Description: N as in Now You're Gonna Die, D as in Delivering... Pizza... huh. Actually, let's work on that bad-ass introduction later, like, when Wendigo there is punching someone like Howard Rust in the face. A little too early for that, y'know? Besides, he just wants to come by and chat. And hey, the 'D' part rings true, 'cause he's got pizza. Oh man. You don't know what you're missin' out on. This is the good stuff.
Just another early evening out in the area near Gedo Street. The place that on the outside seems to have spiraled all out of control. All the colors of graffiti artistry that show little concern for how the original architects and property owners wanted the building to look from the outside - but there is an odd sort of respect, perhaps, given the amount of artistry on display. There is a particularly profound out-of-season haiku that has survived for the last few months, where normally these things would have since been replaced by other artistic curiosities borne from the imaginations of bored adolescents with not enough to do and too much spraypaint on hand.
It's the usual scene in these parts. At some point further late in the day than most parents would be willing, there's kids playing baseball in the nearby parking lot, and sometimes nearby cars - especially those of people who live around here! - can fall victim of a stray baseball.
For everything that seems to take a turn for the worse in his life, Howard Rust has beaten the odds in so far that his truck has yet to ever suffer egregious baseball-related damage. It is a small blessing he probably will grow to appreciate more as the years go on in this comparatively quiet living space he's managed with a little help from an unlikely (though good) friend.
Glossing over the usual rituals of brief chit-chat with some of the other residents as he hauls up a paper bag of indeterminate groceries in his left arm, he wills his tired joints to head up the staircase up to the second floor - Room 217. Usually, the door would be locked. There'd be a surprisingly spacious living space therein - three spare rooms, a really run-down couch, a rather old wooden table... probably a few open bags of unfinished chips and bottles of alcoholic beverage. Some small mechanical work projects lying around here and there. At least a couple horribly misshapen paper cranes that are part of a much longer story than could really be summed up here. He doesn't seem to clean up his own living space all too well.
"Last time... last time I spend the, the entire day chasin' Marco's bear all over the... the," he doesn't finish his mumbling as he comes close to the door. Surely, a rough day's about to wind down and he can rest off the last hour or two prior to collapsing to sleep in peace...
Maybe?
Possibly?
...Hopefully?
Maybe, possibly, hopefully so. One hopes Rust remembered his keys, because that door is definitely and without a doubt, locked. And should he enter the building hiding behind that door, he'll find it empty unless he owns pets.
But life has a way of throwing curveballs, because just as he'd be getting comfortable after putting things away, that's when him, and the rest of the neighborhood would hear that loud, roaring Harley tearing down the street. And getting louder, and louder, and louder until it was right outside that building, and then suddenly? As quickly and loudly as it arrived, the engine shut off, and the gift of silence was given to the world, however briefly.
Just one second later, Rust would no doubt hear the loud, thunderous pounding and knocking at his door, as well as see said door 'bend' inward for a moment from every knock.
One would be surprised about how useless door locks are to actual security! It's more a wonder that anyone bothers to even lock their doors any more, what with all the fighter types that like to crawl in through windows or other means exponentially more esoteric and nonsensical. Howard's not certain, but one time he's pretty sure Rick managed to hide inside the box that should have contained a new ironing board and then bust out while he wasn't looking.
The sound of a Harley cranking loudly on the streets unto itself is not really cause for alarm. This is Gedo Street, and the youth motorcycle gang culture - though on the steady way out at large - is no stranger to these parts. Sometimes some out-of-towners get lippy with Daigo Kazama, probably the greatest youth delinquent gang leader to ever... be. It's not something that especially concerns him day-to-day.
Instead, Howard passes by any number of serviceable open bottles of beer with /something/ inside (though by now flat and room temperature) to get a fresh one from the fridge. He passes by a bottle of mouthwash that still somehow has a place on the table after so long, and takes a moment to look inside an open bag of chips.
There is a bear trap inside that bag. Why, exactly? We'll never know. Considering how the bag can barely contain it, who would he be hoping to fool with that, exactly...?
"Mrhreheghlt," he sums up his day to himself in nonsensical, barely audible mumbling as he pops the top cap off with just his thumb, to have himself just a good long swig and then probably forget he ever even had a drink of it.
The door knocks. It is so startling in its ferocity that he gags at liquid unexpectedly rushing down his throat. Cough, cough, wheeze, gag! It's such a fit that he can't even think that maybe this banging is a little too loud and rude, or that maybe he should tell this impatient person on the other side to wait - or, uh, take note of how the door is basically being broken down as he clears his throat and pats his chest with a closed fist.
Placing the beer bottle on a nearby stand with a bit of a pop from his elbow, he at last deigns to actually address the door issue.
"Hey, d-don't break down the door again, I'm comin'." There is a very odd sense of familiarity in the tone of his voice. Some sort of acceptance of just the behaviors and habits of an acquaintance, maybe? Little does he suspect, as he presses his right hand up against the door in a futile gesture to cease the violent pounding, left hand to the doorknob.
"Thought we... we went over this, you don't--"
Did Rust's friend stand past seven feet?
Did Rust's friend have skin whiter than a snowman in a blizzard?
Did Rust's friend often wear jean shorts?
We can only hope not. This figure, however, was. That and a simple sleeveless black shirt, a pair of black aviators hanging from the collar, and an unlit, half-smoked cigar hanging from his lip. Those lips were currently drawn into a wolfish grin, and his teeth, though white and cleanish, couldn't compete with the albino ivory nature of his skin. In his right hand, he held three boxes of pizza, as effortlessly as one would carry just the one, and in his other hung a 12-pack of booze. At this point, the various weapons strapped to him almost weren't mentioning.
Almost.
"Hey, brother! Glad I caught ya, there's a game on and good goddamn, we're gonna watch it."
As he spoke he also walked forward, not-so-politely inviting himself into the Howard Rust household unless the smaller, but possibly broader man played defense well enough.
One of his notable friends does in fact stand past seven feet, but the other two counts... uh... well... one out of three ain't bad... right?
Simple fractional mathematics are not really high on the list of priorities when the middle-aged man in that awful, terrible... thing on his head. His posture droops in equal parts surprise and frustration, left hand raised as if to protest but, thanks to Wendigo's element of surprise, could probably just bat the hand out of the way effortlessly while he's going 'wait, what?'
Such as right now.
"Wait... wait, what? H-Hold on, uh... you can't just, agh," he clears his throat as he becomes cognizant that yes, he now has an unfamiliar face in his apartment and that maybe he really ought to do something about that other than meekly protest off the top of his head. A head that's already ready to just turn its brain off and go to sleep on the couch or something.
"Look, hey. Whoa. Hey. I'm, I'm not throwin' any... any parties, all right, just... whose room were you, were you lookin' for--" his nose wrinkles at the faint scent of that half-smoked cigar. Oh man, he can taste that thing and he inwardly winces. How long has it been since he last had one of those? He coughs again.
There's that whole 'he's also carrying a lot of weapons' thing that's equally worrying but just gets filed under - to his detriment - another surprise unwanted guest scenario. "I, I've had a long day already, can we not--"
Wendigo wasn't stopped, and he certainly wasn't phased by all the science projects that Rust cultivated through weeks and months of neglect and apathy. Instead, the big freakish man walked right up to that crowded, horrific looking coffee table and looked around. He nodded and shrugged, turning to Rust.
"Not bad, not bad. Better than most of my places, anyway. You know how many maids quit after they find the grenade room? Sheeit, what happened to people nowadays?"
As he spoke, he casually brought one biker-boot up to the edge of that table, and in one movement swept everything on to the floor, all the better to place the food and booze down, only to quickly bring up one of the boxes. With both hands now free, he opened the lid, 'gesturing' Rust over with his fingers, and also fanning the scent of that piping hot deep dish over to where the man stood.
"Man, this is genuine Metro City pizza, flown over. Smell this, man, you ever had MC pizza before? Gonna shit your brain how good it is. I swear."
If the guy has a look over to his left, there are some bonafide, actually interestingly sketched-out blueprint-like plans for... something involving a bench. It is full of boring geometry and numbers and footnotes that are painfully legible. Painfully, because there seems to be descriptive text written in genuine anger. Cosmically speaking, it is utterly insignificant as anything other than another curio in the messy apartment that is Howard Rust's own.
"Grenade roo--" Howard wonders aloud at the concept of it. "N-No, no, we're not, we're not doing this," he stammers as irritation finally overtakes fatigue as the new greatest cause of himself tripping up over his words as he speaks. A close number two, almost slipping on a bottle knocked to the floor, arms suddenly outstretched comically as he staggers to a quick kneel before bringing a hand up to one hand on the couch for support, a shoulder popping loudly just as the pizza is being introduced.
"All right. All right! Look. Ah... what's, what's your name," he moves towards Wendigo, putting a hand on his shoulder while shaking his head. There is a moment's hesitation at the whiff of pizza, oh my God that smells so delicious, after such a long day that ended in his favorite sandwich shop closing down early, it's--
No, no. We're not doing this, he thinks to himself.
"Look, ah, I, I appreciate this, but, you... I think you got the, the wrong guy. I've had a, a long day, and I'd like... y'know, ah, nothing more than just... a nice, quiet n--"
The big, ivory-skinned man let out a sigh and, after placing the six pack down on the ground, he opened his arms in mock-surrender. Blood red eyes looked down at the solidly-built individual who lived in squalor. He spoke inbetween puffs of that cigar, baring yellowish white teeth all the while.
"Alright, fine. The truth of the matter is, my name's Wendigo, and I've been asked on behalf of the Mad Gear Organization to come here and have a few words with you. Well, actually, first they asked me to come here, and put a few bullets in ya, pull yer head off yer neck and leave ya for dead."
Here he accentuated that particular point by quickdrawing that big, monstrous looking revolver and aiming it right at the head of the construction worker, hammer pulled back and 'clicking' into place.
"And you know what I told them, man?"
In one quick motion the gun was uncocked and turned toward himself, the handle facing Rust, and the barrel pushed to the side to show that all chambers were completely empty.
"I told them no way in hell am I gonna kill THE legendary Howard Rust. And that's the truth, brother, so you can believe it. But I am here to have a nice talk with ya, and I'd like to do that, if I may. After all, yer a busy man and I never like fighting a man when he ain't expecting it. So, how 'bout it? Can we just have a seat, and a chat?"
In squalor, in desperation, and maybe in, well, solitude. There's enough rooms in this apartment to have at least one or maybe two more guys live here. There's another cough as the aging man inhales some of the second-hand cigar smoke that wafts in the air, lungs all too familiar with some of the foreign elements that could come and take up residence inside those cushy fleshy parts responsible for absorbing oxygen.
"Mad Gear... huh," the words are spoken with a lot less volume and dread than they ought to be. This is clear underacting - they are a persistent problem in spite of how many times someone comes by and bashes them into the pavement. A tone of 'oh great, something like this' as something of an annoyance at the tail end of a long day rather than the threat to one's life - or others' - it well ought to be by a more alert man's reckoning.
The sudden pointing of a revolver at his face does a better part of punctuating the important point of what he's saying. Where there's that sudden, still air of a threat lingering, his right gloved hand goes over to Ol' Rusty by his hip, as if ready to draw. His footing, once unsure in wake of tripping over a bottle, steadies itself out. Eyes narrow ever slightly. If it came to a race between bullet and his draw speed, well, bullet would win. It's... probably that much more disconcerting to the big picture that he doesn't seem to, at the surface, consider a revolver pointed to his head as something to suddenly cower from. There's a subtle, slight shaking of his head.
What'd he tell them, man? He's about ready to ask this when the gun uncocks and whos there were no loaded bullets. His shoulders slump as if to incredulously ask, 'really?'
"Nice... talk, huh," he clears his throat again as he looks about the room. There was a game supposed to come on, as Wendigo himself admitted. That... and there's the fact they're both in a place where other people live, too. If the man's got any actual loaded guns on him, any stray bullet could run through the ceiling, wall, or floor, and... well, it could make someone's day a whole lot worse.
Turning his back to Wendigo and kicking out a leg briefly to work out a kink formed from that moment of tension, he sweeps some nondescript garbage off the couch, and then pats an open seat. He doesn't look any less tense, or any more accepting, than he did a few moments ago.
"Y-Yeah, sit down, let's... I dunno, let's, let's just watch that game, or... or whatever."
Soon, Wendigo relaxes as if this was his place, revolver immediately reholstered, with a beer in one hand(with that cigar between two fingers) and pizza in the other. It was inbetween bites and drinks, while watching tough guys beat each other up on the ice, that the iceman spoketh.
"That was a funny stunt you pulled down at the docks, man. You and that other guy? Boy, you shoulda seen my employer's faces watching that security camera footage, I thought those idiots were gonna shit or have a stroke. Ah look at this guy, he ain't passing. He's gonna get clotheslined to hell, playing like his team ain't there like he's doing."
He changed topics so casually, just having a mild conversation with a fond acquaitance instead of speaking to a threat who he pulled a gun on moments ago. And sure enough, Mr. Solo on the ice got smashed into the glass moments later.
Howard can't say this is the first time an assassin came in to visit him, but at least this time he's not laid up in bed after a nasty beating by Zangief and thus ultimately defenseless, even if... the whole situation, very clearly, has him off guard. Where Wendigo relaxes and soaks in the action of the game before him, Howard's interest seems to be passing at the most generous definition of the term at best. He rests his head up against his propped-up left arm on the rest, casting glances aside to Wendigo every so often as though looking at him would make the time pass by that much faster.
"Yeah," he finally speaks on the matter to recall that tense day on the docks. It was good he showed up when he did, but then again now he's got a hitman sharing a friendship-building(?) moment on the couch right over there. "That... that was a day, all right. Used to... used to stop by there more often, to... ah, to practice. Long time ago." A very, very long time ago by his recollection now. A very eventful... six, seven years? He's coming up on seven this year, isn't he, since he first came to Southtown.
He winces at one of the impacts that come into play. Oooh, yeah, that's gotta hurt, the sympathetic grimace speaks volumes there.
"His own fault, though. I told him! Yeah, the guys paying out their nose for my time right now, they don't get guys like you. They don't get how you can disrupt their 'big picture' and get in the way of them. You'd think after all this time they'd stop trying to intimidate you or the mayor, stop sending guys like me over to your place, thinking that would make a difference, but they just can't comprehend a guy like you, doing what you think is right, and standing up for your beliefs. Me, though? I get it. I've made it my business hunting guys like you, who run toward a fire rather than away from it."
He spoke this while swallowing big mouthfuls of cheap booze and expensive Metro City cuisine.
"I also made it my business to know who I can take and who I can't, and I know you could whip my ass up and down this street block if I tried something. But let me ask you something. What happens after that? Purely hypothetical, brother, but what happens after that fight?"
It is true. For all the enormous amounts of bull he gets put through and somehow overcomes, people do seem to make it a point to continue to give him a bad day. Of course, to realistically expect a 'happily ever after' ending in anything outside of fiction is, well... very much fiction. Not like the whole world and its people, with their ambitions and routines, would all drop what they're doing to bask in someone finally finding some sort of happiness, or peace, or closure.
Howard wordlessly reaches out to one of the boxes to have himself a slice at last, convinced with Wendigo's happy chowing down that maybe he really shouldn't be refusing this - presumably - legitimate gesture of good will while they've got a moment of peace, having a nice bite full o' Metro City goodness that remains fresh even if it's somehow been in the trash for who knows how long. Metro City cuisine is magical and transcends all laws of thermodynamics, biology, and sanitation.
It is some of the best pizza he's ever had, marred only by the thoughtful question he is suddenly asked as he swallows food alongside the beginnings of a thought about what happens after. What happens after that fight?
"I, I asked myself that a lot when it came to... y'know, Shadaloo," he gestures uselessly with a piece of crust, "and, and I said the same thing to someone else... more like... more like what'd happen if I, I didn't stand up to 'em."
It's hard to convey all the horror and destruction he /did/ see first-hand by choosing to fight, how heavily that might weigh on anyone. Especially with shoulders as broad, strong, and... creaky, given how one of his shoulders pop as he readjusts himself in his couch seat.
"If you mean... if you mean what after we, well," he wasn't going to sell a man's threat short after years and years of being intimidated by small children of uncanny ability and mastery over the very energies that run through the world, he shakes his head, "you... you really don't wanna go through with it, right, so, I mean, ah, you're speaking, ah, sp-speaking hypothetically, well..."
Well... what? He still seems to be thinking of the words to say to it.
Oh, I'm not talking philosophically, I'm asking, what happens? Where do you go, if I knock a tooth loose? If I break one of your bones, or if I dislocate a joint? If I give you a concussion, or hell, if I make ya sad after. Any-fucking thing. I know what I do, is I get up and I wait a good hour or two. See, I'm different, so I don't have to worry about paying ol' Doctor Withers a thousand dollars fer a prescription that I have to buy at Wal-Mart on my own time.
Can you say the same, Rust? I'm looking around this apartment of yers, and I'm asking myself, is being 'the good guy' really worth it? When's the last time you got a check fer saving the day? Or a free meal, before today? Or hell, even an asspat and a handshake? It's painful seeing you sitting around in this dump, when you could actually be -appreciated- for what you do. And in this world, appreciation is something you can put in your bank account."
The first beer empty. Now, Wendigo grabs the other one, snorting every once and a while and puffing on that almost-gone cancer stick. After a moment, he smacks his own head and a second later another one, full and untouched, is extended toward the pipe-slinging powerhouse.
"Where the hell are my manners? Here, brother, have a cigar. On me."
Compare Wendigo's statement to Howard right there. Howard Rust. He lives up to that family name well, perhaps by some stroke of cruel cosmic irony. It's easy to tell with the way the man moves, that he's constantly fighting the ravages of a body far too tired for what he put it through in his youth. Worked too hard, to the very bone. He's paying for it with interest. Sure, he's carved out a respectable niche as an unlikely hero... with the way he is. It seems to sometimes be more in spite of himself rather than because of himself, often times.
The wordlessness that follows as Wendigo may well instead be replaced by the sound of a ball peen hammer striking a galvanized nail through some sort of metaphorically appropriate surface for the situation. Of course he's frustrated! He wears it almost every day on his face. His life is still a bit of a mess even out the other end of some of the worst he's ever had to live through! In so far as his own earning potential goes, he's barely scraped by - counting more on some help from an aforementioned friend over seven feet than he's inwardly comfortable with. A man hates, almost more than anything else, the feeling of being incapable of providing.
"Look, I," he shakes his head as he starts to stand up. A cigar is offered, which he gently deflects, "I'm, I'm sorry, I... I don't smoke any more. Haven't in... in years." His nostrils flare once as he coughs. "God. I can... I can taste it, though."
Thinking about it, he sits back down. Did they hire a hitman or did they hire some kind of traveling weapon-toting clown shrink or something? This is Mad Gear. Well, actually, Katana's very public behaviors kind of skews perception of Mad Gear from being the tattered remains of a once truly feared street gang into a band of eccentric outlaws and thus a little further away from the fact that they're still dangerous when organized by some personality or another.
This is diverging from the point.
"That's... that's just life. I mean... shit." He shakes his head for the umpteenth time as he extends a hand outward to nothing in particular. "If, if we threw a parade for, ah, for every time a fireman saves a life, or... or an emergency response guy makes sure that, that someone doesn't die on the way to the hospital, well... y'know, I, I thought about that, sometimes, but... people say it's, well, it's thankless. Maybe. I dunno. I think... on some level, y'know? It's great that, after... after all's said and done, people... just, just still think highly of, well, other people enough that they can treat selfless behavior as... well, unordinary. Ah, every day."
Of course his living arrangement is kind of dumpy and he really needs to find the team to clean this mess up and get over whatever residual depressive feeling still seems to drag him down. "I, I fancy myself just a working man," a working man whose life is now, between prize fighting, assisting in instructing the few (but highly battered) students who stick with Kyokugen to further heights of physical might and technical mastery. "But--"
Is Wendigo really going to let him continue with this sort of kind of sappy drivel? Is he?! If he doesn't have an immediate interruption, no worries, another sudden onset of second-hand smoke-induced coughing takes care of stopping Howard at the 'but' right then and there.
It was clear that Wendigo was going to have to derail this train, and so in desperation not to hear more of this sappy, Lifetime Channel crap, the big man shot up to his booted feet and placed out a hand, aiming to clasp it firmly around the shoulder of the little man. He spoke out, stroking his black mustache and goatee, and putting in a last ditch effort. He didn't have to turn Rust's life around here and now, but just a little bit of doubt would do the trick. Something to throw the veteran brawler off his game.
"Look, hey, that's all very noble, but none of that changes that you're not getting what you should be getting. I just wanna throw this out there, but I got this friend, see, and he started losing his hair in high school. Bad stuff, he had a horseshoe around his head by college. You wouldn't know that looking at him now, though, dude's got a whole Fabio thing going on, it looks healthier than a horse's mane. And you know how he got that? He got that from me, 'cause I get paid by bad guys to do bad things, and I sleep like a baby after I'm done. Now, that doesn't apply to you, I know, but I just wanted to show you that these sides you and the other guys draw in the sand, they don't mean nothing. And while Shadaloo and Mad Gear and the big heroes all beat each other bloody, I get my cut, and I get out. And I'd like to see you get yer cut. Anyway, I got stuff ta do, chief. Enjoy the pizza."
And with that, the big man turned on a heel and lumbered off, puffing smoke and chomping on that cigar.
Of course, the one he offered was still there, on the table next to the pizza. A little something to think about, even if he didn't take it. As far as Wendigo was concerned, the first part of the job was finished.
There's a bit of startling on the older man's part as a hand rests on his shoulder, especially with that coughing nonsense. It's actually a split second decision between the reflex to think that maybe Wendigo might be going in to try and land a blow and to not go with the defensive reaction that just ends up getting ingrained into fighters after so long. Even so, it's difficult to say that he's... well, relaxing, any.
He continues his track record of letting people say their piece in relatively accommodating silence as Wendigo goes to reiterate his stance - one that isn't unique to him. Plenty of people - friends, admirers, and a couple strangers alike - all want to see the one and only Howard Rust be able to get 'his cut.' A lot of people are pulling for him to really stand up and shine like he has under circumstances that should - and do - make lesser man wither and crumble into dust. Heck, this... this isn't even the first time he's been spoken to on encouraging terms by an amoral, cynical mercenary. (The last time, though, they took his truck!!)
He allows Wendigo peaceful enough passage out of there, staring him over without anything to really say for or against himself. He doesn't move until he hears the engines of that guy's ride escape earshot. How much of that time is spent in this wait actually dwelling on what he's said...
Well, he realizes he did forget to thank him for the pizza after the fact.
Mrhgshlgsahglghsd, he thinks.
"Mrhgshlgsahglghsd," he says as accompaniment to the whole situation. Hitmen are nothing new - God knows how many times you have troublemakers roll up at the Kyokugen dojo. Mad Gear are a far cry from Shadaloo, but given what they did to a friend of his... that adds a layer (...topping?) of bitterness to the amazing pizza slice he has next as the game continues on his screen without actually taking in much of the action.
Given how much of a mess things are in here, chances are that cigar just has found itself a permanent home as one of many inanimate objects that may or may not be humanized as a layabout roommate along with the other curiosities accumulated and left strewn about.
Log created on 14:26:07 02/19/2014 by Rust, and last modified on 21:10:14 03/15/2014.