[hr][hr][color=Firebrick][h3][b][i][center]Clayton Radshaw[/center][/i][/b][/h3]
[center][b]Location: London, some dirty old alleyway.[/b] 
[b]Interacting With: Anybody.[/b][/center][/color][hr][hr]
 
The bright light of a rising morning pieced the thin flesh of Clayton's eyelids. Groggily he shook his head trying to hide from the sun as the cool crisp outside air ran along his skin. Shit, he was outside...

It seemed to have gotten much brighter by the time Clay opened his eyes again, he squinted as he looked around trying to assess his location and situation. He was by no means feeling ok, but there had defiantly been occasions before were he had woken up feeling much worse. 

His head was splitting with a pounding headache, he had poor recollection of the night before, the strong residual smell of whiskey hung on his breath and he had the faint taste of blood on his lips. No there was nothing unusual here. 

Despite all reasonable logic and indicators he still prayed to find himself in a large soft bed with luscious white sheets and an exotic strange girl wrapped in his arms. 

As his eyes adjusted to and filtered the piercing painful light he quickly looks around and lets out a deep loud long disappointed sigh, reality hit him hard and confirmed the initial  thoughts he wanted to hide from. Clay lay outside amongst a rubbish heap in a dirty small back alley. 
Surprisingly, even though the odds were against him, he was still both saddened and disappointed by this, as it meant there would be no breakfast or morning sex today. 

With a groan he picks his battered, bruised and injured body off the floor and recollects the night before....

[hr][center]Last Night
[i]unnamed pub[/i][/center][hr]
[hider]
There it was, once again, that all too familiar taste of blood swelling within his mouth.

[b]"Mother fuc"[/b] he had began to slur before another fist came violently crashing into his face. His head snapped across sending the growing pool of salivate blood splattering across the floor. There came a deep guttural growl from the back of his throat in reply. Clay slowly lifted his head back up so that this punk may see the predatory rage burning within his eyes.
[b]"Not a smart move"[/b] a maniacal smile of perfect white teeth follow his words. 

Clay who was kneeling on the back of some big up-tight tavern regular, releases the the mans head to fall to the floorboards with a heavy thud. 
Only moments ago Clay had been pounding his head into the ground and now the mans face was silhouetted by a smeared pool of his own blood. Clay turned all his focus to the punk kid who blind sighted him. Ignoring the man at his feet and the other laying on the pool table clutching his leg as he grunted in agony over the half protruding broken pool que.

Had there been the only three in the tavern that day, Clay would have walked out a happy man. But NO. Not even nearly. At least sixteen people had squeezed themselves into this little corner pub to celebrate some sporting victory, and nearly all had enough comradery to get involved instead of watching a few of their team mates get the shit kicked out of them. Well at least it felt like all  sixteen of them to Clay. 

-------

Broken bruised and bloody he came crashing into a pile of rubbish as he was thrown out the back door into a dirty old alley way. "Fu'en puthies" he yells back defiantly through a broken jaw, at what must have been the teams pitcher. The coffee pot that came flying at him next was thrown hard enough to have him seeing black.
With a sputter he painfully laughs at his own misfortune before passing out.[/hider]