Description: After all they've been through... all those unimaginable trials of recent times. Things that test their patience and understanding of the world to the limit, as it all seems to come crashing down. Howard Rust's apartment, still standing even with the lingering concerns of spreading fires and ash, appears to signal the only respite from the insanity of all that's gone on. The world's falling apart, and it may be the only place they will find anything remotely resembling the very base concept of solace, safety, and sojourn. (...This description isn't talking about Howard Rust himself.)
Howard Rust no doubt had a long journey, filled with waterlogged gondolas, rescuing drowning friends, stray crocodiles, damp banks and grenade-wielding bootycamp jobbers, Rust was probably looking forward to a relaxing time at home, in a neighborhood that seems relatively untouched from all the chaos, aside from it being a little bit smokier outside.
But, was Rust looking forward to a slightly empty, slightly quiet neighborhood, with abandoned bicycles and discarded toys in the playground?
Would he feel comforted by his neighbors seemingly absent, and even the local homeless bums being curiously missing from the scenery?
Was Rust looking forward to finally approaching his door, and finding it open, with the lock smashed and the doorknob bent?
Once inside, would Rust notice what looked like a bulky black gym bag laying on his couch, all ripped in places and covered in duct tape?
In his kitchen, would Rust notice a curiously spotless clean area on one counter, where his microwave used to be?
And most importantly, would he notice the bathroom door slightly ajar, the light on in there, with splashing noises being heard every few moments, along with groans and grunts? Is this the relaxing return home, that the Kyokogan Karate fighter had in mind?
Add also 'not having to immediately tell the landlord that he lost another key' and that may in fact be a perfect circumstance. It was a rocky road home, what with virtually no real ability to tell anyone he was okay, alive, and largely stranded in Metro City for a while. It's a long story he'll be sure to tell someone else. A very, very long story, over drinks, about how he seemed relieved that he'd be able to make it home with the money intact, able to start picking up the pieces of his... disruptive removal from society after a long walk home following a bus stop. The lack of an ID, or a driver's license, made it impossible to rent a car and drive home.
That's all in the past, he thinks, as he holds his breath best he can going into the building. It's not weird that there's a lack of people outside - there is a lot of ash and dust in the air. No one would have their kids play outside in these conditions. (He does miss coming home to watching the local kids try to play baseball in the nearby lot.)
He's in such a hurry to return to his room that he doesn't think much of how silent it is inside. It's troubling times everywhere, sure, maybe people want to be left alone - wait, shit, he doesn't have his room key, he realizes as he approaches it, he's going to have to suck it up and speak to the landlord about changing the lock, agai--
...
He sulks where he stands. Someone broke into his room while he was gone. Great. Well, hopefully Rick just got worried and decided to break down the door when he wasn't answering the phone to check up on him... or maybe someone at the Dojo did to make sure he wasn't dead of a heart attack, or something...
Entering the room with his pipe in front, he points outward as he walks in slowly, clutching the plasticky prison of his prize money. Nobody in the living room... wait, that bag on the couch. Maybe Sagat's stopped by? (He's not looking forward to telling him he lost most of the money he gave him on some bad investments - recent events definitely bombed stocks, to put it lightly.)
...Why is the microwave missing? He grunts aloud. So many other things he foolishly left in the open appears to have been let alone, except for... that.
...What's that over there? Howard raises Ol' Rusty anew as he draws ever closer. The average mugger or break-in wouldn't even really warrant any sort of cautious approach. After all that happened, one can't blame him for being on edge.
Any sense of stealth of his approach is, naturally, betrayed by his joints. The creak of a knuckle. The crack of a knee. It announces him long before he can show to anyone else that might be in the bathroom...
Until he slaps Ol' Rusty, the shiny new pipe that is clearly not the one he's had prior, against the doorframe gently to make noise to startle them as he swoops inside.
"The hell are you doing in my--"
He burst into the scene, what did he expect to find?
Probably not a seven foot tall Irish monster, lazing in that bathtub, with bubbles filling said tub and covering anything 'indecent, even while his long legs stuck out and hung over the sides. That pale, muscled and tattooed body of his was currently covered in splotchy bruises, lots of light green and yellow, turning into blue and black and purple, with some red here and there thanks to burst blood vessels, especially around his arms where he'd been doing so much lifting and hitting and so much work, and especially around his own knees, where he'd been landing and falling and rolling and kicking.
Immediately to his right, there lay a collection of empty and half-empty, half-bent and crumpled beercans along with many plastic rings, but in a bucket filled with half-melted ice, there lay many many others. And a bit away from the floor, balanced on the closed toilet lid was Rust's microwave, and on top of THAT lay a collection of plates, clearly whoever this was had worked up an appetite when he got here.
Over his face lay a towel, perhaps one of Rust's? Perhaps, in fact, a favorite towel, currently draped over his visage and preventing any from seeing what lay beneath.
Of course, not far, hanging over the bathroom mirror was a strong indicator of who this was: Hanging by a strap was a black, cracked and scratched hockey mask, fractured in places but still holding up, still somehow ready to do its job, should it need to. Beneath that, in the sink, were a collection of small washcloths and paper towels and toilet paper, all covered in green gunk. And without warning, that soft, furious whisper of Mick's filled the room, subtly.
"I was born to death, Rust. And when I was born, they baptised me in fear, and terror, and bombs bursting in air and nails exploding out of garbage into schoolmates and teachers. I considered it normal, growin' up back home, you understand Howie?"
As he spoke...a light brogue, a bit of that accent started to creep back into his voice. He couldn't hide it, couldn't subdue it, it was there and it was just as dangerous as the rest of him.
The scary thought to any sort of outside viewer is that this is probably not the weirdest thing he has ever seen in his home. Not that he'd say that out loud, because this... well, this really isn't the sort of thing he'd expect to walk home and /see/.
Not that it's normal for anyone to expect such a thing, as the pipe lowers slightly. It is not so much a relaxation of an intent to aggress, so much as simply taking in all that there is here. What's that stuff on his sink? A disgusted look crawls onto his face as he's not sure how to quite identify... that.
Moving past the whole 'having a hell of a time lazing about in your bathtub' thing, which in itself is a worrying picture when taking in all the colors on the flesh of the towel-faced man. The plastic thing he's been carrying around all along drops to the ground, nudged away by his foot, as he brings that now freed hand to his forehead, a prolonged sigh.
Does he understand? He mutters something entirely inaudible as he looks up and away.... back facing the man currently having his little bubble bath party.
"I-I don't understand why you're..." he throws a hand up, as if ultimately deciding that, no, some of the most misadventurous days of his life aren't quite at an end, as if he may never quite settle back into that routine he had finally grown comfortable with.
Let's be honest. Metro City is drowning. Thailand's waters are completely frozen. Mr. Fuji is burning, threatening to consume the nearby territories in ash and flame. Who really can, now?
He takes in a deep breath as he finally faces back, free hand now leaning against the doorway, tip of Ol' Rusty scraping slightly on the ground as he leans inward.
"What happened?"
"What happened? I reveled in it. It taught me everything I could learn from it, and when it couldn't anymore, I twisted it, an' spit it back into its face. Haggar was my fuckin' hero, watchin' him on the telly, watchin' him slap around King Rastamon, an Stingray an' Oni and all them. I worshipped him...an' I knew I was -better- than him."
That right hand of Mick came up, shifting that damp towel aside just enough so that his right eye, intense and horrible and unblinking, could stare at the pipe wielding fighter. And what little of his skin was so horribly bruised around his eye, that he looked like a monster.
"I took what he gave me, what he gave the world, an' I made it fucking -better-. Me an' a couple'a friends, we took it where men like him would be afraid to go. An' then I brought it to the world, an' everyone understood just what in the hell I was, what I AM. Them little dance-fighter girls, they felt it. That Yuri chick, she felt it. Ken Masters, Dan Habiki, YOU. I brought it to all of you, an' made you understand. Do you remember, little man?"
As he spoke, he brought his hand up to snap his fingers, and point to his mask still hanging and dangling.
"Get me my mask. I need it."
The way Howard's posture slumps a bit more in the doorway, his face blank, exhausted with what he's already seeing on display. The theatrics' edge is dulled in the face of just how much drama he'd already gone through just to get here. Convincing certain people he's who he says he is, somehow getting back into Japan's borders on incredibly short notice. He grunts quietly. Sure, Mike Haggar's one of the greatest guys alive - someone he considered something of a role model too, but... really, in his bathroom, he broke into his apartment just to talk about this from the bathtub? (Not to sell the discoloration of his skin short...)
Mick's eye peers out at him. It's a striking sight, and Howard turns his head slowly to come face-to-towel-over-face with him, mouth slightly open as if he were about to say something but ultimately holding his tongue.
Well, not entirely. He mutters something again, leaning a little closer...
The sight holds him in place as he mentions what he was given, what he gave the world, how he made it better, listing off names of people he's...
Pointing to the mask, he gives it a look. He stands up straighter.
/That/ guy. At the home improvement department store. Their fight, where he had (in)famously taken one of the more brutal on-screen beatings he's suffered, nasty, cruel hit after powerful blow. Some even wondered aloud if it were staged to give the man a push.
"Say please," he mutters back, but ultimately appears to comply as he carefully takes the mask off where it hangs, walking closer to hand it to him.
He inwardly wonders if he should tell him to also say 'thank you,' and also 'knock politely before entering someone else's home,' but considering his license to teach grades K-12 expired a while back, there would probably be legal repercussions for attempting to lecture him at Kindergarten level.
Or the fact maybe he'd rather only have to explain one problem to his landlord about the door rather than why half the house would be smashed apart in a fight between them.
"Th-there," he clears his throat. The air inside these homes isn't much cleaner than the ash and soot all over the place outside.
Rust may win an award for getting the strongest reaction out of one eyeball, than anyone else on the planet. Mick manages to convey sarcasm and disbelief all at the same time, even as he snatches that mask of his right out of the hand of the pipe-wielding legend.
"Please, DEAR. Thank you, SWEETHEART."
Was that anger? Was it sarcasm? Was it good natured ribbing? With Mick, it was sometimes difficult to tell. Well, not sometimes. It was hard to tell, often and frequently. But he quickly puts the mask on loosely, not strapping anything on, but keeping it on his head while he grabbed the bottom of that towel and in a blur, pulled it from his head. With it covering his skull underneath those thick mask straps, it was like the table trick, but more...skull-shaped, even as the wrestler throws that balled up, soggy and used towel towards Rust.
"Even when the world went to hell, even when Vega brought all his crazy bullshit to the world, tryin' ta conquer it like a jackass, that was still 'normal'. I laid low, an' I outlasted it. Of course, it helped you whippin' his monkey ass all over the world. Good job on that.
But lately...it all started when I went to Transylvania, an' me an' some glittery bitch fought a vampire. A goddamn vampire, in a cape and a coffin, an' it almost killed us, Rust. I threw everything at him, an' I barely crawled out of that pisshole country with my life. An' I don't care if you believe me, I saw what I saw over there! An' I thought that would be the weirdest sight of my life...but I was wrong, Rust. I was fucking -wrong.- Do you know what I saw, up in that shitty little island in Japan, with all the temples an' all the refugee camps?"
At this time, Rust might be able to notice some of Mick's veins. They were...slightly more pronounced. And more importantly...they were green. There was something in him, something that was -bad- for his body.
If only there were actual, legitimate awards for all the crazy and unexpected things Rust either provoked, accomplished, or otherwise been present for. He'd have a very highly decorated wall in his apartment.
The mask taken, Rust swats his hand downward in thin air and turns away, just in time for that towel to slip him in the back. If it weren't already soggy and used, he'd look perfect for the beach, dressed as he is (and has been, for several days, on account of it being the only clothing he had on his back).
He flinches slightly at becoming a towelboy, perhaps the extent of his patience being reached until he finds there really isn't anywhere in the bathroom to drop the towel, between the occupied sink full of yuck, the top of the toilet with the microwave and plates, the bathtub being... full of MURDERHOUSE Mick.
Like any self-respecting bachelor, he just throws it down the hallway on the floor with the thoughts and expectations that he'll clean up when he bothers to get around to it, rubbing his hand on his shirt. Considering what the shirt's been through, the towel was definitely cleaner.
"You're welcome," he murmurs unenthusiastically - or just tiredly - at the paid compliment as the MURDERHOUSE starts going on wild tales of interesting encounters that have gone beyond his understanding. Most people would dismiss him as a loon on the spot, but Howard...
He remembers what he saw, between the miracle of the living paper crane, or that fight against probably the purest expression of the element of fire that he stood against alongside Antoine and Farah - he sure hopes they're holding up okay wherever they are now - and remembering bitterly why he can no longer enjoy the hot tub at Takuma's place, or sweat rooms in general.
When Mick puts emphasis on just how wrong he was about seeing the worst of the worst, Howard's attention is held - not as a doubter. Any body language or inflection in his voice to the contrary is a mere reflection of just how tired he is after a long, perilous series of days being dragged around one extreme environment to the next.
The pop in his elbow is merely an expression of just stiffness in his elbow and of no further bearing about his emotional state.
"...Does it... does it have, uh, something to do with your--" What else could he be possibly asking, as he points a finger lazily? The veins.
"Huh? What?"
Mick, seemingly unaware, looks down, and those freakish eyes of his actually widen at the sight of his veins, surging and slightly 'throbbing'. He brought up his arms, flexing and posing, but not to impress the ladies, and certainly not to 'wow' or 'dazzle' the only one watching him at all. He was looking down at his own body, at his arms and chest, looking at just how prominent the veins were. They weren't everywhere, but they covered enough of him to make what he was afraid of clear...he looked up at Howard, genuine disbelief in his eyes.
"Jesus, something in her, she got into me...her blood or her spit. It burned me like acid, but that happened to me all the time back in the day, I didn't think-"
Stunned, and perhaps a bit panicked, he crawled out of that tub, scrambling in a manner most unlike him, standing tall to look at himself in the mirror, to look at his back as he turned around, and inspected himself. The whole time, he was dressed in nothing but a mask and a...CENSORED bar. Except, not really a CENSORED bar. He certainly wasn't the bashful sort when it came to himself, was he?
"Jesus...an' I thought the green-skinned freak with the red hair was bad. That monster shocked me to hell and back like a goddamn eel, but I stomped his head in all the same. But he was nothing compared to this, at least he wasn't a goddamn dinosaur!"
He turned to Rust, almost deranged now, those eyes wide as he rambled.
"I fought a dinosaur, did you listen to me? Two days ago, a damn dinosaur...it stepped out of a portal thing, an' it almost ate this ninja, almost gobbled up some kids. I'm not a good guy, Rust, and I never gave a shit about that, but there are goddamn dinosaurs coming out of fucking portals, dinosaurs! Can you believe it, Rust?! There are flash floods the size of my damn dick, everything's frozen solid, everyone's killin' themselves in France an' now we got goddamn dinosaurs tryin' to eat us. I can't take it, Rust. What in the fuck is happening to my world?! I want it back, I don't want any of this new shit!"
"Wh-what do you mean... huh, what," Howard seems disbelieving of the 'huh,' 'what,' pointing again, "I mean--"
As Mick starts to look himself over, he backs off from reiterating what he means. Even with the cue that maybe he already knows, his mouth hangs slightly open as if to ask for details on what he's trying to do. It's kind of chilling when those eyes fall upon himself again, the... feeling, they convey.
Mick's eyes are very expressive. He's heard about how some of his opponents have been genuinely taken aback by what they see in his eyes, and here, in a time of peace (...sort of), that still holds true as his left forearm raises slightly as though he were about to defend against an assault.
"Who?" He asks. He is answered by Mick all but hurling himself out of his bathtub, backing away to allow Mick space to look in the mirror, drawing a foot back as though about to go into an aggressive stance to prepare for being held, struck, or what have you until it's clear that he is indeed going for the mirror.
He doesn't look down.
"Dino--" The eyes, again. Howard would back away, but now he's at the doorway and there's not much hallway to back into without hitting a wall, or a closet, or something. He shakes his head as if to say 'don't shake me,' which is probably misconstrued as a cue to reiterate what he meant by fighting a dinosaur.
Throughout the entire explanation, it should say plenty that Howard doesn't look away. He doesn't roll his eyes. There is absolutely nothing there suggesting he is anything but paying the utmost attention to what he's saying. He nods his head slightly about believing it, but that's not really a strong cue - it's vague as to whether he's saying he believes it because he does, or he believes it because he wants him to put on some pants and maybe not crash in his bathtub uninvited.
"Okay. Okay!" He finally speaks up, lifting his free hand up to Mick's shoulder. "I, I believe you. All right? I... I do."
He nods a bit more deeply.
"Y'know, some, uh... some... really weird shit, happened back in... 2011? 2011." He nods, as though remembering. "Some people just... just... acted like they were... uh, p-possessed, that's... that's a, that's a good way to put it," who can forget what happened with Antoine? Or Zach? Or... some countless other high profile people who entered a rage?
"C'mon, go, uh... go sit down on the couch," and please put on some pants, you busted down the door and I don't want people getting the wrong idea looking in here, but he doesn't say that, "I, I'm not proud to say that, that... well, no one would, but, I'm, I'm being honest. Okay? I believe you, 'cause..."
He takes in another breath. "The world, kinda... kinda got... weird, some years back, some... crazy-ass cult... buncha... people, I, I hesitate to call 'em people, but... four of them," he holds up four fingers with his free hand, "me and, uh, a few others fought some of 'em... crazy... crazy angry woman who was all, all... fire." He can't think of a more apt description. She /was/ fire. He got into a fist fight with fire, for the sake of the world.
He starts shaking his head, "it's, it's... it's as crazy as it sounds, and... and believe me, I, I'd like to think... that kinda stuff wouldn't... happen... again..."
Luckily for Howard Rust, Mick had a pair of black pants, just hanging over the towel rack, a pair of simple olive cargo pants, nothing fancy, but packed just in case Mick needed them. And Mick did, in fact, need them.
They were ripped off the rack so hard, that said rack shook and rattled, that couldn't have been good for it. And somehow, from Mick's walk down the hallway, to his final destination, the couch, those pants were on and buttoned nicely, with Mick in fact sitting on that couch, his own bag knocked off casually to make space for himself. He was looking off into space when Rust finally made his entrance, whenever that was. In that time Mick had managed to put on a pair of socks, but that was all. And he looked up at the fighter, eyes glaring menacingly, the kind of look a shark might give you when it wasn't hungry. You might be safe in that situation, but you probably weren't comforted by that in the heat of the moment.
"I'm a wrestler, Rust. And I'm a damn good wrestler. The best in the goddamn world, in fact, and I was gonna show that to Haggar, Zangief and all the rest when I beat them within an inch of their lives. If I wanted to, I could take you all over this building an' knock you down a second time, old man."
Those eyes finally twinkled with humor, and he was probably grinning under that mask, because for all his bragging, he knew that wasn't quite the truth. He knew that Howard Rust was, bar none, one of THE toughest SOBs in the world, and that his earlier win was in large part due to luck, timing and cheating. Truth be told if they fought again, Mick didn't know if he could win again, especially not after that earlier fight. But suddenly he stormed up, and was again striding towards the smaller big-man, it seemed he couldn't rant and pace at the same time.
"But how in the -fuck- can I do a damn thing against dinosaurs? Against...against living fire? You say cultists did this? How the hell can we fix it? How the hell can I do anything in the face of this, huh? Huh?! Tell me!"
He was getting so worked up, that he was likely to break something. Rust has seen this first hand. And right now, Mick was inside Rust's apartment, a building filled with Rust's property. Rust's highly, highly breakable property. This might be time for the man to step in...
Howard doesn't back down from the glare, so much. He probably should, given what happened when the two came to blows, but that's about the point where he realizes he's in the same situation he was with the likes of Igniz, with the likes of Rolento... and now the likes of this guy.
That kind of harrowing feeling that, even though one might be normally beneath them... somehow, in some way, in some fashion, he is the closest anyone has to knowing what's going on. The veteran to so much of this unexplainable nonsense. It's almost like the entire world is waiting for him to get on TV or something and say what's up, what can be done - he's been instrumental in helping save the world how many times, now?
And there he is, the latest one in line to want to know... how, why, what can be done, standing there as Mick comes along up after the latest bit of bluster and threats, perhaps in jest, or self-amusement, or what have you.
Howard probably takes that prospect seriously enough.
"Y'know, I, I ask myself the same thing, just... just about every time," he says as he turns away from Mick. Ostensibly, it's to try and catalogue what food he might have eaten. Like if he went through one of those bags of limited edition chip flavors that show up only in Japan that he has become incredibly enamored with.
Come to think of it, if he did, he'd have found a destroyed bear trap already.
"I'm, I'm just... just makin' an, an educated guess here, okay?" That's probably more than what anyone else can say, as he holds up his open hand to him, back turned as he scans the contents of the kitchen. Howard clears his throat yet again as he looks back the big man in the face. How the hell can he do anything in the face of this?
"I, I just... got back. I, I don't know if... if that's goin' on in Metro, I, I never ran into any... uh... really shady people that, that might fit that." Sure, there's Rolento, but he was utterly honest about getting people out of the city to safety, and he sure doesn't seem the type to be into mysticism or what have you. "Other 'n the, the Gaia Tournament guys, had a... a run-in with one of 'em, friend said he wasn't... human."
He forgot the specifics of what he said, rubbing the back of his head, "I, I didn't see him at Metro, dunno where he... he might be now, but," he takes in a deep breath, "if, if bad shit like... things, comin' out of nowhere is happening... here," he gestures uselessly, never quite finishing his sentence as he jumps to another thought.
He's not in a rush to hurry back outside, beyond the bare minimum to let his many friends around Southtown know in some form that he's okay, he's alive, he's just had... a week. He's pretty sure it's been a week? He hasn't kept great count.
Mick will probably not take the ruminating as consoling, or an answer, or much of anything. What the hell can anyone do in the face of this? Is even Howard unsure?
He finally waggles a finger at Mick, even as he's looking away. "I'm... I'm still in the Gaia Tournament, I... I think. I won my match," by a hair, "they're... they're gonna come to me 'bout the next one. You stay put," he seems hesitant to suggest this, but he reiterates with a little more confidence, "you stay put, don't... don't lose your head... we just... just might have a lead."
There's a pause. Is he grasping at straws, or has he come to accept the cosmic reality that fighting tournaments and intrigue seem to go hand-in-hand, without exception nor deviation?
"E-Everything kinda... looks like it might... lead back to, that, so..."
Yeah, Mick had a bag of chips. Only half a bag, though, he was looking for something more substantial, and would have cooked some steaks or burgers, but he was far, far too tired when he got here. When he finally got into the shower, he had...passed out for a number of hours, truth be told Mick had lost track of time for a while, in here where at least things still made damn sense.
The bigger big-man listens to the words of the older, wiser fighter, the veteran who'd done all this before, the one who actually did things like save the world, who didn't just destroy everything he saw. A man who Mick respected, even as he showed it their last encounter with a savage beating.
"MURDERHOUSE" was a complicated guy.
"Shit, just don't get killed or anything, you're the one guy I actually expect to pull through something like this. Haven't even seen that big poof Ryu, you'd think a guy like that would normally be helpful. Maybe he's off playing grabass with the jackass in the red.
As he spoke he was, in fact, not staying put, but instead sitting back down and pulling some things from that gym bag. Pulling out a few claw hammers, pulling out a number of stop signs that he'd taken down along the way, and instead pulling out a small sleeveless black shirt, something to quickly put on even as he grabbed at his steel-toed worker boots, carefully preparing the laces.
"It's funny. My entire life, I've hated everything about this world. I hate it so much an' everything in it, an' here I am, not wanting it to go. Fucking stupid."
There was bitterness there, and his fists clenched around those boots even as he started putting them on...
"Hey, you know there's a beartrap in that fridge? What the fuck, Rust?"
Howard gets a little grumbly as he trails off from what is his grand plan about other, more mundane thoughts that enter his head as he starts to pace about his apartment, of all the crazy little mundane matters that shouldn't be a bigger deal than someone like the MURDERHOUSE breaking into his home, uninvited - his, specifically! It is sort of a waiting game now, isn't it, even when there's so much to do, so much to /catch up on/ with what of his daily routine can even survive in the middle of an unprecedented global crisis.
"Sometimes, ah, you... you just don't get to choose... who you got to back you up," or to crawl down your back as is the case of just about anyone ever, he thinks to append, as the weighty sounds of weapons MURDERHOUSE has picked up all drop on the floor, earning a sudden jump of his shoulders as he looks behind him when one of them makes a surprisingly loud noise against the carpet floor.
...He lets it slide, ultimately, swinging a hand downward in thin air yet again as he paces towards the window to have a look at how it looks from his room, and it looks... ugly.
Gedo Street is not always the most sightly place, but the air being as it is? It's ugly. China, which had suffered a nuclear blast not more than a few years ago, among industrial-focused cities with air so polluted that it goes off the charts used to rate such things, might actually be the frontrunner for clean breathing air compared to the areas surrounding Mt. Fuji.
"Y'know, there's, ah... there's... there's a lot of things, every day, that, that just... piss me off," he grumbles aloud to illustrate, "barely... barely make enough... money to stay afloat... phones're just... too small... my health insurance j-just... gouges me," so boring things, "can't, can't legally work a second job 'cause I'm an, an instructor on my work visa," Howard is not a citizen of Japan so he is in fact highly limited there, "...lost a, a buncha paperwork and credit cards... 's gonna be a pain to replace," he says as he starts to move towards the kitchen, "but... but y'know, there's... there's more I like than, ah... than I'd list, 'cause--"
MURDERHOUSE brings up the bear trap in the fridge, at which point his tone of voice goes entirely to matter-of-fact.
"To keep burglars from eating my food," he says so concisely and clearly without delays, stutters, or tripping over his words, with such confidence that this is probably something that should call his sanity into question. Who the hell does that?!
"It's, ah, it's been a real problem, last couple years..."
In the midst of Mick's despair and depression, Rust's outrage, it brought a genuine laugh out of the big masked wrestler. He shook his head and spoke even while he rolled his neck and shoulders and stretched, bones crackling and muscles and skin tensing and tightening, fresh pain shooting all through his body thanks to all that severe bruising. The agony actually refreshed him a little, brought focus to his mind that he'd been lacking for the longest time after that scrap with the crazy interdimensional goddess known only as 'Vertigo'.
"You really know how to make a guest feel welcome, you know that?"
The big man wasn't quite dressed for the ring, but his bag was packed and slung over that right shoulder as if it was nothing, and he was standing to his full height, headed for the door. But before that he clasped a 'friendly' arm around the shoulder of Rust, casually speaking even as he looked downward, those unblinking eyes gazing at Rust at point-blank, now.
"You watch your ass, old man. You do something like die, an' I'll fucking kill you. You understand?"
His left hand squeezed around the shoulder and near-neck of the smaller fighter as if to emphasize his point, before giving the man a...not so light, and not so gentle, clap on the back.
Unless Rust acted, or had something to say about the matter, it seemed that Mick was gonna head right on out into that haze, to go lord knows where. Just like he always head.
Log created on 00:52:35 09/04/2014 by Rust, and last modified on 05:17:47 09/04/2014.