GM: None
Players: Cutter, Johnny, Cash, Pulse, Saxon, Alice
Synopsis: Fighting Happened
Date: Feb 12 2070
Basement - Pitfighting
The basement of this building has been converted into an "Ultimate Tough Man" ring. The 2 meter tall fenced in octagon in the center of the basement is surounded by bleachers for the spectators.
High stakes gambling on the fights takes place here, as well as minor betting. Each evening there is an Ultimate Fighting Challenge that takes place, with an entrance fee of 50 nuyen for the small fights, 500 nuyen for the moderate fights, and 5000 nuyen for the big-high stakes matches.
Large quantities of money can be won and lost here in a short period of time. Bring your bodyguard with you though, because everyone knows who wins the big money, and it's a long way to go before you reach law abiding citizen territory.
Rex is just finishing getting dressed after a victory in the pits. The massive mixed-martial arts fighter has just beaten an ork to a bloody pulp, earning himself a nice chunk of scratch himself, and is waving off various hangers-on. He tosses his long, luxurious blonde hair and begins sauntering over to the refreshments.
Scrimshaw is already at the refreshments. He had been fighting earlier in the night. He's known in the area, not as a 'super' fighter, but a man who can take a beating and keep coming. He never display superlative or amazing skills, but shows what you can do with a good right hook and the ability to take a punch. He's drinking Jack and Coke right now, hold the coke. "Sup fabio."
Cutter wanders in, pushing past the guards at the door with a mean look thrown their way. His usual clothes are put aside for this, and he seems to be mostly wearing armour disguised as clothing. Honestly he looks kinda like some sort of middle clash flunky slumming it, other than the grotesque amount of muscle that covers his sturdy frame, it's not even pretty. He grumbles as he looks around, apparently waiting for the next fight to get started.
Rex orders a cheap beer, bites the cap off and takes a swallow. "Not much, tiny," he says. "Wondering when they'll set me a real fighter. Not like the old days." He belches again and appraises the other. "Not that I mind the cash, but some of these creeps have a glass jaw. Not like you." He raises the bottle. "Handled that last bastard pretty well, you did. None of this fancy ninja shit. A good hook and the minerals to take a hit." His accent is a bit of street-trash london, but his player doesn't feel like typing in dialect.
Glancing over the crowd, Scrimshaw shrugs then. "Everyone talks about the good old days." He says, slamming back the coke. "Truth is, the good old days only seem that way because of all the fucking concussions we take." He says with a chuckle. "Hell, I remember when I was a boy, riding a goddamn unicorn. Sawbones say thats blood leaking in to my hamburgler oblongata. Don't mind me none. Childhoods for babies anyway."
Cutter rolls his head around on his neck, fat as it is, and heads over to get a drink, choosing a standard bottle of pisswater, and ordering it as such. Leaning on the nearest empty bit of wall he takes a swig and then upnods towards the ring, asking out loud to anybody who cares, "Any rules to this ring or what?" The gruff voice of a lifetime smoker.
Rex snorts. "You had a friggin unicorn? Man, all I got were some shitty beans and a kick in the face. From a frikkin walking mushroom. The good days are the good ol' days cause I lived through 'em. Fought my way through or some bloody such." He tosses his hair, taking another swallow of the beer, and looks over at Cutter. "Don't get caught throwing fights. Don't whine like a pussy when you lose, or lose money. No fireballs or shit that scorch folk outside the ring." He pauses. "And don't welch. OTher than that, do as you bloody please."
Scrimshaw grunts a nod to Rex. "Pretty much. Man up, don't a nancy, no fireballs, no blades… and try to avoid bleeding on my boots. That shit is impossible to get out."
Scrimshaw is standing at the refreshment stand with Fabio Rex and the HumanOrk Suitboy. Scrim's drinking jack and coke, hold the coke, while talking to HO-SB about the rules of the pitfights.
Cutter grunts, "Drek, no blades? Argh." He scowls and swigs back from his beer again, "Well frag, guess you can't have everything huh." he looks well out of place, but the suit does kinda stretch over his physique so maybe there's something there. Maye enough for some newbie fights anyway. That seems to be the front he's putting up anyway.
Cash comes in with the brim of his cap pulled low, the hood of his sweater up and his head down, hands in his pockets at his side. Wordlessly, he heads for the bleachers, trying to blend in as an average spectator.
Rex holds up a hand. "No blades tonight. Come back over the weekend. Those are the cutters, but no crying if you get killed." He laughs. "Like that one criker, larry the lip. Thought he was hard stuff, and wound up knifed in the jimmy. Then in the stomach, then in the froat. Ugly buisness." He squints his eyes. "Ooh are you?" He asks.
Scrimshaw laughs, a barking thing thats rough sounding. "Before him, it was Liquid Pete. Pete thought he was some kind of Wildcat Trained knife fighter. he got that name, Liquid, on account of how much came spilling out of him when he met in the ring with ManySkins, this huge fucking mescelero Apache guy. Who got his name on accoutn of how good with a knife he was. He had… many skins."
Saxon descends the stairs and scans the room with a cold, steady look before mingling with the other members of the audience.
Cutter narrows his eyes and rubs his mouth with one hand, "Sounds like a colorful crowd. Well maybe just the one color huh?" He grunts as the older fighters recount tales of previous fights. "M'names Cutter, and yes, I know the irony is just fraggin' hilarious."
Cash taps at a datapad, looking up between `trix postings, being an average, boring spectator. He tries to keep an ear about the legends of knife fight arena without being too obvious about it, chuckling at the funnier parts.
Rex blinks. Looks at Scrimshaw. "maybe i been hit too much tonight, but what the hell is irony? That some typ'a new wrestling move?"
Saxon continues to scan those here present as he climbs up into the seating. His expression suggests that he doesn't think much of this place or of its clientele; on the other hand that might just be the setting that his face adopts when in neutral. It's sometimes hard to tell with orks. Anyway, down he sits.
"Well." Says Scrim then, putting the jack glass down. "if it ain't John Wayne Cash." He says with a nod of his chin to Fabio. "That guy used to be pretty fucken bad ass, till he had all his metal pulled out and replaced with pussy."
Rex follows the line of sight. "john wayne cash? A pussy? Shit. That'll be the day. Or maybe he is whipped… " he looks back at Scrim. "was it a woman?"
Cash snorts at the comment of irony, trying to make it look as if he were laughing at something on his datapad. Hard to tell where he's looking due to the solid chrome eyes.
Then someone called him a pussy, smirking, "What now? John Wayne Cash? No, I'm "Chuck Norris DuPree", it's a common mistake.", standing up in the bleachers. He notes, "And I don't have any cyberware at all except my eyes and my datajack, on account I'm a cat shaman. Which must be where you got the impression I was a pussy. Thusly noted, thank you, my perceptive friend.", the samurai seeming in an odd mood.
Scrimshaw quirks an eyebrow. "And I'm Jean Claud Van-Segal. Whatevs brohime. You Cash or not, cause if you are, I got 50 nuyen says I can take you."
Cutter glances up at the self professed Chuck Norris DuPree, "He doesn't exactly look like a walking pussy." He shrugs then, not particularly bothered about the plight of one minorly cybered cat shaman. "Cat picked a helluva shaman there," then he sniggers to himself, typical small minded attitude.
Saxon looks up at the guy who's suddenly stood up near him in the bleachers, one eyebrow going up behind those round pink glasses he affects. He takes careful note of Cash. Or Dupree, whichever his name is.
Rex snorts. "An' if you're Jean Claugh Van-Seagullin', I'm Pauly the Pulse Ali. But i'll take that bet. Fifty yen on the pussycat to take you." He tosses his hair again. "I'd do it myself, but I'm tired of fighting little girls."
Cutter looks around, "There a house around her to lay off a bet, or do the fighters need to cover it themselves? 'Cus cats can be mean bitches once you poke 'em enough times."
Cash sighs, "Fifty bones? Hell omae, for fifty bones, you and everyone in here can call me a pussy for all I care.", shaking his head, approaching Scrim with his cowboy swagger. He adds, "An‘ yeah, I’m Cash, but who are you that I should step into the ring with you. I only heard your name two times outside of here tonight…".
Scrimshaw grins to Cash. "I woulda' been yer daddy but the great dane had home court advantage?"
Saxon, overhearing Cutter's comment, gives a sharp, amused snicker and looks at Cash (DuPree?) again. He gives the impression of being keen to see this situation develop into a grudge match.
Rex snorts. "Scrim's as hard as a coffin nail- even if the Great Dane outsmarted him." He looks down at Cash, flexing one of his big fists, and rolls his shoulder a bit. "There's a house bookie somewhere. If he's not drunk. Or dead."
Cash raises his eyebrows, "Aww, my mom wasn't so bad… For a snaggle toothed… One eyed… Snuff chewin… Thievin… Whorin`… No-Good sellout, who went an` sold me off to the ghouls when I was just a baby. They raised me as one of their own. Troll is pretty tasty with the right seasonings…", giggling to himself. He notes, "Well, you gonna keep sweet talkin` me, or we steppin` in the ring?", seeming somewhat alert and amused at the same time in his posture.
Scrimshaw cracks his neck. "Well. I figure before I lay you down, I oughta at least give ya some foreplay." he says, turning for the ring. "So your some kinda shaman then? Thats lame.":
Cutter gives up looking for a bookie after a minute or so, "Must be dead somewhere then, frag, who's gonna go for fifty with me? I got mine down on the pussy."
Cash jumps into the ring and shows off his natural flexibility, leaning over so far he gets his shoulders past the back of his knees, then produces a lighter in his right hand. As he shouts, "Fire ball!", he farts over the lighter, producing a small, unimpressive burst of flame.
Rex says "Mine's on the pussy, too, skinny." He watches the boys get into the ring. "But scrimshaw may pull it out… tell you what. I'll change my bet to scrimmy scrim scrimshaw, an' then we're both in on this." He pauses. "Course, if that tatooed asshole lets me down, I'll personally make sure he don't walk outta here."
Cutter grunts at Rex, "Sounds good to me chubby."
Saxon snorts at Cutter. "I don't bet against certainties," he remarks in a voice which is unusually soft for an ork, yet still somehow manages to hold the promise of menace.
Scrimshaw thuds his way down in to the ring. "AND IN THIS CORNER! THE MASTER OF DISASTER! THE LORD OF WAR, THE SENILE OLD FART!" He flexes, raising his arms to the crowd. "SCRIMSHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW!"
No one really says anything.
"Faggots." Mutters Scrim.
Rex says "Whoo?"
Cash strips off the extra layers of jackets, revealing a mostly urban camo jumpsuit, which he unzips, tying the arms tightly around his waist, to reveal an additional armored vest over black, form fitting body armor. He comments, "So is this hong kong rules, or american?", looking over to his adversary.
Stripping down as well, revealing an oiled chest with a pair of snake tattoos coiling down his arms. He raises them, kissing each bicep. "YALL NEED BACKGROUND CHECKS!" He pauses. "CAUSE THIS IS A GUN SHOW! POW! POW!"
Then lower, only to Cash… "Frankly, Harley, you're gonna kick my ass, but lets at least make a show of it." He grins, offering a wink.
Cash winks, trying to maintain composure, "Of course, chummer. Feel free to whack me with a chair or something, we'll throw each other out of the ring into the crowd, eh?", giving a click of his tongue as he slips back into a ridiculous amateur fighting stance.
Saxon peers at the dynamic duo as they square off to one another, trying to figure out how much of this is posturing and how much portends a real good knock-down drag-out tussle.
Scrimshaw tosses his main of sandy blond hair back. "Ai'ght. Now we do this old school style. No knives, no spoons, no forks. Three count." A pause as he points to.. uh… SAXON!
"YOU! ORK! You are the ref! Getcher ass down here and get ready to count off three falls when I remember this boy who daddy is!"
Saxon touches one copper-hued hand to his chest as if to say "Who, me?" with false modesty. Then his face splits into a toothy grin. "With pleasure," he remarks, still in that oddly soft voice, as he rises from his seat and comes striding down the bleachers toward the arena.
Cash rocks from side to side on the balls of his feet, his voice strained and gravvelly, "I'm gonna put the Ace of Spades, and the Five of Clubs on you, old man! The twenty one inch gun salute!", flexing one of his arms, pointing the other skyward in the classic pose.
Rex shouts out, "Get on with it, you suckers. Ipaid to see a fight, not your weak-ass arms." He starts to walk towards the side of the ring himself, getting closer, his long coat flapping around him as he struts. "Get im, tattman!"
Scrimshaw turns back to Cash. "You must be one of them new math types, cause no matter how hard I try, no dealer ever thinks 16 beats 21…" He grins then, flexing by bringing both arms down under his chest, classic 'hulk' move.
Cutter chuckles at the showboating, and then yells out, "Come on Cat shaman, claw 'is eyes out already. Or are you trying to sweet talk each other inot bed or something?"
Saxon arrives with one last long stride at the side of the contestants. "Geddown with it," he hoots to them, and stands, poised and alert, his claws snicking in and out of their housings in a kind of nervous tic.
<<Auto-Judge[]>> Scrimshaw (#799) rolls Initiative with a result of 20.
<<Auto-Judge[]>> Cash (#1575) rolls Initiative with a result of 23.
<<Auto-Judge[]>> Scrimshaw (#799) rolls 2:
2 9
<<OOC>> Scrimshaw says, "my eyes don't short out"
<<Auto-Judge[]>> Cash (#1575) rolls Body - 3 vs TN 8 for "Flashed!":
1 4 4 5 5 9 10 = 2 Successes
Scrimshaw is clearly the heel of this bout. The name caller, the show boater. The one with the over-blown style. He turns to Cash and then points. "Look me in the eyes boy! Look me in the eyes and know what kind of man I am!
<<Auto-Judge[]>> Cash (#1575) rolls Body - 3 - 2 vs TN 8 for "Flashed! kp 1/41(i thinkL":
1 2 2 3 9 = 1 Success
<<Auto-Judge[]>> Cash (#1575) rolls Body - 3 - 2 - 1 vs TN 8 for "Flashed! kp 3/41(i thinkL":
2 3 5 7 = 0 Successes
<<Auto-Judge[]>> Cash (#1575) rolls Body - 3 - 2 - 1 vs TN 8 for "Flashed! kp 6/41(i think)":
2 3 5 11 = 1 Success
Cash flails around blindly, seeming very sincerely stunned by the superflash his own eyes wide and confused as the flash hits him dead on. He throws lumbering blind punches in the air, grunting furiously, whispering, "Asshole! I'm gonna suplex you off of the cage for that when I get my hands on you!"
Saxon takes a couple of quick paces backwards as Cash starts windmilling his arms around. He glances at Scrimshaw with increased respect and caution.
Now with the upper hand, Skrimshaw laughs hautilly. "AHAHAHAHAHH! MINE IS AN EVIL LAUGH!" He says, then moves across the pit floor. He jumps up on the wall, hand-over-handing to the lip, and then over it. "OH! WHATS THIS!" He asks, lifting a folding chair over his head. He then eyes Cash, down below. "LOOK OUT BELOW!"
"Oh my god! He's got a chair!" Says some one in the crowd, helpfully.
Cutter growls and yells, "Cheap shot, cheap. I came here to bet on a fight not some pussy with lights in his eyes!"
Then, Scrimshaw is airborn.
<<Auto-Judge[]>> Rex (#3231) rolls Initiative with a result of 23.
<<OOC>> Rex may be jumping in soon.
<<OOC>> Cutter says, "Well shit."
<<Auto-Judge[]>> Cutter (#6340) rolls Initiative with a result of 22.
Cash puts his arms up in front of his face, crossed, "Oh my ghost, I'm blind!" still flailing, waiting to be blindsided with a chair. He's certainly full of metal bones enough to resist it, at least a little.
Rex slams his fists on the side of the ring as Scrimshaw pulls his tricks. "Hell yeah! Give him some bloody pain!" He vaults up, now he's standing beside it… "Show him who's the king of the ring! Cornhole that cowboy!"
Wait, what?
Cutter runs up behind Rex, slamming his hands into the fence around the ring, shaking it heavily, "He's jumpin, cat shaman! Jumpin' in the air!" He growls and tugs on the fence, possibly trying to shake Rex off it."
Easy math: Cash = Old school Chin. He's a pretty boy, a hero. Skrimshaw. He's ugly. He's arrogant. He's clearly the old school heel. Now Fabio Rex… he could go either way. He's pretty and he knows it.
Whistling through the air, Skrimshaw turns his face to look at Rex with a 'WTF???' look just before the chair slams down on top of Cashes interlaced, metal reinforced forearms. The chair bends with a terrific clatter. Murmuring quietly, Scrimshaw raises the chair for another bash. "Chair high, 36 degrees, to your right."
Saxon gives a warning look to Rex. "Stay outa the ring, buster. No running interference when the fight is in progress." For a first-time visitor to this establishment he seems to be arrogating authority to himself pretty quickly.
Cash does his best to catch the impact, letting it closeline him to the ground with a resounding thud, letting out an almost comedic, "Auuuuuuugh!" as he rattles against the ground, playing the "I'm turning and crawling away on my belly" tactics.
Rex turns around as cutter's at his heels, kicking at the humano-ork, and he turns towards Saxon and throws him the finger. "Boyo, you aint -even- pretty enough to talk to me." And then he's turning and watching and seeing Cash's evasion maneuver, biting his beautiful lip… and then he's vaulting over it, his bulk moving with deceptive grace and speed, and as he hits the ground, turning towards Cash, it looks like it's all over…
But no! He's wheeling back around towards Scrimshaw, lashing out with a suprise backhanded punch, followed by a twirling, leaping uppercut!
"DRAGON PUNCH!"
The Chair whistles through the space where Cash just was, when cash goes to the ground. "OH YOU WORM!" Says Scrimshaw, flexing with the chair. "LOOKIT THE WURM! WHATAPUSSY!" He takes the moment to strut the pit, one leg coming up high, his arms pumping, some kind of weird signature stomp. "OOOOOOOOOH YEAH!" Says Scrimshaw.
And then Rex is behind him. "Hey, wha?" He asks as he turns around just in time to tilt his chin up, flexing the knees to move with the impact. "OH SHIIIIIIII…"
Cutter takes the kick in the gut and wheels back with a guff sound as the wind is knocked out of him. He recovers and looks back into the ring almost worriedly, watching Rex start up with Scrimshaw. "Auugh!" Then he's scrambling up over the fence and into the ring but he turns to face…. the ref!
Saxon's hand goes to his heart. "Unsay those cruel words, blondie!" he groans to Rex, as if cut to the quick by Rex's verdict. Then when Rex leaps the barrier, he rolls his eyes to the ceiling. "Always one — Hey, what's /your/ problem?" he snaps as a second spectator leaps into the ring. Cutter.
The fans are going WILD!
Cash rolls away, somersaulting three times, pulling something from his pocket. He dramatically extends his arm, revealing… Is that an extendable staff? NO!
IT's the CAS flag!
The samurai waves it in the air, chanting, "C-A-S! C-A-S!".
Scrimshaw thinks, as he flies through the air… 'imbred southerners can't even spell CASH…'
Rex whirls around towards Cash as he flourishes his staff, roaring at him… but then he turns back towards the flying Skrimshaw, and he's following after him. He picks up the chair, lifts it high, telegraphing his move a year in advance. He flourishes and roars: "THIS IS FOR LIQUID PETE!" before slamming it down, the might of his mighty muscles of mightness causing the chair to whistle through the air like a blade!
You know, they make shake and it-bakes-on-its-own popcorn in the bag, cause it is 2070 right now, right? Well, some elf chick spills a lot of the popped kernels all over someone beside her without caring that she has. She cheers! "CAS! Gun toting yeah!" :P
Cutter bulls forward towards the ref for this fight, taking out his frustration at him, crouching and throwing his shoulder into the orks gut, trying to slam him back against the fence of this pitiful arena.
The big man, Scrimshaw, hits the ground with a thud. He comes back up to his knees, shouting an expletive when the Chair comes down, CRANGING on his head. It leaves a face-shaped imprint on the seat of the chair. In fine detail, you can see the curl of his lips as they form the 'F' for 'Fuck'. He pauses now, slammed back to the knees, shaking his head with a great show.
One hand comes up, holding Rex at bay, his head shaking wildly now, eyes large with fear. "NO MAN! NO! ITS COOL! ITS COOL!"
Saxon isn't having any of this. Cutter's attempt to shoulder him amidships means that he has to bend to some extent, and Saxon's response to that is to bring his two finely engraved hands together in a double fist and try to rabbit-punch Cutter on the back of his neck. "No running fucking interference!" he grunts as he does so.
Somewhere in the crowd, a bottle gets thrown.
And then all hell breaks loose.
Cutter drops like a lead brick underwater, but grabbing at the orks pants as he does so, dragging them down around his ankles. Then lies groaning on the floor, twisting vainly, like a beached whale, or a pro wrestler from 1999.
Cash squints, still quite blind from the superflash, calling out, "Shaw? I hear you shaw!", and charges at the blurry forms he percives to be him! Unluckily, it happens to be Rex who the 280 pound southerner is charging at, franticly waving the CAS flag so that god knows who may get whacked as the blinded bull charges. Also, he is quite open to attack, being blind…
Scrimshaw takes the moment to -duck- so that Rex is the one hit by a freight train of patriotism.
Saxon tries to kick Cutter in the face as his pants slide inexorably down towards his ankles, like a character in a situation comedy from fifty years ago. And again like such a character from such a comedy, the kick gets caught up in his tangled trousers, his feet go from under him, and before you can say "Gravity is the natural force of attraction exerted by a celestial body, such as Earth, upon objects at or near its surface, tending to draw them toward the center of the body," he's sat down on his ass with a thoughtful expression.
Rex stares down at his 'enemy,' raising the chair one more time… "Liquid Pete was my -friend-" he stage-whispers, turning the chair so the edge will catch Scrimshaw across the forehead… "AND MY FATHER!"
And then the pole comes across, the symbol of southern power slamming him across the face like a bad country song. Now it's his time to hit the floor, the mecca of manliness's face half-coming off with that blow.
"NO!" He cries as he hits the mat. "Father! I HAVE FAILED THEE!" He wobbles on the ground, twitching, blood everywhere….
Scrimshaw quickly vaults to his feet now, having, using HEEL POWER, recovered his wits. He quickly moves over behind Cash with exagerated 'sneaking' motions, his hands clasping together in to a giant hamfist. He raises that high overhead, coming down squarely on Cash's back (Only a heel would hit a blindman in the back!) to drive him to the ground.
When Cash stumbles, Scrimshaw's on him like white on rice, slamming his body over Cashes. "REF! REF! COME COUNT THIS SHIT!"
Scrimshaw quickly vaults to his feet now, having, using HEEL POWER, recovered his wits. He quickly moves over behind Cash with exagerated 'sneaking' motions, his hands clasping together in to a giant hamfist. He raises that high overhead, coming down squarely on Cash's back (Only a heel would hit a blindman in the back!) to drive him to the ground.
When Cash stumbles, Scrimshaw's on him like white on rice, slamming his body over Cashes. "REF! REF! COME COUNT THIS SHIT!"
Cutter groans and uses the fence to drag himself around and start getting to his feet, apparently the blow to his back having knocked him for six. Slowly dragging himself away from the downed ref.
"Ref, ref" is, however, far more concerned with trying to pull his pants back up and find his pink-lensed glasses which have fallen from his nose in the fray.
Cash flops on the ground like a dead fish, groaning, "Auuuuugh!", seeming as though he's utterly defeated. He hams it up, playing injured duck, reaching weakly for his dropped flag.
"FLAG Ain't gonna help ya now, ombre! Aztlan wins again!" Calls out Scrimshaw.
Rex slowly struggles back to his feet with exaggerated injuries, and as he stumbles about… he trips over the flag again, falling to the ground… right on top of the dogpile!
Saxon finally hauls his pants somewhere vaguely up to where they belong, abandons his glasses, and bent half-over from pain where Cutter's extremely bullet-like head hit his solar plexus, totters over to the heap of kicking bodies. "The winner is… the winner… is…" he gasps, trying to pick a likely candidate. And yes, Rex is on top… and he finds his arm grabbed and yanked into the air. "Mr Squeaky Clean Blonde Boy John James Jingleheimer Jones!"
Cutter just manages to drag himself upright and turns around to see pretty boy Rex declared the winner. "Fuck, what? Ugh." He squeezes his eyes shut and then looks around, being thankful for the fence in between them and the mass brawl outside the ring.
The elf chick who lost her popcorn is getting jerked this way and that while people roar in fight, and she ducks some, but then gets socked in the jaw before yelling something about fucking mexicans.
"All bets are off," Saxon adds in a gasp, and flops back to the deck again, holding his tummy as though it hurts rather a lot.
When Saxon declares the victory, Scrimshaw shrugs off Rex. He raises his arms to the crowd. "YES! VICTORY FOR SCR…" A pause… he turns to eyeball the ref… "Whchoosay boooooooy?"
There's a spray of blood in the crowd. Oh shit! Someone brought a knife!
Someone screams!
Someone falls in love!
Someone bleeds black (probably oil from cybernetics) instead of just red! OH NO
Rex bounces next to Saxon, raising his fist high in the air… another victory! But even as soon as it's going down, he's out in the crowd, starting to hurry away…
And above the screaming, above the fighting, his theme music can be heard: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dQw4w9WgXcQ
Cash grabs Scrimshaw around the waist, "You cheated me you varmint!", trying to take him from behind, "I'm gonna hog tie ya!".
Saxon glares up at Scrimshaw and Cash. "This fight is over. Ended. Ceased. Null and void. Out, huffed, disqualified, revoked, miss two turns and start again."
Now there's a gunshot, and the fighting turns to fleeing!
Scrim looks down where the hands wrap around his waist. "Son… Cornhole was a euphemism."
Was it? Was it really?
|
