hospital. Mousy didn’t come out of a coma for 10 days. His father and a few goons bum rushed the pub and demanded $15,000. So, Frankie paid out the money. Plus he had lost $5,000 in winnings. After that incident Frankie decided never to fight again. Larry considered the event extraneous and unpredictable.
Frankie also spent a significant amount of time thinking about Abigail as well. He was concerned for her safety and besides being overwhelmed with it, he wasn’t sure that running the fight club was the best situation for her. The club was completely connected to underground activity and he was positive that whoever shot her was also connected to something shady. Any moment one of those bastards could come in here. Frankie began to feel like Abigail was a daughter to him. He was protective of her and thought of her safety at all times.
Anytime a man groped her or said anything inappropriate, he would kick them out immediately. One time Frankie had stepped out to buy a few bags of ice when the ice machine was down. When he came back, he caught the tail end of a situation where Abigail had dragged a man out of the bar by his collar and kicked him in the groin. Even though she could handle her own, he took care of all disrespect directed toward her. The man was never allowed back in the bar even though he had been a loyal patron for five years.
Frankie was also concerned about the noises he heard coming from her room from time to time. He usually slept with his TV on, but occasionally he would hear moans and groans coming from her room. At first he thought she was in the room masturbating so he would turn up the TV and try to ignore the sounds. When the noise persisted, he decided to check up on her and realized she was having nightmares. He peeked into her room and saw her tossing and turning in the bed. She gritted her teeth and scratched the bed. She would shout, speaking in languages he didn’t understand. Once he grabbed her to wake her and she scratched his face. Even then she didn’t fully wake up. From then on, he would ignore such nighttime sounds.
That night, Frankie’s mind raced incessantly, obsessing over his responsibilities and the difficult decisions that needed to be made each day to keep the pub fully operational. The mysterious Abigail was only one more thing adding fuel to the tormenting fire in his mind. He prayed for the morning news to come on, looking forward to the new day, but sunrise was still a few hours away.
The TV played real estate infomercials as he pushed up and down against the hardwood floor. He did 100 pushups without stopping. He picked up a pair of 45 lb weights and began doing bicep curls. He did sets of 20, alternating arms. Staying strong and physically fit was a passion of his; it was also a means for him to calm down or think. Frankie was used to his fitness regimen. He had followed it for 25 years. It started as a part of his job requirement in his former life, and remained an important piece of his daily ritual. After the biceps, Frankie focused on his shoulders and then his triceps. He broke a sweat. Little by little his t–shirt began to soak with sweat. It gathered at his chin and eventually dripped down to the floor.
Once Frankie was done, he sat on the edge of his bed to meditate and pray. Frankie didn’t talk to God much, unless he felt he really needed a judgment free friend. He felt that God was the only friend who could listen without interruption. A talk with God was declared the immediate solution to remedy this headache now pounding between his ears.
Frankie had suffered from depression for many years. He was haunted by the faces of people he had killed or hurt in his past. When he quit the hired hand business, he had seen a psychiatrist who prescribed him Zoloft. He didn’t like the side effects and quit cold turkey. For three months he had nightmares and found himself walking the ledge of many buildings contemplating life and death. He understood
Frankie also spent a significant amount of time thinking about Abigail as well. He was concerned for her safety and besides being overwhelmed with it, he wasn’t sure that running the fight club was the best situation for her. The club was completely connected to underground activity and he was positive that whoever shot her was also connected to something shady. Any moment one of those bastards could come in here. Frankie began to feel like Abigail was a daughter to him. He was protective of her and thought of her safety at all times.
Anytime a man groped her or said anything inappropriate, he would kick them out immediately. One time Frankie had stepped out to buy a few bags of ice when the ice machine was down. When he came back, he caught the tail end of a situation where Abigail had dragged a man out of the bar by his collar and kicked him in the groin. Even though she could handle her own, he took care of all disrespect directed toward her. The man was never allowed back in the bar even though he had been a loyal patron for five years.
Frankie was also concerned about the noises he heard coming from her room from time to time. He usually slept with his TV on, but occasionally he would hear moans and groans coming from her room. At first he thought she was in the room masturbating so he would turn up the TV and try to ignore the sounds. When the noise persisted, he decided to check up on her and realized she was having nightmares. He peeked into her room and saw her tossing and turning in the bed. She gritted her teeth and scratched the bed. She would shout, speaking in languages he didn’t understand. Once he grabbed her to wake her and she scratched his face. Even then she didn’t fully wake up. From then on, he would ignore such nighttime sounds.
That night, Frankie’s mind raced incessantly, obsessing over his responsibilities and the difficult decisions that needed to be made each day to keep the pub fully operational. The mysterious Abigail was only one more thing adding fuel to the tormenting fire in his mind. He prayed for the morning news to come on, looking forward to the new day, but sunrise was still a few hours away.
The TV played real estate infomercials as he pushed up and down against the hardwood floor. He did 100 pushups without stopping. He picked up a pair of 45 lb weights and began doing bicep curls. He did sets of 20, alternating arms. Staying strong and physically fit was a passion of his; it was also a means for him to calm down or think. Frankie was used to his fitness regimen. He had followed it for 25 years. It started as a part of his job requirement in his former life, and remained an important piece of his daily ritual. After the biceps, Frankie focused on his shoulders and then his triceps. He broke a sweat. Little by little his t–shirt began to soak with sweat. It gathered at his chin and eventually dripped down to the floor.
Once Frankie was done, he sat on the edge of his bed to meditate and pray. Frankie didn’t talk to God much, unless he felt he really needed a judgment free friend. He felt that God was the only friend who could listen without interruption. A talk with God was declared the immediate solution to remedy this headache now pounding between his ears.
Frankie had suffered from depression for many years. He was haunted by the faces of people he had killed or hurt in his past. When he quit the hired hand business, he had seen a psychiatrist who prescribed him Zoloft. He didn’t like the side effects and quit cold turkey. For three months he had nightmares and found himself walking the ledge of many buildings contemplating life and death. He understood