Description: In this thrilling continuation of the previous part, Frank is in a bind! Does he have a way out of this?! In addition, the very future of the universe may well rest upon the shoulders of poor, battered Frank. He may be the one man standing between us and annihilation... in what fashion? Find out inside!!
LAST TIME ON THE THRILLING TWO-PARTER, TO BE FRANK!
Last time, Frank totally beat the face in of someone who thought it was a great idea to tell the big lug that he no longer had a job there. He may have proven that he has a bright future ahead of him as a plastic surgeon, if he can get around the lack of any sort of educational certification that is typically required for the field.
Wait, no, it's much too soon to say that he has a bright future, or any sort of future within any sort of descriptive scale of luminosity and its saturation. Especially when there's roughly forty guys surrounding him, many armed, all angry. People who largely don't look much like the ones Frank previously worked with, all of them fresh, all of them looking ready to leave him as bad off as this jerkwad in a suit that Frank laid out flat moments before.
"This ain't no schoolyard scrap, tough guy," and who the hell is speaking among the masses? "This ain't your turf. This ain't your neck of the woods. This, pal, is gonna be your funeral. Gathered 'round by a buncha people who don't like ya, ready to spit on yer name and be glad ya won't be hangin' 'round with us no more."
There's the loud sound of something... cracking? Popping? It's not too clear, but given the amount of weapons on display among them, wouldn't be much of a surprise if it were the sound of someone patting a weapon on the ground or some such. With Frank's back to the wall and already well worn by a backbreaker, what's a man like him to do? What could he even say in his defense?
Well in this case, his back was against a truck, but it certainly felt like a wall. His black, velcro lifting belt was in tatters and hanging off of him, there was just a hint of blood trickling down the side of that extraordinarily ugly mug, just under his dock worker's cap, and he was finding it hard to lift those massive, gorilla-esque arms of his, so tired was he.
But, at the voice, and at the crowd of people, he merely started limping towards the mass, muttering and rolling his neck gingerly.
"Ferneral? I ain't seen ner caskets yet."
It was tough talk, but Frank was reasonably sure he was about to get the absolute stuffing kicked out of him. But really, what else was new?
The act of insult and snark trading is something that is not always held very dear out in the harsher corners of Southtown, or the greater world at large. Though this crowd may not number many in the way of intellectuals, a couple do give a few glances to one another as if at a loss to figure out what to say to that.
"Don't we got a cement mixer?"
"Uhh, we could give him a nice new pair of shoes, or... uh... what do they call the guy who dresses up dead guys?"
"People! People." There's that same unseen voice again. Whoever the ringleader of this mob is, they're still not visible up in the front, and the way people turn their heads it doesn't really narrow down where. "Semantics. Our new boss wants this place locked down, he's got big plans, and he ain't gonna stand for a delay in just keeping this place free of troublemakers just because you can't think of a friggin' snappy comeback!"
This would be the perfect place for a laughtrack, if this were some sort of British sitcom.
"This ain't some kinda British TV comedy thing," and isn't that what was just written? Now they're stealing jokes.
"Hurry up and get 'em before someone notices, sheesh, what are you all even waitin' fo--" The sudden cutoff coincides with a few surprised yelps and turns of a head as bodies seem to pile up around to Frank's left. Almost like someone's decided to start scooping them up with one of the construction vehicles around here.
Except there is no vehicle. Someone or /something/ has suddenly inserted themselves into the crowd in such a way that a good portion of them comically ball up into a pile and even roll off of said gathering pile in turn, up until those that remain in the pile after a few seconds just go flying about.
On the ground, tilting back and fro on their back for a second or two is some... guy, just under six feet tall but built hella solid (which doesn't really narrow things down when a lot of guys around here look like this), and that... awful... purple... thing on their head. A length of pipe is held on either end by their hands until it is lifted away from his left, and he comes up to a kneel and all sorts of awful-sounding joint pops as he tilts his neck to and fro. Clearly, he is about to say some kind of snappy comeback to all this.
"Ain't some kinda, uh, well... some kinda... shit." Looks like Howard Rust, in his sudden appearance, wasn't too prepared to play ball with a one-liner either, and has acknowledged that particular moment is ruined.
He didn't notice all the commotion at first, just kept staggering toward the group like a zombie. Their failed attempts at quipping were lost in the ocean of blood that was rushing between Frank's ears, and he didn't notice the rain of bodies until one collapsed bonelessly against his great big, broad shoulders. That snapped him out of his reverie, as he finally looked over, mouth hanging open partly out of surprise, but mostly out of exhaustion. What could have surprised him so much?
Somebody helping him, when he thought he was done for?
That this somebody was one Howard Rust, a person that Frank personally respected and looked up to?
That Rust's head was covered by what could only have been created in a creepy laboratory next to zombie viruses and evil robots?
It was hard to say, but Frank opened his mouth further, where finally, at least -somebody- was going to say something clever!
"..."
It never came, because instead Frank was rushing toward the mass of people, his giant, massive right boot coming off the ground and almost launching like a Frank-sized missile, right at the big mass of people! He was honestly tired, and saw this as a great opportunity to shut these people down for good!
COMBATSYS: Frank has started a fight here.
[\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ <
Frank 0/-------/-------|
COMBATSYS: Frank has ended the fight here.
Give those zombie diseases and artificial life of the Asimov-violating persuasion some credit, they'd probably creep right on out of any laboratory or factory where something like /that/ is being made. Instruments of evil and destruction have standards, and they would absolutely draw the line at something like... that... hair.
This is digressing from the more immediate topic as the crowd goes into complete disarray at Howard's arrival. Some are thinking to maybe get out of there. Others try to go in swinging. Frank's full-body raging tackle sends one of them flying out up against the wall of the warehouse.
"Watch your," Howard doesn't quite finish the sentence due to an untimely cough as one guy rushes towards Frank's back with a knife drawn. He is very quickly intercepted with a pipe swing that hooks into their belt, prior to flinging them towards roughly four to five guys trying to rush to the pipe wielder's open right flank.
"Are you, ah, alright? What was your name, ah," crap, he can't quite remember as he brings up his left arm to ward off a baseball bat swing that he is nearly blindsided by. Even if none of them individually are much threat, he thinks that maybe he ought to have moved his back up to a wall or something, but it's probably just as well he's trying to watch Frank's six.
In all the excitement, Frank entirely forgot that he had an unconscious Mad Gear thug draped across his shoulders. He rectified this now by reaching up one massive arm, grabbing the blacked out goon and launching him overhead at the bat-wielding jerk trying to blindside the man in the sick, fetishistic headwear. He looked around, and even as he pulled out that massive walletchain, flipping it around and scanning around where to hit and who to punish with it, it seemed the ones that weren't absolutely wrecked were high-tailing it out of there.
It was this fact that caused him to finally collapse, falling backward and hitting the brick wall behind him so hard that dust shook from it. He sank down to a sitting position, gasping for air and wiping sweat from his face. Not his brow, but he would if he could.
"Name's...name's Frank, yeh."
Fortunately for both men involved, the mob disperses with a series of rude words and even a couple overt threats to their well-being that mostly rings hollow to the middle-aged pipe wielder slash Kyokugen brown belt, a brief nod of acknowledgement for that baseball bat guy being taken off his case as he adopts a somewhat more proper combat-ready stance, even bobbing up and down on his feet a bit.
This is also because he didn't have much a chance to stretch. Throwing the kinds of punches and kicks Kyokugen asks of its practitioners without doing stretching to loosen the muscles first, well... goes without saying, at this point.
"Frank... yeah. How, how long ago was it, ah... are you all right? Heard that, that some bad things're, uh, g-goin' down," he coughs once again, "'scuse me."
His eyes sweep the immediate area for anyone who might be wanting to try and take pot shots. He's pretty sure he heard a cocked gun, but from his field of vision it doesn't seem like anyone wants to try. Good for them. Better for him, really, the Kyokugen dojo's health insurance plan is not very good for covering things like gunshot wounds (to the extent gunshots can really hurt him, which is to say not very much).
Small price to pay for really good dental coverage.
"Heck, like, some minutes ago, sounded like... like metal was screeching, all over. I had to see what that was, uh... any idea?"
Frank coughed a bit, and reached up, idly starting to undo the straps to his "belt", velcro ripping loudly in the air while that hoarse, horrid voice of his guttered out into the air.
"...Ther...ther truck there. Fergot...fergot the keys. Therm guys didn't like that."
To emphasize his point, his great big hand came up after ripping off that 'belt' violently, jerking his thumb over to where the pile of bruised and battered Sad Gear lay, some starting to move and moan, others still lucky enough to be dreaming.
"Yer came over 'cause yer heard that? Heads'r'down more these days, thanks ter these guys an' more like 'em."
When the possibility of any further threat finally subsides, it does so in a timely fashion with Frank's explanation of that terrible, horrible metal-on-asphalt grinding noise being just... the sound of a truck being dragged?
His shoulders visibly slump as he sticks Ol' Rusty back through the toolbelt pocket it occupies. All that over that noise? He stretches out one of his legs to work out some kinks in one of his knees, looking well away from Frank as he just largely considers the surrounding area.
Heh, years and years ago, early on, he used to come by here on weekends just for general training and exercise. Kind of nostalgic on some front, really. That over there might be the exact same pier from way back when, too. Southtown's changed a lot over the years he's been here, no doubt.
...Maybe not entirely for the better, as he looks back towards Frank.
"I, I heard it's just been, well, rough. So... I was just, just in the area, checking it out myself. Then, uh, this," he gestures vaguely with his right hand. "Was it... was it really just the, the dragging that set 'em off? Noise like that... noise like that," he shakes his head, "doesn't... doesn't summon dozens of guys talkin' 'bout cement shoes, or... well, y'know."
That backbreaker didn't break anything, Frank was made of far tougher stuff. But it did feel like things were tense in bad ways, and the big man getting to his knes was enough to get his spine creaking and popping in a way not unlike Rust's knees. And working to his feet just made it worse, but he fought through it and naturally just started stretching and working himself out. Soon, the two looked like they were about to perform some dance number or something, surely. But Frank turned around after a moment and gestured with one massive hand, speaking up to say-
"ALRIGHT BUDDY, I GOTCHER BACK! DON'T NONE OF YOU CLOWNS MESS WITH MY BOY HERE!"
That screeching and hollering was followed by a burst of loud gunfire into the sky, and the familiar form of Smalls burst into view, coming up to Frank's thighs holding a machine gun that looked like it could use him as ammunition it was so big. In his mouth was a big hunting bowie knife, and under his brown fedora, black stripes were painted across his cheeks, football style. He looked around, puzzled at all the collapsed knocked out thugs, and then walked happily up to Frank.
"Well y'see, Frank? I told you you could take these Mad Gear bozos, they can't tell us who's workin' here and who ain't! Quick, let's roll their wallets and throw 'em off a bridge!"
That was before he bothered to look at Rust. What started as a passing glance turned into a double, a triple, a quadruple, a long long series of takes, all looking above Rust's face, at something specific.
Soon, machine-gun and knife both hit the ground, clattering, and Smalls' finger came up at that...thing on Rust's head, in accusation.
"OHHH MY GOD! THAT SHIT JUST AIN'T RIGHT!"
That was too much shock for one little guy like Smalls. Soon he couldn't stay conscious, and collapsed unconscious to the ground. He would have nightmares for the next 30 years.
With a gleeful yell like that, Howard instinctively turns the other way to the approaching, overly enthusiastic small guy with... well, holy crap, how the hell does a guy like him even /get/ a gun like that in this nation? The sheer ludicrousness of the image almost pings as a threat more than the little guy's actual ability to do much harm with it (...to him, anyway, by all appearances), a bit of a wince and a left arm held horizontally in front of himself. It relaxes slowly as Smalls drops one of the more famous gang names around.
"Mad Gear... huh." Howard rubs the back of his head. Metro City's infamous team of ne'er-do-wells who seem to all have an uncanny knack for just getting themselves throttled over and over and over and over. "Yeah, uh, we're not doin' any of that, we're--"
Before he can protest the preferred course of action, there's sudden screaming and finger-pointing about something not being right! Ol' Rusty is drawn with uncanny smoothness as rusted length of pipe grinds up against fabric, turning about-face behind himself to see... nothing in particular?
"What the hell are you talkin' about, I don't see... oh. Huh." His gaze comes down to a pair of sunglasses on the ground that, against all odds, was not smashed or crushed under anyone's heel considering how much traffic was here in the last couple of minutes. Howard bends down to pick them up.
"I... I don't see anything wrong with... these," he mutters, nonplussed as he contemplates putting them on.
NOBEL PRIZE WINNING PHYSICIST'S WARNING: If Howard puts on these sunglasses this entire universe will probably collapse in a singularity made of middle-aged crisis!! Do not let him!!
"What's he even goin' on about..."
By this time, Frank is finished with his impromptu stretching, not reacting to Smalls' antics at all unlike Rust. That's what happens when you lived around this every day, though.
The big man was still limping, but doing a bit better than he was, it's amazing what winning or at least surviving a fight can do for you, amazing what reserves of adrenaline it can make you tap into. He lumbered up to the brawny, pipe-equipped man he towered over, and one workglove-glad hand clapped and clasped the back of that popular bruiser. The other slowly came up, taking those glasses and taking them from Rust's grasp. It was hard to tell where he was looking with that hat, but one had a feeling it was aimed down at at those shades, and the person who they belonged to, the person still down on the ground, destroyed. Slowly but surely, Frank's face changed from "undetermined", to "miffed" to "steamin' honkin' MAD." His teeth grit, he threw those shades down as hard, and as fast as he could, aiming them at the general mass of the rich, ritzy thug he'd originally beat down.
"Get outter here, and taker CRAP with you!"
Today, Frank, has saved the entire universe from an untimely, crushing death under the universe-crunching force of nature that is desperation and mid-life crisis. The universe silently salutes him for this brave and decisive action of stopping the catalyst for the end of all times, but still probably won't repay him for his brave deeds by giving him a winning lotto ticket.
Not being subject to the end of existence may be its own reward, but now has the uncanny respect of all bus drivers the world 'round, and will entrust him with not allowing pigeons to drive them. Truly a high honor, to say the least.
Howard, for his part unaware at how close he has subjected everything he ever knew and loved to complete annihilation, simply stands dumbfounded - even humbled - by this sudden display of hatred and aggression between a pair of shades and that bloodied guy on the ground in the suit who looked completely out of place for these parts. Wordlessly, he looks up to Frank, back to the thug, then to Frank, and then back over to that truck.
"Y'know, maybe... maybe we should, uh, chat 'bout this along the way," he walks out of Frank's grasp, "I know a good sandwich place. Probably... probably better to, uh, talk 'bout it all there."
He silently mourns for the lost opportunity to wear what was probably the greatest pair of sunglasses he ever laid hands on. Given the fact he still believes the garbage on his head is a realistic and convincing facsimile of real hair, it is safe to say that this is no big loss even outside of the whole universe-ending aspect of it all.
Log created on 20:32:30 02/16/2014 by Rust, and last modified on 23:38:25 02/16/2014.