Description: Tiffany Lords is an accomplished boxer that Rick decided to challenge. Nevermind the fact he shows up drunk and shirtless when Rust is attempting to lock things up and go home to bed. Some punches are thrown, some kicks are taken, but in the end Rick bonds with the old man and drags him off onto a magical adventure.
Pacific High! A place that is pretty well known around these parts for hosting some of the best students from various nations out side of Japan. One of those nations happens to be AMERICA. It is also home to someone that is a damn good boxer from what Rick was told. Tiffany Lords has gained quite a bit of fame for winning Jinchuu and that sort of fame has been spread over across the globe. Being the wanderer that he is the Native American has found himself walking down the sidewalk towards Pacific High with a bit of stagger to his step.
It was probably not a good idea to be hitting the bars before wandering this way and it was doubly a bad idea to be heading towards the school so late in the evening when some people might be trying to sleep. With a bottle of Maker's Mark in hand the boxer staggers towards the main building while loudly singing something incoherently. Maybe it is Danzig. No one can ever understand that fucker when he sings anyways. "Haaaaay, Tiffany Lords!" Rick calls out while raising a gloved fist in the air that isn't holding the whiskey bottle and he glances around. "Come out. We should fight for the pride of America!"
It's getting close to time for one of the teachers, one Howard Rust, to go amble back towards wherever it is he goes to sleep after a highly colorful day involving the replacement of some overhead lights that compounded into a series of anecdotal accidents and further fixes. So much for having a quiet weekend day to do almost whatever he'd like. Pacific High's building is very new and state of the art in a lot of ways. It is the last time that one Mr. Rust will ever take that fact for granted in the face of Murphy's law. The incident shall forever be remembered as 'Murphy's lamp,' because for all intents and purposes, that light was reincarnated from whatever light source the man used in a past life. (Was he even a real person?) Maybe one day humanity will regard sources of luminescence as living beings and they will treat their light sources with the respect they deserve. That day is not today.
The last man to leave the main building today and given the job of locking up the front door on the way out, he's fumbling with the numerous keys he was lent for this purpose and otherwise cursing as to why the proper custodian guy just /had/ to then run off to get a drink or two at some upscale bar out and around Southtown for the evening. But, some things do just have to be done one way or another. Wouldn't do for yet another brigand to just bust inside and... do whatever it is they do when they get inside.
Then, the singing. The singing! It is so sudden that he drops the keys on the ground with a loud, obnoxious clatter that would do well for drunken percussion to already drunken singing, turning behind himself with enough haste that one of his knees make a popping noise in defiance of trying to pivot so quickly. Then the name drop. Tiffany Lords! She was the winner of the Jinchuu tournament a while back and the apple of the local king of school's eye, so hearing the name itself isn't a surprise. It's more... the time, the unfamiliar voice, and... who the hell is that?
God damnit, not again, the teacher curses inwardly. "HEY!" He calls, pushing his rough, gravelly voice to the limit of its volume without overly straining an already dry, scratchy throat, "this is a school and it's the middle of the god damn night!" The pipe down through a toolbelt pocket by his left hip would tingle with the feeling that an encounter is coming, but guess what, pipes don't... tingle. His right palm, on the other hand, begins to itch with the inevitability of where this scenario is going to go.
That voice is not one the Native American expected to hear. It was so deep and gravely instead of what he expected when he hears it. Eyes squint some as he tries to see straight and he leans forward a bit and then sways backwards. "Tiffany, my you sound alot more different than on television." he finally surmises and steps forward towards rust a few more times. It is when he draws near he truely starts to realize that he is not talking to his fellow boxer and he straightens up while taking a slug from his bottle and then holding it out to the other man.
Forward he steps again and a gloved hand slips around to rest on the shoulder of the older man and he squeezes it a bit tightly. "Hey buddy do you know where she is?" he asks, that smell of alcohol quite potent coming from his breath. "I...I really need a fight and she is around here, right?" he asks before glancing off away and tilting his head as he sees something. "Is that a penguin?"
Steps towards the teacher are met by the teacher, if perhaps foolishly, approaching on his own end. Some buff guy without a shirt on. What is it with people and a lack of shirts, he wonders, ever since he's been to Southtown he keeps seeing all these people running around without shirts on and it's not even that hot over here. This particular detail doesn't dominate his thoughts given that there is this shirtless guy, a bit taller than himself (and in considerably better physical shape) who is calling for Tiffany, on school grounds, this late at night. He raises an open palm and shakes it as the bottle is offered in denial of wanting to take a drink, because who wants to drink when you've got an unknown on the front doorstep of a place they do not belong?
Before he knows it, he's got a hand on his shoulder and it's getting squeezed tightly enough that it is legitimately uncomfortable, a feat in itself as it concerns him, which puts a fine point on how strong the guy actually is. The teacher's face turns sour in a direction from 'who the hell is this guy, am I going to have to get rough' to 'who the hell is this guy, I kind of hope I don't have to get rough,' nearly recoiling from the powerful scent of alcohol, that's not a small quantity of it, the man must've been drowning himself in it by his estimates. "Hey, hey, whoa, hey," this while he's trying to wrestle the hand off his shoulder in what is a losing battle unless the taller shirtless man decides he doesn't want to have a hand on his shoulder any more. "This is a school," an attempt to be stern about this shows through a voice that almost begs to be interrupted soundly by a dry cough, "she's a student, and for all I know she's asleep, so why don't you," he points with his free hand back out the front gates "just..." there's some sweat on his brow below where that abominable combover rests, which doesn't deserve any further descriptors than that in a way to try and phrase this in a way that won't end with him spending tomorrow on a hospital bed if this guy is as strong as that shoulder grab suggests, "go!"
...'go,' great.
That shirt was probably lost somehwere along the way here and the thought of where did he apply the warpaint on his arms and back is probably even more disturbing. It is a thought that might remind someone of Ted Turner applying the Captain Planet paint in the bathroom. At least the hand comes free of Rust's shoulder rather easily and Rick frowns slightly when he staggers back a step. "Of course it is school!" he responds more loudly than he needs to. He points about and keeps himself form pointing towards the six foot tall penguin and instead aims for buildings. "There is the school and there is the school and there is the other part of the school." he says rather proud of himself.
Of course the request of asking him to go just causes him to frown even more so. "Bu...but come on. The night is young!" he says and lets out a low sigh while rubbing at the back of his neck. "It is a great time to fight and why would she be asleep? What are you teaching kids these days?" he grunts and then sits down on the grass with the bottle still in hand. "Where am I gonna go now?"
The teacher nods a few times, yeah, that's the school, that's also part of the school, that's also a school, okay, glad we can establish that, Rust thinks. Maybe that's the only grace he's going to get, rolling his now freed shoulder a few times as it creaks loudly enough to maybe elicit attention towards the fact that no man's shoulder should ever be creaking that loudly.
Before he can protest about the idea that the night is young when he, himself just wants to go to bed, the man goes and sits down in the grass and... boy, how's he going to convince him to stand back up and get out now? A low groan, the teacher maneuvers himself in front of where the MYSTERIOUS TIFFANY SEEKING STRANGER sits and kneels down to try and keep establishing some kind of eye contact so the man's attention doesn't wander away from what he's trying to say, his knees protesting being bent this far with their own series of popping noises.
"I'm-- we're teaching these kids things they need to know in life so they... they don't just spend it running around in the middle of the god damn night, trespassing in other places just because they want to go beat the shit out of the first name that comes to mind!" He once again gestures with a thumb back out the door. "Why can't you... ahh, I don't know, go..." The first thing that comes to mind is a 'bar,' but there's that scent of alcohol, so... there he is, trailing off looking for peaceful and agreeable suggestions to go somewhere and now he's finding himself dry on suggestions because he himself just wants to get everything locked up and go to bed.
So there things are still going to hell for the poor teacher that just wants to go to bed like a normal person. A shame not everyone thinks like him and realizes late night is a good time to go to bed. He stares at Rust for a few long moments with that unfocused gaze and clucking his tongue lightly. It finally seems like he decides on something and he tosses the mostly empty bottle off to the side and then he reaches to grasp onto the shirt of Rust and then tugs himself back up onto his feet with a loud grunt of annoyance. "Why are you so damn loud?!" Not that he is being Mr. Quiet himself.
He shakes his head and he raises his fist for a moment, though he hardly looks to be in shape to do much of anything even if he is trying to be intimidating. "Look, I got all fancied up looking for a nice little tussel with someone that knows her way around the fighting world and I am not leaving till she comes out here and faces me." he is rather defiant even if he isn't standing up straight at this point and this looks like he is more than ready to cause Rust to get home and go to bed at a decent time.
Ten or so years ago ol' Howard Rust here would probably agree that the night is young enough for him to go and have some fun, but when you start growing older and have a tiring job involving very rich students, some of whom are already making livings as prize fighters with effortlessness that can't help but make him green with envy given he never got to have that chance so long ago, and have a body that sometimes just wants to seem to quit doing much of anything physical because he drove it so hard working for that construction firm back in the day, well... sometimes, he thinks, he's the only man for miles who actually has a mundane life to attend to even in the face of the siren call of fighting stardom.
But now, he gets grabbed by the shirt, bringing it up to the point where he brings his left hand upon Rick's right shoulder (or tries to) in order to keep his own balance as Rick's rising via holding him nearly puts the one whose surname may very well match what he /is/ on his ass from the shaking, grimacing as he remains face to face with a man who appears ready to start getting things violent!
He even leans his upper body away from the raised fist as something of a precaution. Despite the body language that plainly shows he's not particularly willing to stand his ground in an openly violent manner, his mouth keeps running with increasing demand.
"Well look, yourself, all right?!" This is interrupted at last by a single dry cough and a little wheeze, patting his chest with his free hand before continuing, "it's late at night, these kids are trying to get some god damn sleep," now using that previous chest patting hand to point out the gate, "and we don't always get what we want in life, do we? I'm asking you... to please, get off the campus, leave the kids alone, and wait for... hell, I don't know, if she's in the Neo League or something you can try and reach her through there!"
Oddly enough, one would think Mr. Rust would have to deal with more people like this guy trying to break in on the school to get a fight with her. Strangely enough this is one of the very first times he's had to.
Since Rust is offering a good chunk of help to keep the boxer balanced Rick is more than ready to slump heavily on the older fellow. Eyes squint again and he leans in closer with a discerning eye. "You have a foul mouth." he finally points out and he pats Rust lightly on the stomach perhaps a bit too roughly. Perhaps in about ten or more years Rick will understand what all this running about and overexertion will catch up to him. For now it seems like he will continue to defile himself and run around without his wife knowing where he is. If she knew he was at a high school at around midnight trying to start a fight with a teenager she would have his head on a pike.
He ends up chuckling quite a bit in the end, though and he straightens back up with a fist raised up in the air. "How about you old man. You got any skills?" he asks and wavers a bit despite holding his balance on his own. "Come on it could be fun. Afterwards we can go to that nice stripclub not far from here." his hand points outwards in a random direction without really knowing where he is pointing right now. "It'll make you feel better!"
Said stomach might have some muscle under there. Well, to be fair, there's muscles on everyone, some are just noticeably bigger than others. But if it's there, it's underneath undeniable fat. The teacher could stand to lose a couple of pounds. He's far better off than a couch potato, but the years weren't too kind and he's not even forty yet. He did not win the genetic lottery in a lot of respects.
Rust recoils again a little at the stomach pat, backing away once the other man appears steady enough because his shoulder is still somewhat feeling that earlier grasp and that really says a lot for what kind of strength the drunkard may actually have, which happens just before that question gets popped. Does he, himself, have any skills? C'mon, you do, you really do, even though all those times you ran into trouble with random people putting your ass on a silver platter you should show this guy and then maybe he'll let you off and you can have a nice, quiet sleep into a nice, quiet Sunday, his mind starts to think.
The common sense instilled inside him from adulthood wants to plead otherwise as he subconsciously brings his right hand to the makeshift hilt of that rusted length of pipe in his toolbelt. It is stubborn in wanting to be removed from its equally makeshift sheath, why couldn't it have come out smoothly like it did when Nataya presented him that big question? Maybe it's because he just wants to go to sleep. He's tired. It shows in his eyes as he grumbles under his breath in a way only a man could, "we'll... uh... we'll see about that," he finally forces out an answer as he wrestles with the stubborn pipe, face blank with resignation that this might be the only way for anything to end in a way that doesn't involve a stranger running up to the Girls' Dorm and then he himself having to answer to the principal and/or Tiffany's or any other children's parents as to why he didn't/couldn't stop him. C'mon, Ol' Rusty, don't be passive aggressive to your master here.
The Native American actually seems quite interested in what the older man is doing. Then again given the lack of anything else around at this time to keep his attention that is a given. His head tilts to the side with a bit of curiousity while Rust attempts to pull that pipe out to wield properly. Though he starts to realize that maybe the older fellow is about to show that he has someskills of his own. He hops back a few steps and somehow doesn't fall over himself by doing so and he lets out a rather loud whoop. "Hell yes, battle!" he declares with way more enthusiasm than a drunkard should be able to show given how much he has had.
He claps his hands a few times and then clenches them into fists while hopping from one foot than the other and feinting a few jabs at the air. If anything oxygen is certainly afraid of those fists that are striking at it in such a vicious manner. This may not be Tiffany, but at least it is going to make the evening more entertaining for him while also being a complete pain in the dick for the man that has unfortunantly gained the attention of the boxer.
COMBATSYS: Rick has started a fight here.
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Rick 0/-------/------=|
COMBATSYS: Rust has joined the fight here.
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Rust 0/-------/-------|=------\-------\0 Rick
Most weapon wielders do not have this problem illustrated here. They also do not have any problem wielding giant weapons that spit in the face of ideals of 'leverage' or 'unwieldiness.' Ol' Rusty is roughly around the size of a typical baseball bat. Smaller than what a lot of people around the rival schools like to pull out, for those that do. And here one Howard Rust is, at a time where its use is being called for, and it is giving him a hassle.
Truth be told, he barely even sees the jabs in motion. Even in his opposition's apparent state of inebriation, those are some good, vicious punches and that kind of brings the odds a little further against him. That guy doesn't seem like a joke in the /least/, but can he compare at least in some capacity? It's too late to back out now. It's also not too late for the damned pipe to /get free/.
An angry sigh follows. Funny as the thought is given it is his weapon and his most reliable partner in any encounter, maybe he'll have to do without until he can find a minute in the interim to get it out. Meanwhile the other guy is bouncing around and punching at the air, completely ready. What's one to do?
Suck it in and fight anyway. The nipping of the biological need to sleep clamps at the teacher's heels both metaphorically and physically, his movement to close the gap following when the other guy gives him proper room for the traditional start of a fighting standoff around these parts a more than tell-tale sign of impending attack, a knee creaking yet again in the sluggish sideways shuffle closer. What if that guy just decides to throw off a couple more demonstrative punches in the air for fun? The Native American's wingspan is likely superior to his own.
In a moment of at least verifiable initiative and courage in recalling what he could've once called his claim to fame in a worst case scenario, he takes the risk anyway, thrusting out with his left hand for the back of tonight's opponent's head in an attempt to thrust him face down into the turf. Simplistic and to the point. Like laying down a brick in preparation for laying down cement upon it.
COMBATSYS: Rust successfully hits Rick with Brick Stacker.
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Rust 0/-------/-------|===----\-------\0 Rick
It might be noted Rick should be paying more attention to the man that he challenged than doing his best attempt to showboat. Despite his state of inebriation he is showing some good skills in the case of being able to fight nothing. Of course when he finally seems to realize Rust is moving in to finally do something the Native American tries to stagger forward to avoid that hand. It really isn't that helpful, though. He only really helps send himself face first into the ground like how Rust intended to do and he plants into the ground hard where he stays there for a moment.
It is a rather sobering impact. Not one to obviously clear Rick of the alcohol coursing through his veins, but enough to make him remember he is now in a fight and he should be taking things more serious. He pushes himself up onto his feet and he shakes his head about, whipping his dreadlocks about before grinning widely and bringing a right forward to jab Rust right in the stomach and then turning to bring his left hand downwards with a powerful blow to slam his fist right on top of that poor poor combover of the older fighter.
COMBATSYS: Rick successfully hits Rust with Punisher.
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Rust 0/-------/----===|====---\-------\0 Rick
That moment that Rick stays there on the ground is a moment taken to wrestle with the stubborn Ol' Rusty, grunting as he steels himself for that one, forceful tug to get it free at a time where it is needed most, his right arm low and across his abdomen as he tries to pull it out. It's kind of pathetic, in a way.
Rick, far more energetic than any drunk should be, thrusts a fist into his gut. His right forearm ends up taking the blow a bit better than it should, a result of his subconscious attempts to get his bestest friend in the whole wide world in pinches like these out and ready to do what it does best. If that were the only punch he'd be golden. He's not so lucky.
Crouching down slightly after that first one, the drunken boxer man follows up with the two for the one-two and the blow is far cleaner than the first, the overhead strike nailing him in the scalp with the reward of a loud yet unintelligible pained grunt that could go something like 'arkuph,' prevented from falling face-flat onto the turf or even on his knees because the effort made to get Ol' Rusty out has his joints all stiff, rigid, and ultimately unwilling to move too far or forcefully, which gets his eyes squeezed shut in pain and clenched teeth bared plain as day.
C'mon, Ol' Rusty, the teacher goes as he ends up having to will himself to actually move with any real fluidity as he straightens himself up to a degree he could actually throw some sort of punch or kick or any other real defense and, with yet another loud pop of a knee, lifts up his right leg to thrust it forward boot-first in a straight kick to the gut, marred largely because his body has gone into a state of 'I don't want to move or flex anything right now, try again when you don't abuse me so.'
COMBATSYS: Rick fails to interrupt Strong Kick from Rust with Hellion.
- Power fail! -
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Rust 0/-------/---====|======-\-------\0 Rick
Those are the kind of blows that make would be robbers and street thugs collapse in a moment, but the fact that Rick manages to smack Rust with those punches cleanly and the old man still stands after it is quite impressive to the Native American. Nevermind the fact he is making all the wrong assumptions thinking this guy is made of steel instead of realizing that Rust is just seized up by a body that hates him so much right now. "Now that is what I am talking about!" He seems even more pumped up about things more and he isn't even thinking as he starts to swing right into that kick with a fist that sparks up with a swath of yellow colored chi trailing along behind it. "Helli-OOMPH!"
He seemed to misjudged how he was stepping into things and given the stagger in his steps up till then it is no real surprise. That foot plants solidly into the toned torso of the Native American and drops Rick right onto his ass where he sits there for a few long moments. He looks pained, but the pain soon gives way to a grin and he starts just laughing as he leans back and just sprawls on the ground. "I like you, old man. You hit like my old uncle when I was a kid." Legs swing upwards and somehow the boxer manages to kip back up to his feet which only causes him to stumble forward and embrace Rust in a friendly if not somewhat rough attempt. "Screw this whole kid thing. Let them sleep. Lets go to the Duck Pond." he offers and if anything at least he seems to have held off on the violence for a moment.
MANHUGSYS: Rust fails to interrupt Man Hug from Rick with Feeble Squirming.
His skull still stings from that punch. The pain rings in his ears with the looming danger of having suffered a minor concussion just from that one, clean punch. The guy hits about as hard as he let on with those demonstrative swings. Rust here can at least take some solace that he can still take that kind of punch without immediately blacking out, locking up joints, droopy sleep-deprived eyes, and difficult pipe be damned. But not the aching head. The head can't be damned, it will damn back and it will hurt like a damn... damning... damned thing. Like the time years back when someone's lunchbox fell off an open gap in the floor of a building they were working on and hit him in the head. A day where he himself forgot his lunch and ended up deciding to fake it hurting more than it really did so the guy in question let him have his lunch as an apology. This is kinda sorta like that old day.
Partially hunched over from losing some of his balance after that kick, he stops himself from collapsing face flat onto the turf like some kind of complete and utter newbie to throwing a kick right around when the other guy starts laughing and talking about how much he likes him. Were the feeling mutual...
Then the Native American shirtless guy stumbles onto him in a MAN HUG which he fails to squirm out of, a legitimate attempt at shoving him off with his body weight somewhere in there losing out because of his other leg going unsteady and causing himself to stumble within th grasp. "Hey," he weakly gets out as some of the air gets squeezed out of him, followed by two coughs. He's not choking, he's tired, already a bit winded from all that work done on that light, and now that he thinks about it, kind of thirsty.
'Screw this whole kid thing, let them sleep, let's go to the Duck Pond.' He could easily agree with all but one of those, but within the powerful embrace of an all-powerful MAN HUG he is temporarily powerless.
"Ahhhhh," he groans in dismissal of his own struggle as he tries to edge himself towards the gate with Rick in tow in the end, "maybe," a desperate, risky choice of word given the stakes at hand between getting a man to leave in peace and getting himself to bed at precious cost to his precious, precious sleep hours, where would he be without them over the weekend?!
COMBATSYS: Rust takes no action.
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Rust 0/-------/---====|====---\-------\0 Rick
Maybe is just all that Rick needs to hear. For him that is acceptance to the fate that Rust is ready to go have a drink. "Good move! It will help loosen the joints." He tells the older man and that hug is at least eased up and eventually just turns to the inebriated Rick leaning slightly with an arm around Rust's shoulders once again. At least the fists are no longer flying and Rick for the first time since his arrival seems rather content with things. He is rather pushy about all of this as well in the case of him almost practically doing everything short of picking up Rust to carry him along with him towards the Duck Pond for a night out.
There is only some minor chance of escape. Perhaps Rick will get much too distracted on the way there and the poor sap stuck with him might be able to get away scot free and home to his wonderful bed. Of course if he fails to break free during that small walk he is probably going to really find out just how much energy the Native American has left in him as well as how deep his pockets are while buying shots for himself and his new found friend.
COMBATSYS: Rick successfully hits Rust with Never Gonna Beat You Up' EX.
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Rust 0/-------/---====|====---\-------\0 Rick
Mr. Rust's had some colorfully violent encounters that ended with him in the hospital. This is one of those things that would end up being a great bar story back with some of his friends in America. Wait. No, don't think about bars, c'mon, think of some clever way to ditch him, you're a college graduate and a teacher at a fairly tough international school, you have a head, use it, aaaaaaaaaargh!
Before he knows it he's not escorting Rick out the gate, he's escorting /him/ out and he feebly tries to pull the other direction. The grasp is too tight around his shoulders for him to duck out! Can he tough out the entire walk even though his body feels like shutting down to lay prone on a soft, plush, expensive mattress, earned by his own hard money, that awaits him? The answer is... no.
Howard Rust only manages to glance once out of the grasp to realize he's left the keys to the main building on the ground and the front door unlocked, his aging face growing pale at the realization that unless he can get back here before morning, he's going to be in for a hard talk. That's when the grip is reaffirmed and almost twists his head off that he ends up being a continued victim to the impromptu MEN'S LATE NIGHT OUT. His only hope, his last, faintest hope, is that the exact same bouncers with the exact same staff recognize him from when he got into that fight with that Roland guy that put him in enough trouble that he had to dedicate class time to sucker kids into building stuff he ended up breaking under the guise of a 'grade.'
His left elbow pops a few times. Can joints laugh? No. But it sure sounds like it's coming close to it as Howard Rust and Rick Strowd disappear further into Southtown at night for the sake of booze, girls, and ADVENTURE.
Log created on 22:33:39 09/06/2008 by Rick, and last modified on 02:09:50 09/07/2008.