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Drunken Drew Fickett Goes Nuts in New Jersey lol
Sunday night in Trenton, New Jersey, the fighters in town for the Abu Dhabi World Submission Wrestling Championships switched their focus from the battles to the bottles and gathered in a hotel bar.
Chief among those killing brain cells was mixed martial arts fighter Drew Fickett, who’d been keeping a steady pace since the night before. Shaking hands and buying drinks, he stumbled from table to table like the orangutan from the classic Clint Eastwood movie "Every Which Way But Loose". Bottle after bottle, his mustache was never dry.
I’m not sure why, but one of the Brazilian fighters refused to shake his hand. Fickett did not react well. Moments later, hotel security was dragging him away, shirtless and howling. A person nearby asked if there was a camera crew around filming a reality show.
The incident was quickly forgotten and everyone settled back into their groove. The lobby was ruled by the Brazilians, who were feeling loose; laughing and shouting and slapping each other on the back. I couldn’t understand a word they were saying, but it was damned entertaining nonetheless.
Jon Olav Einemo lost his super-fight against Roger Gracie, but that didn’t stop him from being in a great mood. At 6-foot-6, he moved with the speed of an enormous smiling predator, dispensing Viking-hugs to surprised strangers. Still, Einemo was a welcome departure from some of the Scandinavian contingent, namely the bald unsmiling giants with skin as pale as lye-soaked Norwegian lutefisk.
After the party had settled down, I decided to hit the sack and headed up to my room. The last thing I expected when the elevator doors opened on my floor was to find myself face-to-face with a shirtless, weeping Drew Fickett. Nevertheless, there I was and there was he, the fighter who had knocked out Josh Koscheck with a flying knee, Drew Fickett, shirtless and weeping.
I can’t say for certain what my facial expression told him that night but I can tell you this: He didn’t like it.
“F*ck you! You motherf*cker!” he shouted.
The “fight or flight” instinct kicked in.
I chose flight.
Thankfully, one of Fickett’s handlers was there to restrain him. Seizing my opportunity to escape, I headed for my room, speed-walking with the panicked intensity of a frightened ostrich. Fumbling madly for the hotel room key-card, images floated through my mind of a scrambling fight to the finish with a weeping, whisky-breathed cage fighter. Seconds later, I was safely behind a locked door, peering out through the peep-hole like a cornered rat in a hole. Fickett was in the hallway. I wondered if the door was strong enough.
As an extra precaution I took the liberty of calling the front desk. “Drew Fickett chased me into my room,” I said. “You might want to send someone up here.”
“We know,” the voice replied, sounding exasperated. “We’ve gotten three calls already about it. Security is on the way.”
Thankfully, Fickett was nowhere to be seen the next morning when I left the hotel and headed for the airport, thinking what’s next?
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better to burn out then fade away!
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