Description: In which Howard Rust asks for a refund from Himaruya Landscaping following that accursed crabgrass outbreak after finally catching the office open for once, staffed by none other than the Fallen Emperor of Muay Thai, Adon, where two men grapple over work ethics, and...
The phone rings.
The office is small, painfully small. It was simply an extension of a garage, with a single room attached to the front. THe room has no air conditioning. It has one desk, one computer, one potted plant, choked with crabgrass. The door was glass, and had a line of bells on it. A tiny Daruma Doll sits on the desk, by the potted plant, it's faded face staring at the door. The ringing phone sits on the other side of the desk, which is gripped by the fierce, tan hand of the man behind the desk.
Adon.
"Yes. Hello. This is I. Adon. You are SPEAKING to Himaruya Landscaping." The former emperor is garbed in a jaguar-print muscle shirt, with a pair of blue sweat pants, with the the word 'Jaguar' written on the white stripe running down the side. On his feet, there are no socks, but a mere pair of flip-flops, dangling from his feet. Clutching the phone, he suddenly stands up from his chair, clutching the air. "TRULY the GREATEST in LANDSCAPING, IF I! ADON! THE FORMER CHAMPION OF NEO-LEAGUE! GRACE IT WITH HIS- Oh you are looking for Mr. Himaruya?" Adon pauses, sitting back down in his chair. "I am TRULY SORRY! For he is OUT with a CLIENT! But ALL is not loss, for I! ADON! CAN TAKE A MESSAGE FOR HIM!" Adon pauses, and begins to write down on a notepad. "THANK YOU! When he RETURNS, HE WILL KNOW THAT YOU! HAVE! CALLED!!!" And Adon hurls down the phone on the reciever.
"KYA HA HA!"
And then he returns to focusing on the computer.
The Jaguar of Muay Thai tappity taps on the computer, moving the mouse and clicking occassionally. "TRULY! If this is what WORKING is LIKE, then I have MISSED OUT on the FRUITS of the RIGHTEOUS! FACEBOOK is MORE INCREDIBLE and SATISTIFYING than any and ALL of my MANY MUAY THAI BRIDES! But most incredible is the ABILITY I HAVE to CRAFT MY OWN Muay Thai VILLAGE, around this FARM!"
"But what is THIS?!"
The Fallen Emperor of Muay Thai leans forward, eyes brows twitching in rage. "Why can I NOT complete this STABLE for my JUNGLE CATS!? What OUTRAGE is this?!" The Fallen Emperor grips the keyboard, raising it up slightly, body trembling... before lowering it down, tilting his head dumbstruck. "BUT I HAVE THE WOOD! I HAVE THE ZONING CODE! Are you telling me that I MUST find SIX FRIENDS to HELP ME BUILD IT!? How RUEFUL! How INSULTING! A TRUE MUAY THAI WARRIOR does not need ANY HELP building a MERE BUMPKIN BUILDING like a KITTY STABLE!!!"
And Adon just scoffs.
"FINE! FINE THEN! SEE HOW I CARE! I will play your game, you stupid fool of a GAME!" Adon clicks away at the computer, shaking a fist with his free hand. "You did not CONSIDER that I had SENT OUT FRIEND REQUESTS to ALL of the EXTENDED CONNECTIONS of ALL MY FRIENDS and CONTACTS! That way, even if I do not have six immediate friends, I can STILL LURE POTENTIAL HELP with my BARN! AND THEN! I! ADON! THE FARMER OF JAGGA RANCH! WILL FINALLY LAY CLAIM TO 6 BABY JAGUARS TO NURSE TO FULL SIZE!"
"KYA HA HA!"
It hasn't been a good... stretch of time. Days, weeks, months, almost a blur. It's been a pressing thing all the same as Rust's floundered about the professional fighting circuit for what fights he can get.
The whole crabgrass mess. The hesitance to really think about hiring back Himaruya Landscaping to take care of the lawn after how bad of a job a certain someone did. That had to be it, just a bad job, right? Least he could do was ask for his money back.
From the parking lot, the screeching barely contained by the walls and windows within clue him in. He almost thinks that maybe, just maybe, it may be better to come back later. He's even looking back towards the driver side door of his truck, hand on the handle in thinking he'll come back later.
No, he stops himself, every time he's tried to call he got the runaround. Every day he tried to visit, they were suspiciously closed. There's someone who works for the company /in/ there - albeit someone he's not quite in the mood to deal with. They couldn't push him out this time. Resigning himself to another set of ringing ears, the aging man grunts. He gives his right shoulder a good rubbing as he approaches the glass door to that tiny office.
His eyes confirm what his ears damn well already know. Yeah, it's Adon beyond that glass door. He's not sure how he likes that thing next to the plant staring at him. Nonetheless, with the rolling of his neck and the roll of his right shoulder, the pop might give away his own entrance before he gently pushes in the door. The bells do their little ringing they do to indicate a visitor.
"Hey," the gravelly voice speaks up, as though rehearsed carefully in his head several times over before it has escaped his lips as he sizes up Adon and the rest of the office, "I'm here to talk 'bout, uh, your services, and, ah, well," his head lowers slightly, "y-you're open, right. As in, actually... open," the train of thought leading up to the eventual statement for why he's here suddenly supplanted by the worry that they're actually closed, "'cause you were just on the, the phone, right," he waves a pointing finger, "so, so you're open... right?"
The ringing of the bells tears Adon free from his paradise.
Adon looks up from the computer, a leer on his face. But as he looks at Rust, his eyes goes wide. He knew that man. Oh, he knew that man so well. It wasn't entirely Adon's fault that the man was given the runaround. Mr. Himaruya made it very clear that he could not talk with the Kyokugen crowd, until he sorted out some business with some contacts. Adon was more than happy to sandbag the Kyokugen types. He could almost declare the place closed, and he could almost get back to his Jaguar Stable.
But he casts his glare at the phone.
Adon just sighs a long, shrill sigh. He supposed this meant that he had to actually take time out of his precious farmwork in order to help a client. Besides, he had to let his little Adon rest; he was out of food points! Adon leans back in his chair, kicking up his sandal'd feet on the desk. Placing his hands behind his head, he just smiles at Rust. "Oh, OF COURSE we are OPEN! WELCOME to Himaruya Landscaping. How can I! ADON! THE EMPLOYEE ON DUTY! Help you out..."
And Adon unleashes a sneer at the nervous man, daring him to answer.
The very moment Adon lets slip that they're open, Howard gingerly digs through his pocket. It's something of a show to watch him fumble about for... something. Patting himself a few times, his composure seems to worsen with every passing second. Adon's challenging sneer that punctuates his screeching has made many a man (and/or woman) quiver in fear.
There seems to be a growing chill in the short silence that trails after Adon's query as Rust keeps patting himself. Worry builds in his face, in greater, more easily readable, /palpable/. Possibly hilarious, up until he pats one of his toolbelt pockets.
Fraction of a second later, his face snaps a one-eighty, left hand digging out some flat pieces of paper-- no, photographs, that he tosses onto the desk. This means Adon may have to move his feet to see them.
"These," Rust speaks up, tone far less of the unsure and scattered and nearly laser-like, as though the word 'these' itself were a bullet, "photos of the Dojo."
Multiple shots of the Dojo and the surrounding territory. Crabgrass. It is everywhere. Ruined gardens. Overrun concrete. It is difficult to tell where the crabgrass ends and where the dojo all begins. There's even a shot of Marco's bear wrestling against a whole pile of it, and it's a toss-up between the two as to who's winning.
He clears his throat and, notably, does not excuse himself as he pats his chest. Why does every mote of dust want to keep jumping down his throat? "You remember? You said... you said we had a, a problem, right?" He places his hand on the desk beside the photos. "Pretty sure that, that I paid someone to... to take care of it."
He leans ever closer, looming, pointing down at the photos with his right hand. "Does this... does this look... taken care of, Adon? Does this look like, like... fifty United States dollars, well spent? That I paid you?"
The sneer is met, raised with everything laid bare on the table.
Adon's sneer fades.
As the pictures are tossed across the desk, Adon casts a quick glance, the smile smothered. This was exactly what he was fearing. The Emperor visibly swallows. Adon, at any other time, would simply laugh it off, and launch himself through the air with a flying knee. He would be tearing Rust apart with his bare hands. This wasn't a fighting ring, though. This was landscaping. Adon might be arrogant and in command when facing Rust in a fighting ring. But when it comes to groundkeeping?
Adon could feel himself outmatched.
The cunning, if cruelly simple, mind of Adon begins to work fast. He didn't actually imagine Rust would confront HIM! ADON! The FORMER EMPEROR OF MUAY THAI! Demanding a refund. He thinks, and thinks, his eyes shifting around the room swiftly. He gingerly touches the photos, inspecting them closely. Quietly, he taps his lips, taking a deep breath in, and a long, deep breath out. And like a flash, the smile returns. That psycotic grin burning hot. And there, he looks up, shoving the pictures away.
"Were you remembering to apply the treatment?"
Adon pauses, letting his question sink in. "I am pretty sure we left you a secondary treatment that you, the property owner, were supposed to apply after our groundswork. Those are very clearly signs that you did not follow up! Besides." Adon quickly manifests another lie, as he shifts his attention back to the computer, he begins to type away. "We can't even touch the crabgrass until the state lets us! It's clearly an invasive species! We might be causing an ecological disaster if we make any moves on it!" Adon continues to tap away at the computer. "And I just checked our policy; in the context of the customer not fulfilling his post-treatment, it TRULY pains me to tell you this." Adon looks over the screen, teeth bared in a jeering grin.
"No refunds."
Yeah, I got you, the aging Kyokugen-and-pipe fighter thinks as he sees that lump go down Adon's throat. For once in his life, a clear and visible, clean end to a bunch of the runaround his life tends to be composed of. No more delaying business hours, no more shooing him off when he tries to call (or just outright neglect to pick up), no more mysteriously vacant offices proclaiming they're closed every time he's tried to come up here. Just a simple admission of 'I'm sorry I did not do the job you paid me to very well, here is your money back' and maybe just maybe--
Adon's grin comes back, and Rust leans back ever so slightly. "Treatment?" He murmurs inaudibly. His voice loses volume - and menace - as Adon rattles off word after word of his counterpoint, some unspoken of paperwork. A protest that he is not the property owner of the Kyokugen Dojo or even hearing about some secondary treatment is lost somewhere in the sea of excuses and believable (?) policies, both hands raised, palms facing forward, and shaking with his head swaying to either side. Where Adon goes back on the offensive, Rust's defense falters and goes weak, all culminating to that final, grin-laden statement that cuts ever so deep as the seeming dead end to this oft-deflected attempt to the end of it all.
No refunds.
"No refunds." Rust mumbles, shoulders slumping. "What the... what the hell kind of treatment are we... talkin', we tried... god damn near, well, everything," he stammers, going over every method they've attempted (or proposed) to /deal/ with the menace. By hand, even all the students together couldn't be completely rid of it. Much, much stronger chemical alternatives were debated, and at one point violently rebuked by Ryo over a matter that is not really particularly funny to the Japanese people in general. Tests with the stuff King provided aren't... entirely positive about things being able to grow back in that patch of potted soil it had been applied to.
"I, I," I what? I'm sorry, I guess I'll go? Howard scratches the side of his head. He sees the crabgrass /everywhere/ now. His eyes start to wander across the sparse decorations of the office... and there. Crabgrass.
Crabgrass /in the pot/.
Wait a second.
"I'm... I'm not the only one who, who had trouble with it... right?" Howard speaks up as he reaches out with his right hand to that potted plant. "I mean, uh, look... look at this thing." He shakes the pot gently.
"Doesn't... doesn't look like you put the, uh, the secondary treatment thing on this either, did.... anyone? Anyone who, who had it?" Is it possible everyone neglected to apply some sort of secondary treatment? Or could it be... no, Adon wouldn't, right? Howard seems confused outwardly even as he mulls over such things inwardly, it doesn't make any sense to him considering his understanding of Adon's general life situation. "Shit, even this pot, just... just look at it, in, in your own office!" He rocks the pot a bit more.
Adon's ruthless offense transfers well in the landscaping business, it seems.
As he reduces Rust back down to a stammering lump, the fighter visibly relaxes. He loads up some videos on Youtube. It was AMAZING how the internet was. He could even get PORN! All the naked Muay Thai brides he likes, at the comfort of his own workplace! But no, this was not naked women. It was something else, just in case he needed additional leverage. But he was confident now, that he would have no need for it. He was slamming Rust around better than any man could in the ring. He almost has Rust driven off...
But then he spies the potted plant.
Adon's grin fades a second time, though for only the briefest of moments. He looks at the potted plant with disgust. And then, he leans over the desk, speaking to Rust as if he was a particularly slow child. "Why yes, Rust! That is the crab grass! I managed to get a SAMPLE from your lawn when INSPECTING IT, don't you remember? It is pretty important, with how it is SPREADING all over the CITY! Can you imagine if those POOR BUSINESSES and GARDENERS find out that it is a KYOKUGEN weed infesting this city?"
"It would be a shame if other companies start pursuing compensation in civil court!"
Adon stands up from his chair, enjoying every verbal jab and groin smash he was unleashing on the younger man. "Actually, I'll level to you straight, Rust, because I! ADON! The TRUE MASTER of MUAY THAI! Am -SUCH- a DEAR FRIEND and OLD ASSOCIATE of YOURS!" Adon's shit-eating grin oozes even more. "We got a chemical in the back; you apply it after every lawn treatment. Only $20 an application, plus shipping, handle, and labor fees." The Emperor of Shady Landscaping explains. "And if those pictures are TRULY REAL, and not some PHOTO-SHOPPED SCAM that you people pull on the INTERNET, then we BETTER get to WORK as SOON AS POSSIBLE! Before you lawn, well!" Adon raises his hands from the computer, unleashing a pair of air quotes beside his unyielding sneer.
"'Pull a Quon', so to speak!"
"Yes, that, that is the crabgra-" Rust nods his head, starting to speak when Adon starts going to his trademark screeching. Any direction he's going with that phrase is lost to sheer volume. If there's one arena Rust will never be able to compete against Adon in, it's raw vocal volume. Every syllable, every screeched word... even the pop of a joint might get muffled in Adon's yelling (it probably does, one of his knees expresses its stiffness as Rust leans back).
A Kyokugen weed, Adon says, as he illustrates how it's been spreading through the city. Kyokugen weed. Origin point, the Kyokugen Dojo - certainly it seemed to get overrun by this /first/ by all appearances, but origin?!
His eyes narrow. Those exact words, they stick out even as Adon taunts about the idea of businesses and gardeners looking for some sort of formal compensation, and something clicks. It's not his elbow.
...Okay, it's also his elbow, as he leans against the desk with one arm as Adon stands up and screeches out an offer. Removing his hand from the tainted flowerpot, he motions downward with an open palm as Adon grins with his venom-laden offers of chemical assistance. He shakes his head a couple of times, opening his mouth as if to try and get a word in which is - ultimately - nigh-impossible.
Until Adon accuses those pictures of being fake, where the palm turns into a fist, and those lips a frown. By the time the airquotes and 'pull a Quon' happen...
A fist slams into the desk. The entire office rattles slightly under the strength of it. The fist of a man that dared to wield a pipe against things far greater and deadlier than the both of them combined, and has lived to ultimately bang on a desk in frustration over bad customer service.
"Yeah, you, you wanna play the whole comp, compensation card, right?" Rust asks, piercingly, as his other hand rubs the shoulder that had to house the slamming fist. Probably shouldn't be slamming desks with it so soon. "I'm, I'm gonna tell you something, Adon, as... as a man who knows the value of, y'know, their job."
Clearing his throat again but neglecting to pat his chest, he continues in a somewhat hoarse voice, hoping he's got the metaphorical floor. "You, you just said it came from the, the K-Kyokugen dojo, right? Like... epicenter, and, and y'know, I wasn't the only one there that day, so... ah, got, got quite a few people who asked me, was that Adon? And... yeah, y'know, you were there. So..."
He inhales in deeply. "Y'know, lookin' past this whole, uh, secondary treatment thing, ah, whatever it was, I mean... hell, Adon, y'know how hard it's been to, to contact this place? Do you? Doesn't... doesn't say a lot for, ah, being approachable." He looks a bit off to the side. He can't quite see what's on Adon's monitor from here - not that he's so inclined. "And I mean, you guys didn't... didn't stop the crabgrass, now it's, well," he removes the hand from his shoulder to gesture towards the pot, "don't need photos to see it all over, Adon, I mean, shit, just, just look out your god damn window. Doesn't... doesn't say much 'bout the quality of the work, huh, does it."
"And, and I was talkin' with some other friends too, y'know, mentioned you, thinkin'... hey, you got honest work, doing... doing honest things. Honest pay. They, they didn't believe it," he shook his head. "Well, I, I don't think I believe it either, so... so lemme ask you this."
Howard removes his hand from the desk and walks around to the side of it - not much space to do so, all but scraping against the wall - as he places a hand down on the flowerpot again.
"So, so when Southtown learns that you guys, I mean, /you/," he points, "failed to, to help contain any of this, and... and say you don't lose business, just that, that they fire one guy to save face... like, the guy who people saw there, y'know, working, you. Toss you out on your ass," he gestures to the door, "then what?"
"As, uh, at this point, Adon," he shakes his head, "that point, you got a, a reputation. Not a good one. Of one who, y'know, didn't do their job, and... I'm, I'm not saying directly, but, but could easily be said... that your failure to, to do your job, /your failure/," as if eschewing the secondary treatment, "caused this friggin' disaster. What's... left, Adon? If you, if you lose your job. Wait. No."
He puts emphasis on this, as if knowing. "/When/. When, Adon. What's next? Who's, who's gonna take the resume of a man who, who didn't stop this?" He doesn't need to illustrate the obvious fallback - the 'obvious fallback' being one where even Rust - a generally publically beloved man - struggles to make ends meet when not accounting for Sagat's genuinely great help. "I, I sure as hell wouldn't. And this is on top of, well," where the hell does he begin? The illicit activities? The outright bullying in the leagues? To say nothing of... him.
"Adon, I, I find it hard to believe someone like, like you, would just be... smilin', telling a guy who wants his, his fifty bucks back when he's on the, on the cusp of losing his god. Damn. Job."
The hand on the pot starts to squeeze at the malignant growth in its soil, as if ready to crush it to a fine powder in his left hand. He leans ever forward, as if ready to intrude upon the sacred space that is the employee end of the desk. "So, so how 'bout you cut the crap, give me back the money, and... and maybe actually do your job, y'know, maybe... save it, if, if you're lucky." He shrugs visibly, turning his head away as he removes his hand from the top of the flowerpot and scratches his chin, breaking eye contact, voice starting to trail off with a final errant thought.
"I mean, you, you value your job, right? That's... that's all you got left, isn't it?"
Adon's smile doesn't fade.
He just locks it there, enduring the onslaught from Rust. His smile doesn't change. But every word makes his eyes ever more intense. Every stab, every insult to his self-worth. Anger burns behind those eyes. But he simply type on the keyboard, around when Rust points a finger at him. He begins to tremble, anger and insult running through his veins. And finally, Rust pops the important, final question. That's all he has left. A sound of cheering begins to fill the room.
And the sound comes from the built in speakers of the monitor.
Adon turns the screen around, showing the display of Youtube on the screen, spread on INternet Explorer, with a second window minimized of facebook. It shows Rust recieving kick after kick in the stomach. The pipe falls to the ground, the legendary Ol' Rusty collapsing only moments before Rust does the same. And there, Adon steeples his fingers, easing back into his chair again. And that sneer just burns as he responds to Rust's question.
"I value my job, Rust."
The fight ends on the screen, victory being handed to the ex-cop in the short blond hair almost immediately. Adon just continues, his voice very even, very calm, but ruthlessly restrained. "That's why I'm doing what I'm told. I was told that a scrub like you would be throwing his weight around after we fixed up your dojo. Now, Rust. As you know, I've been blacklisted from a lot of fighting circuits. I've been publically shamed. I could be desperate, manipulated by jackals looking to use me for all kinds of filthy purposes. You how I know? Because I've seen it happen."
"Just like Sagat."
Adon's voice turns colder and colder, eyes dead fixed on Rust's own. "So I pride myself on my work. I pride myself with every weed I pull, every moment I push that lawnmower around. And you know why? Because I'm not a self-loathing wreck like Sagat was. I'm not a desperate man turning to crime, turning to fighting for gangs as some kind of hit man. Do you realize what happens to most fighters in my situation? They becomes losers. They become self-hating bums. And from the looks of things?' Adon hits replay on the Youtube, beginning the important part of the Pay Per View all over again. "They also run late-night bargain barrel fights that you can get for free on Youtube."
And suddenly, the door bells tinkle.
The door is held open by a dangerously familiar punk. Neon jacket. Mohawk. A shit-eating grin. And behind him, five other punks following in. Adon stands up, the calm gone, and replaced by anger. "WHO DARES ENTERS MY OFFICE!?" He shrieks, as the punks file in. The door man lets the door shut, and there, he reveals the main proper. The problem wasn't 8 men in a tiny room like this. The problem was outside;
And the other 6 punks, clutching the bloody, beaten Mr. Himaruya.
The punks begins to chuckle nastily as they spread out in the cramped room. They inspect the sparse interior. One of them shoves past Rust, snatching up the little Daruma doll. Chuckling deeply, he tosses it to another punk, who catches it... and spikes it straight through the glass window. Two of the punks start sizing up Rust, surrounding him, while the the door man punk shoves past Rust, stepping up to the desk and leaning over towards Adon. "Hey, uh, buddy?"
"I heard you don't do refunds."
Given how indistinct the general noise of cheering can be - it is jut the summation of noise made by multiple people, rarely with a pattern beyond chants or songs - the little bit of commentary that can be heard from a poorly set-up commentator booth clues him in pretty fast, as is the flash of those dangerous legs of the famous Lucia of Metro City.
If Rust squinted, he could probably see the more recent beatdown by Dean in the related videos column on a particularly juicy snapshot of an electrified hand stretching past Rust's outstretched leg. The familiarity of this poor outcome - these poor outcomes - and the crisis of faith it induced in someone who may well have been his biggest fan. And everything that followed...
It silences him, as Adon more succinctly stands his ground with a far more even tone. Somehow, more menacing than when he screeches. Staying his ground physically, but not so much emotionally, one hand tugs a bit at the awful, strangely colored thing on his head as Adon segues towards the whole self-loathing wreck thing 'like Sagat.' No, on some level... a lot like him. Losers, self-hating bums. For a man asking Adon if he values his job, it's ever so clear that there is much mounting stress on Rust's person.
After being faced with just one of several low rent venues where a man so celebrated performed... nothing like what his reputation states. Some bad reads, at least a few sloppy mistakes. A man who had a brown belt in Kyokugen, and yet despite taking about as much punishment as he's famous for, not quite giving back in kind. Something disheartening all around.
"I--" Cut off by the tinkling door bells, Rust turns his head and bows it with a wince as Adon starts screaming again. Adon's more level tone, so surprising unto itself, all but made him forget as to what levels of volume that voice could climb to. His eardrums surged in pain, his wince ending in a timely fashion as a bunch of very colorfully (and dangerously) dressed individuals shove on in. Rust barely moves to the first one shoving, raising a finger as if to say something but is interrupted by the little show with the Daruma doll and its eventual path through the window.
The shattered glass gives way to a nice view to those gathered outside in the wake of the cacophony of crumbling glass... he can just make out the bloodied form of someone or another. Trouble, no doubt. He's lived in Southtown long enough to know trouble.
He casts one look back to Adon, thinking to say something like 'maybe we'll talk about this later' or possibly 'I should politely let them know we're still discussing this' just in time for the second to shove past him, a brief sensation of... something on his right shoulder. Calling it pain would be giving the shove too much credit.
There's just about enough bodies in the way that he can't really easily move past, too little room in this cramped office to easily swing Ol' Rusty around...
Unable to easily ID who that guy is but getting the idea there's /someone/ hurt out there, adrenaline starts to take over in the tension as he attempts to shove his way past those two punks in front of him, "'scuse me," he says with some urgency and perhaps completely undue politeness in words if not in actions (or perhaps this was to Adon?), shoulder crackling loudly as he lumbers along back out.
Would they let him? Or... could they stop him to begin with?
Trouble.
Adon seethes visciously as he rises up, ignoring Rust in every sense of the word. His shrill screams at the punk spoke volumes. "HOW DARE YOU! What are you DOING with MR. HIMARUYA!?" The punks don't stop Rust as he shoves past him, though they sneer and cackle as he shoves. "Yeah! Yeah! Beat it!" one of them shouts out. But as Rust forces his way outside, he can hear the door man explain. "Yeah, we caught Mr. Himaruya talking with some people he shouldn't. He thought we weren't in the neighborhood."
"He was wrong."
As Rust forces his way outside, he can hear the screams from within. "RELEASE HIM! NOW!" Was the scream from the Fallen Emperor, as the six thugs eye the approaching old man. Four are standing by, while two are holding up Mr. Himaruya by each hand. The round, Japanese man groans in pain, dried blood clotted under his nose, as the two thugs drop him, and give him a swift kick. "I wouldn't get too close, buddy!" One of the thugs state, as the other four start to encircle Rust... but the odd man out points a finger at Rust, gasping.
"Isn't that Rust Howard?"
The thugs begin to chortle a bit, as the six finish encircling. "Yeah! Yeah! THe pipe guy! The construction worker dude." They continue, looking to each other. "That's the guy who slams the pipe into people. I remember seeing him on TV! That's the bum that was getting thumped by those vigilante guys from Metro City!" A knife flashes out. "Eh, if he can't take them, this guy is an old joke. Maybe we should provide the pun-"
They are interrupted by the sound of shattering glass.
Surging through the glass was the door man, torn along by a screaming Adon. The Muay Thai fighter's sweatpants-covered knee was ripping through the man, carrying him through the remains of the door. The man's unconscious body crumples into a heap past Mr. Himaruya, as Adon lands on his flip-flopped feet beside Rust.
"WORTHLESS!"
Adon's feral eyes match his predatory grin, the wild sneer flaming hot as he looks down at the thugs. The punks from within the office are scrambling back out, surrounding the pair of men. But Adon just scoffs, not even looking at Rust. "I! ADON! THE MASTER OF MUAY THAI! THE FORMER CHAMPION OF THE NEO-LEAGUE! Will be BREAKING you like the BONES of my MANY OPPONENTS! You will RUE the DAY you STOPPED ME from WORKING on JAGGA TOWN, as well as BEAT my BOSS SO RUTHLESSLY! RUST!" He roars, finally casting a sideway glance to the modest man with the awful hair. "I DEMAND you HELP ME SMASH these WORTHLESS THUGS, so we can RESCUE MR. HIMARUYA!"
"OR ELSE I WILL BREAK YOU!"
Words are kind of a blur in the heat of the moment as Rust forces his way outside, between Adon's screaming and things about one Mr. Himaruya, the boss that's... that's him on the ground. By instinct, his right hand goes to the makeshift hilt of Ol' Rusty, left hand on the torn toolbelt pocket itself as the poor (likely dishonest business)man is dropped to the ground.
He shakes his head slowly at the warning. They start talking about recognition. The pipe guy, they know him then. Maybe they'll just back off, apologize, sit tight and wait for the poli-- oh who are we kidding here, this is Southtown. He grunts at being called a bum - it is true that recent TV matches didn't impart a great impression, eyes carefully following how many are encircling him. He can't rely on the glass behind him as a safe place to put his back, though he is remarkably(?) unintimidated by the knife - or at least hasn't moved to shift his weight or attention in regards to the flash of a blade.
Shattering glass. Howard turns his head behind his left shoulder, Adon with his back to his. Differences in stances and hair aside, the two share the exact same height - standing tall in their own way, surrounded by men of ill intent. Men, no doubt, no match for any of them alone.
Together?
"Truth... truth be told," Rust murmurs out, the quietness of his voice standing in contrast to the screeching of Adon, "voice'd do more to me than, uh, than than, uh, than anything these guys could do." Uncharacteristically bold words in an unstated confirmation. He doesn't bear Mr. Himaruya great will for all the frustration and runaround, but this sort of thing...
Ol' Rusty slides out of the toolbelt pocket with an incredibly smooth, powerful motion as though the pipe itself agreed with the direction this thought was going, the draw timed and angled wide enough to pop one guy upside the head to his immediate right - putting his personal comfort zone in keeping most of his immediate threat coming from the left and front, a short leap into the air to swing one leg outward in a wide kick that is followed up by a second thrust with the other leg to catch one thug that dares to try and lunge into him with that knife soon after. The knife flies free of their grasp in the throes of pain, the blade spinning into Rust's forehead at a dangerous velocity as the pipe-wielding fighter lands in a kneel.
His left fist tensed, he butts his head up against it, neatly deflecting it despite the blade clearly colliding against it at a speed that it should cut, that it should stab. There is no discernible scratch or scar.
"H-Hang tight," he tries to say reassuringly to Mr. Himaruya, though his voice may not be heard well above the sounds of violence.
Such as the sound of one such punk trying to scream his way over Adon's boasts.
"YOU AIN'T SHIT NO MORE! GET HIM!" One guy with a very strange set of orange hair spikes in no discernible pattern or fashion shouts, perhaps shouting just to reassure himself that Adon didn't just totally knock the lights out of the door man.
Him and one guy by his side charge forth towards Adon's right to try and grab him, hold him down, while another thug - probably the biggest of those gathered here, all sneers and clearly not from around these parts if going by his European facial features, moves up from the left while brandishing an aluminum baseball bat, drawing it up high above his head for a downward smash.
There's at least some confidence that they can overwhelm the both of them with numbers - the thought that their numbers would be enough to defeat two champions fighting side-by-side.
"WHAT?!"
Adon's erupts confused, as he puts his back against Rust. His guard was up, his jaguar-print muscle shirt barely containing his puffed out chest. He was arrogant, oh so arrogant. ROf course, he could trust Rust at his back. He just didn't trust his strength when it was right before him. Adon is looking aside still as the thugs rush to meet his swagger. He scoffs at first, slamming his limbs around to deflect what he guessed were punches. What his instincts told him were punches.
But then he is grabbed.
"GAH!" Was the scream, as he is suddenly gripped by the flanks. Adon wrenches around violently, his arms held tightly. As the guy with the bat moves in, the Jaguar of Muay Thai is dragging them around, threatening to break away. Finally, the bat comes roaring in. The Fallen Emperor's body tightens. And then, he smashes his hands down. Launching straight upwards, he unleashing a rising knee into the man, interrupting the bat slam upon his shoulder. A second knee is hurled out, as he launches higher into the air. And there, torn free of the two men, he howls loudly.
"RISING JAGGA!"
But Rust had his own problems. The rest of the gang, short of the man watching the downed Himaruya, was sent scattering back like an overturned toolbox. Rust took to the air, knocking a man to the ground. Another man, who looks like he was 3 feet away from the kick, inexplicitly is knocked into the chest hard. "What the- how did that hit me?!" He asks stumbling backwards. As the knife comes, there is a flash of jaudice, the stabber looking yellow as he sees no sign of his attack. The knife man steps back, reaching around for another knife. He had a lot of knifes. Two injured, one frightened.
But only that same man as before is down.
Five men ease around Rust, keeping their distance back and their guard up. Three were bit by the skill of the Kyokugen fighter, but not broken. They weren't risking themselves anytime soon. But the other two are not so cautious. The both charge in tandem, lunging in at Rust's sides. And in unison, they begin to alternate punches towards Rust's chest. To stun lock him, and either force him to use a special move, and spend more HP, or just pray that he can break out, without having to spend any more quarters.
Which do you think is more likely.
"FUGGAH!" This is not a mockery of Adon's mighty Jaguar-styled variant of Muay Thai. This is not a heavily accented way of saying 'fuck off.' This is the approximate caption of a man whose jaw is violently shut tight with the Rising Jaguar. Teeth that don't crack apart on the violent meeting between rows of teeth are pushed deeply into his jaw - a detail easily missed given the much more appreciable visual of the bat-wielding man flying off his feet with such lift that his back hits the roof, sliding off into the ground with a thud. There is no further motion stirring from them.
"Holy shit man, holy shit," the man with the strange orange hair spikes is suddenly unnerved, a far cry from his declaration about Adon's worth in the universal lowlife mathematical scale of 'shit,' already cowering and backing away.
His friend that also made the attempt has not quite gotten the message is quickly joined by another with a plan that may almost be sound given their superior numbers.
"Legs," cries someone with a shrill voice that might even rival Adon's, "go for his legs!" One lunges low to try and grab Adon by his ankles. Another lunges at him with a sloppy, untrained lariat punch.
The guy with the strange orange hair spikes visibly cowers and panics - whom despite lacking any sort of offensive attempt on Adon at the moment, probably deserves a good whack in the face by some means or another.
On his own end, Rust indeed has his own problems. His joints creak all in a worrying unison, the telltale downside of his famed ability to strengthen himself against assault. The battle that is to fight off the locking up of his joints, to move them, to swing them, in a multi-man scenario where none would give him time to flex it all out.
One left, one right, at the same time. He turns his attention away from his left, an elbow seemingly lazily given as an afterthought to defense. It stops the first punch. The guy on the right starts his part of the sequence and manages to get him in the shoulder, earning a grunt of either annoyance or possibly legitimate pain - especially when the other guy punches /again/ and gets him in the chest. Then the other guy - synchronized very well, holding Rust in place even if individual punches don't seem to register all too much.
Gritting his teeth, he turns his upper body, allowing the guy on the left however many blows to his back he's going to be able to get in as he takes Ol' Rusty in two hands. A lumbering motion slowed less by assault and more by joints that desire to solidify, he thrusts the tip of Ol' Rusty towards the thug on the right, hooking the tip into his belt to lift him up and swing him into the crowd that has been keeping its safe distance - enduring the contineud assault from one man may well give him the opportunity to deal with multiple in one fell swoop.
"Wait your turn," Rust menacingly mumbles out to the guy behind him who may or may not still be pounding away at his left to some nebulous effect.
Mockery?
The intent might not be mockery, but as Adon leaves the broken remains of the man falling down, he cackles madly. "YOU DARE MOCK MUAY THAI? YOU DARE BELITTLE MY POWER!?" Was the howls as he swaggers around, his gaze locked onto the terrified punk. The sneer intensifies, his eyes burning with bloodlust. As Rust sorts out his punks with quiet restraint, Adon was eager to make this hurt hard and fast. His instincts twitch again. His body relaxes. He hears the cry for Adon's legs.
And Adon just grins harder.
Going the legs ends up as a fruitless effort, as Adon takes to the air. Bounding over both the man going for his ankles, and just barely, the man passing with a swinging arm. There isn't much more time for screaming. He is already diving on the orange haired buffoon. Pouncing like a fierce jungle cat, the Muay Thai master's heel ignites in burning energy. Flipping through the air, the heel comes crashing down towards the absurd hairstyle, attempting to cave the man's skull in... all with the high-pitched scream of the attack itself.
"JAGGA KEEEEEEEK!"
The scream should be driving through Rust's poor ears. As much as Rust suffers, it is nothing compared to the duo of men at each of his flanks. The one continues to hammer into the stony-formed back, pounding again and again. The one now in Rust's front, however, slows down as he recognizes what is happening. He tries to flee, tries to withdraw. But he is stopped by his belt. "N-n-no! Oh No-" He sputters, for a moment. He is lifted into the air by his pants, and with an easy heft, he is hurled right into the fray of the crowd.
"OH NOOOOOO!"
The scream comes as his body slams into only one of the others, the rest having the common sense to scatter away. The poor victim, the one who was psyched out when his knife did nothing, takes the man body first. There is a muffled grunt, as the duo hits the ground. They don't get up. The sixth man, once guarding the downed Mr. Himaruya, abandons his post to help the others. He is charging Rust now, leading his companions with fresh morale. They wouldn't reach Rust yet, however. The one behind Rust stops his punching for a second. That should be the warning as he tries to hop on his back, to wrench an arm across his neck into a sleeper hold. To bring him down.
To choke him out.
The match between chi-laden heel and who-the-hell-knows-what-drenched hairdo is one-sided. The bookies weren't taking bets on that one, the statisticians have decided not to bother with putting odds at all on that particular matchup. It is a cruel, crushing blow. The blood that spatters, the pathetic gurgling of a man who may well have severe brain damage that'll stick with him for the rest of his life - the price of poking at a jaguar with wounded pride, but a powerful body backed by undeniable technique.
The guy on the ground from a failed bid for Adon's ankles is agape, the swinging arm guy shrieking the man with the funny spiked hair's name - a name lost to the scream of another being flung over by that guy with the pipe. Showing a rare moment of humanity to be found among thieves and brigands, he rushes down to the injured guy's side to see the horror that is that man's head first-hand. His fist shakes.
While the lariat guy is having his moment of fright and sorrow, the foot-diving guy stumbles to his feet and signals with a forward motion of his arm to some other guy to charge Adon from his back. This could be a problem for both fighters against the horde now - the opening between the two, where their backs were previously very close together.
The guy signalled withdraws a distressingly large knife (possibly Nepalese in origin), looking to get a hold on Adon's neck as he makes the attempt to thrust the blade right into a kidney.
"Gonna take our cash back in blood," the knife-wielder sneers with a whisper.
The leg diver, stumbling along from behind, goes up to his exact same trick from before without the announcement - but with knife guy there trying to be all intimate, that may well dispel his attempt at going for the same thing the same way in the meager hopes of different results.
Over with the man that wields the pipe, he visibly bows over as the man throws his weight upon him to get an arm around. Rust grunts as his left hand goes up to one of the locking arm. This could be a simple slam--
He stops himself from going for the easy removal, seeing that guy rush in. A plan formulates, its only requirement... a little patience. Patience his throat does not have a lot of. For what that guy on his back did not have in punching power, he demonstrates a pretty good idea of leverage. It's hard enough to take in breath with him /there/.
Howard staggers forward, step by step - legitimately in danger of being taken out by sleeping hold, putting on a show of weakness, a stubborn knee, or maybe some combination thereof? He points Ol' Rusty downward with his right hand as he advances towards the charging man and the crowd behind him.
Further breaking the impromptu formation with Adon in moving forward, he grunts out a roar as he suddenly swings forward with Ol' Rusty in a wide horizontal swing, putting as much torque and rotation into it as he can to loosen up the sleeper hold, pivoting on his heel into a bow as he takes his left hand to the guy on his back and hurls him forward into the rushing crowd in the second step of his approach - a nearly seamless combination of pipe swing into a second human projectile, a hoarse cough after the fact in place of what could have been the perfect time for a one liner.
Maybe something like 'I'm not a fan of bowling,' or 'met little girls stronger than that,' or something, but that's a moment for snark lost forever to a pair of lungs that demand to have fresh air taken in.
Three down.
In contrast to Rust's own slow and steady technique, Adon was rampaging across these thugs wildly. His motives for beating these thugs were selfish, by all means. Mr. Himaruya was a source of income for the Martial ARtist; his loyalty was only as far as his pocket book went... as well as far as Adon's whim went. And above all, his whim was hot anger and violence. And what better way than to take it out on socially acceptable victims? As he lands back down, he stares down at the man he just struck down. Throwing his head back, he sneers. "WHAT PATHETIC TECHNIQUE!? You almost FIGHT as POORLY as ALMA! That SNIVELING BOYCHILD! GO WALLOW IN YOUR OWN BLOOD, you SNAK-"
And Adon takes a knife to the back.
The Fallen Emperor's eyes bulge out, going wide. A trickle of blood oozes out of his muscle shirt. The Muay Thai master stumbles. Wild had its flaws. It meant unstable. Cocky. And reckless. The second man comes in with his slamming arm, knocking the Emperor down to the ground. Stunned, the EMperor flails around dazed. A groan begins to build in Adon's throat, as he closes his eyes. "Ggggggrrrrrrrr-"
"GGRRAAAAAAAAAAAAGH!!!!!"
The groan transforms into a scream, as the Emperor turns upwards. Eyes bloodshot, spittle building into a foam on his lips. The Jaguar of Muay Thai is still screaming as he stares down at the offending thug. ANd there, he dives in. Hurling himself in towards the thug, he will attempt to clinch him. Should he latch on, he will just slam his knee over and over again into the man, with flesh rending force. But it will not end there, whether he makes the grab or not, it does not matter.
Because the laughter will begin.
He will leap away, taking to the air as the shrill cackles cut through the air. "KYA HA HA! HA HA HA!" Was the psychotic laughter cutting through the Southtown air, as Adon bounds to the outside wall of the office. And there, making a three-point landing, he immediately springs off. Not towards his first victim, but towards the still struggling Lariat fool. Blasting through the air like a crack of lightning, he attempts to land an armor-piercing heel straight into the chest of the man. All while screaming, as usual.
"JAGGA TOOOOOOTH!"
The injury into Adon only emboldens the men coming on Rust. The guardian thug takes point, while the flanking thug... keeps up that hold. He feels like he got him. As Rust goes on a knee, he tightens his grip. The sneer comes. "I got him! I think I got hi-" And the cry is cut off, as he is torn free from the middle-aged man's back, and sent flying into the guardian. The head thug's charge slows down, knocking him stumbling backwards. The chucked man is down, knocked unconcious. But while the leader slows down, he points towards Rust, as the other two still roar in. And there, he cries out the order.
"Go for the knee!"
The closest one is the one who makes the dive. Rushing down towards RUst's knee, it was a reckless charge, a dangerous one. But as that flying tackle comes, it was a risk worth paying off. Should they catch the knees, he will try and bring Rust down to the ground. And if he manages to get him to the ground? His partner will close in.
And stomp on Rust while he is down.
Those familiar with the fighting world - and Adon's greatest time of prominence - may be slightly dulled to the eardrum-shattering shrieks that is Adon's typical conversation voice. When Adon takes it up to eleven and screams, everyone notices. There's probably no man present who fails to grimace and even take a moment to clutch their ears, barring the ones who are currently really invested in things like 'stabbing Adon,' or 'realizing how badly one of their fellow bad man friends are hurt,' or especially 'guy going for that man's leg.'
"Did you get him?" The guy on the ground asks of the stabber as he slams into Adon, "that kinda screaming sounds like someone got stabb--"
The second guy wisely rolls on his side when Adon grabs the real guilty party of the stab, cowering and covering his head as every knee registers on the exotic knife-wielding thug like something is being shattered to pieces. Bone would be the no brainer, but perhaps there is a subtle, primal sound to having the fight knocked out of you with every knee against them. Like a knee to the very soul, in some ways, a physical nature that transcends just mere physical harm - it is outright overkill.
The lariat guy similarly stands no chance, caught up in such concern for a comrade that there is none left for himself as the heel collapses his chest. Blood flies from his mouth, his body skidding across asphalt as it collides with the leg diving guy who thinks to get up, bowling him over to a painful landing on his back. That's three of them down in one fell swoop - not too many remain in Adon's circle.
There's one more in Adon's field of vision from there - they draw a handgun from a rather spacious jacket, the jacketed man casting a glance over to where Rust is - and Adon's injured boss, Mr. Himaruya. He starts pointing their gun in that direction, though it is vague as to whether he might be taking aim at Rust, or at Adon's boss - the gun-wielding thug is keeping his distance, trying to look tough with a raised fist but showing absolutely no actual fundamental skill in the way he stands. It's sloppy. He probably couldn't stop Adon from rushing over to kick them if he tried.
Rust, meanwhile, winces as described to Adon's screaming, unable to discern if that's Adon being angry, Adon being in significant pain, or some combination of both as he rolls his left shoulder - the only lingering memory of that guy trying to punch at his back being flexed out with a pop. There is a certain weariness to the man's technique. Nowhere near as impassioned as Adon, by all appearances, as though worn both by frustration of daily life and the prospect of not ever walking out of here with a refund after so much time seeking audience with the company. It may well be the fact that someone's life is truly in danger /is/ the impetus unto itself to stand and fight.
There's something to be said about enthusiasm as much as mass and velocity when one guy dives into his knees, Adon's stepped-up screeching a painful distraction, and the aging ex-construction worker catches himself into a kneel with his left hand planted on the ground, one heel feeling the sting of a twist. A kneel is close enough for kicking-while-down purposes, a foot battering into the chest several times over. Rust barely flinches with each kick around chest and face level, though he is caught in a comprimising position.
"Y'know," he says words between kicks (perhaps with the demand he shuts up), "we, we coulda settled this like, like grown adults here," his left hand tensing to a ball, "but--"
He puts his Kyokugen training to work, thrusting his fist upwards with such force that it carries him up off his feet in a short hop that simultaneously loosens the other guy on his legs - a secondary effect to trying to thrust his fist into the kicking man's chin to launch him up.
One brief landing later, he takes up after them again, hooking Ol' Rusty into some article of their clothing as he starts to spin them round and round, rapidly, speaking more clearly in mid-spin, "y-you had to friggin' throw a tantrum like a buncha--" He doesn't finish his sentence as he swings Ol' Rusty and its occupant at the tip downward into the guy who first dove into him with a force that could crack the concrete unto itself, landing on his feet with another grimace. No, he probably shouldn't be putting weight on that ankle for the moment, as he stands face to face with the guy who called those recent shots.
Five down.
Adon rips across the pavement, blood still oozing from behind him. Rage and vengence was consuming him. So much hatred in such a small space of time. And yet, as his ruthless rampage dies down, so had almost everyone else. Adon's bloodlust had not waned yet. It was only cooled down. The Fallen Emperor lands, staring around hungrily, looking for more men to destroy. He casts a glance at the last survivor of his pack, a man that was drawing a gun.
And crossroads.
If the man took a shot at Rust, why should he care? If he took a shot towards his boss... why should he care, really? Adon's selfish mind begins to calculate. It would be amusing if a shot was taken at Rust. But ultimately, mean nothing. No, if a shot was taken at Mr.Himaruya, he might get killed. And then, Adon would be out of the job. And then, Adon wouldn't make rent. He would be homeless, on the streets... and desperate. Just like Sagat. There is a saying, in some circles. Someone who does the right thing for the wrong reasons...
Is still doing the right thing.
The Fallen Emperor is already on the move. He is already in the air. It was so smooth, so effortless. The man might be able to take his shot. He might have time. But he is sailing through the air, with both elbows wound back behind his head. The jaguar has pounced, and his legs were reaching out to mount the gunman. Should the thug get caught between the legs of the Muay Thai warrior, he will find a brief moment where he will be thrown off balance.
And an even briefer moment of pain, as both elbows come crunching down on his head.
Rust's crowd thins out further as well; the gangsters should have known better than to stand between the two fighters when they were conducting the important business of lawncare. A half-assed catch of Rust's knees is enough to inspire a half-assed stomp. But as the third man, the last charge, the last hurrah, comes rushing in, he truly is the last hurrah. The stomping man becomes hooked, in a reptition all too familiar. Faster and faster he whirls around, until it stops short with a fiercesome spike into the tackler. The two men intermingle into a heap of pain and moans. Most other men would be cowering. Most other men would be running. The last man, charging Rust, was not like most thugs. He doesn't meet Rust's stare with a hesistation.
Instead, it is a fist.
Blow after blow is thrown, punch after punch. The man takes his last stand, a fiercesome stand, a desperate stand. A chain of punches, intermingled with kicks, comes roaring out towards Rust. The man was hot-faced, looking flush from exhaustion and fatigue as he throws punch after punch. Finally, he attempting to finish the combo by stepping back a bit... and hurling out a flying kick.
Right towards Rust face.
There's a click that's almost missed in the sounds of violence, of a would-be gunman ready to take his shot - wherever he might be aiming, the focus on whichever target causing him to foolishly blot out a man who will not be blotted out, a man who will not be forgotten, a man who will not leave quietly.
Adon is the sort of man who is impossible to forget, and foolish to entirely disregard - there is no disregarding the legs that mount the gunman, gun jerking upward and firing a shot into the wild blue, that sound being the last thing they're likely to hear or remember as elbows come down crashing on their now bloodied scalp as they collapse face forward under the force of those elbows. Adon's weight would probably just be an added bonus if he stayed put.
Rust turns his head at the sound of the gunshot, memories of those hellish battles in the Asian continent resurfacing quickly - who's shooting, who got shot? He gets a brief look at Adon doing his thing--
A fist connects with his face, and Rust visibly stumbles back. It took this long for a man who actually knew how to throw a punch worth a damn to show, spittle flying out his jaw. Blow after blow, punch after punch, the Kyokugen-and-pipe fighter giving up ground mostly to stop himself from falling to a kneel as he struggles with a bit of an ache in one of those ankles (...moreso than usual). It's only about five strikes in where Rust actually gets his left arm up to start warding it off, and even then a kick or two gets past him. When the man steps back a bit, the older man shakes his head, growling out something incomprehensible as Ol' Rusty is pointed down low. It looks like he's going limp, to the untrained eye...
One thug flies forward with a kick. Howard's right arm swings upwards, the tip of Ol' Rusty scraping against pavement at such speed that sparks visibly fly as he slides forward on his feet under the momentum of the swing, Ol' Rusty swung upwards in that familiar advancing uppercut.
The outstretched leg glances just past Rust's ear as he moves to align pipe to chin, lips pressed together to a furrowed brow of a man who has more or less had enough browbeating throughout the quest for the fifty dollar refund.
And there was nothing.
The final kick of the last thug comes. He had the momentum. He had the spirit. He might be able to take down Rust, and pick off a wounded Adon. Those were the petty dreams of an ambitious thug. But such ambitions fade, as the flash of sparks come. The man takes the chin-shattering pipe straight, launching almost 10 feet into the air. He does a graceful backflip, before landing head first into the ground, with a sharp snap. And that was it. That was all that the gangsters could muster.
Or maybe, there was just one more.
Adon stands on the remains of the gunman, leering down at him. And his gaze shifts. The Jaguar strides towards Rust, eyes still burning with the bloodlust. Rust was weakened after all. So was Adon. But Adon didn't see himself as weak. He never saw himself as weak. He only saw him as not strong enough, as the case might be. He closes in on Rust. He juts his chest out, staring eye to eye with the other old man.
And he scoffs.
"-Fine-" The Fallen Emperor just sighs. "I -GUESS- we can SEE if you can get a refund. You didn't have to SHOW OFF!" And almost asif by instinct, the bloodied body of Mr. Himaruya lifts itself up. "N-no ref... N-no ref... refunds." He moans, struggling to roll himself up. But failing. Adon does nothing to help his boss, only crossing his arms as he scowls down at his boss. "How can you be so ungrateful!? He saved your life!" Adon turns his nose up at the man who signs his paychecks, as Mr. Himaruya moans. "Please... help... they were... they were after... about..." A groan comes out.
"... The crabgrass..."
Howard raises the pipe, pointed downwards, in preparation of shoving it back through that toolbelt pocket he ruined just so it could have a home there, as there's that momentary still of silence in the wake of it all. The tension is there, after all - while they had a common enemy this day, they were not ever truly friends to begin with.
It says volumes even as the two turn and match eyes. To where Adon makes an eventual scoff, Howard frowns, one eye half-way shut - hardly the face of a man to say 'hey, job well done,' but one who begs to ask the question.
There's a wordless nod. Refund. God damn, all this just to get fifty dollars back. Ol' Rusty slides back through that toolbelt pocket at last.
"Good, yeah, uh, 'bout--" Rust pats his pockets again with his left hand as he turns towards the rising, bloodied form of Mr. Himaruya. The denial of refund is met with another frown, "look, just, how, how 'bout we call an ambu--"
Most surprising of all is when Adon speaks up over Rust's stammering and search for his cellphone - when Adon stands up for him, up against his boss. Against the man who signs his checks and helps provide him a living after all the Fallen Emperor of Muay Thai has done.
For a guy who has been proxy to some of the worst consequences of his bullying. To say 'thanks' would probably not match the sincerity of tone he'd want to inflect, after his own rough patches with his own fighting career, or, well... a lot of things like way back at the airport. The American man wordlessly gets his cellphone out to start dialing for an ambulance or maybe a dozen, as Adon's boss moans out what this was all over.
"The... the crabgrass?" Rust lowers his cellphone. In his verbal sparring with Adon he no doubt made it clear he was sure people would be knocking on his door over this mess, but... to this end? Even for this being Southtown, this level of retaliation is a bit extreme! "L-Look," he clears his throat as he goes to kneel down to Mr. Himaruya and place his right hand on his shoulder, "I'm, I'm gonna call an ambulance, you just... we'll, we'll talk about this later, okay, you... you need help, looks like they, uh, they got you pretty good." He thinks to correct himself. "Bad. Got you bad. I mean."
To say nothing of the rest of the gangster types that all lined up here, or that blood going down Adon's back. There's a lot of broken bodies to go around, and it's never a pleasant sight.
"Just, uh, just relax, okay, you're... you're in bad shape." He withdraws his hand from the man's shoulder as he finishes up the dialing, turning his head over to Adon. "Thanks for, well, uh, hearing me out, I mean... shit, got you in your back good," his voice mumbles across fragments of multiple subjects as he comes down from the adrenaline and general stress of it all.
Mr. Himaruya was done with this scheme.
It was supposed to be an easy job. There were some contacts, old Syndicate contacts, the ones that introduced the crabgrass there in the first place, all those years ago. Back during the Mr. Karate days; Ryo and Robert thumping the Syndicate. Mr. Brown approached him, Mr. Himaruya approached the mysterious man who wanted to carry this scheme out, and all he had to do is just spread the weed around, and give a cut of the money to the gangsters. And the only person who cared about the crabgrass was even eager to help them unleash it. Over some rambling issue wit hteh UN. Everything was all part of the plan, everything was working out for Mr. Himaruya.
But then Mr. Brown went missing.
Mr. Himaruya was an honest man, but if nobody wanted kickbacks, he didn't need to collect them. He skimmed them for himself, just as a secret. It was easy street for him. He was just picking up a new shipment of weed killer at the warehouses down by the harbor. And then he met these men. They were interested in Mr. Brown. Himaruya didn't know where he was. They didn't believe him. They wanted the money from the kickbacks. Himaruya didn't agree, and only wanted to work with Mr. Brown. It was a catch 22, just like Adon pulled. Except unlike Adon, Mr. Himaruya wasn't able to face down 12 Mad Gear gangsters. But Mr. Himaruya had to warn them. He had to warn Adon, and this heroic stranger. As the phone is dialed, he tries to muster up the description of the gangster who organized this... and the organization behind this madcap scheme. Grabbing Rust's pants, he tugs, looking pleadingly up.
"The man... in the suit..." The man groans in pain.
"... Todoh Dojo..."
And there, Mr. Himaruya passes out.
Adon looks at his boss, and rolls his eyes. "Pfft. I wonder what the HELL that means!"
Howard's train of thought breaks off into a hiss as the tug on his pants sees him putting weight on the ankle that's a touch sore from that tackle, but it is absolute insurance that Rust's attention is taken, turned to him as his right arm jerks upwards from the bit of pain that surges through him.
"Man in the... what?" Howard leans his head closer to better hear what he says, and freezes immediately at the mention of that certain dojo. That rival dojo - the one that the Sakazakis claim to have no end of trouble with. Putting it together with the first one, the man in the suit, Todoh Dojo...
His face goes agape. The fatigue, the lack of focus, the face of a man battered by a series of unfortunate events and difficulties in getting his career going... as Adon's boss passes out, Rust takes the phone to his ear.
"Hey... yeah, we got, uh, a lot of people hurt here, uh," there's a certain hurry to his tone, pointing a finger out at those who lay crumpled, "shit, something like, twenty? 'm at, at Himaruya Landscaping, send-- yeah. Yeah, something kind of, kind of bad, I... okay. Sure. Thanks."
Rust ends the call. "Help's comin'," he says, not looking Adon in the face as he goes to his truck, "and I gotta run."
More like limp, with how he twisted that ankle, but like pretty much every niggling injury or worse, Howard shrugs it off best he can in the face of something urgent, something that gets him moving even if he might want to stop and see a paramedic or something himself.
"Thanks," he murmurs out on the way. Could it be, at long last, a breakthrough in this crabgrass hysteria?! Panic and urgency would soon give way to anger before long, as the pieces fall into place as who well may be truly responsible in this entire mess. Pieces that exclude important things like 'did not actually physically get back fifty dollars from Adon right then and there' which would be an all-time high on the Rust Absentminded Achievements list... were it not for that time he forgot to stop that woman with the scarred eye from driving off with his truck some years back. Still, in the wake of what he heard... there was more to worry about than getting fifty US dollars back.
In a way, Adon was a hero, wasn't he!
Adon crosses his arms, wincing at the stabbing pain in his back, He might have to see a doctor was well, due to the knife in the back. But he was made of tougher stuff than those thugs. But as Rust panicks, and rushes off... he sneers, and shrugs. "Feh! Whatever! Just don't come around here threatening me again! Or I! ADON! THE MASTER OF MUAY THAI!"
"WILL STRIKE YOU DOWN!"
He watches as Rust hurry to his truck, unflustered by the way he was rushing off. He didn't mind at all! It just meant that he would pay Rust back later; a fact he was more than happy to do. He could take his sweet time paying back. The martial artist's gaze casts down at his unconscious boss. He had... done a good deed today. He did not expect to be fighting alongside Rust; nay, he was ready to fight Rust over $50. A strange twist, life was. And what does Adon do, while he waits for the ambulance? Does he provide basic first aid for his boss? Does he tend to his own wounds? No.
Adon begins to kick the thugs like soccer balls, kicking them into a pile.
Just like heroes do.
Log created on 14:42:11 06/29/2013 by Rust, and last modified on 19:38:40 07/02/2013.