stops what they are doing, and turn to me.
Me: *while waving at everyone* “It’s alright folks… pay no attention to the crazy American.”
J: “Well, I can’t speak for the whole country, but I believe actions speak louder than words. You may get in my face and threaten my life, but it won’t take me but a few seconds to shut you up.”
Crap... Was that a challenge? I mean, men don’t challenge each other to a duel anymore, but this sure as hell felt like it. I start to size them up. I’m 6’4, and they both appeared to be average size, 5’10-ish, around 170 pounds, late 20’s, early 30’s.
*calculating in my head*… Drunken conclusion: Victory for me!
Me: “I bet I could beat the shit out of both of you at the same time.”
J: “Oh, come now. Don’t you think that’s a little harsh?”
T: “You’re on!”
This came as a bit of a surprise to James. I don’t think he was scared to fight, as much as he was the only one that could foresee this turning out very bad.
Me: “Well, let’s make it worth our while. If I’m able to beat both of you, you guys buy drinks for me and my crew for the rest of our stay. If you guys get me, I’ll pick up tonight’s tab” (which was nearing $200 at this point)
After finishing our drinks, the three of us head outside. I start stretching out my arms and thinking about how I’m gonna pull this off. I consider myself a rather experienced fighter. Not in the way of a boxer or martial artist, but rather as a white kid that grew up in South Central Los Angeles.
Me: “Okay, if you are done, either walk away or tap. And this is a friendly fight guys, nothing cheap.”
*The following accounts are a rough recollection of what happened. Put together by what I remember, and what was told to me*
I was standing about 15 feet from the other 2 men. A small group of patrons had followed us out for what they assumed to be a rather entertaining debacle. Thomas was eager to do this, as he was the first to come at me. While walking in my direction he points behind me and says, “You stay out of this!” I look over my shoulder, wondering who he was speaking to. Nobody was standing there…
Fuck me, I fell for it.
I clench my fists, and turn back around, only to be met with a fist to the left eyebrow. I stumble back a bit, trying to find my footing, only to trip over the cobblestone sidewalk. What is it with Europe and their damn cobblestone?
As I try to get to my feet, Thomas administered a knee to the gut, and up came about $70 of booze. I’m hunched over, puking my guts up, and he just goes to town on the back of my ribs with his elbow. I want to get up and fight back, but the vomit just kept coming. I was half blind from blood flowing into my left eye from the huge gash. So I did the only thing I could from my position… I punched him in the nuts.
Was it dirty? Yes. But fuck man, I was desperate.
Finally, I’ve come somewhat to my senses. The nut shot didn’t even seem to faze him, and again we head towards each other. I fake a kick to his gut, in hopes he would lower his hands to block it. He reacted how I had anticipated him to, and I go in for a hook to his chin. But I’ll be damned, the bastard blocked it and had me in some fucked up arm lock. Then before I knew it, he had me in a choke hold.
T: “You done yet?”
Me: “You Limey bastard! I ain’t fucking givi…”
I wake up in the back of the car. I am unbelievably disorientated, and it took me a few seconds to realize where I was. My shirt is off, and wrapped around my head.
Me: “Are we going back to base?”
J: “We need to get you to the hospital. You’re gonna need stitches, and Thomas thinks he may have broke a couple of your ribs.”
T: “And don’t worry, we got your credit card, and took care of the tab before leaving.”
Me: “Yeah, a deal is a deal.” I mumble
We get to the hospital, and I am in an examining room with the most beautiful doctor I have ever seen. She’s sewing up my severely swollen eyebrow and asks,
“Wow, what happened to you?”
“The Brits got me.”
“What? What are you talking about?”
“Damn it, woman. The fucking Brits took me down!”
That’s about all I remember from last night. Besides getting the stitches, nothing else was broken, except of course my pride. The whole left side of my body, from front to back, is one huge bruise. I also found out today that Thomas has been training and competing in K-1 for about 6 years, and was just toying with me the whole time. Thank God.
So, what is the moral of this story? Many would say it’s the classic “Don’t judge a book by its cover.”
But no, that’s not it. The moral I took from this experience is, “Don’t voluntarily go into a fight without some brass knuckles, or a shiv.