Description: Some people are not very happy about the new management, or the threat to their honest livelihood. When this jerkwad politely informs Frank (again) that he doesn't work here any more, well... what can you expect a dude like him to do, with nothing to lose? No work, no money, no food... someone has to do something, and Frank sends a message the only way he knows how. (Part 2 coming soon!)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=avpnjx4yi2s"
"Hey Frank, ya hear? I got a date with Stella tonight! Get that broad hammered enough, she might show me her clam!"
The guys all around Smalls gave a hearty laugh, but Frank just kept suiting up in his locker. If he found it funny, his face didn't show it. But then, his face didn't show a lot of things. Instead, he gave a nod and spoke in that horrible gravel-meets-gasoline voice of his, without a hint of irony.
"No reason she woulrdn't, Smalls, yer a classy guy, yeh. Now getcher gloves on, we're got a lotta work terday, yeh."
That made everybody's jaws drop, and even with everybody knowing just how tough and strong Frank was(official SNF record aside), Smalls still sprung to his feet and walked up, coming up to the big lug's hips, and glaring up with wide eyes.
"Jeez ya big dumb ape, are yous crazy or somethin'?! You know what they're gonna do to ya if you try?!"
"I ain't ter smert, neh, I leave that ter yer, Smalls. I only know I gertta try."
And so that was the setup to the current scene: Frank in jeans and white wifebeater, weight lifting belt fastened around that massive torso of his, that dock worker's cap covering his eyes like always, gripping one of those trucks by the front bumper, back bumper scraping along the ground as he dragged it to the work site. Keys be damned, they were gonna get some goddamn work done, for once. He was tired of this, they all were, enough so that he just didn't give any kind of a shit about the consequences. Maybe he should have, but he didn't.
The guys all have good reason to drop their jaws. The harbor ain't exactly a nice place to be.
...Let's start that over. It never was that great a place to be to begin with. Southtown's always been a rough and tumble sort of town, especially where it can be remarkably easy to make some people or things disappear. Nowadays, after... certain events of which have not been widely disclosed?
Well, you don't need wide and open disclosure to know that there's been some big shake-ups in those parts. It's more... ordered, in some ways. Sometimes it's quiet save for the waves and the seafaring birds who gossip in their indecipherable squeals and calls, quiet as though entire warehouses have fallen into complete disuse.
Ships don't come and go as often as they used to. Those that do, they're usually manned by particularly scary-looking people. People who look about as scary as Frank does, and Frank over there would be cause for almost anyone to be concerned if he were to lumber on up to anyone.
Especially when they're dragging trucks along to a cacophony of sparks, a lightshow of orange lights and hues. There's stillness in the air disrupted by that glow. By that ear-splitting squeal of back bumper. A signal.
It's someone's signal to do their job. Whose job? What would that job exactly be?
That guy's. The huge guy in a suit much too nice-looking for these parts. It's easy to miss him because that nice black suit of his blends so easily. To say nothing of that fancy-looking phone that is so small that he may as well be speaking into an entirely invisible device as he casts a look over to the spectacle.
There's a brief nodding to nobody in particular, a series of words unable to be heard over the dragging of a car towards warehouse number 12. A large cargo vessel - an unusually large one - is docked just a ways beyond the pier leading towards it. It's a very busy day for someone.
"Hey, you." The tall man in the suit - and now shades, it looks like - speaks out to Frank as he drags that car along with an unflappable tone of voice. Somehow, his voice carries over the racket of friction. He has at least an inch and a half on Frank, and is relatively comparable in physical build. "Keep it down, will you? There's men at work here."
This guy seems to be the only one present to protest at all.
The man was big, there was no doubt about that, big enough that Frank's thick mountain of a neck tilted up, just a fraction. There was no expression on his face, that mouth with its underbite and lip that sticks out not moving. But after a second he brought his left hand up to wipe along that broken and re-broken nose of his, and only then did he speak.
"Hurp, serry about that, yeh. This'nt take long, keys ter the truck'r gone."
And after a moment? Frank would just keep walking. And if the suit was smart, he'd step aside, before those sparks got his fancy shoes dirty. But these guys didn't seem very smart to Frank.
Two can play the stone-faced expression game. Whoever this jerkwad in the suit is, he either takes care of his appearance... or he just hasn't accumulated the scars Frank has. This does not stop him from standing firm in the face of a colorful character with a very interesting alternative to driving to work.
Well, until the sparks threaten to scuff his shoes, as previously advertised as he takes a step back from them. He tilts his head to the side, arms crossed as Frank passes by.
"Oh, it's you again, isn't it." How can anyone confuse someone like Frank for someone else? (There can't be that many goons that look like him, can there? Or did he just take a knife to the eye and fail to notice at first? The mind boggles.)
"I thought we made it very clear last time, Mister," he says Frank's last name but it's drowned out by an uncharacteristically loud screech from the rear bumper against the concrete, "that this is no longer your place of employ."
He says this with a stuffy certainty, a disconcerting calm in that voice of his. He probably makes a living telling guys about as big as him to get lost on a professional level. Might even have a Master's degree in that sort of thing, from an accredited college.
"Now put that truck down and clear out. There's work going on here."
There's always been a number of sides to the man known as Frank. Always aware of the strength he held in his arms, not a day went by when he didn't remember the one second where he lost his self control. So he kept himself humble, he did what all he could to keep his temper in check, and he turned the cheek where he could. But deep down inside, he was a Fighter, and something he couldn't ignore or wrestle down was always ready to bubble to the surface. An aggression, a drive for competition, and a decidedly solid and considerably shorter fuse of patience than others possessed.
So, maybe it was the heat, maybe it was the weeks gone on without work, maybe it was seeing good men being unable to feed their families or themselves, but the big, gorilla-sized man had had enough, and casually 'shrugged' that massive vehicle off his right shoulder, letting it crash against the ground. He spoke up, even as he walked toward the gate that had been kept chained closed. It would be the easiest thing in the world for him to grab that big, heavy, industrial sized tirechain and snap it into pieces.
"I didn't get ner pink slip, and 'round here, yer don't get no slip, then yer still got work. And I ain't fixin' ter talk, I'm fixin' ter work."
Incredibly, his teeth were grit, and he was ready. He was so hoping this guy tried to put his hands on him. Then Frank would have the excuse he's been wanting for weeks now...
COMBATSYS: Frank has started a fight here.
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Frank 0/-------/-------|
COMBATSYS: This Jerkwad has joined the fight here.
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Frank 0/-------/-------|-------\-------\0 This Jerkwad
"You want me to go to the office supply store, is that it, Frank?" What is it with this jerkwad thinking he's on a first name basis with this guy? "Maybe pick out a frilly pink piece of paper, scribble something in plain terms you can understand with your grade school level education, and send you on your way? This place is under new management, Frank, and I'm speaking cordially on their behalf--"
Of course Frank won't listen to his words. He tenses visibly, a scowl on the side of his face. He shakes his head to Frank's turned back... and promptly takes off his sunglasses. These little gestures do not really endeavor to add any weight to his words, however eloquently he phrases them (in clear cognitive dissonance to his clearly brutish build).
"Are you listening to me?" His voice grows that touch more agitated, as Frank approaches the gate. He knows full well what Frank is going to do to that gate, and he makes hurried steps over to him. Somewhere, deep down, by the powers that be...
The almighty, or almighties, or mere coincidences - however one may view matters of providence, luck, or fate - gives Frank exactly the excuse he's looking for.
"You touch that gate," this jerkwad remarks as he lays a firm, gripping hand on Frank's shoulder - a grip respectably powerful enough to dig deeply into even his powerful, broad shoulder - and sneers his next few words.
"And your employment prospects aren't going to be looking so hot from a broken spine."
COMBATSYS: Frank endures This Jerkwad's Quick Throw.
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Frank 0/-------/------=|-------\-------\0 This Jerkwad
Those fingers dig into the meat of his shoulders, and that might as well have been a punch across the big lug's jaw. It might as well have been a gunshot, because that was all Frank could stand for one day. Instantly the smaller big man wheels around, and a big meaty left hook is sailing for the suit's jaw, even as his right shoulder is shrugging off that hand as best he can.
That left is only the start of a long series of wild, powerful blows, each trying to take the big man's head off as best they can, and as quickly as they can. The time for talking has definitely just ended!
COMBATSYS: Frank successfully hits This Jerkwad with Jab Light Flurry Combo.
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Frank 0/-------/-----==|==-----\-------\0 This Jerkwad
That first punch must feel so good to finally get to fling. If that doesn't tickle Frank's fancy, how about how far to Frank's right that the man stumbles after that very punch? To say nothing of all the blows that follow after. Left, right, left, right, the man drops his sunglasses onto the ground. It is inevitable that someone, somewhere, at some point is going to step on them. They are probably expensive.
The final jab shoves the (slightly) larger man back in a stagger, right hand wiping against his bloodied face. Frank doesn't have to squint from under his cap to see how much those punches did. Busted the man's nose, got himself a shiner for the effort. The very sight of this jerkwad being struck like that ought to make someone's day. Maybe Smalls', considering he no doubt probably got physically shown out by this man in the past.
"So is that what it's going to be, Frank?!" This jerkwad spits out some blood into the pavement, large fists balled up in a somewhat clumsy-looking boxing stance. "You want to pick a fight? That what you been waiting for, tough guy? Think you can just waltz up where you're no longer welcome, drag that truck here like some kinda little kid throwing a tantrum, pop me in the face? Frank, you know what I'm gonna do to you? Do you? Do you? Huh?"
Where Frank was happy to lay into him with a large series of punches, this jerkwad's right arm displaces the air with a powerful right cross. Overcommitting to the blow, he tries to follow it up after a slight delay with a very forward left punch square in the center of Frank's face, should he not move said face out of the way or otherwise impede it.
"DO YOU EVEN KNOW WHO YOU'RE FUCKING WITH?!"
COMBATSYS: Frank blocks This Jerkwad's 1-2 Punch.
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Frank 0/-------/----===|===----\-------\0 This Jerkwad
There were no words right now, he wasn't paying attention to anybody's voice, not the one fighting him, and not the commotion, cheers and exclamations starting to hit from all around. All he was doing was watching his opponent, his massive arms up in a sloppy lazy boxing stance, swaying back and forth on his feet like a drunk trying to Walts on prom night. And when that sloppier right hand came around, Frank threw both of his forearms and even his head into the attack, letting it collide with him at the cost of throwing his opponent out of balance. And this was important, as that massive, gorilla-like hand of Frank shot out, grabbing at the jacket, shirt or even tie of the big bruiser he was up against. If he managed this...he'd just pull backward, trying to just throw that man through the chained up gate, not caring where the man landed. This throw wasn't some fancy form of Judo, or even wrestling. Instead, it had all the tact, subtlety and grace of a tornado uprooting a brick house!
COMBATSYS: Frank successfully hits This Jerkwad with Power Throw.
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Frank 0/-------/---====|=======\-------\0 This Jerkwad
The gathering voices of people interested in the commotion should be a thing of foreboding. As this jerkwad who is currently flying towards the gate has said, Frank doesn't work here any more. He's not going to find a whole bunch of friends ready to back him up here. The harbor is no longer Frank's place to work. It's just him and his muscles, against this big guy... and one would pray that it just stays between the two of them.
The gate comes crashing down with the other guy's weight, dislodging (and breaking) the rusted chain that kept it closed. The suited man struggles with being entangled in the wreck. It's a comical scene. It's also very painful-looking, as tears appear on his suit that he is not going to be happy about once he's cognizant of this fact.
"You think you're big, Frank," spits out this jerkwad as he happens back upon his feet, one arm entangled in chain, "but there's a lot bigger. People who don't... put... up... with that shit," there's a notable hunch to his walk. Pain. That did a number on his back. Whipping an arm, the chain shakes loose of where it was wrapped around the chain, the heavy padlock thumping loudly to announce its newfound occupation as a makeshift flail to the area.
With an angry shout, he whips it towards Frank rather indiscriminately, believing that applying any sufficient weight to any part of the man's body is going to smart.
"You made a big! Mistake!!"
COMBATSYS: Frank dodges This Jerkwad's Random Weapon.
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Frank 0/-------/---====|=======\-------\0 This Jerkwad
In Frank's world, he didn't have friends anyway, so this was nothing new. But it wasn't about friends, it wasn't about popular. It was about doing what was right, what felt right, and it was about something under the surface, long since bubbling and now having broken free. And it was about avoiding taking a padlock to the jaw, even as he ducked under the wild swing going one way, and actually -leapt- over it coming back down a lower way. Leaping was rare coming from him, but at least he was in a good position to strike, and strike he did.
Two big, meaty arms came out, massive tree trunks with sledgehammers on the end meeting in a mighty clap, one that aimed for his ears and went on through to his brain. Well, tried to, anyway.
COMBATSYS: Frank successfully hits This Jerkwad with Bell Ringer.
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Frank 0/-------/--=====|=======\==-----\1 This Jerkwad
If Frank has a moment to look, he'd find that this jerkwad's face with a bloodied jaw dropping at that timely duck and jump is a seriously priceless Kodiak moment.
Well, it's more like a timeless vase, since it's being shattered under the meaty, hard working man hands of Frank. The man's head disappears briefly under those things, and when they part, there is blood. Well, his head is still plenty intact, but there is also blood. Maybe even a missing tooth or two, given how blood goes down the side of his jaw as his bruised head staggers towards one of the posts of the gate in a daze.
He wheezes something out that's not quite intelligible, his makeshift padlock-and-chain flail having since been dropped. His eyes widen about as far as they're capable of when one of them has swollen shut, eyeing his suit.
"Do... do you know," he stammers out. In complete contrast to his seeming diminished capacity to keep a clear head under concussion, his closing speed is frightening. He threatens to bowl into Frank and carry him all the way back out towards the truck, as though he were a former football player with dreams and aspirations of being a pro football player, because that is a hell of a carrying tackle.
"DO YOU KNOW HOW MUCH THIS SUIT COSTS?!" He screams out. "You got... you got NO. RESPECT. FRANK. None! NONE! NONE!"
COMBATSYS: Frank endures This Jerkwad's Ramming Speed.
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Frank 1/-------/=======|=======\====---\1 This Jerkwad
This was unusual for Frank. Both hands balled into fists, his mouth scowling with his teeth grit and bared, and one could swear that maybe they could see a flash and twinkle coming from the shadowed eyeline of that dock worker's cap. And when his enemy charged, he bellowed out a challenge, that voice nearly done in by how much emotion was in it. His vocal chords were -not- used to this.
"WELL CALMERN, THEN!"
Jerkwad meets Frank, and Jerkwad seems to win, tackling a solid slab of meat and not stopping until there's a big, Frank-sized imprint in the side of that vehicle they both run into. But when the jerk looks up, he'd see only a maniacal, murderous look in Frank's 'eyes', before those big hands go again to that swollen, bruised head of his enemy. But this time, instead of a Clap From Hell, he merely squeezes, trying to crush it like an egg and juice it like an orange. Definitely not a thing to get hit by!
COMBATSYS: Frank successfully hits This Jerkwad with Head Squeeze.
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Frank 0/-------/------=|=======\======-\1 This Jerkwad
The moment of impact with the truck doesn't see this jerkwad with any sort of clear lead. He's unsteady. Sloppy. Someone who may well only get by by being big. Well, he's got decent speaking skills too, that probably helps. It doesn't help him here when he staggers to a knee after that impact against the truck.
It doesn't help him further when Frank's got his hands around the man's head. Squeezing. With Frank's thumbs on his face and pressing inward, it seems a losing proposition. He thrashes around in Frank's grasp a few times, which doesn't appear to amount to much. Towards the end of the thrashing he thinks of throwing his entire body weight forward to attempt to throw Frank off balance and loosen his grip, but that doesn't seem to manage much good.
"FFffrrrrrraaaaaank," he rasps out, "you know... you're... DEAD." He spits that last word out. His strength being sapped in the struggle to not have his head turn into a crushed grape, he does not particularly care to elucidate on the scientific hows and whys of this declaration of Frank's ceasing to be. One wouldn't blame him, given the situation.
Falling to a crouch, he moves with one arm to grab at Frank's belt. With a final, not quite triumphant roar, he attempts to fling Frank up a ways, one hand on belt and one on collar, and fall to a crouch to let Frank's body fall upon his knee if he can negotiate the leverage.
COMBATSYS: This Jerkwad successfully hit Frank with Backbreaker.
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Frank 0/-------/--=====|===----\-------\0 This Jerkwad
Frank is not being careful, here. He's so focused on hurting, on crushing this imbecile that he doesn't even notice the world around him until he's being lifted up, a rare thing for him. He's so unused to dealing with an equally strong bruiser that he doesn't have time to tense up or fight before he's dropped down on that knee and his 'hold' is finally broken, gasping out and spittle spraying into the air. For a moment he didn't move, but then his right hand balled into a fist, and he looked 'up', still balanced on that knee, and it seemed even this wasn't enough to slow the man down. His fist lashed out, the bottom of it aiming for that already broken nose as if he's banging down on a desk, or as if he's trying to cave in a face that reminds him of nothing but hatred, of rage. He wasn't going to stop!
COMBATSYS: Frank successfully hits This Jerkwad with Strong Punch.
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Frank 0/-------/-======|======-\-------\0 This Jerkwad
That was the punch to the face heard world 'round - or at least the harbor, as balled-up fist strikes solidly into chin (the nose shot is missed only by an idle forward lean of this jerkwad's head), and a mixture of spittle and blood flies in a quantity perhaps greater than Frank may have seen in some time.
The strength of that final punch launches the suited-up personification of his frustrations clear off his feet, into the air, and bouncing off the top of the truck's hood before rolling limp off to the pavement, motionless. Frank has a moment to collect himself or - if he's of the persuasion - to keep punching the guy to his heart's content within that very span of a moment. There are hushed tones among those who gather around here.
Were they here just for the excitement of the fight that broke out? Did they have a favorite to share any sort of satisfaction with this seeming outcome or otherwise? After the spent moment, Frank will hear the sound of people moving. People gathering. He might even hear the cocking of a gun.
"Looks like we got a failure to communicate." As if this jerkwad on the ground were bad enough, the smugness is turned up twofold by someone who... can't be picked out from the crowd that's gathered near the warehouse. Just about anywhere Frank cares to look in that direction, there's some nasty-looking people. The vast majority of them unfamiliar, many of them armed and looking particularly unfriendly.
"Care to try your luck again? Lookin' at something like... forty to one odds, and you look 'bout ready to cash out." Who's speaking? Someone hiding behind a lot of able bodies, apparently. They'd have every right to be scared of Frank after a show like that... but they probably have every reason to feel smug behind so many people.
COMBATSYS: This Jerkwad takes no action.
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Frank 0/-------/-======|
COMBATSYS: This Jerkwad can no longer fight.
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Frank 0/-------/-======|
Frank was slow getting too his feet. First to a knee, where he coughed up a little blood, as well as feeling his ribs, bruised a little. When he lumbered up to his feet unsteadily, he breathed a little heavy as he stood over the bigger bruiser, fists unclenching and slowly starting to calm down. This wasn't permanent for him sadly, as he turned his head slowly at the sound of a gun cocking. He didn't take any action, but mentally he couldn't help but start counting how many he could make out, even as he prepared himself for round two. He couldn't possibly win. But he couldn't possibly let them win, either.
His back was to the wall, and things were starting to look bad.
How many could Frank take out before he was taken out? It's as dire a situation as any. Frank might be the toughest guy in his bunch of acquaintances and co-workers, but he can probably see it in their eyes. Mean folks, these. At least a couple show some signs of real competency in their stances, or in the way they hold their weapons. It's as whoever among them said, the odds aren't looking too great.
Could this be the end of lovable Frank...?!
TO BE CONTINUED...
Log created on 01:47:16 02/11/2014 by Varvara, and last modified on 05:20:30 02/11/2014.