I’m down in some repugnant industrial basement on skid row, waiting my turn to fight a titanic, seven foot tall Mexican that goes by “la trituradora del cráneo” in a bare-knuckle cage fight. Believe me, I wouldn’t be here if I could help it, but I’m told that I owe my bookie 2000 dollars (damn you cock fighting…).

Anyway, as I smash by bottle of cerveza on the ground and walk into the cage, one name enters my mind…

Popeye.

(The Crusher turns to me after playing to the crowd and I sucker punch him in the nose. Crap, it does nothing…)

I wonder what war the guy fought in? I guess something like World War Two. Maybe One…

(He gives me a wicked blow to my sternum. I’m sure he just broke a few ribs.)

Those were tough wars. You think he ever killed anyone? Guess he had to. Guys back then, even Navy guys, were storming the beaches bayoneting the enemy. Probably lost his eye from Japanese shrapnel. That’s some pretty grizzly stuff.

(I make some progress as I throw my fist into his temple. I think I heard a crunch.)

Then I start to wonder if he knew Bluto back then…

(Fuck. He just punched me right in the gut making me vomit my “lunch truck” breakfast.)

That’s probably why Popeye has such a hard-on for the guy.

(I swing wide, leaving my body open. He takes advantage and I’m starting to think I taste blood on my tongue. I respond with a quick jab and straight right.)

Bet he caught Bluto doin’ something bad, like raping a Japanese woman on leave. He looked like the kind of asshole that would rough up a broad.

(I knee the bastard good and hard in the gut. That should buy me a few minutes… whoops. It didn‘t.)

Sure he does. But where does that leave Olive Oil? Bluto’s always pawin’ on her. Why doesn’t Popeye just tell her the truth?

(He swings a huge left that makes me spit teeth before I hit the canvas like a sack of flower.)

I wake up in the shit-stained bathroom with water being splashed on my face. The guy with the big medallion and terrible odor says he’ll pay me 500 ‘cuz I lasted so long. He then gives me a little envelope with teeth inside (a few of them are mine).

As I put on my jacket and step into the daylight, I light a smoke and think. Popeye’s the kind of guy that settles things with his fists. Hell, she had Popeye’s kid. He doesn’t need to prove anything.

I smile until I see the hamburger meet I call a face in my rearview mirror. Oh well. Time to figure out where I’m going to find 1500 dollars by tonight. Maybe lotto tickets…

So here’s to Popeye, you old sailin’ bastard. Keep chompin’ on that spinach and kickin‘ ass.