[There was a point during the evening where Harry lost track. Of multiple things, actually. Of how much he'd drunk already, of how long he's been sat there, perched on a bar-stool... even of who he was talking to. All he knows, is at some point, something was said, and now he's in the middle of what constitutes a very impassioned rant.
Despite the stumbling and the slurring crawling over his words, muddling them, he has every intention of finishing it.]
S'like... the most basic sporting principal.
[He pauses just long enough to drain the beer bottle he was enthusiastically gesticulating with. Rather than putting it down again, he uses it to point directly at the poor recipient of his current diatribe. A glare follows the shaky line of it, like he really wants whatever point he's making to stick.]
Contact Mike, he, uh, he rose from the slums of Saint-Batiste — [An upswing of the bottle, like it's a little plane] — straight to the top of the boxing world. Guy overcame adversity — [A firm tap on the bar with his free hand. Physical punctuation.] — Poverty. [Another loud tap.] And, uh... [He hesitates (like he's maybe struggling coming up with something for that rule of three) before ending with a strong:] And serious brain trauma.
So, what I'm saying is...
[Fuck, what is he saying? Why's he talking about Mike again? Did they bring him up? RHETORIC — Who knows? Mystery of the century! Let's just end strong and with confidence, okay?
Harry takes a deep, steadying breath and leans forward, expression locking down into something serious.]
The Litany of Contact Mike | OTA, in some bar some evening
Despite the stumbling and the slurring crawling over his words, muddling them, he has every intention of finishing it.]
S'like... the most basic sporting principal.
[He pauses just long enough to drain the beer bottle he was enthusiastically gesticulating with. Rather than putting it down again, he uses it to point directly at the poor recipient of his current diatribe. A glare follows the shaky line of it, like he really wants whatever point he's making to stick.]
Contact Mike, he, uh, he rose from the slums of Saint-Batiste — [An upswing of the bottle, like it's a little plane] — straight to the top of the boxing world. Guy overcame adversity — [A firm tap on the bar with his free hand. Physical punctuation.] — Poverty. [Another loud tap.] And, uh... [He hesitates (like he's maybe struggling coming up with something for that rule of three) before ending with a strong:] And serious brain trauma.
So, what I'm saying is...
[Fuck, what is he saying? Why's he talking about Mike again? Did they bring him up?
RHETORIC — Who knows? Mystery of the century! Let's just end strong and with confidence, okay?
Harry takes a deep, steadying breath and leans forward, expression locking down into something serious.]
The real fight... is for the right attitude.