Description: Move along. Unless you have a sudden interest in HOT SHYSTER ON TEACHER IN A BAR ACTION. Who doesn't? I don't. But help yourself. I won't judge you for being into that sort of thing.
Smart people don't get drunk before a long work day. Howard Rust, age 37, may need a reminder from mother nature tomorrow morning. Earlier he was fresh off another rather hard line staff meeting at Pacific and realized that grades on the last project were not due until Tuesday. A beer commercial on TV reminded him how long it's been since he had a good one (or several). A stroll through Downtown found him a banner proudly displaying it had this beer, whatever it is, on stock. An obvious choice of action presented itself.
About an hour later, the teacher's contemplating glass number eight, supporting his head in one of his arms while his fingers drum on his table to that pounding beat he's not going to get out of his head for weeks. Any friends he may have brought with him have already left him to pick up the tab, an irritation made only marginally less so by that lady in green over in one of the booths. After the first four beers she started looking pretty attractive.
For some reason or another the bouncers didn't ask him to get rid of the rusted length of pipe hanging through a hole in his ratty toolbelt like some bizarre modern mockery of a samurai. This could be a decision they may regret while the epilepsy-inducing lights flash and the phat beats drown the club, inviting many to dance the night away... so far, a peaceful evening.
Rather abruptly, a rather loud and colorful individual has quite literally burst into the bar; he's waving a handful of bills, whistling loudly to catch the attention of those present. "Someone hit it big!!" Heads turn, wary and curious in equal measures, many in tandem. "I got lucky, so ya'll can share the wealth! A round for the bar!" The sauntering figure approaches the bar, a mumble of thanks and lifted mugs the lackluster reaction to his careless generosity. He stuffs the money into his pocket, slipping upon a stool and rapping a knuckle on the counter. "Whiskey. Leave the bottle." His hat is tipped... to the green lady in the booth, who seems to have noticed him -- which is not very difficult. He stands out like a neon sign in the night sky.
He immediately attempts to start up conversation with the person beside him; incidently, between Roland and Rust. The jubilant tones on how he pulled one over on a store refund with an empty box is described in vivid detail, hands weaving the picture and a few heavy laughs and a pounded fist at the punchline.
"Ask to see the manager. Keep askin'. They'll throw money at ya instead of risking bad attention from the brass. Works every time!!! OYE! I said one drink, ya rat bastard! Put that on my tab, and I'll break your f'ckin' neck!" he snarls at one person, finger jabbing the air in accusation.
"Mmmbehgrbl." This is the only way to put grumbling into writing while only the faintest lick of sense rises above the inebriation. Like, maybe he shouldn't have eight beers. He should totally have nine, he's entitled to as many as he wants, damn it, his job is hard, these kids are hard, their parents are hard, and he's beginning to have that sneaking suspicion that the P.E. teacher has been trying to kill him. He'd like it if that yelling would stop too, it's amazing he can even hear that above the music.
He doesn't lift a mug nor give any thanks, as at this point things are just going one ear, out the other, and maybe into someone else's ear instead. Their ears can have all they'd like. He scratches at the skin just behind his left ear with the respective hand, elbow making a quiet 'pop' at the movement. Yeah, nine beers it is. He straightens his posture as to not appear ready to cave in to the amount of alcohol already running through his systems and raises that hand a little later to call attention to the waitress to get him beer #9. He actually hasn't finished #8 yet. He just knows he wants it. The precioussssss. Beer.
He doesn't see her. Where could she have gone? He tilts back from his chair, a sheer miraclehe doesn't fall off his stool and onto his back with how far he leans just to sweep for who was serving him those first eight glasses, only for his vision to somehow come onto focus on a pointing finger vaguely in his direction.
He can't hear himself think. Hell, it's kind of hard to make out what that guy two or so seats over is saying. So he asks as loud as possible, obnoxiously so, and damn his sore throat for trying to convince him otherwise. "WHA?!"
This is where things might make a turn for the worst. Roland isn't talking to Rust; However, he's not done talking to the man some seats past him, who looks shocked at the accusation. The finger doesn't lower, and in Rusts' present muddled state the fact the trenchcoated man's eyes are not focused on him is easily missed. "Yeah, you! I saw ya, tryin' to pull a fast one! You want me to kick your ass?!" The assaulted bar person raises his hands placatingly, and Roland turns back to the front of the bar with the snort of a man who's ego just got stroked. "Fuckin' coward..." He sips at his glass of whiskey, slamming it upon the counter. "Gimme another!" is demanded, turning back to the now significantly more uneased person he's been verbally assaulting. "Now a con like this is all about the sale. You gotta push hard, seem pissed, and seem like yer gonna be more'n happy to make a man's life miserable. When those go together, it doesn't really matter what you want. They'll give it."
"Whuh." Rust here sneezes, drawing his attention away from any environmental cues like that other guy reacting as he rubs his nose with his forearm. Allergy season is just around the corner and someone is apparently someone is having issues with him? He finishes up drink number eight in one terrifying chug that could put a frat boy to shame, slams it down on his table only just hard enough for it to slip out of an unsteady hand and roll about the table top as opposed to making enough of a sound to call any real attention to him.
Collapsing off the seat when trying to get up and confront that son of a bitch on peaceful terms so he can enjoy another beer in peace, that's a different story. He hits the floor like a normal man ought to after having more than enough alcohol to drink, rolling onto his right arm to clumsily push himself up. His shoulder creaks in disapproval of him moving. His left eye is shut, watery and itchy and sore from looking at all those lights. Two coughs later, he pushes himself up to a sitting position.
Maybe he should have ten instead to get the edge of embarrassment off. Yeah. It's a good thing he's not the one lecturing about responsible drinking like the health class teacher. Never mind that they smoke.
The rather comical action from Rust isn't ignored by Roland; He bursts into open, unabashed laughter, hefting up his lasted ice garnished glass of vodka and almost doubling over, knee raising to be given a heavy slap that echoes in the room. "Pffthahahaha!! Oh. Learn t'hold yer liquor, mate." Roland grins, and this not only draws attention to the poor Pacific teacher's inadverant plight, but negative at that; some chuckles ripple out, and even that increasingly attractive woman holds a hand up to cover her giggle. Whether it was at Roland's mad hatter titter or what actually took place is questionable, ergo. Shaking his head, Roland turns away once more, intent on the quick, smooth swallow and shuddering grunt of his shaken head. Ahhh, that fire in his belly is familiar and desired. "Tab's 118." the bartender mulls. Roland freezes, making a grimace. "...Man, did everyone order the most expensive thing?" Crap. He didn't want to blow THAT much in a burst of joy!
Laughter kind of does have a way of sticking with you beyond that haze of drunkenness and bad decision making. Getting himself back up to his feet, with a moment's time, isn't that much of an issue. He just needs a few moments to lean up against the table all nice-like, brow a crumpled mess of negative emotions. C'mon, be civil, you know, it's a night out, no need to make this all... compacted? Computerized? Complacent? Complimented? Oh, complicated. Complicated. Right. Complicated.
One deep breath later, the teacher all but staggers over to where Roland's seated. The fingers on his right hand half-curl into the optimal position for pointing, but it'd look a heck of a lot more like he'd be trying to grab someone. Maybe their head. "H-Hey. Hey, uh, I can't-- that you were, talking... me." Words slur together. "Ask you what... what the problem ieeeyur--" Ended prematurely by coughing. He doesn't cover his mouth in time. It's kind of hard to gauge the exact distance between himself and that guy. He thinks he's a good ten feet away. The reality is, it's less than half that as his hand stretches out in that counterpoint that sure as hell doesn't look like one.
Having forgotten the incident, it takes a few moments for Roland to register that Rust has meandered on up to him, twisting in his stool to half-face him with the third shot brought up to his lips, nursed lightly with eyebrows raised in a somewhat curious manner. Then he gets coughed on, before being viciously jabbed in the chest. Oh, a refined and attentive fighter might of read the danger signs, but instead he has an angry sore spot near his solar plexus, free hand trying to *slap* the back of Rusts', taking it as an intended slight. "What, did I hurt your damn feelings?!" is snapped out, a man who's ire is easily gained even without sudden proximity, lack of manners, and assailing digits. His own palm slams out in response, trying to impact the former construction worker, more then enough rancor behind it to send him toppling if he's not careful. "Get the hell outta here! Takin' back my free drink, too; Barkeep! Slash him off the tab!!"
Careful is one thing. Drunk off his ass and unsteady in posture and movement defaults to automatic failure on a number of balance checks. If this world were governed by dice rolls and arbitrary numbers, at least. (Is it?)
Palm strikes chest with enough force to bring him to a kneel, having overcompensated his balance in front of him to catch himself. A good shove. Howard Rust, well, he's normally a forgiving man and all that moral nonsense BS some people like to hold themselves to, but after /that/ much to drink...
"Hell this about no... no tab," things sound a lot more coherent in his head compared to the few words in a sentence that actually makes it out his mouth, standing back up and rolling his neck about. You hear that crack? Louder than the tension could be thick if anybody's paying attention to all the warning signs for issues. "Just ask one, one thing," slightly more coherent now, same gesture, STILL pointing far too close, "just one, one, and all I say," now less coherent, frustration mounting in his tone of voice just as much as all the signs of having had far too much, "god dammit."
He looks to turn away and just walk back, raising his hand and lowering it down in some 'whatever' gesture, except his hand is a lot closer to Roland and his face than he thinks. It's hard enough to be a slap. A vertical slap, might even accidentally pull Roland off his seat. Whatever, he doesn't need the trouble, so the man thinks, when he's already got plenty in his metaphorical shopping cart.
Well, Roland didn't expect that, once more, forgetting any nuances in his own rapidly escalating temper. There's a loud crack from the palm smacking him in the cheek, scarcely remaining seated as he pivots at the waist. His jaw drops, and one hand touches the offended side of his face, as if he's *utterly shocked and offended* in a manner better suited for slapstick comedy. "Alright..." If there's any apology forthcoming, it's far too late. In a smooth motion he slips off his stool, trying to catch Rust by the shoulder to whirl him around. In order to offer one rather spectacular punch right in his face, trying to send the other man whirling into a table; it's awkward and off-kilter, too much force back behind the attempt sufficient to throw himself askew, yet that's hardly going to make it any less painful. He can hit pretty goddamn hard in a pinch, and this is quite one.
COMBATSYS: Roland has started a fight here.
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Roland 0/-------/-------|
COMBATSYS: Rust has joined the fight here.
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Rust 0/-------/-------|-------\-------\0 Roland
COMBATSYS: Rust blocks Roland's Power Strike.
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Rust 0/-------/-------|-------\-------\0 Roland
Smack. The offending hand rises upwards sharply moments after the fact upon realizing he touched /something/. He's ready to just shrug it off and go back to his table. A few moments later he's grabbed by his shoulder, pivoted in place to meet this man face-to-face - who happens to be a bit taller than himself - and he just throws his hand back up as a prefix to whatever he was going to say. It's sheer dumb luck that it catches the punch, but it doesn't cancel the full force of it as the balding one among them finds his palm pushed into his face and his upper body arcing back to catch the remainder of the momentum with one single staggering step back. Not quite a dramatic way to really get a fight started.
"Heeey," Mr. Rust slurs, thrusting his right hand at the larger man's chest in an attempt to just push him back to his seat, "trouble, okay, just... just sit, I drink, you drink... that's all."
Three drinks before he would've at least known what kind of trouble he was in now, if only just.
COMBATSYS: Roland dodges Rust's Quick Throw.
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Rust 0/-------/-------|-------\-------\0 Roland
%"...Ow!" Roland exclaims, shaking his fist; he hit completely wrong, absorbing the majority of his own kinetic force in the joint of the wrist. But he's only mildly buzzed, and as such manages to dance away from the shove, if barely; he still slams into his stool, knocking it over with a clatter. The bartender snaps not to fight in here, and people are watching with rabid interest, but both are presently ignored as eyes narrow in a dangerous manner. "So ya think ya can slap someone, and then when they ain't too pussy and fight back reason it out?! Fat chance!" His stance spreads, grinning as his fingers flex. "I'll show ya not t'mess with me..." Quite suddenly he springs forward, body swirling in green energy that leaves a momentary trail of silhouettes -- whatever the technique he just used was, it ridiculously boosted his speed, heel shooting over in a broad arc through the air... and trying to slam directly atop Rusts' head, with catastrophic force bolstered by the steel within. Trying to make him crumple inwards, like a great house of cards!
COMBATSYS: Roland successfully hits Rust with Gold Rush.
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Rust 0/-------/---====|=------\-------\0 Roland
He doesn't want to be bothered. "YEAH! Yeah," he calls above the retorts, turning around and continuing along his way. Arrogance? Or just too much sauce to-- ah, who are we fooling, it's all the sauce.
He misses the intricacies of that sheer /speed/ the money-lovin' man can muster from having his back turned. He staggers forward, nearly doubling over from his own unsteady footing. If he were just two inches further ahead, Roland would have gone clear over. He struck gold, all right. Middle-aged back-of-head gold, into that half-assed attempt at hair spikes with what little he has to work with. It powers him into the floor, leftover force pushing him forward face-flat on the dust and grime built up from the numerous shoes of those here who had a full day, now collecting on his face. The next time Roland would see it, he'd almost look like he took the dust and dirt and made face paint out of it.
The man's neck makes another unpleasant cracking noise as he rolls onto his right. The lights shine all the way down on top of him. It's migraine-inducing. It took a jolt like that to tell him that, yes, he's actually being attacked and he should do something about it. Reflexes tell him to pull out Ol' Rusty from that makeshift sheath. It once again struggles to be released clean from its home, so he just rips the damn belt right off. Now he's wielding a pipe and the belt attached to it. If he doesn't smack himself in the face with it a bunch of times in the process to pay for such impatience and clumsiness, all the better.
Not that Roland gets much additional time to reflect upon what might be a rare case of karmic justice for him to deliver (Rust poked first, accidentally or not!). Rather, he swings it down about the floor in Roland's vague direction, with such force that the man all but spins on the ground like a bottle in the time-honored game of Spin the Bottle. It's not a long pipe - not much more than two feet in length, maybe two and a half. But it's rusty and dented and, really, why the hell didn't they take it at the door?
Maybe Roland's knees will have to file a complaint later?
COMBATSYS: Roland blocks Rust's Foundation Layer.
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Rust 0/-------/----===|=------\-------\0 Roland
Ah, that was quite satisfying. He probably didn't need to break out one of his Ultimate Unstoppable Killing Techniques right off the bat, but he had a point to make. That point was 'if you get slapped, make a facial impression of your opponent upon the floor.' He mildly pulled a muscle in his back from that however, up to this point having inflicted more pain upon himself then Rusts' inadvertent maneuvers. People scatter once the weapon's procured, and the bartender has ceased his objections -- at this point, drawing attention would only be potentially detrimental. And really, Roland notices the weapon drawn. He notices the grip. He notices the start. With all of this, why does he react in a lethargic manner? Hard to say, but he finally clenches and twists one hand.
There's an angry sound as a one foot blade erupts from beneath one of his broad sleeves, slamming down his hand and sinking the tip into the ground. The echo of pipe meeting hidden weapon rings sharply, a few sparks likely shot off the hapless weapon. Oh, that smarts; the reverberations go through his already aching joints, inciting a further expression of agony. "Hnnngh... well, good thing this is a weapon fight... don't matter much since I woulda anyway!!" He snaps out his foot, trying to kick Rust in the chest and knock him fully over while he's still positioned in a somewhat vulnerable position upon the ground. "This town sure is fightin' capital of the world. Two bar fights in one week! Am I lucky, or cursed?! Hahaha!"
COMBATSYS: Rust endures Roland's Heavy Kick.
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Rust 0/-------/-======|==-----\-------\0 Roland
"Mrghbl." There's no real need to dedicate any inscription to a generic grumble of discontent, is there? The spin itself is much clumsy. He should consider himself fortunate in retrospect (when he's able to remember that word) that he actually swung anywhere /close/ to the guy that's beating him up instead of someone else. Or thin air.
The hard stop is unpleasant on his swingin' arm in turn, pain managing to shoot past alcohol numbness and rattle his shoulder. Said arm starts to cramp up around the triceps. Howard Rust's face is that of labored effort in deciding to push himself up on his left hand while his opponent here is... well, first sentence is kind of a blur. He wants off this floor. Roland may be surprised to see that he doesn't even cave against the force of a well-placed boot to the chest, oxygen rushing out of his lungs the only indication to the kick-ee that he's been kicked as hard as he is, pushing himself up with such a start that by the time Roland's laughing he's already looking to... collapse on top of him?
His knee just wants to give out after the day he's had. Doesn't stop him from stumbling forward while his head dips forward at a speed that aggressive intent would have found sufficient. It's really hard to quantify what happens here any more as anything past a 'headbutt.' That's what it is. The combover is a disgusting symbol of desperation to look at, but there's no chi swirling or wind shear or anything of note. It's just a headbutt! It'd have to do while the man's got a cramp in his weapon arm while he's trying to stammer /something/ to say in his defense.
At least headbutts are universal in drunken bar fight language!
COMBATSYS: Roland endures Rust's Hardhat Rush.
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Rust 0/-------/=======|===----\-------\0 Roland
Aw, no. He did just-- yeah, he did. Roland's in a terrible position, no doubt about it, and does little to try and defend himself; when you're pushed against a wall, make'm hurt just as much, that's his motto. One hand, oddly enough, seems more intent on reaching within his coat then actually managing any kind of assault; Thereafter his nose detonates in dual streams of crimson, eyes crossing as he recoils backwards violently. But in the same motion, he tries to slap his recently jacket-dived hand right upon Rusts' forehead; A piece of paper, with 'Loser' written upon it. And as Roland gets acquainted with being on his back, Rust might similarly find the piece of paper explode in a flash of emerald chi, enough to completely cover his head. "Hrrrghple!" is his witty rejoinder thus far, one hand this time going to an outer pocket as he attempts a scramble to his feet, pinching a nostril.
COMBATSYS: Rust blocks Roland's Roulette.
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Rust 1/-------/=======|====---\-------\0 Roland
Any impressive follow-up to the headbutt is lost in another cough as his lungs try to refill themselves with sweet, sweet oxygen. He remains doubled over as though the headbutt were actually uncomfortable for /himself/ instead, flexing his right arm to obeying. His elbow doesn't want to, too busy cracking in protest. Ol' Rusty is more like a really short cane in which to keep him from faceplanting on the floor as his free hand rubs his head. The piece of paper gets pulled off of it hastily. Curiosity compels him to try and read it. At least he's close enough to be able to see-- 'Loser'? He grumbles and crumples it in his fist like a passed note in class. The chi explosion forces his hand open and makes him squeeze his eyes shut from the sheer brightness of it, and the pain! His palm sways up and down as thoug hthe only way to work off the pain would be to swing it up and down wildly.
Ever hear a drunken, slurred hiss? You have now. "Fucking," it sounds like he meant to put something else after that bit of happy angry drunken man vulgarity but it would appear he didn't get around to it. One eye forces itself open, and really, Roland is looking a bit more and more like a swirl of colors with every passing moment. So that's when he leans forward to thrust Ol' Rusty downward onto Roland's body with the hand that is armed and not presently stinging from chi explosion, but it's more of a scooping motion than a striking one.
As would be evidenced when it appears he is somehow trying to maneuver the pipe by arcane to hook itself inside Roland's shirt, lift him up off the ground, and swing him... ah, he doesn't know where or even care at this point, but with all the tables and booths and chairs everywhere there's a number of unpleasant places to toss somebody even if you don't take the special time to look into the interactive environs behind oneself.
COMBATSYS: Roland interrupts Wrecking Ball Swing from Rust with Sleight of Hand.
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Rust 1/---====/=======|=====--\-------\0 Roland
Now is not a time to fight fair. No, not in the slightest. Roland pushes himself to his feet, hacking loudly while his head reels in a crazy manner. There's too many people around who are comparable to him in a fight... it just isn't right. But he's prepared the following trick carefully, the ruse of his loser note having worked perfectly. His hand clenches tightly upon something in his pocket... and then, it snaps out. ... And a handful of sand is thrown right into Rusts' face. Oh, it's incredibly fine grade too, perfectly tuned to causing sneezing, burned eyes, and that awful gritty taste in the face. "HA!" is exclaimed, as if it were some grand victory. Rushing forward, forearms raised to guard, he's slammed a couple times with muffled grunts before slipping behind the Pacific teacher. A glimmer of wire flashes, then is yanked taut around his neck, strangling aggressively. And then he goes to town on Rusts' kidneys, slamming into them repeatedly before his foot raises, presses against his rear, and /kicks/ out to try and send him in a swan dive across the bar into the mirror behind!
All's fair in bars and brawls nowadays. Love and war still have some regulations attached, after all. But it's easy for a spectator or a detached author to say that.
Sand flies into the heavier man's face, because he's certainly not bigger. Or the craftier. But he's also drunk. Not that this seems to be affecting him so terribly in the art of 'hit someone else with yourself or with thing in your hand.' It gets in his eyes, gets up his nose because he just so happens to tilt his back right before impact, gonna leave a scratchy feeling in his chin, really, his entire face itches. He's a man, and men scratch as they please, groaning as he brings his stinging palm up to his face, grabbing it with such /need/ that his fingers damn near dig into his own head to rip the face off. That's how far in the sand went.
And how pretty fine that wire is, cutting down between an air-tight grip and his face that it cuts a good deal between glove and ugly mug alike as he is choked in place and, well, if we go about highlighting each blow we'd be here forever. But if he thought his back was sore going in...
Across the bar he goes, hitting the mirror and sending innumerable shards of glass into the air to reflect the light in picturesque ways that Roland may wish he had a camera for. The nearby crowd gasps and edges away. Something pops. A loud, prolonged groan. Then the man's left hand lazily flops on top of the counter. It flattens and retreats into the edge to pull the man up, shaking his head like a dog and sending some glass shards flying like they're droplets of water. He's not easy to draw blood from, but by golly, Roland's sure earned it, blood streaming down in trickles of various sizes where he's cut. Poorly sewn vertical red pinstripes? Just about.. blood loss aside, he rears back his right arm, his shoulder creaking at every few degrees of movement. His knuckles poppoing while the pipe makes a squeal at how tight it is held. His head tilts oddly to the right, unfocused. Is he still gonna try?
He's come to the realization he might be asked to /pay/ for all this above the drunken haze of offense, pain, and fatigue. So what's there left to do than to just get your head together, vacant a stare as his might be, and just...
Then he goes forward. The bartop in front of him flies away, splintering and pushing aside a stool. It's a flash. Through the cloud of destroyed property, the man just glides forward with a certain ease that doesn't seem to slow any from what should have snapped him in half going through /the damn bar/. It's not a complicated maneuver, it's a rushing thrust. But if the bar's not stopping him, what chances does that speak for Roland if he stays in the way?
COMBATSYS: Rust successfully hits Roland with Condemned.
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Rust 0/-------/-------|=======\-------\1 Roland
One moment Roland's standing there. The other he's gone. This is really almost literal. He flies backwards, completely off the ground and spiraling in a comical fashion. One table is taken out, then another, before he crashes upon the ground and rolls, a katamari of destruction and broken debris. His trenchcoat pools atop him, hat smacked clean off his head and sitting some distance away. Given how handily he was dispatching the disoriented man, he didn't expect to get hit harder then he has in his entire life. Oh, yes. For the time being, Rust has that dubious pleasure. Dorado's legendary Black Fang, the sure kill technique he was nicknamed for, didn't even hurt that bad. ...it was lightyears faster, and even if you saw it coming it didn't do you a lick of good, but it didn't HURT THAT GODDAMN BAD. Why's he reminiscing about that mercenary fool anyway? Shouldn't he be trying to get out of this pool of blood? And why's everything blurry?! Somehow he gets up, blood dripping from what seems every orifice. "...Hah... Fine... I'm gonna use it. I'm gonna. One of my ultimate strongest sure-kill tricks! You watchin'? Don't matter if you are!! It can't fail!" He spreads his stance, both hands clenching as two long forearm blades pop free, the shink quite satisfying to his ringing ears. Dull eyes focus on the three Rusts, then settle on the one most likely to be him. "...HERE I GO!" Once more, he bursts into green chi. And indeed, it's greased lightning, intervening distance displaced violently in a gust of wind and trailing images; both of the chi sheathed blades try to sink deeply into Ter, before he'd heft up his foot and try to kick him off with a snarl. ...It's not flashy, but it's not meant to be. That move... is just a finisher.
COMBATSYS: Roland successfully hits Rust with Jackpot!.
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Rust 0/-------/---====|-------\-------\0 Roland
Howard Rust built his fighting style, odd as it may appear, around the pipe and a bunch of construction-inspired movements. The graceful laying of foundations. The stacking of bricks. And when the situation calls for it, being a one-man wrecking ball.
The movement is such he continues to chase after Roland right as he flies back. You don't ram your lower body through a /bar/ and then expect to come out of it intact - the throbbing pain of a nearly shattered pelvis echoes through his legs which revolt against the owner that ignored their pleas for rest when working long shifts for a good time throughout his youth and thus the man ends up tumbling through a table and some unfinished plates of food and several chairs before he comes to a stop slumped over the next. The whole exchange may have been exactly as painful for the older one among them as much as it was for the mean green chi machine right there.
"Mmmghrblgh... listen... listen, what, you know... big... big mis... under... drinks, I'll, I'll just," the spirit to keep fighting over a little misunderstanding is ebbing away a lot faster than the blood of either's wounds are as he slinks off the table and remains doubled over, free hand squeezing at his left side, eyes shut as he all but nearly gives in to the pain inflicted going through all /that/. A tear goes down his cheek. That... that stung. Being tough doesn't mean it doesn't /hurt/. He shouldn't be standing.
This means he's standing defenseless and the only thing that could keep him going at all is if he had the simple grits to just stand there and take whatever it is Roland wanted to do next. Closed eyes means he misses the beauty of that green chi and the whole aspect of 'blink and you'd miss him.' He kind of does miss him. Moments later, the forearm blades get into the man's gut - deeply enough that it roots the poor sap on the spot and forces his eyes open in a comical bug-eyed bulge. His cheek gets bit down so hard that blood just spurts out of it in an equally exaggerated way.
Then the kick. It is such a solid kick, thrusting itself into the teacher's abdomen so powerfully that whatever he had in his stomach escapes him in that moment, rushing out so fast and violently that it has attained enough speed to splash onto Roland there with concussive force. Has he ever owned a man so beautifully and simply that he spat up his dinner hard enough to give someone a blinker, Roland?
There's a first for everything.
COMBATSYS: Rust can no longer fight.
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Roland 0/-------/------=|
COMBATSYS: Roland overcomes Thrown Object from Rust with Large Thrown Object.
-* CRITICAL HIT! *-
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Roland 0/-------/------=|
The day Roland stabs someone so hard he defeats himself won't be today. Although given his improper use of excessive force, it might be someday. He had prepared the coup d'grace, forearm blades retracting as the tension of his clenched hands vanishes. A chair is grasped, the world slowing down as the bits of detris fly towards him. Green energy swathes a final time, twisting away from it while using the amplified strength to heft up the chair. The velocity is quicker then Rust is being kicked away, and would slam into him with catastrophic force, only making him hit the broken remains of the bar all the harder. With that, the world again slows down, and he begins to pant. Ah... he won. Hmm, this might be to his advantage. "He started it." is commented to the shocked bartender, pointing downwards. "...And he said he'd pay my tab if I won." is further added. Before he turns and flees quickly, shouldering open the door and swooshing into the street. Of course, as an ambulance is called, so are the authorities... and Rusts' bad night will be ended with potential criminal charges for the destruction. --And the bill for Roland's drinking binge given to the whole bar. Life is fair!
COMBATSYS: Roland has ended the fight here.
The drinks were so good they tasted pretty nice on the way out. The chair makes a fine dessert for this tonight's three-course defeat, and Howard Rust may consider himself a fine gourmand of... well, getting the crap kicked out of him. The sun did not shine on him this Sunday.
Now, the matter about a teacher of an upstanding international school keeping his job and the criminal charges. There's a lot of things in life that just arbitrarily happen to go the right way at his worst. Over the next few days, an out of court settlement is hammered out to personally rebuild and replace what was damaged at his own time and expense - he's good at what he does. It also so happens he teaches a class about building and fixing things. Guess how well he can integrate these two concepts with a near minimum of fuss and trouble in the long haul?
However, there is no avoiding yet another talk about certain behaviors and tendencies. Howard Rust's fortune only goes so far... but now the next time some faculty goes out with him he's not going to be the last one left to pay the tab, so, hey, long run, not a huge setback.
He's still being expected to work tomorrow. In the present, life sucks and is a bitch and tastes a lot like sharp splinters but that just may be the chair aftertaste.
Log created on 05:04:17 04/07/2008 by Rust, and last modified on 10:14:00 04/07/2008.