Description: Neo League is back, and on the beach! What do you mean it's been back for a while now? Smoke you! Speaking of smoking (hot), watch Alan fight Preston in a SHIRTLESS SPECTACULAR!! Who will take home the bigger prize money, and more importantly, the hearts of women all over the world! Don't read the end of this sentence if you want it to be a surprise! I warned you! (Winner: Alan) (ps: alan is ugly)
It's a new Neo League season, and the board wants to start it off with a bang. Demographics need to be pulled in. Namely, the squealing young girl demographic - they are distractable, and the best way to get their attention is to parade some shirtless men around.
The easiest way to get Alan to parade around shirtless is to give him more money. Even in the dark future where Alan is forced to think about how his life has led to this point, he is still in the habit of shoving money into his mouth and chewing it up and swallowing it.
The American boxer lounges on the beach, passing time until the fight by staring out at the sun, just beginning to sink beneath the waves of the ocean. All he's wearing is a pair of board shorts and his iron rings, his cigarette case sticking out of a pocket on the back. The shorts are black, with yellow lightning bolt designs along the waist band and bottoms of the legs - four lightning bolts converge to point directly at his crotch, with LIGHTNING ROD written across the front in yellow letters. Faint crackles of electricity dance along all of his exposed skin.
Squinting into the sun, Alan smokes his cigarette down to ash, dropping the butt into the sand and immediately snapping open his case to get another one. Three butts sit scattered around him, and he really hasn't been there that long. He's silent. That's weird!
"Wait, wait. Seriously, fuckin' wait a second."
It's a British voice. This cannot actually be heard, because it's a flashback without a banner to announce said time skip at the start of it. Let's say it's about five minutes ago, that's a good number. The burly young man stands as he typically does, tall and burly, and he's surrounded by people associated with the event itself. They are applying makeup and oil to his body. They assure him it is so he will look properly tanned on camera, and not like a pasty British boy. He pointed out that he's somewhat heavily tanned already, but they simply smiled creepily up at him and kept on rubbing oil in.
It left Preston Alistair Wellington the II feeling vaguely uncomfortable, like that gym teacher back in England made him feel vaguely uncomfortable during the rope climb exercise.
"I said fuckin' wait! You mean to tell me that...
"They're gonna fuckin' pay me to be shirtless?"
The metaposing camera pans back to an already shirtless Brit.
Time flows as it tends to do, and as the bell tolls on the romantic sun-setting battle between fleshly mounds of manmeat, Preston ambles up to the area set aside for the fight itself. As always, that massive oar of his is slung across his shoulders, a meaty arm lazily loped over it. He eyes his opponent, clear hazel eyes slowly closing into a squint. A smoker. Lightning pants. This guy... he remembers this guy, right?
"Don't know who the fuck you are, but I hope you're fuckin' ready," he rather charmingly ignores the memory that threatened to trigger, having hit B to cancel his evolution. The oar comes off his shoulders, and he casually gestures for the man to 'bring it on,' as the cheerleaders in movies like to say.
Tall, heavily muscled, glistening... and wearing hot pink short-shorts, it's clear that Preston had little to no say in his wardrobe. Behind him, the crowd parts to allow the make-up and costume artists to come to the fore. They all wear incredibly creepy smiles and they rub their oiled hands together in front of him as a chorus of 'kuukuukuu' chuckles come from them.
Someone presented some shorts to Alan R.B. as he was being prepared for the fight. They were spandex bike shorts that would have gone to mid-thigh. Mid-thigh: Somehow gayer than the banana hammock. Of course he punched that guy in the face. He's a fighter! They can't sue him, it's all he knows!
The markedly smaller and lighter boxer flicks more ash from his cigarette, adding to the beach. It's a public service. Bereft of his sunglasses for once, the man's pale grey eyes (way cooler than 'clear hazel' come on) roll toward Preston on the approach... and immediately roll skyward. Inwardly, Alan shakes himself free of his introspection. It's go time. "Oh man, if I had known you were a fairy during the junior championships, I would've punched you out first. No wonder you grabbed my dick!" Did he? Who knows! Alan turns, leading foot throwing out an arc of sand.
He stretches his neck, rolls his shoulders, and perches his cigarette in between his lips. Shaking sand off his right hand, he runs it back through his blonde hair, a static charge pinning down anything errant from the wind of the beach. "If you start trying to stick a finger in my ass, big boy, I am sueing for sexual harrassment /so hard./ I will not even hes- -itate."
Somewhere between hes and itate, Alan moved. Sand flew up into the air in two wide arcs as he just sprinted across the intervening distance. A man at a desk hurriedly bangs the starting bell, just in time for Alan's fists to come hammering in, two strikes for Preston's ribs, with the boxer immediately circling around to try and stay close, stay inside the oar's reach. "Oh, wait, did you ask me if I was ready? Ha ha, I guess I should've said somethin' first!"
COMBATSYS: Alan has started a fight here.
COMBATSYS: Preston has joined the fight here.
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Alan 0/-------/-------|-------\-------\0 Preston
COMBATSYS: Preston blocks Alan's Rapid Combo.
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Alan 0/-------/-------|-------\-------\0 Preston
"What, we've met before?" Preston may be playing dense, he may actually be dense, but it's more likely that he's playing dense rather than actually is dense. If you follow that, good for you! The denial allows the boy to casually forget that he may indeed have grabbed this man by the dong in a prior battle; there's been so many (battles, that is), who can say if it's fact or fiction? Probably Jonathan Drake, but he isn't here right now.
Speaking of following, the boy's (superior) clear hazel gaze follows the rapid approach of the Boxer, and when those punches come, they're met by the burly arm of the burly Brit, whose burly bicep refuses to burly buckle under such a weak start, even if the fists are laced with some hidden power!
"Ooooh, fuckin' ticklin' me early, you are," he replies, his large, bare (and burly) feet shifting through the sand as he twists to keep up with the circling Alan. This isn't David vs Goliath, and staying inside the oar's reach would be more applicable if, say, it were a spear.
The massive (burly) length of the oar shifts, the shaft running through the Brit's hand as he shortens the available length. It becomes a glorified spade, and with the flat of the blade he seeks to retaliate against the darting Boxer in the best way he knows how.
That is, of course, by applying blunt trauma to Alan's face, as he again shifts his grip to ensure that he's delivering an open-hand slap. It just happens to be one powered by a massively muscled arm, and for a palm there's actually a wooden oar!
COMBATSYS: Preston successfully hits Alan with Medium Strike.
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Alan 0/-------/------=|=------\-------\0 Preston
Even so, Preston has to take time to slide his hand up his thick, hard wood, no matter how accustomed he is to performing the motion while another man is so close to him, close enough to smell the expensive coconut shampoo he used to wash his hair. Alan spies the homoerotic motion, and he simply sways back, moving with amazing reflexes to weave down and under.
The oar proceeds to clip him on the temple anyway with a satisfying crack, turning Alan half around even as he completes his motion. "Ow, damn!" He puts a finger to his face and it comes away dry - nice, he didn't need to have one eye blinded so soon. The boxer continues to turn, as though he were dazed from the hit. THE PERCEPTIVE (probably not preston) will notice that his right arm hangs loosely, electricity spiraling down into his fist.
"Arright, redcoat..." All at once, his dazed twirl ends, as he's used his spin to put himself at Preston's side with a potential shot at his back. His body moves like a whip as he pulls his arm out of relaxation, whirls across to put his right side forward, slamming his fist out at Preston's ribs. Electricity crackles around his fist in a wave, and as Preston is unlikely to be moved much, the force of the blow shoves /Alan/ back across the sand. "Call that one a fucking tickle!"
PS: He's not wearing a shirt! Pay attention, ladies.
COMBATSYS: Preston endures Alan's Straight Punch.
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Alan 0/-------/-----==|====---\-------\0 Preston
It sounds suspiciously like a challenge, what Alan has to say as that punch is delivered for his short ribs! Whether his hazel gaze noted the arm crackling with energy before or not, it doesn't matter much once the gauntlet is thrown down. He twists to take the strike a bit more full-on rather than to his side, but the effect is rather impressive nonetheless!
The energy lances right through his tall timber body, and while it drives Alan back a good distance, it does not leave the mountain of muscle entirely unmoved. He's shifted back half a step, but his toes have dug in; he has no intention of simply staying still!
Surging forward even as the crackling power continues to warp through his body and hurt him right down to the nerves, the pained expression that crosses the young man's face parts in favor of sheer anger. He heaves a snort, like a bull that's seeing red, and he's fully intent on drawing a plethora of red from Alan's body. Halfway through his charge, he casually moves his head to one side, blowing smoke that has somehow generated within his body from the strike out.
"Fuck your tickle, and fuck you!" Preston roars the words as, like an avalanche of meat, he tumbles down on Alan. The gap between strikes is remarkably short; Alan should barely be coming to a rest from the blow-back by the time the Brit is on him!
His intent proves remarkably simple though. Grab Alan by the neck, pinch deep with steel-like fingers, and then rather unceremoniously cowtip the man into a slam onto the unforgiving(??) soft(??) sands. But wait, there's more! Blue-white chi will lance down his arm, for a remarkably(??) wet(??) and painful strike right into Alan's face!
Yeah, right in his face, like some kind of porn star.
COMBATSYS: Preston successfully hits Alan with Keelhauling.
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Alan 0/-------/=======|=======\-------\0 Preston
Alan tries to just slap the oncoming hand like a woman slaps an oncoming rape, feet digging into the sand, getting ready to spring away. But Alan is used to fighting in boots! This barefoot thing throws him off! Also Preston is not super slow or anything. Sand flies as the boxer is slammed down hard, the larger man asserting dominance over the smaller, as legions of lonely girls have decided is only right and proper. He immediately reaches up and grabs Preston's wrist, electricity dancing up his arm...
Sand jumps again in a shockwave under Alan's face as he is splashed upon, falling down and immediately crusting onto him. He spits. "Shit, man, I know you love me, but you don't gotta just throw me around out in the open like this!" Still on the ground, Alan lifts his legs and throws back his arms, like he's preparing to post up. "Use some willpower! Resist this hot ass, which you're not getting anyway..."
Then, lightning swirls around him, as he erupts from 'prone on the ground' to 'somersaulting through the air.' "TURBINE!" He hammers past Preston, not foolish enough to charge right into someone - the real danger comes from the tremendous wake of chi following behind him. He slams back into the ground, skidding across the sand, and reaches up to wipe all that nasty sand from his face, spitting water again. "Since I'm /pretty sure/ you're not a hot chick in a ridiculous muscle suit." Alan takes a moment to straighten and finger gun toward a camerawoman, whose reaction is completely hidden by her enormous filming equipment.
Let's assume she wants him.
COMBATSYS: Alan successfully hits Preston with Turbine.
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Alan 1/------=/=======|=======\==-----\1 Preston
There's little more than a smirk on the face of the Brit as all of those fancy words come out of the pinned-by-the-neck Alan's mouth. His mouth opens to reply, but instead he's finding himself caught in the wake of the sudden flurry of energy that spirals out of the Boxer's body as the boxer makes good on an exit -- stage up and spinning!
Caught in the spiral, the Brit tumbles backwards, teetering but refusing to fall down. The chi-based electricity laces across his body, muscles twitching and spasming to the point where the crowd cheers at the mighty pec-dance that's going on by Preston.
"Yeah! Shake it, man!"
"Fuck look at his pecs! Awesome!"
"Oh god his pecs are way better than Alan's!"
Whether the crowd is in fact composed of relatives of Preston's or not remains a matter that won't be answered. The burly Brit's arms pinwheel as he maintains his balance, and he turns to pin Alan with a glaring squint. "Believe me, I'd much rather be fuckin' around with a hot piece of ass, but if you're what the League wants to give you, you better believe you're on the way to shit creek, son."
In the crowd, a record screeches, the cheering masses pausing for a moment.
In the fight, Preston Alistair Wellington the II scrapes a foot through the sand, a heavy snort leaving his nose. Somehow, more smoke appears, likely due to the electrocution he just experienced. Charging forward, the young man slams his head down for Alan's collarbone, intent on goring the Boxer on his proverbial horns!
And should the goring prove successful, he'll follow it up with a thunderous uppercut, that mighty fist surging up to clear the matador from his nonexistent horns!
Ålân R.B., before anything else, takes a moment to screw one eye up, his other eyebrow arcing tremendously upward, while his mouth bends down into a displeased frown.
COMBATSYS: Preston successfully hits Alan with Bull of Barney.
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Alan 1/-======/=======|=------\-------\0 Preston
The beauty of this matchup is that Alan and Preston appeal to two entirely different flavors of squealy girls! Some go for the rippling Stathamey meat of the oar-wielding Brit, while the leaner, crafted, Pittian musculature of Alan R.B. finds it own place on the posters of fight fans everywhere. Let's just agree that both of these men are prime pieces of dude that are DEFINITELY not about to kiss each other.
Well, Alan's not about to kiss Preston. The limey bastard just put his side of the equation into doubt with that last statement, which throws him off his game long enough to distract him from the charge, even with the cloud of ambient chi still crackling around him. At the last second, he tries to do something about it, hand dropping down at Preston's shoulder, trying to push back with his own momentum and defeat the attack entirely.
IT DOES NOT WORK
"Gurlahcht!" Alan remarks, as Preston's big dumb head crashes in, possibly cracking his collarbone, and definitely raising a tremendous bruise that begins purpling immediately. He doesn't even have the time to dart back as Preston's fist crashes in immediately after, playing the xylophone on Alan's abs as the fist tears on up him and flings him crackling skyward, half-smoked cigarette buzzing off past Preston's head.
Time slows down for the boxer. This keeps happening to him - he's attained a sort of focus for when he's sent flying into the air. The boxer presses hish and against his chest, with a wince. Ribs cracked. Collarbone just hurts, he can still move his arms. He reaches the apex of the launch, lightning flashing around him as he throws himself into a roll, TECH RECOVERING and turning to face Preston down there. Before he starts falling again, he reaches into his back pocket, clicks open his cigarette case, and slips another black and gold into his mouth. Smoke plumes out of his nose - delicious.
From the ground, Alan's arm suddenly lights up as he relaxes it, letting it trail behind him as he drops. More chi crackles around his legs, giving him a nice comet-like appearance. He yells something. Clover dark? Mover spark? Fucking shark? Abruptly, the chi around his feet blasts backwards, a huge lightning bolt propelling him down fist-first at absurd speeds. Electricity crackles around him in another wide cloud as he tries to crunch right into Preston's face.
COMBATSYS: Alan successfully hits Preston with Overcharge.
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Alan 0/-------/-======|======-\-------\0 Preston
There's something really, really satisfying about the feel of a person's collarbone against his forehead. Don't ask Preston too much about it, but the clean feel of the strike, it's really quite... stimulating. Those short-shorts stretch as he follows-through with the uppercut, sending Alan flying!
But then the Boxer lands, and it's clear the fight isn't over just yet. The burly Brit chews on something inside his mouth, and he slowly squints as the opponent's limbs are taken by electricity. And then oh, oh, what the fuck is--
The rest of the question never gets out of Preston's mouth, because there's a fist slamming into the side of his jaw. The jaw itself seems to shift dramatically to one side, the man's entire face scrunching and smooshing like some kind of Daniel Craig as the strike, the full fury of it, plays out across the young man's countenance. He experiences pain, delight, and a lot of pain. His mouth opens, and a small white and yellow object shoots out.
Was that a fucking tooth?!
Finally, the timber falls. Knocked off his feet, the Pacific High student lands on his rump, bouncing once, looking rather groggy for a moment. He gingerly touches his jaw while casting a baleful glare at the Boxer, and then he fingers his own mouth like some kind of sexual pervert.
A hand rummages in the sand, and that object is collected, then placed into his mouth, swished about, and then spat back out. "That was your fuckin' cigarette butt." The one that was lost during the uppercut. How the hell did it get into his mouth? When this goes to air, the broadcasters show an extreme slow-mo of the instant where the half-smoked cigarette buzzes past Preston's head. The Brit's head snaps to one side, cleanly collecting the still-smoking cancer stick.
Clambering back to his feet, Preston leans his neck to one side, a loud crack issued. With oar in hand, he deems it time to try and end this fight -- and send Alan out to sea! Fully aware that he doesn't have much left in him, the Brit does the sensible thing.
He puts his all into one strike. With a narrowing of his eyes, he leaps, the distance disappearing far faster than it should for a man of his size and musculature. As he leaps, he spins neatly once, the oar held out wide to one side, blade flat to allow it to cleanly slice through the air. He gains as much momentum as he can, for when he lands in front of Alan, that oar is going to come whistling through for one purpose, and one purpose alone. The blade snaps out, the broad expanse of it seeking Alan out, seeking to send the--
COMBATSYS: Alan dodges Preston's Man Overboard!.
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Alan 0/-------/-======|-------\-------\0 Preston
"Good shit, right?" Alan asks of the cigarette. Nat Sherman Black and Gold. Five packs with like 8 cigarettes each costs over sixty bucks. These are not cigarettes to be chain-smoked unless you roll in dirty, dirty money. He nods once, as he tries to put his hands up. His chest is a horrible bruise from that last assault, a welt is rising on his handsome head, and the knuckles of his right hand burst from that last punch. His boxing stance is loose as hell, and he sways on his feet.
The narrowing of the eyes is what gives it away for Alan. At this distance, it's either a charge or a projectile, and so Alan drops his right hand, preparing for one of the two as electricity crackles down into the palm of his hand. But--! Preston jumps, and the boxer takes one staggered step back, gathering his legs. He only has one second for this.
The oar slices in, and Alan springs up, a small crackle of electricity still connecting him to the ground. That crackle is obliterated in a beautiful spray of sparks as Preston smashes through it, and Alan's feet come down on the edge of the board (where he expected a broad expanse). He doesn't keep his balance, and topples down, crashing shoulder-first to the ground. Not too bad, all told. His legs relatively unassaulted, he has no problems whipping them out to spin to his feet, though he's dizzied now, having to focus to keep Preston from splitting into two images. "Ha ha... whew!" Alan exhales a plume of smoke, sneering at Preston as he falls back into a controlled roll.
Up on his feet, Alan's right arm snaps up and across, fingers snapping. "Strike!" He managed to keep the chi gathered that whole time, and a bolt of lightning springs out, hungry for Preston's supple flesh. "...Twice!" He does it again, still staggering back to get some distance, another twisting bolt crackling through the air.
COMBATSYS: Alan successfully hits Preston with Lightning Strikes Twice.
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Alan 1/-------/=======|==-----\-------\0 Preston
He's slicing--air! And electricity!
That's not right, that's not right at all! There's a half-strangled grunt from the burly Brit as he fails to strike the target, the elusive Alan proving just that; terribly elusive! He hops on one foot, all of that inertia twisting him to one side since he didn't connect. The sudden weight on the end of the oar causes it to teeter as well, dumping the Boxer down onto the sand.
Bringing the length of the oar back up overhead, the Brit fully intends on ending this -- only Alan has other plans! "Fuck," he actually manages to get the expletive out, as the censor again gets to push his button, the combatant making a flying leap to one side.
Well, it doesn't really help that it's practically a slow-motion dive, and the lightning indeed catches its mark not once, not twice, but thri--oh, oh... just twice. Just twice, Alan? Where's that legendary stamina?!
Knocked down onto his knees, which may be just as Alan likes it, Preston spends a moment considering whether it's worth making one last strike. Then he shakes his head, and decides that it fucking well is; hurting people, especially this boxer who thinks his shorts are better, is always a good idea!
So without further adieu, he declares; "Looks like you win, son!"
He then underlines the relationship between father and son like so many others, with an oversized wooden spoon. Rising to one foot, he thrusts the oar out at Alan, intent on knocking him square in the sternum -- and sending the Boxer flat on his ass!
Well of course he's a sore loser like that, he's British!
COMBATSYS: Preston can no longer fight.
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COMBATSYS: Alan dodges Preston's Bunting Tosser.
[ \\\\\\\\ <
That would be child's play for Alan to dodge if he wasn't already exhausted - not that the fight dragged on, but the two of them expended themselves like exploding meteors. The boxer therefore can't look amazing at all, just shucking back and falling on purpose, letting the oar slam out into open space. He rolls back to his feet, getting more sand in his hair and face, starting to brush off his chest but wincing as he hits the bruises. "Whooof... you hit too hard, you big fat son of a bitch."
Discarding his most recent spent butt, as the announcer starts to read off the win speech, Alan staggers over to a child's bucket left half-buried in the sand. He digs it out, thumps it empty, and takes it over to the surf, standing up to midcalf in the red light of the setting sun to fill it with water.
He then tosses this water full into his own face. Rivulets crackle as they run down his skin, exciting the already-present electricity and setting him with a shining light that rivals the sun itself, briefly. Then, glistening like a god of rock and roll, he looks directly at the camera and winks. "God damn, I am fuckin' amazing."
COMBATSYS: Alan successfully hits Alan with Small Thrown Object.
~~ Alluring Hit! ~~
[ \\\\\ <
COMBATSYS: Alan has ended the fight here.
And as the credits roll, a voice in the background reminds Alan. "Uuuh no, you're fuckin' not." It's Preston, back on his feet. He shakes the oar threateningly in the background as Alan gets all the spotlight. This isn't over, his shaking says.
This isn't over by a long shot, the shaking adds.
This isn't over AT ALL, the shaking finishes.
Ålân R.B. so pretty
Log created on 00:52:47 06/29/2009 by Preston, and last modified on 13:00:44 06/29/2009.