Description: Although they may not have the mass appeal of scantily clad women, or flashy pretty boys, there's still a significant audience for seeing burly men beat the crap out of each other. And the more over the top the beating, the better. And thus Rust and MURDERHOUSE are being sent to a fully stocked home improvement store, with anything you could ever want to smack another human being with, from hammers and planks to chainsaws. Or even just crashing an entire shelving unit down on your opponent. (winner: MURDERHOUSE)
It appeared the higher ups had been listening, because Mick was taken away from the dancefights, the stupid gimmicks held by gaudy and oh so self important men and women who ended up being wear'n'tear for the knuckles of Mick's gloves. Now, he was being sent to a joyous, wonderful place...to some. "Big Box" Home Improvement Store, one of many chains opening up all over the US, another friendly buggering for the ma'n'pop stores that just couldn't compete with low prices and dangerously cut corners.
Of course, Mick didn't know any of this, but one look at the many people gathered, he already didn't like it. He wore that white hockey mask that still carried damage from his first fight against Ryu, that spiderweb fracture on one side, that he almost wore like a trophy. Below the mask was casual today, when wasn't it? Black sleeveless shirt, Danzig. Blue jeans, ripped at the knees, steel-toe boots and heavy fingerless gloves, with steel plates fastened over the knuckles. In this spacious, home of home improvement. He didn't like the fancy paint, the fake smiles, the goddamn creepy hundred foot tall hammer mascot grinning down against one of the walls. He didn't like the wacky 'designer' sections of the store, so was doing his part before the fight even started, horrifying workers and managers who just had to stand there with fixed smiles, as Mick "looked" for key weapons. Smashing registers against the floor, tipping tables over, grabbing employee of the month pictures off the wall and smashing them against said wall...Mick was a busy man, preparing for the fight in his own, special way...
The modern day Howard Rust, junior Kyokugen instructor and fighter at large... one would imagine he'd be more excited about the whole picture. The whole thing about now being able to fight as his primary job, the excitement of traveling to various locales, to fight interesting people... not that he really has a choice in the matter, given that's how fighters get their money! That whole trip to Africa for King of Fighters was a complete recipe for disaster, part of which has still stuck with him.
Being around the holidays, there's always the worries about maybe being able to stop by and visit his dad a couple states over, even knowing that place is pretty much a nowheresville dead-end and a bit of a downer to return to. For being his first actual Saturday Night Fight after years of having to deal with his previous career and his dreams in a precarious balance, he should be excited.
Now he's all wound up and worried about travel fees and everything, a beige towel atop his head after a last-minute shower prior to coming to the site of one of the big Christmas fights. Everything's different now. It's what he's always wanted, but he can't escape the little worries. He's tired from the plane ride, doubly irritated from having to deal with American airport security over Ol' Rusty, vexed at having to field calls to officials about how his health information is up to date...
On some level, he seems almost defeated right before he steps up into the night's fighting ring... "Big Box." Maybe he just needs to give up and hire an agent already, he sighs outwardly under his breath as the towel obscures his head, walking into the store to the sound of things falling, things breaking...
To most men, walking into a place like this is coming to a small candy store as he lifts the towel up high enough to actually see where he's going. His mouth hangs open a little as he spies the broken racks, the smashed registers... glass everywhere, paint spilled.
He might be easy to miss compared to the intimidatingly tall man of the mysterious cracked hockey mask, and it doesn't immediately cross the karate gi- and work clothing-clad man that this guy is actually his opponent who's smashing that Employee of the Month frame on the floor right in front of him.
"Uh," he coughs once and clears his throat without patting his chest, "what the... what the hell are you doin'," he asks in a somewhat mumbly, understated voice, "did I just, just walk into a robbery or somethin'?" He waves his left hand about with his pointer finger as if he really needed the clarification for what should be plain and obvious in front of himself.
He heard the mumble, the sound of someone challenging him. It didn't matter if it came from a trickling watergun or a goddamn sniper rifle, it was a shot fired, and the seven foot Irish monster immediately spun around to glare at the little man, his black hair kept out of his face by that hockey mask. Unblinking eyes with only pupils, no irises regarded the pipe-wielding brawler, and after a moment he grunted and turned to completely face his foe.
"Howard Rust, right? Thought you'd be a pint bigger, littleman. And I ain't no robber, and yer dancepartner, ain't that nice?"
Rust might not be able to tell, but Mick was grinning under that hockeymask, adjusting his right elbow pad, and beginning to stalk around his opponent.
"You ready? Have a nice shower, huh?"
There's always that kind of air that comes with someone really and truly staring you down like they mean it. Even if the smaller, older man can't clearly see those eyes through the mask (unless those pupil-less eyes are, in fact, his eyes - he can't tell), he can feel their weight.
There is a momentary pause as his name is addressed, a mumbled "yeah" in confirmation of who he is as he grumbled inaudibly at just the sheer idea. He breaks away from the stare, losing the staring contest outright as he points a thumb over to the circling HOUSE of MURDER over to some guys with cameras, as if to say... 'really?'
Unimpressed, nonplussed, or pissed? It's hard to tell from body language alone as his elbow pops, flexing his left arm to roll out another worrying kink in his shoulder as he takes a couple aimless steps away.
"So, uh, lemme... lemme get this straight," he says, "you just, you just... trashed a store while you, you were... y'know, uh, waitin' for me," it's as though he can't even comprehend why anyone would do that. Seriously, if this is sanctioned by Ken Masters or whoever's got a hold of the SNF franchise now, he thinks it's a good idea to write a nasty letter.
Stopping in his aimless tracks to turn around and try to face the bigger, seemingly nastier, seemingly stronger man of the two, the older of the two fighters present takes the towel off his head with a flourish that approaches dramatic.
Cameras suddenly see it. Some people gasp. Some start laughing.
A dark purple mass of... something hairy atop his scalp. Some kind of beret, or small flat cap? It parts awkwardly around the left side of his head, a small flap sticking out and hanging very loosely.
A few small children shriek in terror watching this stuff in the comfort of their homes. Some women faint. People with drinks spew everywhere. It will be the talk of fighting news to come - what the hell did this man put on his head?
"The hell's wrong with y--" Howard scolds before a nearby mirror shatters without apparent rhyme or reason, a momentary flinch at the loud shattering sound before settling his right hand atop the makeshift hilt of the rusted length of pipe shoved through a toolbelt pocket attached to a green martial arts belt, "the hell's wrong with you? It's a god damn recession, you wanna... you wanna put people like this out of, out of business or somethin'?"
one of the camera lenses crack when a cameraman tries to get a good focus on the back of Howard's head. /What the hell is that?/
COMBATSYS: MURDERHOUSE has started a fight here.
[\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ <
MURDERHOUSE 0/-------/-------|
COMBATSYS: Rust has joined the fight here.
[\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > //////////////////////////////]
MURDERHOUSE 0/-------/-------|-------\-------\0 Rust
Mick continued stalking back and forth, his own, healthy and long black hair about above his shoulders, his body very very muscular...but lean for his size. Like the dangerous looking dog, skinny enough to look real fucking hungry when you walk home past him at 3 in the morning. Mick spoke, his voice almost a whisper, soft unlike what you'd expect a seven foot hockeymask-wearing psycho to have...
"You call it wreckin'...I call it training. Surely the blond, red-wearin' poof an' that headband boytoy of his can appreciate that. Don't tell me you're growin' a heart for this place, you never even been here, you don't know if-"
Mick never finishes his sentence, as Rust's towel is removed, and that...THING, makes the currently infamous fighter-a man who's stepped into Hadoukens, Shoryukens, fireballs, who's walked into a hail of knives and braved the razorclaw of Balrog-recoil, bringing up his left hand, half in horror and half to defend himself, an instinctual reaction. He almost doesn't hear Rust's rowsing speech about the hard economic times, and when he next speaks, there's a clear emotion- panic.
"You're a real fuckin' lunatic, you know that? I'm gonna put you out of your freak misery, no need to thank me!"
Earlier stashed in his pocket subtly, he now pulled it out immediately, a huge honkin' shard of glass, broken and jagged, a perfect stabbing weapon, if fragile. A definite prison classic besides the toothbrush shiv. A classic that was aimed at Rust's general midsection, a subtle and quick stab, and whether the attack worked or not, Rust would be sent a clear message: This fight was to win!
COMBATSYS: Rust blocks MURDERHOUSE's Small Random Weapon.
[\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > ///////////////////////////// ]
MURDERHOUSE 0/-------/-------|-------\-------\0 Rust
"Lunatic, huh... what?" Howard doesn't really follow, but there is that loud announcement that the fight's begun. Certain people are already In Talks(tm) with some other official guys around. The microphone might even pick up bits and pieces of complaining and arguing between people that, in the heat of the moment, don't quite matter to what's going on here.
A straight-up fight between a large, burly man of highly violent tendencies and a shorter but no less (perhaps even, proportionally speaking, moreso) burly man who seems to be pretending he's a swordsman and has... that... thing on his head.
Howard is slow to the draw, his pipe being stubborn in its makeshift sheath pocket which earns a bit of a wince as Mick comes in to strike. What the hell is with this guy, he wonders as he breathes in and leans forward, legs spread down a bit further apart to lower his posture.
Mick's attack angle is extremely easy to read in the heat of the moment, as Rust turns his body so his right elbow faces where the big jagged piece of glass stabs forward. MURDERHOUSE is a man of great strength, a man of great power. Howard could probably wager, based on that, that this is what the man's relying on entirely with that thrust. No matter what, a shard of glass like that should cut deeply into skin, it should wound.
There's no scratch to report on Rust's elbow, any brief pain almost entirely from just impact alone. It's almost like Mick just simply poked or pinched him playfully. If anything, that shard of glass just might shatter into a whole lot of pieces virtually harmlessly.
With one good, hard tug, Ol' Rusty is suddenly removed from the green belt slash makeshift toolbelt in an outward sword-like stroke up against MURDERHOUSE's midsection, in order to try and push the guy back - maybe accidentally into that rack of batteries and small, kind of sharp handy items (perhaps pages of promo coupons... papercuts hurt!).
"Friggin' callin' me god damn psycho when you, when you trashed--" He doesn't finish his sentence, his tone of voice a bit mumbly and maybe even incoherent from the heat of the moment.
COMBATSYS: MURDERHOUSE blocks Rust's Medium Strike.
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > ///////////////////////////// ]
MURDERHOUSE 0/-------/-------|-------\-------\0 Rust
Mick noted the makeshift weapon shattered on impact with the man's arm, and that right there let him know how serious this guy was. Mick looked up, and noted his opponent, while wearing snuff Nazi childdog pornography on his head, had a strong stance, swinging that lead pipe. Mick decided to show this man up, and while the smart thing to do would have been to knock the pipe out the way or roll away or something, Mick reared his arms back...and tensed his muscles, letting his midsection block the blow to his...midsection. And a testament to the strength of Howard, MURDERHOUSE staggered back a step from the blow...Mick grinned beneath that emotionless blank parody of a face, and instead rushed forward. He used his sometimes overlooked speed and agility to try and get behind the man, and grab him around the ribs and stomach. If he managed this, he would try to HOIST Rust up, something called a suplex...aimed at the rack behind them both. If it hit, it would of course smash down the entire row of hammers and hammer relatives.
"You're pretty good!"
COMBATSYS: Rust blocks MURDERHOUSE's Quick Throw.
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > //////////////////////////// ]
MURDERHOUSE 0/-------/-------|=------\-------\0 Rust
Mick may have strength in spades - and now, that sudden burst of speed, too, Mick deftly maneuvers around behind Howard and has his arms around him almost in a snap of one's fingers. The older of the two combatants is, to appearances, helpless to pull himself free - it kind of triggers some really bad memories of his fight against Zangief.
"Yeah, uh, th--" It's kind of pointless to really carry a conversation with a fight with such decisive movements from one of the combatants, as Rust struggles to pull himself out with his free hand. Try as he might, he can't really dislodge Mick's grasp.
Yet, his feet stay very firmly on the ground, using much of his strength to pull forward and stay rooted. The painful end of a successful suplex is averted - the aching struggle of still being held so tightly around the torso is not, and Rust considers his options. He might have a good shot at Mick's shins, but he doesn't want to lose his balance. Ol' Rusty can't fit between those mighty, calloused hands (not that Rust's own are lacking in might nor signs of hard labor, mind), and by every passing moment it feels like he's losing a little bit more of his wind.
That's when he sees it - a crowbar, just in reach on that trashed counter right there! Howard reaches out and snatches it on the spot. His left hand is his off hand, and it shows as he fumbles to try and position it to put the hooked end between his gut and Mick's manly arms - this is a losing proposition if he can't break out, as he tries to jerk the handle up in order to force Mick's grasp open, teeth clenched and sweat coming out of his brow (and, notably, appearing to take an almost unrealistic pattern to avoid even touching that dark purple... mess atop his head).
COMBATSYS: MURDERHOUSE endures Rust's Random Weapon.
> Determined Hit! <
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > //////////////////////////// ]
MURDERHOUSE 0/-------/----===|=------\-------\0 Rust
This was new. When Mick wanted to throw you, you were thrown. In all his fights so far, the only escape was through getting the fuck out the way, but Rust, Rust was Mick's first experience in just, not having the strength. Of course, Mick was nothing if not adaptable, and sensing he had somewhat of an impromptu bearhug on the man, he kept it up. He still lifted upward, using that great leverage to try and keep him on his tippytoes, until he felt metal hooking around his left wrist. He growled, determined to keep this hold on the man, determined to squeeze the life out-
Blood sprayed everywhere, some hitting a very unlucky and cracked camera, and Mick sat there, staring, at a dark red sharp bit of metal, sticking right through his forearm, stuck between the space the two bones made. He made no sound, just...looking, at such an injury, refusing to let himself react in any way...except with anger. Rust might feel from his grip on the metal, Mick's muscles flexing, and though he shouldn't even be moving that arm, Mick moved it anyway. In fact, YANKED it away from the smaller man, crowbar stuck like some grotesque gorey parody of a fishhook...Mick looked down, then looked up at Rust. Somehow, he didn't seem amused, and the silence was almost palpable.
Until Mick's other hand moved out, not a punch, not a chop, not trying to grab the man, but the palm of his hand tried to connect with the side of Rust's face, and head. To put it bluntly, Mick was going for blood, trying to slap some sense into the man, and maybe even slap that toupee right off his damn head!
COMBATSYS: Rust blocks MURDERHOUSE's Fierce Punch.
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > /////////////////////////// ]
MURDERHOUSE 0/-------/----===|==-----\-------\0 Rust
Not to mention some blood on one Mr. Rust too. He's no stranger to blood, or bleeding - but the weight of the injury he just inflicts on hardcore wrestler and improviser MURDERHOUSE is lost on him as the retrieval of the crowbar from his person sees him stumbling forward and coughing twice for some lost air. MURDERHOUSE is not a gentle hugger. His embrace is not something that one Mr. Rust would personally be willing to go through a second time, breathing in and out as he nearly trips over an overturned dark green box of packaging of some stripe or another - likely a very sturdy bit of packaging for some really cheap Christmas lights.
Just as he is able to turn around to face Mick again, there's a big, strong palm flying for his face.
A palm stopped right at the last minute by one of his own from his left hand, the collision of two powerful men high fiving enough to cause a nearby rack to shake to a loud thunderclap of two very strong men. This moment would be part of a highlight reel to be sure, even as the older and smaller of the two shudders in having promptly held this powerful blow at bay.
That's when he sees the bleeding of Mick's arm, the thought that... maybe he kind of did go a little too far, on some level, but it doesn't show with narrowed eyes and teeth grit in determination.
"Look," he mumbles out, "I, I don't see myself as, as a violent sort, all right?" He says. "But... but I hope to God, hope to God you aren't a, a bleeder, or somethin'. 'cause... 'cause when we're done?"
He gestures with his neck. "You, you better be in the shape to, to help clean up after," he doesn't finish his sentence, as his mind wanders to something else. That's a good, firm box, he can tell just by nudging his foot up against it. Putting a foot down on top of it to hold it down, he tries to curl the fingers of his hand over where it meets MURDERHOUSE's murderous, house-crashing palm and yank him with his superior center of gravity (on grounds of being shorter) in something of an Irish Whip, but to try and trip him over the box he's holding down with his foot.
"'cause I ain't standin' for, for no god damn kindergarten temper tantrum," he declares, for this whole store mess reminds him of the frightening and brief-lived time during college where he was an assistant teacher for a kindergarten class.
He has war stories over that time.
COMBATSYS: MURDERHOUSE dodges Rust's Medium Throw.
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > /////////////////////////// ]
MURDERHOUSE 0/-------/----===|==-----\-------\0 Rust
He demonstrated it earlier, but now he demonstrated it again, using an amazing sort of speed, balance and agility to tightly grip Rust's arm, run with the momentum, but rather leap clear over said box, landing away on his feet, crowbar still wedged tightly in his left arm...Mick turned around, staring right at the smaller man as he grabs at it...and yanks it right from his flesh. Fresh blood splashed from the sudden movement, the uncracked side of his hockeymask already looking like the beginning of a Jackson Pollock painting...but even now he refused to let himself show any reaction of the agony that must have been. He even had a laugh in his voice as he responded, walking backward toward the obligatory medics on standby. They knew the drill when Mick fought.
"What, and take jobs away from good, honest janitors? There's a recession going on, you know!"
And then Mick's back was turned on Rust entirely, physically throwing whiteshirts away violently, and starting to bandage his own forearm, glaring down at the grisly wound as he did so...and seeing out of the corner of his eye, a certain bottle...*that* could come in handy...
COMBATSYS: MURDERHOUSE gains composure.
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > /////////////////////////// ]
MURDERHOUSE 0/-------/-----==|==-----\-------\0 Rust
MURDERHOUSE's timely leap sees him avoiding particular harm - even with a crowbar in that man's arm, the guy seems like he's still firing on all cylinders. No matter how badly he might have carved open Mick's arms at that moment, that's pretty impressive.
Also, wince-worthy, as the man starts walking back towards where medics are stationed. Is the guy choosing to forefeit? The ex-shop teacher follows after with very careful paces, Ol' Rusty still pointed forward as if a threatening gesture as he carefully navigates a floor full of broken glass, overturned products, and shattered wood and plastic alike. The debris crunch underneath his work boots loudly, adding pointed tension to the silence where Mick actually has to take a breather to tend to his wounds.
Shaking out his left hand once to try and ward off the slight ache and tension in that last minute catch of that massive, powerful palm, one Howard Rust paces forward ever slowly, eyes narrowed as if trying to discern what it is that man's even trying to do. Getting out while the going's good, or... or something else?
"You, uh, you calling it off?" He asks in a low tone. A guy that big and that tough can't be thinking to throw in the towel just yet, can he? "I mean, you wanna stop, pick up after yourself..."
That would be the most reasonable thing anyone's done today, and really, he'd like that if only he knew deep down that probably wasn't going to be the case, as the forty-something man draws closer with all due caution.
COMBATSYS: Rust focuses on his next action.
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > /////////////////////////// ]
MURDERHOUSE 0/-------/-----==|==-----\-------\0 Rust
Mick was surprised when his intentions weren't made clear by the medics being thrown violently from their stations when they tried to tend to the big man's wounds for him. Self reliance, survival at all costs, alcohol hastily poured in the wound, let it burn, this...this was good! He hastily bandaged the arm, a grisly red stain already seeping through...he turned his head slightly, hearing Rust approach. He would hope that Rust was close, because on a nearby shelf was a bottle of blue liquid, something poured lightly into clogged toilets when you wore goggles and gasmask, lest even a drop of it touch your skin. And this was now heading right toward Rust's face and eyes, a frightening blue tidal wave of chemical warfare!
"Callin' it off? Do you even fuckin' know me?"
COMBATSYS: MURDERHOUSE successfully hits Rust with Large Thrown Object.
- Power hit! -
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > /////////////////////// ]
MURDERHOUSE 0/-------/-----==|====---\-------\0 Rust
Evidently, he doesn't - and it shows in a brief comedy of errors (well, one error) with the sudden movement of Mick's mighty arm as Rust already thrusts his left elbow into Mick's arm to try and stop what he thinks is just going to be a swing. If it were just a swing, mission accomplished. Mick's throwing arm isn't going to be budging an inch past his elbow.
The problem is, whether it causes Mick to lose grip of what he's holding in shock or if Mick actually managed to get enough heft behind the movement, a bottle of the nasty blue stuff splashes forth square in one Howard Rust's face, and the result is a visceral, blood-curling groan of pain as his entire body seizes up from the sheer pain of that stuff getting in his eyes. The MURDERHOUSE is rewarded with choice four letter words as the man stumbles backwards, free hand to his face in a largely useless gesture to get that stuff off his face. His upper back collides with a rack of some particularly sharp power tools, at least one accidentally being kicked towards MURDERHOUSE - he may have a new tool or two in which to really bring the pain back to the smaller man who had been all but making sport of him until now.
Not that Mr. Rust himself would know about it, blindly taking a step forward and taking a wild downward swing as he fights the stiffness in his shoulder and elbow from the shock - not to mention his knees, as his body feels like locking up as part of the process of dealing with sudden surges of pain. It might actually even be worrying, hearing so much popping from the man's joints as he nonetheless, rather stiffly, swings clumsily in Mick's vague direction while the forty-something man writhes and groans in pain.
COMBATSYS: MURDERHOUSE counters Power Strike from Rust with Cemetary Gates.
- Power hit! -
~ Cruel hit! ~
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > ////////////////// ]
MURDERHOUSE 0/-------/----===|=======\-------\1 Rust
And here was Mick in his element. He felt a power drill, a claw hammer and a couple of box-cutters clang against his boot, and he just kicked them away, not wanting to lose any footing...he saw Rust screaming in agony, and saw the man step forward, a somewhat wild swing that could cave in the Irishman's skull, or snap his collarbones...but MURDERHOUSE was on a mission, stepping forward and grabbing his throat tightly, instantly barking an order to the probably squinting fighter, if he could see at all. His voice was notedly...different, something fueling in him now, his brain feeling...different.
"LOOK AT ME!"
If Rust complied, staring at those almost inhuman eyes, he'd probably feel his every fear, his every doubt, his every failure come to surface, any time he looked himself in the mirror and saw what he felt he truly was, any time he woke up and realized he woke up alone, any time he looked at his life and didn't see anything worth keeping, this would most likely be leaping around, boiling at the forefront like a screaming, dying lobster, with the gleaming murderer sharpening his knifes, staring down in glee.
Mick had no idea that he was doing this, didn't realize it was PSYCHO power...he thought what would really hurt, were the thumbtacks he grabbed with his injured left hand, a couple sticking into his palm and thumb as he scattered them across the glossy floor...and with his right good arm alone, LIFTED the pipe-wielding fighter, trying to slam him down into that thumbtack ocean he caused. Mick had no idea that the real torture happened long before...
"How's it feel?"
The idea of making Rust stare into one's eyes when he's pretty much already got stuff in his eyes he can't really bear to open without serious physical pain might seem kind of silly, but there is something about Mick's commanding voice that compels him to do so, as he gets grabbed by the throat. Something that makes the sensation of burning eyes and face go away, substituted by something else entirely as those dangerous thoughts roam through his head. A whole number of regrets seem to come to the forefront right there - recent ones, like the challenges of losing his job, the stress of trying to re-adjust to the life of a full-time fighter (and, arguably, still a glorified babysitter given some of his experiences with the white belts over at the Kyokugen dojo), what his dad would probably think when he hears the news that he lost his job at Pacific--
He can't really dwell on that for too long, perhaps thanks to the cruel machinations of Mick himself as Mr. Rust is slammed into the pile of thumbtacks hard enough that the entire floor cracks.
The older man grunts as he pulls himself up, thinking to himself... I've, I've felt something like that before, he thinks, but shaking his head. I didn't just go through friggin' whatever that was just to be made a punk, he thinks - and he's not talking (...thinking) about the recent experience as he exhales loudly.
Thumbtacks don't stick to his back. MURDERHOUSE might watch all of them, bent and ruined beyond comprehension, just fall off his back. Any and all damage he did was through the strength of his throwing arm while Howard was mentally occupied and unable to do anything to mitigate the slam.
Any unsteadiness might be well noted, as his knees and one of his shoulders creak loudly, with a disapproving shake of his head.
"Feels like... feels like you wanna call it there," he muses back as he gathers himself. He's not that soft, out of shape has-been from when he first came to Southtown. The Sakazaki family's helped whip him back into real shape, and by God he doesn't think they'd like it if he took that sitting down as he steadies up to his feet.
"Yeah, uh, I just remembered," he says with some level of uncertainty, "I got, I got asked to do somethin' along the way, 'n that..."
He moves forward with a small hop and the complaint of a popping knee, thrusting a leg down low towards Mick's ankles, but it's not the only one. Many of them follow, rapid-fire, like a jackhammer at breakneck speed. It starts going so fast that it begins to manifest--
Hold on, what? Manifest?
That's right, manifestation. A flickering, washed out manifestation of blobby energy that flickers... gray? Blue? Green? White? ...It's kind of hard to tell the color. Thanks to the way it flickers, to camera playback it looks like it's sometimes in existence and sometimes not in replay. But in person, it's there, it's persisting, and it's flickering.
Each kick against Mick's shin or feet, or just the ground, resounds loudly like a jackhammer, as Howard mentally brings that fighting mindset back to the forefront compared to the aches of his face, back, and one of his hips.
"Supposed to yell somethin' 'bout Kyokugen might," he muses, "but this, this is gonna have to do... instead," he murmurs out, but there's no doubting that in just two decisive strikes that Mick has turned everything around completely - but there's a certain determination that flares even after such psychologically traumatizing moments that he pushes by through sheer will and, perhaps, daily familiarity with his woes and shortcomings.
Regardless of how Mick deals with it - if he can, at all - Howard's kicks would do Robert Garcia back over in Southtown proud.
COMBATSYS: MURDERHOUSE blocks Rust's Jackhammer Kick EX.
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > ////////////////// ]
MURDERHOUSE 0/-------/---====|=======\-------\1 Rust
Mick watched Rust come back up, eyes wide when the tacks proved to be completely useless. But that was alright, just made things...interesting. He saw him aim low now, and Mick, well, Mick actually raised his foot, standing on his tippy toes, on the left leg. He tensed his muscles again, a point of pride now, the big man letting the thick man slap shin against shin, repeatedly. Mick would be damned if he could tell what color the energy was, he wasn't even looking at the kicks. He was staring Rust right in the face, the whole time. Every time the kick landed, he would nod, making no attempt to pull away, even encouraging the older fighter to get it out of his system. And oh, it hurt. It stung like crazy, but in a fight where he got stabbed with a crowbar, this wasn't on the same level, not even close...when Rust finished, the second he did, Mick would grin, and speak.
"Finished? My turn, boyo!"
The accent came out sometimes, during intense moments, intense like these. Mick didn't even chance his stance, rather throwing a flurry of his own. But not kicks, no, these were punches...short, straight jabs with his left arm, each one causing his wound to sting violently, and causing his once white bandages to quickly turn a sick, dark red if they hit. But Mick didn't care, and it didn't seem to dull the impact of them. Though 'weak' punches by some standards, they were weak punches coming from MURDERHOUSE Mick...of course, to a man like Rust, that might not mean much...
Finally, if any of these got off at all, Mick would end it with a right hand, an open-handed uppercut, aimed right for the throat of the thick man, the slap echoing off the far walls. Mick didn't fight with fierce determination, or some underdog spirit...nah, Mick kept going for entirely different reasons. Which would prevail, in the end?
COMBATSYS: MURDERHOUSE successfully hits Rust with Shuffle Combo.
~ Cruel hit! ~
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > //////////////// ]
MURDERHOUSE 0/-------/--=====|=======\=------\1 Rust
Never mind the tacks, someone could really appreciate what sort of damage someone could do by slamming them so hard the floor cracks - Mick's got nothing to worry about in the realm of sheer physical force, as Rust's increasingly numb feeling in his kicking leg means it's time for him to draw back, face tense and focused at nothing how well Mick holds himself together - they're both strong, tough men.
Both of them have their limits, and it seems yet that both of them keep finding new ways through the other, as MURDERHOUSE takes his turn with a certain maniacal glee as he starts firing off rapid punches.
Punches that look and feel more like a lot of challenging shoves, though it may be amusing to the larger man that Howard just can't seem to keep up with the speed. His left forearm is raised, making the token attempts to catch them with an elbow or his forearm, but just about every one slips through, forcing him backwards bit by bit, piece by piece until he lays in that real sucker punch to the throat that pops the man's neck up and sees him staggering down low with a pained gurgling.
The coughs that follow don't bode too well, as some stop and think... maybe this might be pushing towards the defining moment in which MURDERHOUSE Mick puts Howard Rust down for the count, him and Ol' Rusty as the pipe scrapes low against a spilled fluid of some sort from the earlier bouts of their chaos.
Something catches on fire from the sparks of Ol' Rusty grinding against the ground. It spreads to a table.
Spitting bloodied saliva out of his mouth, Mr. Rust's left hand clenches tightly as he thinks to give a punch of his own. MURDERHOUSE threw a lot of punches to somewhat appreciable effect, but to Mr. Rust, he just needs one good one as he shoots it straight upward for the hockey mask-clad chin.
And if that cleanly connects, that's not the worst of it.
COMBATSYS: MURDERHOUSE dodges Rust's Crane Launch.
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > /////////////// ]
MURDERHOUSE 0/-------/--=====|=------\-------\0 Rust
If it connected, there was little doubt in the minds of experts that MURDERHOUSE Mick would most likely be MURDERED. But, it doesn't happen. It looks accidental, Mick leaning back casually and feeling the breeze, he also knew that from a real powerhouse like Rust, that could have been -bad-. So Mick took a step backward...and another..then turned around...and started running?!
Running and grabbing a chainsaw on the way, brand new with yellow paint, and as Mick pulls the cord, it turns on like a charm! Hopefully Rust was following, because Mick had an idea...
Remember that hundred foot tall anthromorphic hammer mascot? The one creepily looking down on everyone, like some malevolant demigod? Well, Mick was bringing it down, a quick slash across it's feet caused it to croak loudly, the massive construct wobbling...then falling forward, with it's great big 'nose', aiming right...for...Rust. If he had followed. It was hollow enough that it probably wouldn't kill someone, especially not someone powerful like Rust. But it would hurt a whole heck of a lot more than a collection of jabs!
If it hit, the last thing Rust might see would be Mick, sending him off with a one finger salute, with that revving chainsaw still held in his left hand...
COMBATSYS: Rust blocks MURDERHOUSE's Huge Thrown Object.
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > ////////////// ]
MURDERHOUSE 0/-------/--=====|==-----\-------\0 Rust
There's nothing quite like the rush of feeling that goes with putting a whole lot of yourself into a single blow. Something deep, something powerful, something beyond the normal strength your might can carry you, matched only by the feeling of surprise and perhaps a touch of despair when every last bit of that punch seems to come up with nothing at all beyond the feeling of your own shoulder and elbow wanting to throw themselves clean out of their sockets, and that brief moment of emptiness and calm that follows.
Howard grunts. For a man that big, he's proven slippery, and there's a secondary wince as sweat gets back into his eye and reminds him what got in his face as the hectic heel Mick runs off with a chainsaw. He can't really give chase at quite an appreciable speed, but he tries - less 'I have to pursue him and beat him down' and more 'oh, great, what is he doing now.'
He's sawing the legs off that giant hammer mascot. Howard's shoulders slump, as if to ask, 'really?'
Yeah, really, he's doing it. There's not much room to maneuver down the aisle. There's no running, he's chased MURDERHOUSE down far enough that he can't really hope to escape. This is the end, almost for certain, as the great mascot comes falling down, down, down, down...
Cameras are unsure as to whether or not they want to film this. This could be messy! But maybe it'll finally get rid of that abomination that has taken residence upon his scalp.
A loud thud follows that rocks the store. Dust dramatically kicks up out of seemingly nowhere, and through the great salute, MURDERHOUSE might be able to make out a solid, dark figure there.
The figure of one Howard Rust, stern face and everything, as an accidentally activated demonstration fan dramatically makes the loose, poorly-set straps of... um... hair flap dramatically. He's moved Ol' Rusty to his left hand, his main hand holding up the great, heavy structure by its nose looking nowhere near as worse for the wear.
"I, I just want you to know," it might be hard to hear above the chainsaw, "I deadlifted a, a blast door once." He says this with all sincerity, even with the tiredness in his voice, the bruises on his neck, and who knows what else underneath his clothing. He stands firmly underneath this great, hollow piece of work that should have crushed him underneath. His lips press together tightly as he thinks - he can't really just gently let go and chase. MURDERHOUSE has a distance on him, and his foot speed is... entirely unimpressive, to put it lightly.
Flexing his right arm as he bends down into a crouch, he thrusts it upward. His arm strength alone is not enough to really send it back up much, if at all.
No, in that narrow space of time in which the large mascot is off his grasp, Ol' Rusty is taken in two hands and then - much like a bat - swings at the mascot with all he's got.
MURDERHOUSE might have thought this big exchange to be the end of it, but now, his own medicine is being applied as the great, big, footless mascot tilts back upwards and threatens to fall back down upon him - notice how the back of the hammer seems a bit sharper?
Do the math.
COMBATSYS: MURDERHOUSE blocks Rust's Huge Thrown Object.
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > ///////////// ]
MURDERHOUSE 0/-------/-======|===----\-------\0 Rust
That flipped bird soon gets it's fingers plucked, the hand going back down, and Mick just shaking his head at the sight.
"What are ya, a fuckin' superhero?"
That's what he says before the mascot is shrugged up a bit, then descends...before being BLASTED up into the air by that lead pipe. Mick's eyes go a bit wide, as even as intense as he is, he's still human. Still, Mick, rather than running out of the way...started running forward, still holding that chainsaw, and bringing it up with two hands to try and deflect the claw part of that mascot from ripping him in half. As it is, the pain that the shock of that blow provides is a bit staggering, it makes the Irishman's teeth rattle...but that wasn't important, now it was time to pay his opponent a little visit...Mick spoke, somehow heard over the revving of his current weapon.
"Hey rusty, ever been circumcised, man?"
And with that, the saw came down, up, from groin, all the way up to run across the fighter's face...if this hit, that is...
COMBATSYS: Rust blocks MURDERHOUSE's Large Random Weapon.
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > //////////// ]
MURDERHOUSE 0/-------/-======|====---\-------\0 Rust
For all the seemingly superhuman feats Rust seems to be able to do with his back against the wall, there's a certain grit there. He's not just an ordinary guy - he's a man who worked day in, day out, endured the worst life could throw at him, and - on the deepest level - is still a man holding onto his dreams even if the aches and pains of his body really kind of want him to let go, sit down, and watch TV.
The man is injured and looking far worse for the wear every moment, his stance weaker, hunched over as Ol' Rusty is held in two hands while Mick just rushes at him with a goddamn chainsaw. The older man is shaking his head, but not of fear. It's to say, 'don't do it.'
He shakes it again as the MURDERHOUSE asks the question, but not in answer to that. He is saying 'really, don't do it.' But he's doing it, he really is. It's going to be a goddamn waste now, isn't it.
Mr. Rust grits his teeth as the chainsaw is swung down, as if to start coming in from low. His left hand raises upward, taking in a deep breath with closed eyes as though he weren't entirely confident, for a moment, that he'd be able to pull what he's about to.
And then, beyond all common sense, beyond perhaps just about anything Mick over there may have run across in his time as a no-holds-barred fighter, Howard Rust deigns to slam his free hand atop the revving chainsaw blade without concern, remorse, or anything involving care, a sudden tenseness running through his body.
The hand clasps about the blade tightly, and the chainsaw just plain stops. The engine is likely to choke on itself, possibly even explode in a violent shower of sparks as it is met with such a sudden, violent stop as ex-shop teacher, current junior martial arts instructor of one of the most physically demanding styles out there just simply makes the chainsaw stop through the firmness of a strong arm, strong will, and a bit of prayer as his body holds stiffly, almost statuesque.
"I, I know how much that chainsaw costs," he sneers, "and that's a, that's a, god, damned, waste," he spits out as he tries to dislodge his shoulder from its current position through a hard twist of his upper body, hoping to yank MURDERHOUSE closer with a loud snap of his shoulder and yet another as he forcefully tries to position his right arm - and his grip of Ol' Rusty - to yank him into the butt end of the pipe to Mick's chest before all but throwing his right shoulder downward, as if preparing for something else after the fact.
COMBATSYS: Rust successfully hits MURDERHOUSE with Armed Combo.
>> Decisive Hit!! <<
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > //////////// ]
MURDERHOUSE 1/------=/=======|====---\-------\0 Rust
Mick sneered, yeah, stopping a chainsaw was insane...really, the coolest thing he'd ever seen. But it didn't matter, because Rust was laying down a challenge, and Mick wasn't going to back down. MURDERHOUSE Mick didn't back down. Sometimes he gave up footing to find a better vantage point, but he didn't back down. He didn't run away. He met danger, head on, like he always did.
"Yeah, welcome to the human race. Whinin' don't fix a damn thing, do it?"
Of course, that witty retort was answered with a pipebutt, smashed right into his sternum. He coughed, staggering back, eyes flickering a second...but he was back, and when he felt that his ribs were bruised, and his lungs felt like daggers on fire stabbing him whenever he tried to breathe, he of course did the perfectly natural thing. He forced himself to stop and take as deep a breath as he could, letting oxygen fill his body, drowning himself in pain to swallow it deep down...and then he spoke, rolling his neck, letting the bones crack.
"Try that again."
COMBATSYS: MURDERHOUSE gains composure.
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > //////////// ]
MURDERHOUSE 1/-------/=======|====---\-------\0 Rust
When MURDERHOUSE decides not to come at him, Rust doesn't back down. Right as the challenge is made, the ex-shop teacher suddenly brings Ol' Rusty between is hands, held horizontally forward as he squints. Who knows how much this man himself can actually take, given the HOUSE of MURDER over there keeps seeming to find rooms to take a break, to get his strength back.
Howard takes up that offer as he kneels d-- no, it looks more like he's trying to sit down on something invisible, somehow, as to either side, aisles have toppled tools and goods everywhere. There's a table a ways over through a gap in the products that's on fire but for some reason has not spread any further.
With one deep breath and the brief, noisy, crackly roll of a shoulder, Howard displays incredible strength and balance in somehow holding this bizarre, gravity-defying position where he seems to be sitting on top of entirely nothing at all... at all.
He suddenly shakes. Vibrating? His lips vibrate a sound not entirely like a motor. Is this mockery, or is there some sort of bizarre sincerity in the way this man is composing himself, let alone approaching a threat that keeps backing away to find his wind.
This time, Rust thoroughly takes the fight to him as he suddenly appears to glide forward across the damaged store floor, products collecting around his feet and sometimes falling off to the wayside. He keeps moving towards Mick, as if with the intent to somehow plow him over and carry him along the ground in this exceedingly bizarre and esoteric stance, up until he falls backward - attempting to scoop up MURDERHOUSE with his legs and toss him above himself.
Maybe if Howard decides to settle down around here instead, he could work part time as a human forklift.
COMBATSYS: Rust successfully hits MURDERHOUSE with Bulldozer.
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > /////////// ]
MURDERHOUSE 1/-----==/=======|=====--\-------\0 Rust
Mick basically made a career out of getting hit with the deadliest moves out there...he'd been stabbed, electrocuted, beaten to a pulp and set on fire more than once, and there wasn't a lot that surprised him. He saw Rust, prepare himself, take his time..this was good. He hunkered down, he sat down...on nothing? Well, Mick encountered a lot of fighters who did the impossible. Then the racecar sounds started, and Mick completely dropped his guard.
"Seriously, what the fuck is wrong with you? What are you fucking doi-"
He had to ask! Rust ran him down like Carrie, except he got hooked, and went flying into the air, a big man like him, that was an impressive feat! He twisted in mid-air, landing hard on his back, but rolling to his knees...where the fuck was he? Mick needed weapons...and discovered a giant face, looking down at him. He was almost...entranced, and instantly knew what to do.
...Moments later Mick would appear from the section he was thrown into, running full barrel toward Rust...however, one might not recognize him at first. Over his hockeymask, was...a giant dark wooden Tiki Mask, the old Hawaiian god snarling at Rust, he might even hear it's cabalistic chanting, TIKI TIKI MAD MAD TIKI, complete with frantic bongos. But only in his head. Mick went for a full-barrel running headbutt, which would obliterate Tiki between both of their skulls, if this hit.
TIKI TKI SAD SAD TIKI!
COMBATSYS: MURDERHOUSE successfully hits Rust with Random Weapon.
-* CRITICAL HIT! *-
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > /////// ]
MURDERHOUSE 1/----===/=======|=======\-------\1 Rust
The downside of this incredible feat of personal body control is made pretty clear as the man has to rock himself back and forth across the ground to actually get himself to something that might be considered 'sitting,' the snapping and popping of joints that have locked themselves in place a thing he has to fight.
There is chanting. There is a noted lack of beating of the drums, but there is chanting, crazy chanting, and the aging man struggles to rock and fight his body back into something that he might be able to do something about it. He can't really look behind him - his neck feels locked in place, a low mutter as he has to ask himself, what the hell is that guy doing now?
Well, he's coming at him, that's clear through the increasingly louder steps. Standing up with massive protest from his knees, he stretches out a leg with something that approaches casual when, all of a sudden, right there, right now -
He doesn't see it. Mick plows into him clear from behind with such force that it takes him right off his feet, forward into... oh shit, that is the actual forklift. He's perfectly positioned as though everyone might be looking at a potential fatality on the set--
This is disregarding what this man has somehow survived through entirely, but is no less worrying when his abdomen collides with the part of the raised lift like an incredibly fierce punch to the gut that might even rival what the infamous Mike Bison could do, a horrible wheeze as the man's body seems to almost split right into two before falling onto his bum and on his back.
There is no blood to be seen on the lift. This is a relief for all involved.
What's less of a relief is when the man decides to bring his left hand up against this extended lift for leverage, as he sputters something unintelligible. The vague visage of Mick with a tiki mask is sure to stick with him as sharply as that hard poke to his gut. With the shake of his head, he wills himself to stand back up.
The worst kind of guy to fight against is someone who just refuses to stay down, even if his movements suggest he really ought to be calling it there. Might be a broken rib or two. It's a wonder it didn't snap his spine with the force he hit that thing.
Taking in one last deep breath, the older man takes a couple steps forward - more like tired limps. There's no words, just bizarre strings of consonants as he crouches down low.
With the strength left in his legs, he hops forward. Old Howard there, he doesn't quite have the spring in his legs. He doesn't go all too high with his jump, unlike so many fighters around himself. Some say there's an odd sort of added hangtime to his leaps, which prevents him from attacking too quickly from such a short hop height among fighters everywhere.
His right arm is raised, Ol' Rusty pointed behind himself. One of his knees is lifted upwards. This appears as though he were preparing a nasty downward swing, but... it's not.
He is simply, very literally, just leaping at MURDERHOUSE with just a raised knee that's not even reaching out all that far, the posture almost exaggerated and even impractical among the myriad of aerial strikes and maneuvers so many fighters have.
Is it a leap of faith, or is there something more to this tightly-held posture?
COMBATSYS: MURDERHOUSE dodges Rust's Strong Kick.
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > /////// ]
MURDERHOUSE 1/----===/=======|==-----\-------\0 Rust
Tiki splintered to bits and pieces, and the rest Mick violently grabbed, throwing off of him as he watched his opponent get driven stomach-first into that forklift, the extreme agony of the man putting a smile on his face...this is what he came here to do. This was his offering to the world, finally! He stepped back, letting Rust struggle...and adjusted his elbow pad when his opposition started climbing, weakly and slowly, to his feet.
It was true, Mick had often been in Rust's position in fights, beaten down, but getting back up every time. Of course, before Mick's departer from the deathmatch wrestling scene, he'd also been on the other side, being the monster that dismantled the hero with cool, calculated brutality. Something spoke to him, seeing this man get up, time after time...but that didn't matter. Mick would beat him down for as long as it took, and as he watched that almost painful attempt at a kick, Mick would shift to avoid it...and then grab the hips of Rust while still in the air...he would jump up, and attempt an impromptu powerbomb, trying to smash Rust right into the forks of the forklifts he was just driven into, such an impact, if it worked, certainly wouldn't bode well for the poor machine...
COMBATSYS: MURDERHOUSE successfully hits Rust with Brutal Throw Chain.
~ Cruel hit! ~
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > / ]
MURDERHOUSE 1/---====/=======|=====--\-------\0 Rust
Somewhere, some people mutter nervously about what this exchange might mean on a scale unbeknownst, or even really of worth to describe as one Mr. Rust is grabbed right in midair into the grasp of a man he had trouble breaking out of when he was /healthy/, and one that almost nobody in their right mind would believe he could break out of when he's very clearly on the ropes.
A referee is considering calling it there for the older man's health, but this intervention seems almost unnecessary as one of the cameras catch up to what's going on as MURDERHOUSE slams the aging man back down onto the forklift. Some would think that the forklift's life should be feared for far more than the older man's, but now, it's a toss-up as to who is really worse off.
Both break under the impact loudly, the forklift shattering loudly (even explosively - Ol' Rusty just ignited something) as a beaten, bloodied, burned man's vision goes blurry from the wreckage. The problem is, he just has too much wind in him to know he's done. He's not short of breath, even as his consciousness swims all around...
To one Howard's vision as he peers up towards the triumphant Mick, the world slows down and goes dark. Ol' Rusty, somehow still within his grip, points off to the side as his right arm rises free of the wreckage.
Some might see a spark of light gleaming off the rusted surface of the weapon in question, even with nothing about it that's reflective to begin with.
With one last triumphant yell (it's more like a gurgling gasp), Mr. Rust thrusts Ol' Rusty towards MURDERHOUSE From the awkward position of 'lying down' that might force himself up to a sit and then a really painful forward bend, the familiar trappings of a dash-and-smash technique that seems to be far more sit-up-and-smash in his current state.
MURDERHOUSE may have decisively won, but if he is not too careful, there is one last, nasty mark to be left upon his many scars of battle at a potential impact that, if made, rivals the sound of a wrecking ball against a condemned building but very little else.
Medics are already rushing to the new fire. They seem already ready to call it completely for MURDERHOUSE, but...
COMBATSYS: Rust can no longer fight.
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ <
MURDERHOUSE 1/---====/=======|
COMBATSYS: MURDERHOUSE interrupts Condemned from Rust with Hellfire Hammer.
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\ <
MURDERHOUSE 0/-------/----===|
Mick stood triumphant, alright...fist raised, almost smug, as he stepped backward, glaring down at the man he all but destroyed...when the pipe was pointed at him. Mick glared down at Rust, and this time, it was the seven foot Irish monster shaking his head. Just stay down, old man.
But no, that wasn't the case, was it? This old dog had to pretend he still had what it took. Had to shake off the fleas, and hobble up for fear of being put out of his misery, a misery he clung to because there was nothing else left. Mick didn't even try to dodge the pipe smashing across his face and forehead, the mask protecting him from anything career ending, but the pain reverberated throughout his skull and down his neck...and he swung his big hand down, trying to swat that pipe right out of the man's hand...before clutching his wrist tightly, and pulling him out of the air. A moment later, Howard would find himself lying on his side across the big man's shoulders, hands gripping him by the neck and knee, keeping him there...and wrenching hard, to elicit more creaks and crackling from his bones, glaring up as he spoke softly, before leaping up into the air...
"Next time, old man...stay the fuck DOWN."
Now, this was a first. This time, we KNEW why there was a table on fire. We knew it was Rust's doing, albeit unintentionally. We knew the cause, and we knew the result, didn't we? Rust's skull, neck and shoulders, driven right through fire and wood, and right into unforgiving concrete, nothing about this safe, or caring. This was what happened, when one fought MURDERHOUSE Mick...
Ol' Rusty doesn't just go flying right down out of Howard's hand - it continues its merry side across the floor with such force that it hits the side of a smaller shelf and just knocks everything over. There might be some virtue to Mick's earlier words about the janitors, for they will certainly have no shortage of work to fulfill as a quarter-awake Rust is hoisted upon Mick's shoulders.
Some officials give chase, as if to say, 'put him down, put him down.' There's so much noise and ringing through the older man's ears he can't really plead or more or less figure out what's going on around himself. Even MURDERHOUSE's words are somewhat unclear, perhaps only approaching legibility to the man's ears through the power of vulgarity and pointed suggestions.
This all comes to a stop when the Kyokugen fighter is thrust through the burning table with such strength there's a very clear, prolonged, strangely echoing yell as his unconscious body twists itself flat in the flaming wreckage of the very table set on fire.
As officials come close to judge the man's vitals, one of them thinks maybe they should try and hide something to avoid issues from Standards and Practices about violence on television.
They settle for covering that dark purple... rag... thing on his head with the previously discarded beige towel. This should, of course, prevent any and all reports of obscenity from concerned individuals nationwide.
Log created on 22:27:34 12/25/2011 by Rust, and last modified on 14:38:32 12/27/2011.