Description: A Chinaman and a Russian walk into a bar. The bartender looks up and goes, "What is this, some kinda joke?"
There's a special ambience to a good bar. It is...an art form. A true drinking establishment must have the environment conducive to the proper appreciation of fine wines and liquors, a place where gentlemen and ladies of leisure can comfortably interact in a civilized social setting.
Observe.
Peanut shells crunch under the thin rubber soles of a sneakered foot, fragments grinding deeper into the stained wood floor. At some point in the long distant past said floor must have been lacquered parquet - now it's just an abused mass of scratches and scuffs crying out to the perished spirit of mother nature. A goblet of spit follows soon after, hacked-up phlegm splattering against the ground.
Wiping away remaining trails of spittle with the back of his hand, stubble scratching against his skin...Arthur "Ah Ter" Tian pauses in the doorway leading to the lone unisex washroom, leaning lopsidedly against the frame. Then he wanders back into the bar proper, his free hand doing the time-honoured salute of all men leaving a public toilet, obviously checking the zipper of his fly in a conspicious fashion.
Clouds of cigarette smoke part around him as he clomps through the room, weaving unstably through the press of Japanese salarymen in rumpled suits - and a few office ladies as well, though some of the female patrons in the room are of the sort that only look unrumpled due to the vagarities of alcohol and dubious lighting.
Slumping past the creaky jukebox and its tinny canned muzak J-Pop tunes, Ter lurches up to the bar, and slumps messily onto a stool. Then he reaches out, picks up a half-finished beer, and throws his head back in a dramatic swig.
Of course, there's the small problem of that not being his original seat.
Or his beer.
COMBATSYS: Ter has started a fight here.
[\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ <
Ter 0/-------/-------|
Another night, another nondescript, dumpy bar.
While Arthur "Ah Ter" Tian is off doing his business in the unisex bathroom, a burly, stern-faced Russian man enters the bar. Immediately numerous eyes drift, eyeing the tall--much taller than the current patrons--man in the darkened threshold of the bar's entrance. With his jaw tense, pale blue eyes slowly survey the persons gathered before him...before he finds precisely what he's looking for:
A barstool, booze and a bartender.
Without a word the Russian moves through the bar, heavy (and expensive) leather Italian boots thumping against the old wooden floor. Those who cross the man's path immediately duck and weave aside, for fear of being bowled over by his broad chest--and he doesn't even notice them. Instead, the man just moves for the bar. He can taste the booze on his lips already...
"Bartender," the man commands, slapping his palm down atop the wooden bar. A few eyes drift toward Grigori, giving him an odd, almost frightened look before they hurriedly return to minding their own business. Meanwhile, Ter emerges from the bathroom in all his grungy glory.
"Get me beer--best on tap. Now."
The bartender nods and goes about doing precisely as ordered. As for the Russian? Well, rather than take his seat, he turns his back to it and slides his hands into his pockets, shoulders slouching as he stands, waiting, surveying his environs once more. He hasn't been here yet, and already he hates it.
Too many weak, scrawny Japanese men.
Offering a muted 'tch' past his dry lips, the former Spetznas turns slowly on his heels, as he hears the familiar THUNK of thick glass onto the wood of the bar. He pauses, reaching behind him to grab the glass and take a swig. It's set down once more, but the Russian doesn't sit himself down. Not yet. There's a pretty young thing walking by. He gives brief chase and reaches out, pinching the poor waitress on the rear. She squeals loudly and slaps the man's chest, which draws a raucous laugh from the man.
"Ah, never gets old," he muses aloud to himself as he begins to walk back to his seat.
But when his eyes spy the bar, there's an ass on his stool. An ass that IS NOT his.
"Svóloch'!!" the Russian curses loudly, throwing his arms high into the air as he stomps forward, right for Ter. He has every intention of swiftly snagging the smaller man by the collar of his shirt and RIPPING the man off the stool, to drive him right into the floor at Grigori's feet.
"Is my seat! AND BEER!!"
COMBATSYS: Grigori has joined the fight here.
[\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > //////////////////////////////]
Ter 0/-------/-------|-------\-------\0 Grigori
COMBATSYS: Grigori successfully hits Ter with Quick Throw.
Glancing Blow
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > //////////////////////////////]
Ter 0/-------/------=|-------\-------\0 Grigori
Lost in his own fuzzy world of alcohol-induced mental cotton wool, you'll pardon if Ter is somewhat slow on the uptake when he finds himself getting hauled upright, a massive fist latching round the fabric of his shirt and YANKING him into the air. Really, he probably wouldn't even have noticed the sudden pressure on his upper torso, the feel of cloth digging into his skin...he wouldn't have noticed the proximity of the Russian man-mountain, or even the abrupt change in physical location. No, the only reason he notices...
...is because it makes him spill the beer.
Lager sloshes over Ter's face as it misses his lips, dribbling down his chin and neck and running in rivulets round Grigori's fist - a fist latched onto Ter's upper body. And then he goes -flying-, tumbling onto the grubby bar floor. Knocking over the bar stool in the process.
The Chinese man hits the ground elbow-and-forearm first, then twists with the impact, rolling onto his side. He fetches up against a booth, causing the occupants to shrink away in surprise and panic. The background noise in the bar spikes up an octave, the voices of the crowd shrieking.
Ter, though, doesn't notice this either. He just rather glumly uncoils. Now sprawled on the ground, limbs lying hither and yon, he clutches the empty beer glass to his chest, the contents now throughly spilled.
A single tear trickles down his face.
Then Ter looks up, giving Grigori a bloodshot gaze.
"WA LAU! YOU KILLED THE BEER," he cries, trembling dangerously.
COMBATSYS: Ter takes no action.
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > //////////////////////////////]
Ter 0/-------/------=|-------\-------\0 Grigori
Casting Ter to the floor, the Russian is angry, pale blue eyes wide as he watches the Asian man in his grasp. Without hesitating the larger man's arm shoots out violently, tossing the man--and what was formerly Grigori's goddamned BEER--through the air. A moment later the grimy man is rolling across the ground and ultimately into a booth.
Dry lips pull back over white teeth, Grigori's jaw clenched painfully tight as he glares a heated gaze at the Malaysian. All the noise and all the shrieking falls upon deaf ears. All he hears is a dull roar in his head, ears throbbing as he stares at Ter. Sucking a sharp breath over his lips, the man inhales deeply before he stomps forward across the dirty bar floor with Ter in his sights.
When Ter stops and shouts at the Russian, his booted steps falter only slightly, pale blue eyes widening rather suddenly in what could very well be surprise.
He killed the beer? Grigori's eyes drift onto the empty glass clutched to Ter's chest like a fallen comrade.
"That beer..." the man begins, employing a frightening sense of calm in his tone. But in an instant--
The man's eyes shoot open wide, his shoulders tense as he roars down at the Malaysian,
"THE BEER I PAID FOR! TVOYÚ MAT'! YOU HAVE DEATH WISH, DON'T YOU!?"
And as if to somehow emphasize the point, the very very angry Russian reels a boot back and drives the toe of his shoe harshly forward, aimed right for Ter's ribs.
COMBATSYS: Ter interrupts Heavy Kick from Grigori with <censored>.
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > //////////////////////// ]
Ter 0/-------/-======|====---\-------\0 Grigori
And the Asian man's broad and masculine chest stands up to the angry blow from the Slavic bully, turning it aside with...
...well, actually, no. The heavy toe of Grigori's boot grinds rather solidly into Ter's scrawny torso, pounding through the thin fabric of his outer Hawaiian shirt, the tee beneath, and into bones and skin. But with the /first touch/, the smaller man is /already on the move/.
A loud ear-shattering falsetto cry rips free from his throat, echoing above the sounds of the panic-striken bar crowd like an air-raid siren. With the inhuman speed known only to fighters and druggies hopped up on enough methamphetamine to explode a horse, Ter erupts from the bar floor. The speed with which he leaves the ground actually pushes against Grigori's leg and foot, throwing the bigger man off-balance.
"**** YOU," Ter screams, "THINK YOU'RE **** IS IT?! I **** YOU UP THEN YOU **** KNOW!"
And then Ter's upon him, bodily tackling the much larger Russian. He slams a knee into the bigger man's crotch, manages to honest-to-god BITE his trailing arm. Finally, he just rears back, winding up.
"I **** YOUR **** FACE!"
Then he swings the empty beer glass straight at Grigori's head. A split second before impact, Ter's entire arm -ignites-, crimson flames blasting from his hand, engulfing the handle of the beer glass, travelling up his forearm and filling the air with a rush of superheated power. And when the glass makes contact with Grigori, it shatters in a scintillating display of razor shards and the bloom of a miniature fireball.
"****!"
In an instant, Ter is suddenly less prone and weak than Grigori thinks.
Like some horrible devil from the depths of Hell itself. Ter screeches and leaps off the dingy floor of the dive and takes the Russian by surprise. He's swept off of his feet, stumbling back and hitting that awful floor with a heavy, ground-jarring thud that causes a few nearby tables to rattle and rock noisily, sending a shrill scream from various patrons. They all run as far away from the two men as humanly possible in such cramped quarters.
But it doesn't end THERE; oh no. In an instant Ter is suddenly THERE and on top of Grigori, screaming at the top of his lungs in a string of vicious and likely Too Hot for Television curses. But that's the least of the man's worries or concerns, because there's a knee slamming into the man's groin, causing a loud 'hwarf' sound to escape his lungs, the former Spetznas winded as he cringes--before he's suddenly hollering, no thanks to the Malaysian chomping down on his arm.
"GYAAAAAAH! WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU!?" he manages to blurt, pale blue eyes wide with a mix of...various emotions as he stares up at Ter. A split-second later he's shut the hell up by a sudden crash of thick beer glass ignited by flames, sending an odd slag of shards, melted glass and FIRE down his head.
Hurriedly the Russian bucks and attempts to wrestle the Malaysian off of his body while swatting furiously at his head, to put out the fire and prevent him face from melting off right then and there in some dumpy dive. And when the smoke--figurative and literal, in this case--settles...
Grigori laughs, blood streaming down his face...
And laughs and laughs and LAUGHS.
--before he throws himself forward, attempting to snare Ter by the shoulders. If hands make purchase, the burly Russian will lift his feet off the ground and wrap his legs around the man's waist and drop all of HIS weight down and dragging Ter with. Legs move swiftly, to lock Ter's legs between his in a fierce vise while pinning his foot under Grigori's arm pit...before giving that leg a vicious, violent jerk to the side.
[OOC] Grigori says, "that leg is mine"
[OOC] Grigori EATS IT
[OOC] Ter says, "omg"
COMBATSYS: Ter fails to interrupt Decarabia from Grigori with Go Havoc.
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > /////////////////////// ]
Ter 1/-------/=======|=====--\-------\0 Grigori
Trapped in the grasp of a large and sweaty Russian is not exactly a happy place for Ter. Not a happy place indeed. Quite the opposite really, unsurprisingly. But there's little his beer-addled mind can do but wince as Grigori /wraps around him/, bearing him down to the floor of the bar with an earth-shattering KABOOM.
Broken peanut shells and ancient cigarette butts fly all over the place, as the two combatants roll against the wood and into a puddle of dubious fluid that one hopes is just a spilt drink. Ter scrabbles with his right arm, the one he used to slug Grigori with, the one that had the beer glass /exploding/ in its grasp. Tongues of flame still rise from his fingertips, curling up his limb. But he's unable to find purchase against his attacker, so all he manages to do is flop his blazing fingers rather weakly against the ground. Smoke rises as floorboards scorch.
And Ter shrieks like a little girl as his leg is hyperextended in a way that legs are not meant to bend.
"CHEEEEE BAAAAAAAAAI," Ter bellows, "NOT ON THE FIRST DATE!"
Likewise, holding onto someone like Ter is not precisely a slice of heaven for the much larger man. But right now, Grigori isn't thinking about how he could be pinning a slender, womanly leg between his own; instead, he's hell-bent on one thing:
Making Ter PAY for what he has done to the angry Russian.
For all of the Malaysian's efforts to snag Grigori with that damn fire of his, he just can't seem to wrap his digits around the meaty man. As result a horrible twist and tug is applied, sending a rather shockingly shrill scream from the man. As humorous as it is...it's music to the angry Russian's ears.
With a grunt the man rises from the floor, leaving Ter to bark and bellow and do as he pleases. Grigori, on the other hand, snorts loudly and turns his head, spitting to one side before a large hand reaches up and wipes blood from his eye. On dry lips lingers a wide, very toothy smirk as he looks to the Malaysian man.
"You are funny guy, Svóloch'," he comments, rolling his broad shoulders. "First date. Ha!"
Casually, Grigori turns and saunters toward the nearest table. He gives it a thoughtful eye, hands gripping the edge testingly before he lifts it off the ground with a mildly strained grunt. The smile on his cold face broadens to a frightening degree as he suddenly twists his body sharply and, with a swing of his broad arms, tosses the table right for Ter with a loud cry of effort and strain.
COMBATSYS: Grigori successfully hits Ter with Large Thrown Object.
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > /////////////////////// ]
Ter 1/----===/=======|=====--\-------\0 Grigori
Meanwhile, our beleaguered Malaysian Chinese hero is just about off the floor. His injured leg drags behind him, but his other knee is perfectly servicable as he pulls himself up in a crouch, his head rising to stare across the bar floor at the Russian. His mouth opens. He sucks in air, ready to expel it in an incredibly witty rejoiner that will utterly destroy his opponent's morale and reduce the man's dignity to tattered ruins...
...but, alas, Ter's planned retort never sees the dim light of day. It dies in his throat, stillborn, as a tabletop slams straight into his face. Ter bowls over, completely poleaxed, the heavy weight of the wooden surface and cast steel table legs collapsing on him.
Groaning, he shoves the table away with a powerful backhand. Then he rises again, gritting his teeth, limping aloft. He glares at Grigori, hatefully. It might be intimidating, were his nose not bleeding and partially mashed.
"Yub dink I /funny/ es eet, haa?"
The battered nose does not do wonders for the clarity of Ter's speech.
He shakes his flaming fist, while his other hand rises to his face, rubbing away some of the blood.
He charges, then, his voice reaching a crescendo of fury: "HAA?"
Leading with his flaming arm, trails of fire smoking from his hand, Ter drives a palm straight towards Grigori's midsection, aiming to just bodily /shove/ the larger man across the room. With explosive force.
"I SHOW YOU /DRAMA/ THEN YOU KNOW!
COMBATSYS: Grigori counters Strong Throw from Ter with Haures.
- Power hit! -
[ \\\\\\\\\ < > ////////////////////// ]
Ter 1/=======/=======|=======\-------\0 Grigori
It would seem whatever Ter has to say, Grigori does not want to hear any of it, evident by the way he tosses the tattered and weary table through the air. It sails with a horrible dull whistle, right for the Malaysian Chinese hero...
...and strikes him viciously right in his (questionably?) good looks.
As expected, there is no sympathies from the angered Russian. Instead he lets out a horrible laugh, head shaking side to side as he lifts a hand and presses it to his wounded forehead. He even pitches forward, so delighted is the Russian by poor Ter's plight. But, hey. He brought this all upon himself, right?
The noise of the table clattering elsewhere as Ter shoves it aside snaps the Russian out of his delight, pale blue eyes snapping up and meeting the other man's gaze with equal ferocity. Dry lips remain poised in an awful smirk, pulled back over his teeth as he just grins and stares him down. Does he think Ter is funny?
"Gah ha ha. Very funny," the man replies, as Ter wipes his face of blood.
Then, with a peculiar cry the Malaysian man is tearing forward with every intention of shoving that flaming fist into Grigori's expanse of chest. And all it would seem the Russian man can do is stand there and watch as that fiery arm comes closer...and closer...and closer--
Just before Ter's palm slams clear into Grigori's chest, the man jerks to one side. At the same damn time his arm lashes out and seizes that offending appendage in a steady and most definitely fierce grasp, bending his arm with awful pressure to see to it the Malaysian isn't going anywhere--not while Grigori has plans for him. And those plans?
"HRAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!!!"
Slamming a fist into Ter's throat, the former Spetznas seals the painful deal with a savage headbutt right into the center of the other man's poor, battered face while releasing his arm. "And that is for taking my seat, svóloch'!!"
Glass tinkles across the room. Presently, Ter emerges from behind the bar counter, covered in broken shards and dripping alcohol from what was once a proud display of bottles. He plants a foot on the scarred surface of the countertop, ignoring the whimpering bartender, and glares from his new perch at Grigori. His chest heaves as he takes deep and ragged gasps of air. He coughs, a hoarse and pained sound from his distinctly abused throat.
The flame rising from Ter's right arm flaps like a banner in an unseen wind, red energies flickering and dancing in time to his harsh breaths.
"-MY- SEAT," Ter snaps back, mulishly, completely unrepentant.
"I TELL YOU," he spits, "SHE LEFT YOU FOR A BETTER MAN!"
He thumps his chest with his normal fist, pounding it into his chest. Unfortunately this just prompts another fit of coughing.
Amidst that, though, Ter manages to bring his blazing arm up, pointing at Grigori, fingers splayed. A wave of heat ripples from the Chinese man's lean form as fireball after fireball erupts from his palm, a machine-gun barrage of scorching flame. The blasts sweep the bar, prompting patrons to scream and take cover.
Behind Ter, what's left of the liquor bottles and beer kegs explode in showers of glass and fluid as the backblast forces them on fire.
[OOC] Grigori ROFL
[OOC] Grigori says, "Did Ter just give gender to a barstool?"
[OOC] Ter says, "the chair is female"
[OOC] Ter says, "he's secretly french"
[OOC] Grigori :|
COMBATSYS: Grigori blocks Ter's Die Die Die.
[ \\\\\\\\ < > ////////////////// ]
Ter 0/-------/-======|=======\=------\1 Grigori
When the proud and (very likely) drunken Ter reemerges from behind the tattered and busted bar, Grigori's dry lips pull into another broad, scimitar-like smirk. Pale blue eyes flicker with a light of twisted glee. He's still in one piece, the former Spetznas mentally notes.
"I must break you harder next time," he notes aloud, as his eyes absently drift down, observing the flaming hand at Ter's side. Again? With that energy? The stuff he hates so much...
A sharp shake of Grigori's head gets the old soldier back on track, a heavy exhale of breath slipping past his parted lips. He begins to speak, to say something of questionable importance to the man on the bar when he's cut off.
My seat, the smaller man argues.
My seat.
MY seat?
"Oh, svóloch'," Grigori replies, as his legs shift beneath him. Parting wide, he braces his body, shoulders dropping an inch as he tenses from head to toe. "You will regret those words. Your arrogance...it will be your undoing. You have death wish after all, da?"
The hand from Ter's side rises, heat churning from the man's extended arm at an alarming rate. And Grigori? Well...he just braces for the inevitable impact. Lifting his arms, he shields his face from harm, as the repeated bursts of flame erupt and crash into him over and over and over again with enough force to cause his feet to slide beneath him. Six inches later, the fire ceases, leaving Grigori with very scalded, smoky forearms.
And very, VERY unhappy.
With a sudden jolt the Russian CHARGES forward like some awful bull and reaches out for Ter's legs, to grab him by the ankles. And should Grigori snag poor Ter, he'll toss the Malaysian by his ankles, right for the old, aging jukebox in the corner with some horrible, barely-human roar.
COMBATSYS: Grigori successfully hits Ter with Quick Throw.
- Power hit! -
[ \\\ < > /////////////////// ]
Ter 1/-----==/=======|=======\=------\1 Grigori
With a hideous crash that shakes the bar to its foundations, the jukebox explodes in a hail of breaking flourescent tubes, sparks, and atonal wails. Then it goes mercifully silent, save for the fizzling crackles of broken electronics. Acrid smoke, laced in ozone, drifts through the room, mingling with the ever-present miasma of cigarette fumes to create a whole new stench of atmospheric pollution.
Up on the wall behind the wrecked jukebox, a framed beer poster comes off the wall, clattering to the floorboards below.
For a heartbeat, all is still.
Around the bar, patrons under cover begin to crack eyelids open or peek warily past upturned tables. Is it over?
"YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA," screams a shrill male voice, as a geyser of flame blasts from the jukebox, sending chunks of burnt-out tubes and broken CDs flying into the air. Like a low-budget phoenix from the cigarette ashes, Ter rises. He blasts from the debris with his flaming arm emitting so much fire that it flings him into the air like a human rocket. He hurtles towards Grigori feet-first.
"I AM," Ter screams, "IMMORTA---"
He cuts off even before he hits Grigori, having passed out in mid-flight. The flame cuts off like a thrown switch. Of course, with the laws of momentum being what they are...he's still moving, the heel of one sneaker-clad foot pounding towards the Russian on a jet-propelled trajectory.
COMBATSYS: Ter can no longer fight.
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ <
Grigori 1/-----==/=======|
COMBATSYS: Grigori blocks Ter's No More Heroes.
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ <
Grigori 1/----===/=======|
All is peacefully still. Ter is no more, buried within the mechanical innards of an irreversibly destroyed old jukebox. And standing across from it is the culprit, the broad-shouldered Russian man sporting an awful sneer as he curls long, calloused fingers into a tightly-closed fist at his side. But at the back of his mind, he wonders...
Is that damned Malaysian guy down for good?
Through the choking haze, Grigori moves, heavy boots stomping against the wooden floor of the old bar, right at that decimated jukebox. It's quiet. Almost too quiet, and that generally means two things. One, the guy is dead. Or two...
Something is about to happen.
And just before he's within a foot of the jukebox remains, a loud scream cuts through the silence, a gout of flame turning the jukebox remains into ash and scattering debris. The Russian's response, through it all?
"Oh fuck me. Dead--why aren't you DEAD, svóloch'!?" A finger points accusingly at Ter...
Who then becomes some unconscious human missile aimed right for his chest.
With a loud grunt the man braces himself and readies for the blow, intercepting Ter's heel in the palm of his hand. Gripping tightly, the man suddenly jerks DOWN and sends poor Ter to the floor. Hands clasp, held tightly together as he swings his arms upwards. He's going to crush his skull in..!
Only, the guy is out like a cheap light.
"...hrmph."
Turning his head to the side, the surly Russian spits aside as a hand lifts, again brushing from his eye blood and a few bits of glass from the broken beer glass Ter viciously bludgeoned him with. Contented, the man's pale eyes shift toward the frightened bartender, who peers up from the remains of his bar just over the top.
"You," he states, singling the frightened man out. His finger turns, pointing at Ter.
"Drink for him. On me. When he wakes up. Tell svóloch' he a funny guy. Gyahahaha!"
With a toss back of his head, the Russian makes his way for the exit, hands comfortably easing into his jeans as he slouches his shoulders. He didn't get his damn beer...but, hey. A free fight is always far more refreshing.
COMBATSYS: Grigori has ended the fight here.
Log created on 23:06:50 03/20/2008 by Ter, and last modified on 02:30:25 03/21/2008.