Description: Jezebel "Lightning Spangles" Faiblesse and Howard Rust are scheduled to go face to face in a failed martial arts school's dojo in tonight's exciting Fight Night! However, when one of the combatants take severe issues with the contents of some advertisements, there's a bit of extra time taken to make the negotiated changes (and a few tens of dollars at stake - yes, that's two digits) where the two get in a little meet and greet.
"I just want to say one word to you, Yumi. Just one word!"
"Fight Nights!"
The bleary eyed woman sits quietly in the chair, looking across the desk at the wild-haired, mustachioed Japanese man, garbed in a lavender business suit. The businessman, of course, was not sitting down. He was pacing, gesturing, lashing his arms out as he speaks to his employee. The room was much too small for that kind of flailing, but the man seemed unconcerned about that. He had only one concern, one concern, that the woman repeats idly.
"Fight Nights?"
"Yes! YES! Fight Nights! The one- well, actually, that's two words isn't it? Two words to you Yumi! Two words!" He blurts out, an arm snapping out with two fingers, nearly knocking over a life-sized cardboard cutout of Ganryu standing behind him. The woman nods tiredly. "Do you need me to write that down, Mr. Newman?" She sighs. Mr. Newman shakes his head eagerly, pounding his fists on the desk. "No! My ideas have weight! They have volume! They are like clouds with substance! They do not need to be transcribed! Fight Nights! Fight Nights!" The man pauses.
"… Fight Nights."
Mr. Newman narrows his eyes. Staring off into the distance, he uncurls his fists, and rolls his fingers on the desk. A word hangs in his throat, a thought having stalled out. Yumi sits quietly, staring at her boss. Mr. Newman swallows hard, and sings a bit. And then, he tightens his hands again to fists, and gives a quick punch into the air. "Fight Nights! Yes! I love them! They are just as good as Saturday Night Fights, but as it turns out, it costs nothing! You just grab any two bums off the street, and make them fight! Or better yet! C-List former champs! Former winners! And do you know what we call former winners, Yumi?!"
"Losers?"
"No, Yumi! We call them opportunity! And we have two of the best opportunities! Have I told you how much I love Rust Howard?" "Howard Rust." Yumi corrects her boss dryly. "It's a Rust! That's all that matters! I love him! I love him to death! He makes me hundreds of dollars! He nearly made me one thousand dollars with his epic match with Miyamoto Carlos!" "Carlos Miyamoto" Yumi corrects her boss again. Unflustered, Mr. Newman continues. "Enough! All I know is that Rust is an aging cash cow that I can milk! Just like how I plan on milking another person tonight! The infamous Lightning Spangles! A discount, female Long Fei!" "Mr. Newman, do I need to remind you that it is considered sexual harassment to loudly proclaim you will 'milk' someone?" Yumi corrects a third time. That last one gives Mr. Newman some pause.
"You know what, it might be easier to meet our fighters instead, Yumi!"
Mr. Newman climbs on top of the desk, and jumps down, running past Yumi to the door behind her. Swinging open the door wildly, he explodes out to the sound stage. Or, rather, the remains of a former dojo, only recently gone out of business in the wake of the recession. Converted into the setting for this small UHF network, Mr. Newman strides out past his cousin and cameraman, some kid who knows how to work a soundboard and the other equipment, and someone Yumi recommended who swears that can do lights. "Rust Howard! Rust Howard? Where are you?!"
"I gotta meet you, Rust Howard!"
Any port in a storm, it's been said. Beggars can't be choosers, so it goes. There is a long list of similar sayings in the English language. These two will suffice for the moment to sum up the man's luck in the competitive fighting circuit nowadays.
"'s gonna be, uh, 'round here, right," he asks to a short female stagehand wearing clothes totally inappropriate of their real age (she's totally pushing 40, why the hell is she in some gothic lolita getup), right hand rubbing up against his scalp. He mumbles some other things that he may be meaning to take the form of a question but is generally just muttered gibberish.
She nods rather enthusiastically the whole way through, either on reflex or that she just may be in reality a linguist who understands Mumbling Rust at a fluent level. We'll never know!
"Uh, thanks, 've kinda, kinda been given all the, y'know," he gestures in a circular motion with his left hand, "just findin' the place," he coughs once.
She's still nodding enthusiastically. Is she fluent in his coughing too?! Do wonders never cease?
He looks out blearily to the remains of a dojo that is no more as he clears his throat. He even remembers the place. Came by a few times back when he first came to Southtown, made a friend or two he didn't really keep much in touch with in the shuffle of all that happened. It strikes him that maybe they didn't quite make it through some of the things Southtown had going against it... it's always kind of a somber feeling to see a fighting school having gone under. He's part of a rival school now, sure, he'd have probably been sent to take on the whole school sooner or later.
It's always kind of a sad feeling to realize something disappeared well under your nose, all the same, as he rolls his left shoulder a few times to work out a few (very) noisy kinks.
Mr. Newman's voice breaks him out of the contemplative thoughts about times and things gone by, a slowly turning head as the moustached man of peculiarly groomed hair calls for his name.
"That is the boss!" The stagehand bows. "He is seeing you!"
"Yeah, I, uh, I, I figure," he murmurs as he brushes those gloved fingers through his... hair, as though such a thing could ever qualify as ever tidying up. He's checking over himself now, making sure no dirt's on the gi top, Ol' Rusty still in toolbelt, Kyokugen-granted brown belt somehow managing to share the same space around his waistline... wearing pants... he knows at least one certain someone's going to watch him and he shouldn't be looking anywhere near as wretched as he tends to come off as on a bad day.
On an average day.
On just about every day recently, really, where even with Sagat's financial cushioning he still strives to make a proper living off of his dream career.
"M-Mr. Newman, uh," he raises his hand away from that sick parody of human hair on his scalp to wave him over, "'m right here, I--"
Because she has the SPIRIT of a Lolita.
Mr. Newman strides towards Rust. "Rust Howard! You are my favorite person! Welcome! It is so good to see you! You have a great Kyokugen uniform style! Very impressive! I loved watching Ryo fighting in local circuits, before he made it big! I love your hair! Your hair is my favorite? Don't you think his hair is great! It is so real! Thank you cousin! You are a big help for Rust Howard!" It is around this time that Mr. Newman actually reaches Rust, lashing out both hands to shake the older man's own. "Isn't my cousin great? She is a fashion designer! She loves elegant clothing! She wears it very well! If you have any family, any girls, you should get in contact! She can also make clothing for you; we business people have to help out our networks. Yumi? Where are you?"
"Yes, Mr. Newman?"
During the entire one-sided conversation, Yumi had reappeared behind the boss of the studio, as stealthy as a snake, and just as bored-looking. Mr. Newman has not stopped trying to shake Rust's hand. "Can you get Lightning Spangles! She is in the makeup room!" Yumi looks blankly at him. "We do not have a makeup room, Mr. Newman." Mr. Newman still attempts to shake hand, as he looks back at Yumi. "Yes we do! It's the ladies room! Go check for her in the ladies room! Make sure her coffee is hot too!" He focuses back on Rust, as Yumi seems to… take leave between a blink of an eye.
Just as quietly as she came in.
"Yumi is very nice!" Mr. Newman continues. "We have so many nice people here! But you are the most nice Rust! You are our big ticket tonight! That is why it is Rust Howard vs Lightning Spangles! Lightning Spangles is also a big movie star! She was in a lot of movies, and was a very good actress! She is like Long Fei! She is a martial artist too! Now don't worry about her being tough. It's just fighting Lucia! Now, we also have to take care of sponsors. We have sponsors now! They are paying money! We have logos to put up! But we don't know how to put it up." The Lolita'd stagehand returns, clutching a glue bucket and a few rolled up posters. Mr. Newman still has not released his hand. "Can you put them up! We will pay you good money! $10 per poster! It's a deal! Can we shake on it?" And finally, he stops shaking. Mr. Newman might be a bit eccentric.
But he was honest.
It's written all over the aging American man's face. Fractions of considered responses, some even having the audacity to even be uttered partially before they are hushed in the endless avalanche of Mr. Newman's compliments, his facial muscles somehow keeping up where his mind does not as his hand is shaken enthusiastically by the smaller man's two own. Strangely enough, the longer it goes on, the less resistance there is. If one didn't know any better they might assume that he's threatening to shake his very arm off.
When he addresses Yumi, he takes in a bit of a breath as though he were the one talking nonstop instead. He even punctuates this with the clearing of a throat, eyes darting over to some other corner of the stage-to-be. There was something he was meaning to ask, some purpose behind what he wished to say next. Something important, to further infer as he brings his other hand atop the two Mr. Newman still has on his hand.
This thought will be lost forever for the records as the second half (last third?) of the wall of speech, and he grows just ever more uneasy with uncanny timing to mention about the famous Lightning Spangles. He's seen a couple of her movies, sure, he nods along best he can where the ability to really say anything over Mr. Newman fails him--
Just fighting Lucia. He inwardly cringes. That was not one of his prouder fights. His posture slumps a bit more. Still, that's the past, right? One fight at a time, taking every small step towards greater mastery of self, and...
There's a very, very awkward pause when Mr. Newman does the unthinkable - asking a question where he is expecting some kind of response.
"Ten, ten dollars per, uh... you just want me to, uh, put them up, well," he winces again. Maybe it's... it's just going to be a good opportunity to stretch, he guesses? "Y-Yeah, maybe if, uh, can you... can you let go of my hand, please--"
"Of course, Mr. Rust!"
Mr. Newman releases his hand, and claps his own together. "Everything is going hunky dorothy! Great work! We will have to include this as part of your overall pay for tax purposes! But thank you so much Rust Howard! You truly are a hero! We have all the big names!" Motioning towards his Lolita cousin, the woman begins to hand over the glue, and unfurl the posters clumsily. "We have MacDonalds! Which is just like McDonalds, but all here in Japan and Hong Kong too! They serve real American cheeseburgers! We have Build a Bear! We have all kinds of advertisers-"
"Where is he!?
The words come out of the women's restroom. They were exasperated words, curt and business with a long, loose drawl swimming through them. Storming out of the restroom, clutching a duffel bag in one hand, and an iron in the other, Lightning Spangles barges out of the restroom. She is a tall woman; nearly as tall as Rust himself, and dressed in full rhinestone cowboy regalia. The costume is prim and pressed, and is as gaudy as it is American. But the woman in the suit was not smiling, as she smiles before a camera. She had that same passion for her grin as she had for her face now.
Lightning Spangles was disgusted.
Yumi was no longer bored. She was energized now, face terse as she tries to speak after Jezebel. "Miss Faiblesse, please, we have to be able to work things out." She pleads. But Lightning Spangles just storms forward, straight for Rust and Mr. Newman. Beelining it straight for Mr. Newman, her nose is twisted up as she belts out towards the now concerned businessman. "Mr. Newman, I'm going to refuse to take part with your little fight night thing, right now. No Fight Night unless you make some changes right now!" And with those words, Mr. Newman deflates.
"No Fight Night?"
"No Fight Night."
Lightning Spangles was angry. Every action she held was restrained, focused anger. Not blind anger, but dead focused on one thing. Turning towards the aging Lolita, she drops her duffel bag, and hands the iron off to Yumi. And there, she reaches out for one of the posters. Unfurling it straight towards Mr. Newman, she barks at the man. "What is this?" She asks accusingly, revealing the poster being a mere advertisement for Kirin beer. Mr. Newman's stunned gait recovers, as he quickly explains. "Oh yes! Kirin beer! Very good beer! If you don't like it, we have many good American beer we can advertise of course-" Lightning Spangles rips up the poster, each tear visibly paining Mr. Newman. The businessman falls to his knees, as Lightning Spangles throws the pieces to the ground.
"My money!"
As Mr. Newman takes the pieces one of his advertisements up in his arms, his cousin covers her mouth, eyes watering in only the most moe of manners. But Lightning Spangles thrusts a finger at him. "Sir, I will make this clear. Many children will go and watch me fight. I have many young fans, and I work hard to ensure that I keep a family friendly presentation on my performance. Now, I will not tolerate any advertising on ANY liquor products on ANYTHING associated with my Lightning Spangles image! I do not want kids to think that it is 'cowboy cool' to be smoking or drinking or putting any of that kind of junk in their system!" She turns towards Rust idly, motioning towards him. "I'm not being unreasonable about this, right? You don't think children should be seeing their hero associated with that kind of junk?"
"I'm not plumb crazy to wanna walk out, am I?!"
There's unfurling the posters clumsily, but Howard sure doesn't do much better actually trying to take them. One even drops out of his hands, forcing him to squat down and pick it up (with an audible pop in his knees) while Mr. Newman rattles off the, er, big name brands and sponsorships for tonight's Fight Night. It's mostly one ear and out the other. Ten bucks a poster offsets the sting of the somewhat disappointing net profit he tends to make from fights, idly eyeing thin air as he clutches posters close to his chest while barely holding onto the glue bucket.
It's more a wonder he doesn't spill the damned thing as posters unfurl in his grasp, slightly obscuring his face. Perhaps that horrible toupee and these advertisement posters are having a rendzevous of abominations (or some sort of extended family gathering of which this terrible excuse for hair and these shillings for soulless commercialism are, like, thrice-removed from one another).
"Uh, wait, slow down, where do I--" He murmurs, helplessly strung along in the endless momentum of enthusiasm and merchandising of Mr. Newman, shifting his head awkwardly to peek out from one side of the unfurling mess of posters. Surely, he could just be pointed to where these posters are going to go up...
No, you know what, he thinks to himself, I'll just put them where I want to and get this over with, cutting himself off with another tiny cough as he faces over to one part of the set, the very leftmost corner. A ways away, there's shouting from the women's restroom as he lets the mess of posters around his arms spill onto the floor. He doesn't put much thought into which poster to put up first.
To make a good excuse to stretch aching, aging, and altogether aggravated joints, he lifts one of the posters high, to stretch his arms and legs to their utmost reach, their very limit. It is very unpleasant to listen to. Some advertisement for some American beer, he sees. This section of wall isn't wide enough to completely host the poster, but there's so much dead space on the right that maybe he could get away with just creasing that part out of view. His inner carpenter (and also inner but barely existent interior decorator) considers the placement as Lightning Spangles storms by.
He snaps out of the thought to some magical keywords that strike fear into any man struggling to get any sort of gig in the fighting world. The sort of thing that'd make him turn his head and go 'wait, what, what'd you say' to just about anyone's words.
Jezebel Faiblesse, professional showwoman of possibly the highest caliber, makes her words very clear on the first go to his ears even when he's not the one being spoken to directly (...at first) or even paying all that much attention outside of the promise of just a little more extra cash.
The threat of cancellation sees him partially disengaging, left hand still pressing the poster up against the wall (as he has yet to apply any glue) while relaxing his feet. He even cringes at the sudden tearing of a poster - she's not going to start tearing up all these posters, right, he thinks, he could really use the extra money--
Making the source of her anger a bit more clear, he brings his right hand up against his forehead in exasperation of the scene before him. The tears of that aging stagehand in age-inappropriate dress, Mr. Newman's grief over lost advertisement revenue...
Then, that question that may be far more pointed than her aside gestures may indicate.
"Unreasonable? Uh, well, I, I guess I could... see the concern," he speaks reservedly, briefly forgetting what kind of poster it is he's holding up with his hand behind himself. Please don't walk out, he's silently pleading in his head, please don't walk out, I haven't had a fighting gig in so long, he almost wants to beg.
"Uh, is there, like... candy, or... or soft drinks, or, you got stuff for that, right, Mr. Newman?" He scratches the side of his head with his free hand, still blissfully unaware that he continues to hold up something promoting an alcoholic beverage.
Mr. Newman is quiet.
His expression was no longer wild. Instead, it was focused. The same could not be said about Yumi, who was wide-eyed, and mouthing words silently. When her words come, they come sputtering. "We had contract! We had a contract! You can't walk out on a contract! Where is your contract? Momo! Get the contract!" The 40-something Lolita scurries away panicked, dropping her posters swiftly as she hurries to obey. Yumi was looking frustrated, angered by Lightning Spangles. But as Mr. Newman silently watches on, it is Lightning Spangles who speaks next.
"Exactly!"
"Now that's something I don't have a problem with! Candy, soft drinks, sweet stuff, y'all are free to get that up there! But -that-" she emphasizes, pointing to the large poster that Rust was struggling to keep up. "That's just no good!" Whatever offense she had about the poster, at least, was not directed at Rust. It was still squarely aimed at Mr. Newman. "That's just wrong! So here's my offer to you: You ditch any liquor advertising, or I'm gonna walk. What's your answer?" And Mr. Newman's expression becomes more and more stoic. A man's dreams of how this entire production was changing. And finally, Mr. Newman speaks in calm, measured tones.
"Fine."
Those are Mr. Newman's words. "Fine. We will not use the beer posters." He no longer sounds energized. But wounded, tired. Yumi herself seems shocked at this change. "But the contract! We had a contract! We are not going to let some C-Liste-" Newman holds up his hand. "Please, dear, I've made up my mind. We will be paying you all less for the fight; because we are going to expect less revenue, you will be paid less. You will accept that, or you will walk off. You understand?" Mr. Newman is cold serious. But Lightning Spangles, smiling brightly again, seems to have taken all of the energy in the room, and used it for herself. "Well, that's alright, Mister. As long as we can keep it honest and clean." Yumi, fists tight, storms away, shoving past a now confused Momo. Mr. Newman follows after Yumi, leaving the floor for both Lightning Spangles, and Rust.
'Well, thank you kindly!"
That is what the bright and bubbly woman says, the spectre of gloom and anger now gone. Striding over beside Rust, she gives him a pat on the shoulder. "That was real nice of you stick up for me. Mind if I help you get rid of this awful poster? I just can't stand alcohol. But if you have a principle, you got to stand for them, right? Otherwise people will just walk all over you!" Without even checking to see if Rust will agree to the assistance, Jezebel begins to pull the poster away. "I'm sorry for dragging you into that, by the way. If you have any trouble from him, just talk to me, and I'll see if I can get you another stage production gig. I have a lot of connections still, so I can look to help you out if you need it?"
"What's your name, anyways?"
The Kyokugen practitioner's shoulders slump a little at Yumi's yelling over a contract - well, one of them does. The other threatens to go stiff on him given how high up he has raised the shoulder just to keep his hand where it is on the poster. He could see this gig just go up in smoke after crashing down in flames. Sure, thanks to help from some friends, he's not financially completely destitute, could probably take a year or two off - God knows he's earned a break. His pride as a working man still demands of him to get out there and make his living, and here he is now, on the verge of witnessing a cancellation over a disagreement even with Jezebel's seeming approval of his alternatives.
If he weren't so afraid of the idea that it all be called off he might have somehow found a sort of humor in suggesting what is arguably almost as unhealthy alternatives for the advertisements... if he were aware of such a thing and not just listing 'kiddy' stuff off the top of his head.
Mr. Newman's defeated 'fine' echoes louder than just about every shout and protest that's passed in the last couple of minutes, and Rust very loudly exhales in relief, lowering his arm from holding up the poster. The offending paper article of shameless vice falls to the floor, colliding against the other dropped, partially creased pile of colorful slogans and art-filled taglines of varying degrees of legibility and familiarity. His right hand gingerly rubs his left shoulder to relieve the ache.
The ache summarily returns at mention of paying less for the fight tenfold. The pain, that is, not the loss in pay. For that reaction he may well be thinking the same about the smaller pot! Indeed, there is plenty of added energy in the room for the one and only Lightning Spangles to take off of the dejection of Howard Rust, who wordlessly grimaces. Uh, hopefully, he mentally stammers, he's still getting ten a poster, right? How many of them promote something other than alcohol or nicotine or what have you, he asks himself as he kneels down to check the pile he dropped. The offending alcohol poster is laid back up against the wall as he starts to sift through - interrupted by the touch of Jezebel's hand on his shoulder. Given how tense he's been in the exchange, it's a small wonder the very touch doesn't just set off a pinched nerve.
"I, I don't mind," he clears his throat as he steadies himself back up to his feet, nudging the pile with his foot a ways away while that one (possibly of many) beer advertisement poster is summarily removed.
"I, I appreciate that, it's," oh, this is hard to admit, it's on his face with a frown, "I, I haven't really been in much of a... a position to choose. I mean, it's kinda a fighting recession, I'm... I'm taking what I can get." The first in months. Still, it is true - if you have a principle, you do have to stand for them. Why is it (marginally) easier to stand for them when in the middle of a life and death situation than it is in daily life as a prize fighter, he wonders, given how he never really got a word in edgewise with Mr. Newman since the two met in person, or talked on the phone, or, inexplicably, texting over phone.
Seriously, every time he was typing a text Mr. Newman would somehow beat him to the punch and flood him with a new message that forced him to start over.
"I'm, ah, Howard. Howard Rust," he extends his right hand for a handshake. "Kyokugen brown belt, ah, usually assist in instruction," fancy talk for 'typically volunteer to get punched really hard when Marco, Ryo, Robert, or Takuma want to demonstrate something' more often than not. His voice trails off a bit before he speaks up again, "pleased to, to meet you."
"Hang on, you're Howard Rust?"
Lightning Spangle's jaw goes slack, and her face turns bright red. She removes her hat, and crosses her arm over her forehead before swishing it around. "Well lordy lord! The pleasure is all mine!" She extends her other hand, shaking Rust's own briskly. "I'm so sorry, I thought you were one of the stagehands! I didn't think you would have..." To woman pauses.
Wordlessly, Lightning Spangles stares at the toupee upon Rust's head.
A shiver visibly runs over her spine, though the smile does not break. "Gosh golly sir, that's the whole reason I wanted to take this fight, just to meet you and thank you! China's like a second home to me; I've done a lot of work over in Hong Kong in the film industry." At the mention of that, Jezebel's left eye twitches. "So when that conflict went down, it was real frightening for me and a lot of my co-workers! It's part of the reason I got out of the movie business, and into the fighting circuit! But with this recession going on, I have half a mind to go right back into the movie business sometime!" Lightning Spangles laughs, releasing her hand. It's not a fun laugh; it's a nervous one.
Rust isn't the only one hurting for money right now.
"Wow, it really is an honor to meet you!" She continues, brushing her hands off as she looks at the rolled up posters and paint cans. She clucks her tongue, shaking her head. "And they are making you put this stuff up? Well, shoot! I'm double sorry now; I almost cost us both a gig tonight! Here, let me help you get those posters up! You just tell me what to do, and I'll do my best!" She gives a big wink to Rust.
"Just don't take too much advantage of me on that!"
Sure, people hear about the legend that gets exaggerated by word of mouth - especially those who were there to witness it. The stories of a heroic American man who slogged through countless people armed with a rusted length of pipe and of peculiar hair, among a number of other capable people willing to stand against the darkness. Such brings certain expectations, creates high pedestals... that a hero of a number of conflicts would not take the shape of a battered, less-than-handsome man riddled with arthritis, a seeming speech impediment... and a rather depressing, painfully palpable aura of denial concerning his early onset male pattern baldness, brought low enough to put up product posters for paltry pay.
"'m him," he confirms the question in his aggravatingly mumbly speaking volume. Not any grandiose added details to what sorts of things are appended to the name, just that it's him, offering his hand as she recoils in shock and comes to grips with this.
"I, I didn't fight there alone," he says these words with a sadness that might mistakenly be lost in his usual tone of voice, a nod to go with as his heart aches to remember. Not just among those he fought alongside, but those he fought against. The faces of people absolutely frightened of him as he fought through men who did not fully grasp or understand how to fight a fighter. His face blanks in remembrance of the stress of it all. He brings a hand to the back of his neck in vague remembrance of when Vega damn near snapped his neck as she delightfully details her thanks, the content of times of discontent that he helped to make better in his own way. The far-reaching consequences of how fragile and insecure the world is before the whimsy of those with truly incredible, incalculable, and sometimes virtually insurmountable power.
Her nervous laughter is met with an equally nervous, maybe even strained laugh that ends with him clearing his throat. Well, she's got something to go back to if she left the fighting circuit... what would be left for him if he walked out of the fighting world entirely? It's a highly sobering thought.
"'s nice to meet you too," he gets that much in as his hand is released, turning back over to the pile of posters by his feet. Turning his head over them, the top-most one displays a brand he's never even heard of in the least. "You want to help, well, uh," a part of him doesn't want to potentially lose ten bucks pay per poster, however many of them are left - but then again, knowing Mr. Newman, there's probably a really tight schedule they got to keep to. Lord knows he's printing a pile of like thousands of posters to plaster over the next fight. Might even be an old barn out there that has none of its original construction left, just a huge wall of posters that - against all sense and logic - may well have somehow fortified itself into a sturdy structure through the sheer power of overwhelming capitalism.
"It's, it's no trouble, I mean, well, it didn't get canceled," yet, "no harm done," he mumbles along as he kneels down with an audible pop in one knee to sift through the pile and pick out the drug-related stuff she made a stink over first. "I, I dunno how Mr. Newman wanted these arranged, I mean... is he, is he wantin' them divided up by, ah, by color, or... well, I guess he didn't say how," if he's not going to come out and say how he wants them put up, maybe it's just not ultimately his problem or hers.
Standing back up, he pulls out an orange-colored sheet from the pile. It's full of odd human-like silhouettes upon it and a brand name that is written in Thai text with incredibly microscopic English text as a translation upon it. He shows it to Jezebel briefly as if to silently ask if this is an offensive /thing./
"Y'know, I, ah, I saw a couple of your movies a while back," he starts as he picks up another poster with his other hand that displays a smug-looking, smiling bull to a bottle of some sorts on a white background. He knows he's seen this one before, but where? "Was a marathon on TV, y'know, finally got a, a windfall lately... just went on a, an on-demand movie binge. Hadn't done one of 'em in a while."
Jezebel sees it in his eyes.
She remembered seeing the same thing before, when doing a volunteer show for Veterans Day. It's that look of a soldier. Soldiers aren't machines; they are human beings. They have endured the worst humanity can offer; and there is no doubt that when Rust faced down Vega, he endure that very absolute of misery. It can break some men. Those it doesn't break, it leaves long cracks, fractures on their soul and their mind. Rust was not a soldier. She could look into the window of that man's pain, and it hurts her.
But like all pain, she just keeps smiling through.
"If he didn't tell us how he wanted them, then we decide how we want them!" She states confidently, dimples on her face as she smiles at Rust. Helping with the first of the posters, she is quiet for a moment, before speaking out. "I think it was very brave what you did. I didn't mean to diminish the other people. Your service to all of China, to the whole world, is very appreciated though. I can't even imagine how frightening it was. Have you… have you talked to anybody about it?" Looking over the orange poster unfurled, she looking at it inquisitively. "Oh, that? I think that's… I think vegetable juice? I think that's okay." It was casual conversation, fun conversation. She was interested in his past. But of course, Rust was interested in playing up her history. He mentions about watching marathon of her movies.
Her face suddenly turns bright red.
"I.. ah, hm." She chokes up, suddenly putting on her own Rust impression. She had met fans of her movies before. There were two types, usually. One were the younger crowd, who thought it was neat to find some of her earlier martial arts movies. Trashy, exploitive cheesecake movies, designed to parade around her figure and her high kicks in the grindhouse. Which tied to the second crowd. Lecherous men, some Rust's age, some older, that enough the movies for the object they transformed her into. A pretty girl to watch, to enjoy. To lust after.
Jezebel shivers again, shame and disgust filling her within.
"Well, I hope you liked them!" Jezebel chirps brightly, the mask locked in place, the blush gone. She was smiling, and she was happy. She didn't like those movies, nor she liked where she was. And above all, she didn't want to pity herself. Rust had it worse than her. He had been to war. He had a reason to be in pain. Jezebel had only herself to blame for her own misery, her own mistakes. It wouldn't be fair to Rust to dwell on it. "Course, I prefer the fighting arena more! People are a whole lot more polite! I guess when you can beat up people, you have to be polite to keep it from being personal!" Jezebel makes herself laugh again, bright and bubbly, as she looks over the bull. "Is that liquor? I can't tell! Do you think it could be liquor, or could it be milk!" She asks somewhat loudly. Reaching about for glue, she prepares to set it up. Focusing on details was getting difficult for her. But she could be happy.
She had to be happy, for her own sake.
Facing down Vega changes a man. Witnessing him - if one should apply a gender-related pronoun to the walking embodiment of terrible, powerful emotions - at the very least should utterly obliterate one's will. It is often subjugation, if not out and out destruction of one's own psyche. The sheer gravity of their presence overwhelms, even when they are no longer present. It is a wonder this man does not simply let himself sink into oblivion in a braindead coma after the fact, given that it seems like his body often just wants to give up and collapse into a heap of broken biomass.
Yet, in his own way, he just seems to endure best he can. Granted, putting up advertisement posters is probably not considered a high point in an existence that struggles to keep a stiff upper lip. Even in the face of (well-deserved) praise and admiration from those he had helped from having the gumption to try and stand to the human-shaped mass of pinkish-purple hatred.
"Talked to people, like, uh... couple friends... haven't, haven't really spoken to... uh, any shrinks. I mean... it's, it's not like most have, ah, stood to Vega or... well." He's not sure if they'd actually be able to help him with stuff like, say, remembering Vega. That's the sort of thing only another fighter who's had to deal with him could honestly relate. God knows he sometimes wished he knew where Sagat was to talk and drink over that sort of thing again. The confirmation that this one poster here is some vegetable juice brand gives a moment of sweet relief. Good, not alcohol or nicotine, this one. Coughing once from something finding its way into his throat (is there a dust magnet that's been lodged in his throat for the better part of twenty years? Inquiring minds would like to know), he grunts again as a kink in one of his elbows protests the idea of stretching his arm out and upwards as far as he did earlier.
"I'm just... I'm just glad that we were able to stop him," although he trembles at saying 'stop.' Vega most certainly 'died' then, and then came back. There may be no actual stopping of Vega. From all he knows, Vega's always got another body ready to be taken up by his malevolence to continue to terrorize everyone. Given how silent things have been, one deeply hopes - and prays - that maybe he's just going to take a good century or so off after that campaign... and South Korea. "Trying to take it, y'know, one day at a time after that. Getting back to the, to the ol' routine... 'm a working man at heart."
A prize fighter reduced to putting up posters for paltry pay.
"Didn't... didn't stay up to watch all of 'em," he concedes as the subject drifts along over to the movies, "the, the one I really liked, 'm a fan of, of samurai films. You had that, that one with a guy who appeared in one of my favorite ones, I mean, he, he went out of retirement to act in that one."
It wasn't a great role - probably a villain who had all of eleven minutes of screentime total throughout the grindhouse nonsense. He may have taken that role out of desperation for some additional money, given their advanced age. It is probably one of the more objectively shameful ones that critics might have panned.
"Ah, not to, not to knock on you there, it's... it's kinda sad that might be his last role, since, since I heard he's been sick. But... shit, you, you really did good with that part where you, you went between like three buildings. Heard you did that stunt yourself, that's... that's really something."
With talk about the preference for the fighting arena... well, he can't say that he has much experience with actual showbusiness, as he is currently mulling over the mystery of the white poster with the smug-looking bull and that bottle shape. Where did he see it before? He's... pretty certain he's seen it around kids so it's probably not beer or anything. "You'd, you'd be surprised 'bout... 'bout people holdin' grudges in fighting. 'm... gonna take your word 'bout it on the politness." Man, if the likes of Mr. Newman are pretty mild in comparison to the movie business, he shudders through his stiffness. "Uhh... yeah, y'know, this one," he mutters as he holds up the white poster a bit higher, "yeah, I've see this around kids, might be... milk. I think. Definitely not beer."
Howard should be happy about not being on that Are You Smarter Than a 5th Grader game show. The children would have enthusiastically pointed out what that thing is a logo of, if identifying corporate logos were an actual category on that show. (...Is it?)
"Masashi Niibori"
Jezebel remembered him. It was after she stopped drinking, remembering things was a lot easier then. "The movie was Ronin Rustlers, which was a spiritual sequel to Double Guns Samurais, which in turn was a spiritual sequel to the Cowboy Samurai series of movies, which I only participated in the second, third, and fifth movies in it. Very nice man; Japanese character actor of course. Actually worked a lot with those sentai series in his later career; He was a good friend of my sensai, and he needed some work. He loved the role, I remembered, and he was paid up front. That's how they would do a lot of those movies. You just pay the actors a flat fee up front, and don't have to worry about it afterwards. Don't worry about him too much, I bet he is still doing what he loves best: theater!" Jezebel's face was not lying; she actually seemed to be totally confident on that. She holds for a moment, gluing down one of the posters, before she speaks softly.
"You should get help, if you need it." % R
The words come out effortlessly. Lightning Spangles tone wasn't the bouncy cowgirl, but straight and serious. "I learned a while back, that if you act like you are alone, you become alone. And you can't be alone, you never want to be alone. As long as you are always outside, always around people, you can't be alone. Sometimes the best reason for living is other people. That's why I went into acting! It's always about making other people happy." Jezebel smiles for real now. Seeing Rust as a tired old man… was wrong. Rust deserved to be happy, he had more reason to be happy than anyone else.
"Do you have any family, Howard?"
Howard snaps his fingers, that's the name he was trying to remember. He repeats the name about half a step behind Jezebel's identification of him. The positive identification and recollection almost certainly warms a corner of his heart to hear about him - especially from someone who got to work with him! That's a real treat. He nods along with her recollection as he sifts through some more posters. He wordlessly lays out something prominently displaying a slice of a weirdly colored fruit, surrounded by smiling bubbles and a straw depicted in a way that appears entirely non-euclidean before the both of them as the next litmus test for 'kid-safe or not.'
"I sure hope he is," he finally says in regards to Niibori. "Hope to, to catch whatever he's doin' next." A hope spot in that regard, at least, even as she moves to the next point about getting himself help. He's made many friends in his time throughout Southtown - ones he's done a lot for, some who have done a lot for him, a relationship that shows no signs of changing.
"Yeah... yeah, you're right," he clears his throat, patting his chest as he rummages down through more of the pile, kneeling down a bit more into the pile. Eye contact is not made with Jezebel with this admission. One poster he tries to pull out of the pile keeps slipping out of his fingers. There is no weird residue on it, or anything different about the material in its construction. He just can't seem to get a good grip on the thing! He grunts in his fabled consonant-filled gibberish across the span of two seconds as he eventually peels the thing out.
"I, I just don't like comin' off as, as some kinda burden, I mean..."
There's really no better time for Jezebel to pop the question about his family as he stands back up to relieve some pressure on one of his knees, stretching a leg out wide with a few soft kicks in the air. There's a few pops.
"There's... there's my dad," he looks back up to re-establish eye contact. "He's still hangin' in there. Had a, a close call a while back, but he's still with us." His nostrils flare once, shaking his head. "Far as I remember growing up, he's always been, uh, been unable to work. Where I grew up, there, ah, there wasn't much for handicapped people. Parents divorced, so, just me and him mostly, growing up."
He brings a hand over to a peeling poster to keep the corner where it belongs for the next few hours as he takes in a deep breath. "Didn't... didn't really have a, a lot of money. I had to work young, ah, this, this stays between you 'n me," he shakes a fingers, "worked construction in high school, I mean... even got to work some machines without a, a l-license, sometimes."
He goes quiet over the next few moments, making a few odd faces as though he were wondering as to what he wanted to share about it all openly. Tough times, no doubt. A lot of the famous fighters did not come from comfortable backgrounds. Some even say that's a necessity to be one of the best (although the likes of Ken Masters subvert that theory).
"Dad didn't like the, the idea of me growing up to be a fighter, that's... that's what my mom did. Pushed me to, ah, well, get an honest job. He... he wasn't thrilled 'bout me getting fired from being a shop teacher." He nods his head a few times as he contemplates that poster he's pushed back the peeling corner of, and exhales loudly, then just shakes his head. "I'm, ah, not thrilled about losing that salary either, I gotta be honest."
"But do you love fighting?"
That is the question that Lightning Spangles asks as she takes the slippery poster from Rust's hands. The talk of Rust's father burns in her. She was in the same circumstance. Missing mother. Raised by a useless- helpless father. Having to be the one that brought money back into the family. Pain sears through her as buried memories comes back. But that's only when she internalize it. If it stays on the outside, then it doesn't hurt. And Rust was like her. Just. Like Her.
She wasn't alone.
The smile endures, and she continues. "I mean, family's real important; but your father's just worried about you I bet. And if you aren't doing something because you love it, why are you doing it?" She makes a note to herself that she isn't asking him about how he got fired. Jezebel remembers the reasons why she got fired. Asking someone why they were fired only brought pain. "I love acting, and I really love fighting with people, in a way that when people watch me, they really are in awe. That's what I live for, and that's what I love." She puts up the poster, dabbing the glue in the corners as she rolls it over the sticky spots.
"I mean, you got to have passion."
"You are a good man, Howard. A really good man. Not because you helped saved the free world; A lot of low-lifes can do that. But you have a pure heart. You don't want to hurt people, you want to help them. But you are really being too hard on yourself. It's wrong to be hard on yourself. If you love life, life will love you! I mean, I heard you had a few fights before with this Mr. Newman! He bragged about you, even though you lost. Because you had a certain something, he said. Maybe it was because you kept coming back." Jezebel steps back from the arena wall, hands on her hips, inspecting the poster she puts up.
"What is it that keeps you coming back?"
'
A lot of people have good reason to be worried for Rust, family and friends. Half the time it seems the universe takes some time out of being this infinitely-expanding mass of heat, lights, and matter to conspire as to how to make things a little more difficult for him in his life. Well, some of it is wholly his own damn fault, at least. He's put his own body through a lot more than it really should have in his youth. Didn't stop when muscles and joints demanded he stop.
They still want him to stop even now, when he's just doing little stretches in between shuffling through posters and helping get them to stick through the wall. As Jezebel smiles, he kneels down again to pick out yet another. He frowns as she goes about that timeless question about why people continue to do things they don't love doing. Is he frowning at these words, or at the fact that he just picked out a poster that very clearly depicts a guy smoking from the pipe (and thus the loss of ten US dollars)?
He flings the offending piece of paper over his shoulder. His toupee flaps slightly in its wake in a physically unnatural way under the force of displaced air while the rejected poster noisily scrapes against the floor.
He remains (mostly) wordless as he picks up another poster - ack, this one's creased! - taking it in both hands and flapping it a few times in the air to straighten it out before leaning over to the wall to fin a place for it, another frown as praise is heaped upon him (as a response?).
Given how silent he is over her encouragement, it may well be disarming when she pops the question about what keeps him coming back, he speaks up about half the way through to face her.
"'s my dream." Somewhat defensively spoken, as he throws a hand up. "Just... from my twenties, things happened, and... and I decided, this was what I, I wanted to do." A low hum escapes him as he presses one poster up against the wall by his other palm to get an idea of how it'd look. It's very askew.
"A, a lot of things happened, ahh," shit, what was her name again? His voice trails off a bit as he takes in another breath and stares at the askew poster, bringing both hands to bear to make sure it's right side up now.
"A, a lot of broken promises... crazy people just, bargin' in, damn near had to call it quits when they got my right hand," it's a slight exaggeration but it is true that the grip on his right hand is not as strong as his left now - a problem that has popped up several times in fights given that's the hand he wields the rusted length of pipe with. A weakness he's started to cover well with the kicks he's gotten from his Kyokugen training, but one that remains nonetheless.
If Jezebel looks carefully there is a bit of a scar that can be seen just past where his glove ends, going a bit into his wrist.
"'n I pay out the, the ass for health insurance, to say... well, nothin' 'bout my age." He's in his forties. Quite a number of famous names are far older than he, but such are in the minority. Many fighters sooner than he does. "I, I've wanted to do this for a long time. I've fought through... through disappointment, danger, just... just so much /shit/." He says this through grit teeth, lowering his head slightly.
"I mean, right now, this is... this is what I wanted, right? Career as a fighter, 'n... 'n I'm not doing great. Op-opportunities, feel like they're... they're just, dryin' up. I mean, I, I've said this to a buncha my friends, it's, well. Sometimes, it's... it's not easy to love life, after all that's gone on, but I don't want to... to give any of this up. There's just that..."
He takes a hand away from the poster, his left hand, pressing fingers together, "that, that little feeling, that, while I'm in the zone, I mean, I don't... I don't come off as quick, but, middle of it all, just, my mind's... racin', like, I'm there." He gestures broadly with it. "Somethin' goes on, just, I'm... kinda, more awake. Maybe. 's not a feeling that, that, that I'd... well." His voice trails off some, ending in an opportune cough for Jezebel to get some words in while his lungs rebel.
Did she pity Rust?
The thought passes over Jezebel's mind. Was this pity she felt? The parts of her that understand that broken sense of defeat and self-pity were locked away deep within her. Only shadows of understanding were present; but those were shadows she knew. Dreams never worked out the way they should; for Rust, all it might take is one more injury for his entire career, and all other careers, to crash down; for him to become just like her father, to be worthless, to be useless, to be broken. His father, not her father. Rust could very much end up like his own father.
Jezebel knew how that felt.
She doesn't even mention the pipe advertisement, as it is tossed away. She was focused on Rust now, the smile begin to shrink into a small smirk. As the coughing comes, she moves to pat him on the back, as if that will help the coughing. Placing a hand on his shoulder, the smile is gone now, just a tight-lipped expression. Silently, Jezebel reaches out and holds Rust by the wrist. Her brow is furrowed, her attention focused. She couldn't heal it, no. But it's the intimacy of human contact.
"It's a part of you that doesn't come out at any other time." She murmurs, her long fingers still clinging to Rust. "It's a part that you love more than anything else, but it only comes out when you are in the ring. Or maybe not. You're a mystery, Howard!" She looks over the scar, running a thumb on the scar upon his right wrist. "But you seem lost. Like you don't know where you are, or where you are going. I wish I could help you, I-"
And then, a new hushed tone.
Conspiracy. Meddling. Mischief. And a strange look of willing sacrifice. Jezebel looks towards Rust's eyes, big and blue. "… Howard… You really need the money, don't you. You need to jump start your career more, you just need to get your name out more, and have it attached to winning? A marketing thing, right?" She gives a tender squeeze on his arm. "Howard..."
"Would you like to win this fight?"
There is only a tiny amount of resistance with the touch on his shoulder. It may just be that it's a touch sensitive. His right hand moves away from the poster as his wrist is grasped, the adhesive-less advertisement sliding onto the ground. It's not just the scar that's visible. Jezebel's no doubt heard his joints creak and pop so much. This man's entire body is a legacy of injuries, and yet, he continues stepping into the ring - and, on occasion, stand up against tyranny.
He endures physically. This much is not in question.
Mentally, emotionally, spiritually, it's easy to see where the cracks form even when it is glued back together. His posture slumps a little as she pats his back, thinking to point with his other hand as if to ask if she were wanting to see what that scar looks like under the glove as she runs her thumb around the end of it.
"Well," he starts to say something, babbling out some indecipherable half-word as if to think of something to his defense. He thinks he can guess where this is going next. These kinds of talks with people are not all that uncommon, where he lets himself be shown as a man who is very worn down by life itself when he somehow shines brightly against the extraordinary.
She's right. He is a mystery!
He nods along slowly so far about how he really needs the money, to just advance his career. A string of fairly high-profile losses cost him - and to some extent, the Kyokugen dojo - a fair bit in fighting prospects. To say nothing of the recession's own effects on the matter. The gentle squeeze of his arm - a squeeze he barely feels physically.
It pinches a little deeper when she drops the question.
"What?" Flatly, even in his quiet tone of voice, he questions, lowering his right wrist from her grasp as he turns about-face to her. "Y-You're not thinking 'bout... no," he raises his hand and shakes it in rejection, "I, look, it's," color drains from his face ever so visibly, as though he were frightened to consider the very prospect.
Is this as far as I've fallen, he wonders. When that nosy, noisy girl Asuka expressed her disdain for just how pathetic he's let himself end up after being involved in such heroics... am I, at this point, being seen as someone who can't put up a good fight any more?
"No, no, no, d-don't even... don't even... don't even joke, don't, don't even joke," he repeats this a few times, shaking a finger with far more fright than anything. "I'm... I'm not, I'm-- son of a bitch, what the hell am I even--"
He completely faces away from her, both hands suddenly going to the top of his head. Gloved fingers stroke the terrible toupee, as though a child gripping for a security blanket to hide behind. He starts to pace.
"This, this is... this is what I'm reduced to, now?!"
Oh no.
The wrong nerve. The smile fades as Rust begins to freak out. Shadows suddenly lurch from the corners of her mind. The autistic boy, the set of the Show-Up Hoe-Down. He was part of an outreach to the Autism Speaks program; the boy was a big fan of the show apparently. But on the set, before the shooting and during, he wouldn't stop freaking out. Sensory overstimulation. He wouldn't stop crying, no matter what Jezebel could do. She was eventually told by the boy's mother to leave, there was nothing she could do to help. Useless. Worthless, especially to children; at best she does nothing, at worst she does harm, lethal harm-"
Lightning Spangles suddenly laughs.
"Hah hah, Now you gonna have to stop this right now."Jezebel might be freaking out. But Lightning Spangles never freaks out."If you aren't comfortable with it, then I won't! Boy howdy, Howard, you really are one of the most respectable men I've ever met." She keeps up the overly sweet facade, the mask having long consumed her. She moves a hand to Rust's shoulder again, her voice softening.
"But you can't let people see you like this!"
She sweeps her arm out to the posters, as if it was an audience. "You might not see yourself as a real hero to anybody. But plenty of people look up to you, Howard! You are a hero to so many people out there, so many boys, and girls, and men, and women. You are a great man! But if you keep beating yourself up, you are gonna let them down. You have to always be the hero they want you to be; because once you lose them, all you got is yourself. And..." A sudden jarring sob and groan breaks out from the woman, as she lurches forward, as if she was throwing up. But just as swiftly, she rights herself up. "Sorry, sorry, I'm just. Just." She pauses a moment. The repressed emotion were overwhelming hera bit. Like rancid tequila, she was forcing it down. "Just...." She drawls, before turning back to Rust. And there, she points to the corners of her mouth, eyes bright, face turned up.
"Just... smile!"
A pathetic grown man who just can't seem to let go of dreams that often feel like they're just out of reach. For all he's been through, for what milestones - what achievements! - he makes, what pages in the history book that will speak of his name (...and his hair) forever... there still remains that shaken core.
It's hard to completely divorce himself from the parallels another friend faced. A friend who gave up absolutely everything he dreamed for, and in the end... this detail remains difficult day to day. To be strong for everyone else that he has helped, for those that continue to express admiration and gratitude for what he's done...
It isincreasingly difficult when one's own affairs have become a giant mess of a mid-life crisis and a few choice decisions of which there would be no take-backs. Aside from it being something of a miserable work environment (some matters of which were entirely his own fault), Pacific High wouldn't hire him again. Most private schools with decent salaried positions likely would not either. His work visa and its limitations somewhat strangle his ability to do contract work on the side. Here he is, a full-time fighter. Almost 24/7, it's training, fighting... being laid up in bed occasionally after training and fighting... having a few heated phone calls with health insurance providers...
Through the doubt of a man whose hands stay atop his head as though he now just wants to duck away entirely, Jezebel's laugh is somewhat chilling in its warmth. He keeps looking away from her like a guilty child with something to hide from a prying parent. The posters and their pay fades in the back of his mind as she brings a hand to his shoulder. There's no flinching this time. A bit more of a slump?
"I, I know, people keep saying--" He stops half-way, unable to really speak above Jezebel as she gives that motivational talk - one he's heard before - about how much he just means to so many youngsters out there now. The seeming bit of unsteadiness even sees him turning around with a little protest from one knee.
"Y-You know," he mumbles again, unable to really get a word after the apology in until her invitation to smile. "It's, uh, it's... it's kinda hard to, to smile. But," he clears his throat, finally removing his hands from his head. "I mean, fighting's just... just my thing, but... you're right, we, we got a show." He pats his left hand on her shoulder. "Can't... can't frown through it." His face is so completely and utterly neutral - outside of the usual accents of fatigue and confusion that seems to come with him no matter what mood he's in - bringing the hand away from her shoulder and onto the makeshift hilt of that rusted length of pipe, as if to reassuringly pat it.
The pipe is not reassured. It is an inanimate object. It is incapable of any sort of assurance.
"'m... 'm gonna be okay, look, it's," he sniffs in once. Nasal congestion? A tear? Both?! "I'm sorry. I, I shouldn't... I shouldn't do this to you. Or, uh, or your fans," or his. "That's... that's part of the job. They're paying for a good fight, not for... not for, uh... what I'm doing right now."
It's a hollow victory.
It's not a cure. It's a bandaid. Having Rust hide away his feelings behind a smile only stretches out the suffering and pain longer. The toupee was only a small part of the problem. The smiles they would get at home would be fake, empty grins to entertain them. That's what they were in the end. Just entertainers.
But it's all Jezebel can get.
"That's the spirit! Yee haw!" She yodels, clicking her heels. "Who knows?! You might lay that pipe into me so hard-" The woman pauses, face frozen in a grin. "I'll think of a better pipe sayin' for the fight!" She blushes faintly; being able to make herself blush was a trick she learned when doing those chinese films; it had a great deal of mileage for more classy work. She moves away from Rust, before another wince, another flinch. She slowly looks back at Rust, a pained look on her face swiftly being hidden by that smile.
And her voice loses it's drawl.
It's almost otherworldly, a glimpse behind the mask, the facade. It isn't a drawl, but a steady, midwestern accent, with just a bit of that north-central accent in there."That's the thing now, eh? That you are, we are heroes. People keep sayin' it because they wanna believe in it. I don't know if it is true. I've never figured out it is true." Jezebel gives a distant, defeated smile, before turning away, walking away, to give herself last preparations before the fight.
"But it's a nice thing to believe in, isn't it?"
That is what the fighting world boils down to, isn't it? Entertainment. That is how they tend to get their money. Put on a good show while showing off all the great moves you've trained day in, day out to master, to show off the might of your muscles, mastery of your technique, the magic of bending the energies of the world to your whims. Something people enjoy from a safe distance.
Where Jezebel expresses joy - however hollow - with her cheers and clicking of heels, Howard goes through motions not dissimilar to some sort of woodland creature waking up after hibernation. The stretching of his body and its tired bones, its weary muscles. The groan is way too well timed with the innuendo, with a wince to match and a nod as if to agree that, yeah, this is something that ought to be better phrased if a bunch of kids are going to be watching!
"Y-Yeah," he needlessly reconfirms in spoken word as he relaxes his posture a few moments later. There was that one girl he fought on Valentine's Day once, who was she? Her name was after a red fruit... Apple? That kind of quip might've been right up her alley. She's blushing, he's grunting as though the embarrassment were physically painful.
For all the little things that seem to slide by him as he tiredly strides along over to the rest of the posters they've yet to put up, there's that little change in her tone of voice that sees him stopping mid-crouch (as if the sudden kink in a knee wasn't poised to accomplish the very same) and give her a look from over his shoulder.
"Well... you, you do what you can, the best you can... you, ah, end up... end up someone's hero," he coughs twice, cutting himself off because whatever dust particles are in the air have decided to emigrate in mass into his windpipe.
They probably do not have enough time to put up all the posters. That'll have to do, maybe - the audiences aren't tuning in to see all the posters, one imagines, which blunts that earlier urge to grab as many ten dollar bills as he could off a menial task just a tad.
Log created on 17:12:17 01/02/2014 by Rust, and last modified on 13:48:23 01/09/2014.