Description: Adon is preparing for a Neo-League match in the Southtown Airport, where a team of hardworking men are busy putting together a stage for the big fight. One of the workers, Howard Rust, seems to have drawn the attention of the Two-Time NL champion. The outcome, unfortunately, is not pretty.
It's almost another basic routine Southtown day, the whole tension over in China aside. Take one Howard Rust, putting the finishing touches on some newly repaired benches. How he loathes them. Why do they break? Of all things for Pacific to skimp money on, do they really have to skimp on benches?
Then, a fateful cellphone call. One he nearly misses in fumbling around with such a tiny phone in comparison to his big ol' hands.
"Hey, is this Rust Howard?" Asks the guy over the phone.
"It's, uh, Howard Rust. Surname is Rust, uh... given is Howard."
"Oh... my mistake. Almost thought you were related t--"
"I'm not." A loud throat clearing. "So, what's up?"
"I represent the Neo League, and there was something we needed to ask y--"
"This about whether I'm still in?"
"No, no, actually... we're a bit understaffed in constructing something we need done in a few days, and... and it just came to mind you're pretty handy with construction, and..."
"Does it sound like I... I got all the time in the world for every little god damned errand?" Howard grunts. "I'm a high school teacher, y'know, and..."
"Just for one afternoon, figured... hey, you still got a few fans from that fight with... what's-his-face, Zach Glen, right? We'll pay you for the helping hand."
Howard considers very briefly what he's doing this afternoon. He decides that the benches are worth doing tomorrow.
One quick drive-through of a sub shop later, he's already in the busy Southtown Airport, wondering to himself as to why they'd even bother trying to build an arena around these parts. It sort of seems like it'd just get in the way.
To say nothing of the difficulty of getting his toolbox and, yes, Ol' Rusty through the front doors. People take airport security very seriously in today's brave new world. He's putting the finishing touches on one of the supports for the stage, shaking out his right hand every so often.
He can't work as fast nowadays, thanks to that hand injury from the invasion of Southtown, but... it's nothing he can really dwell on much any more. There's work to be done.
There was no reason for Adon to continue participating in the Neo-League. After claiming the championship in the last two tournaments, a normal, well-adjusted fighter would simply be content. But the Emperor of Muay Thai could only be content if he always won. Always came on top. Titles were everything to the Emperor. They were like beautiful women, trophies of only the most lustful of conquests. Adon lusted after winning, and the trophies that came with them. After brooding in Thailand, actively avoiding the Jinchuu out of... respect of Seishirou, Adon decided it was time to return to the fighting scene, and steal attention away from Seishirou meager, hardly worth considering championship.
Adon would have won that one too, anyways.
Adon sits in a small, fold-out throne. Built of canvas, mahogany, and gold leaf; the chair was simply a fancy director's chair to the untrained eye. But to an eye trained in the art of Muay Thai, it was a luxarious throne of the highest quality, of the likes that Sagat would weep from upon gazing on it's existence. Upon seeing the master warrior that sat in it, however, Sagat's pathetic spirit would naturally be broken.
Adon smirks at that thought.
His mind swimming with visions of Sagat crying, whimpering under the fearsome blows of his Jagga Keeks and Jagga Tooths, Adon was here at the Southshore Airport for his first championship fight in the Neo-League. He delayed at least 20 flights for this fight, having a stage built right where the international flights would be coming in. It was worth it, of course, for everyone to watch him smash a helpless fighter to the ground. As he fantasized about this wanton act of violence, something.... disrupted his concentration.
Something, or rather, SOMEONE was slowing down his epic fight.
Leaning down low before was some balding American oaf. Built like a wall, and likely as intelligent as bricks. Sneering, Adon looked down upon Rust, his nose twisted up in the air. "YOU! The man with the ever-evaporating hair! I! ADON! The EMPEROR of MUAY THAI! Two-time CHAMPION of the NEO-LEAGUE! And HERO of SOUTHSHORE, who fought off COUNTLESS HOARDS to protect the people of this fine city from the cruel and heartless INVADERS! Why you are working AS IF your HAIRLINE isn't the only thing WASTING AWAY!?"
A high-pitched cackle erupts from Adon as he makes a bald joke. Truly, he was the peak of comedic value.
Adon. He of the irritating high-pitched voice, he over the overbearing self-centered arrogant demeanor... and he of the two-time League first place finishes. It's an odd effect when you are in the presence of one of the most prominent warriors of the day. People may diss Adon's skill in comparison to Sagat's at the latter's peak. But the fact remains, even with a few losses (two, in fact) over the previous two seasons... Adon is one of today's greats. He could proclaim, today, his superiority over Sagat.
Howard Rust has been in the same room as Sagat during the invasion. He only saw occasional bits of the battle between Raizo and Sagat - just enough to know how powerful Sagat is. How powerful /Adon/ is.
These concessions made, it does not take any edge off of the hooting and hollering while the man with the worst of combovers this side of the Pacific (maybe even this side of the asteroid belt) winces at how much that voice just pierces his ears.
"Goin'... goin' as fast as I can," the tone is only vaguely apologetic. In Howard Rust's line of work, you can do things fast or you can do things right. He'd rather do this right, especially after that time he set the lighting for that young women's tournament a little too low to the stage, failing to take account of their impressive jumping heights. That's a nearly-avoided mistake he would like to not repeat!!
He declines to comment about also being around in the invasion. Lots of bad memories, there. So many bad memories. He just wants to get this stuff done. He kneels down to pick up a screwdriver with an audible crackling noise from one of his knees, trying to avoid any real eye contact. Happy thoughts, happy thoughts, you're not working on benches here, happy thoughts...
Adon's skill and existence will always be in the shadow of the great Sagat. Sagat will always be better than Adon, both spiritually and technically. But Adon, in some warped joke from a higher power, combines an overwhelming negative trait with a disturbingly positive trait. Adon, filled with ego and obnoxious screaming, indicates someone with something more than just a chip to knock off his shoulders. But being forced in the shadows of Sagat... he is also the underdog. The determinator. The man who is battling his destiny to be the forgotten footnote of Muay Thai. Behind that blaring, flaming ego... lies the black heart of someone who never gives up, and just keeps trying.
"And make sure to do it right!" Adon erupts suddenly. "Is there is one thing I can not STAND is HORRIBLE WORK from AMERICANS! I recall when I ENCOUNTERED AMERICANS in SOUTHSHORE! Like HAGGAR! Who was ATTACKING INNOCENTS!" This was technically not true in the least. Haggar was there to thump Alma, and Adon was also there to thump Alma. It ended up with Haggar thumping Adon almost flawlessly. The emperor has not held a grudge at all. Nope. Never. Adon is above grudges.
Adon continues to ramble. "As the EMPEROR of MUAY THAI, and a LIVING GOD of the likes that not even SAGAT can compare to, I! ADON! Deems that you should PUSH YOURSELF to your LIMITS! With a POWERFUL ETHIC like one MUAY THAI trains in you, even an old fool like yourself can be INVINCIBLE to sloth and weakness. I did not become a NEO-LEAGUE CHAMPION by FALLING ASLEEP and BEING LAZY! Except when fighting ALMA! AAAAAAALMA!"
Adon grits his teeth. Oh dear. Looks like a monologue in coming in.
Perhaps, in some incredibly twisted way, both Adon and Howard here are a lot alike. Aging, and always facing some steep wall in opposition of where their ultimate desires lie. Not only is Mr. Rust frequently surpassed by his own students in fighting ability, he's nearing forty years of age and the grip on his right hand is not as strong as before the invasion.
This level of insight, naturally, eludes the balding working man as he works on a screw to the pleasant tune of Adon's decrees and complaints. His face sours a little as Adon demands it be done right - it really is being done right here - and he's not gonna need to stand for HORRIBLE WORK from AMERICANS, because this is one man who is good at what he does. He may even be one of the very best you could get... from America.
Even if it's something he tends to bury under a thin layer of his fears and doubts. A thin layer of fears and doubts that parts to a balding shark fin of aggravation when the EMPEROR of MUAY THAI goes so far as to invoke Mike Goddamn Haggar.
Mike Haggar was attacking innocents? That claim alone is enough to get Mr. Rust's head turned as the rambling continues. Is that his attempt to be motivational... or pushing a fighting school on him, or... what? A low grunt escapes his throat, a visibly (if subconscious) insulting gesture as he turns his head back to the work at hand.
The screaming of Alma's name is bad enough that he even has to stop screwdriving to cover his ears for the duration of that shout.
A screw falls out of the construction, its meager, tinny echo by itself maybe enough to earn the further gritting of teeth from the Two-Time League Champion.
Why does Adon berate Rust so? Why would he brag about himself, spreading lies about his ever growing list of enemies? Why does he position himself all others? Why does he sneer, he screams, he mocks, and he belittles? Why does he break down other people? The same reason all bullies do so.
To make themselves look bigger.
Adon was becoming amused by his tirade against this lowly, faceless worker. Even as his mind picks apart Alma (literally), Adon was growing more and more ruthless and excited for his next fight. An aging man? Adon does not consider himself old. He considers himself full of life, with fast Italian cars sitting in distant warehouses, countless Thai beauties sitting idle with the cars, and constant fights to prove his vigor and strength in the Muay Thai circuit. Mid-life crisis? If mid-life came to Adon, he certainly found ways of staving off the crisis that comes with it.
Eyeing the screw that falls from the construction, Adon rises up from his chair. "Yes, even the UNIVERSE AGREES! And why would it not, you prime example of humanity. By which, I mean by that, is that you are a HAIRLESS APE!" Adon leers down at Rust. "Alma, the wretched individual of mankind. Not quite a man, not quite a woman, but a cruel, evil, cheating scoundrel! My arch rival in the Neo-League, this FOOL of a man has tried AGAIN and AGAIN to defeat me! And he has! With the most VILE TRICKS ANY MAN OR WOMAN HAS SEEN!" The emperor points at the fallen screw. "You see that screw? That screw is one of the MAN TRICKS that Alma would have used! Bribing innocent men like yourself, to rig the stage to TRY AND MURDER ME! I! ADON! THE EMPEROR OF MUAY! THE TRUE JAGUAR OF THE ULTIMATE MARTIAL ART! Could you imagine how you would look at your flabby body in the mirror, with not only your virility, body image, and robust hairstyle fading, but your own moral fiber?"
Adon raises a fist, and shakes it once. Twice. Three times at the heavens.
"CURSE YOU AAAAAAAAAAALMA!"
Adon's amusement rises. Howard's irritation matches that rise in turn, like two geysers sprouting side-by-side, unaware (or maybe even uncaring) of the opposite matching the ascent. When the balding man thinks it's safe enough for his ears to get back to work (he really should've gotten his safety earphones back from that old man Mr. Conagher, whom has become rather attached to collecting headgear in recent times).
Just in time for Adon's voice to challenge this notion of noise safety with a couple of timely insults as the man bends down with a grunt to try and pick up the tiny screw between his gloved fingers on his left hand.
This searching stops at 'HAIRLESS APE.' As Adon continues to berate and narrate (berrate?!) in perfect unison, he ignores the fallen screw Adon is pointing at as he simply packs the screwdriver in his toolbox at the time he brings up 'bribing innocent men.' All that to rig the stage to try and murder him, he says.
As Adon jeers about how he would look at his own flabby body in the mirror with his virility, body image, and 'robust' hair style fading, the world's... well, he may not be the toughest working man (maybe in the Top 1000... maybe) dares to walk to Adon's waiting throne, toolbox held in his left hand. His steps are slow and deliberate, a pause every so often as a joint or his back complain. He's already had a full day of work on his day job.
"We got a... we got a saying back in America." He tries to speak above Adon's screech with his gravelly, tired voice - a quest of futility in itself. Several other workers look Howard's way, as if wondering what the hell he's even trying to do.
"You want the job done right?" He dares to look the champion in the face. If the two were standing on level ground, they would in fact be the exact same height. The Two-Time League Champion, and the aging, tired, overweight thick faceless worker who barely got anywhere in the one season he appeared in (albeit across a series of four nail-biting fights).
At which point he politely drops the toolbox in front of Adon's feet. "You do it yourself." Mr. Rust drops no smug mocking smile for Adon. It is, by all means, a serious invitation from a man who spent most of his early adult years tirelessly working across rough weather, low wages, and broken hopes.
"And I want these back when you're done with it," he adds, "these aren't... these aren't cheap tools."
The toolbox is dropped in front of the emperor. Adon's head was twisted up now. Even though he and Rust were of the same height... Adon worked hard to make him still try and look down on him. It was like a reflex. The Emperor was given a threat to his position. A dangerous threat, in his own mind. To be brought on the same level as this LAYMAN was the grandest insult. In most cases, he would have simply smashed Rust asunder into the very construct being built.
But Adon unfortunately shared a similar background with Rust.
Adon's early adult years were spent with endless hours in the Thailand mountains and jungles. The brutal heat, the storming monsoon seasons, all were part of his early years of Muay Thai. Wages? There was no pay for Adon's work. If he proved himself over his peers, he would earn some fish with his rice. The excesses Adon enjoyed now were not given when Sagat was the Emperor, either. A simple life of Muay Thai was what Adon lived with. As for broken hopes... well, Adon's hopes never were broken. His grandest hope, to be the strongest fighter that ever lived, was some maligned, mishealed bone of his spirit, not broken, but poorly put together. Adon knew the value of hard work.
And there was nothing more flattering than a challenge.
"KYAHAHAHAHH!" Came the scream as Adon burst into a short peal of laughter. Hands on his hips, he was standing erect. Twisting his face again to that tight, nasty sneer, he looked upon the challenger. "You are a brave fool of a man to challenge I! ADON! The EMPEROR OF MUAY THAI! To a contest of the grandest fighting stage. I recall MY younger days, when we were MADE to build our own fighting arenas! If I was made to build my own stage, it would not be with steel, wood, and bolts. No, it would be the TRUE MUAY ARENA! ROPE! DIRT! SALT! AND POSTS!" Adon sweeps his hand around... and places it upon Rust's shoulders.
Adon begins to smiles warmly. "I can respect a strong sense of pride and honor in your work! Just because I am the EMPEROR does not mean I cannot FEEL for other men. There is a saying in Muay Thai! 'Success is the journey, not the destination!'" Adon pats him on the shoulder. "What is your name, American?"
Howard likely already has a bit of hearing loss from his earlier years working with loud and noisy equipment. Being this close to Adon and his screechy, screamy voice might push up his minimum audible decibel level a good one or two points in the process. A scream that is not interpreted as from one with similar origins and, ultimately, identical aims.
It's loud enough from here that Mr. Rust flinches as the pain echoes in his skull, but doesn't reach up and cover his ears in case... say... he gets that toolbox flung at him for his trouble. This flinch aside, he stands tall to the declaration. A brave fool of a man to challenge... ouch, ouch, the OUCH of OUCH poor ears. But to drown out the words because of the volume is a foolish mistake - Adon is an incredibly skilled warrior by virtually any and all definitions.
He built his own arenas, huh, Howard tries to think to himself (but has some problems hearing himself think over Adon's voice). Rope, dirt, salt, and posts, huh--
And then Adon places his hand on his shoulder. There is no describing this feeling, the feeling when you are being addressed by someone of Adon's prestige in this manner. When you can really look at them, face to face. Even through his thick, powerful shoulder, he can feel Adon's strength in that hand on his shoulder. It's a life experience he won't ever forget.
To say nothing of that smile, and the... respectful words? This takes the American man right off guard, his tension and irritation fading and making way to, of all things, a bit of nervousness. Maybe the whole bravado thing is just a stage personality...?
The patting prompts him to speak. "It's, ah, Howard--" He clears his throat. "'scuse me. Howard Rust."
"Howard Rust. Well." Adon begins, his voice growing more and more calm. "It is an honor to meet someone with such quiet passion like yourself. You know, even I was once a lowly man like yourself." Adon winks. "How about I let you on a little secret. A tip from an master fighter like myself." The Emperor leans in, bringing himself closer to Rust's ear. And in it, he whispers in a hissing voice.
"NOBODY INSULTS THE EMPEROR OF MUAY THAI"
Adon's grip on Rust's shoulder tightens into a vicegrip. His other hand suddenly snaps around, getting another tight grip on Rust's side. With Rust fixed into place, Adon unleashes his sneak attack. A swift, powerful knee launches towards Rust's abdomen, unleashing Muay Thai rage in an insidious, violet blow. With the force to shatter bones, Adon would only let go once he felt the impact of the blow against his victim. The warm smile on his face was gone now.
In it's place, was a smug, feral grin.
An honor to meet someone with such quiet passion like himself. He's had compliments in passing from people in high positions in society before (zero of which came from the Pacific High's international top brass). Once a lowly man like him, huh. Well, he guesses everyone's got a beginning. He nods at the idea of receiving a tip, he could use a good tip or two--
This proves to be a very valuable tip, what's given, for the amount he can actually recognize when Adon screams in his ear and his shoulder is clamped down upon. That he can feel the clamping at all is one of Adon's many testaments of his strength. Rust makes a great mistake that further displays the difference in raw skill between the two men.
Unable to mentally process where Adon's other hand is going to try and fix him in place, he puts more of his strength on his right side, trying to force off Adon's arm with his right hand - something he doesn't get the chance to do as Adon smashes the knee cleanly into his abdomen.
There is a loud crack to announce the successful deployment of one of Muay Thai's eight great weapons against a traditionally soft target on the human body, Howard's eyes bulging wide as he takes a good three steps back upon Adon's release.
Unlike ordinary day-to-day folks Adon inspires such fear and adoration from, he doesn't crumple down into a helpless heap as a little blood trickles out of the man's cheek - having bit down on it fairly hard at the moment of impact.
With an angry wheeze, Howard rights himself up as his right hand gets that itchy, familiar reflex to draw that rusted length of pipe sheathed through a once-functional toolbelt pocket that didn't deserve a hole ripped through its bottom just to accommodate it.
"You... you son of a bitch!" Howard curses as Ol' Rusty is drawn in a smooth motion, held high only because no less than four officials have jumped him to restrain him - two of them alone have wrestled his right arm up high so he can't start swinging it around. The other two start to pull him away.
They may need a fifth, given the anger in this man's eyes that stand in complete contrast to Adon's shit-eating grin. "L-Let go of me!"
The demand falls on deaf ears.
Adon wanted to wound more than just Rust's body. If that was the case, the fact that Rust did not fall to the ground would have been more insulting than the case of tools. No, he wanted to wound his ego. He wanted to make Rust open himself up just long enough for Adon to drive the knife in. Rust's anger right now is sweet ambrosia to the Emperor. The bully wanted a reaction. And he got it. So what does he do when Rust threatens his life with a pipe?
Laugh.
"KYAHAHAHAH! Take him away, boys. It seems that RUST HOWARD here is in NO CONDITION to WORK! Maybe he can build another set for my fights when he COOLS OFF!" He leans forward a bit, letting his chin stick out, offering a restrained Rust a free strike. With sneer, he tells his victim in only the most condescending of tones, "I hope you take my tip to heart, RUST HOWARD. Or rather... to STOMACH!"
don tilts his head back, and unleashes another peal of cackling, arms crossed.
Adon certainly pulls a lot more sway in the Neo League as a top tier warrior - after all, he's expecting a fight! Howard Rust, in comparison, is more or less a nobody... or a curious footnote, at most. At most.
Right now, he's an angry mass of middle-aged American struggling to pull himself out of the grip of those officials escorting him out of the airport.
As the anger-driven adrenaline fades, the sting of that one precise knee strike grows stronger. The lingering pain over the next day or two will remain a strong reminder of where the two stand. Tough a man as he may be, Howard is no match for the Emperor of Muay Thai.
Politely dismissed by the officials in question once he's out the front doors, Mr. Rust can only stare angrily into the airport before simply shaking his head and deciding he might as well spend the night drinking. Much too upset to bother with his cracked ribs or the bleeding from one side of his mouth, it's just another one of those days.
It's doubtful he's ever going to see that toolbox again, at that.
Log created on 17:54:45 08/12/2010 by Adon, and last modified on 22:00:40 08/12/2010.