Tizoc - So A Demon Walks Into A Bar...

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Description: Tizoc, still in the guise of the Griffon Mask, passes time with old friends from his previous federation. While said friends have moved on from the days of wrestling, Tizoc has not. When Rae Briggs, a beyond infamous biker gang leader whose antipathy burns as hot as the flames of hell itself makes an entrance, Tizoc... no, the Griffon Mask!... sees it fit to take up the mantle of a hero outside of the ring. No rules, no referees, no barriers, no honor... Rae takes things a step beyond even that. One may wonder of the punchline for the title, but there's no laughing matter ahead.

"Soy un hombre muy honrado,
Que me gusta lo mejor.
Las mujeres no me faltan,
Ni el dinero, ni el amor."

Five men in traditional mariachi gear stand in a pool of light at the center of a rickety wooden stage, working furiously at their instruments while the lead man belts out lyrics with a certain chesty gusto.

A bluish haze of tobacco smoke drifts through the air, glowing in the dim light of the bar as it rises ever upward to curl about the rafters. Below, the uneven wooden floor jumps and quakes beneath the feet of patrons as they dance, dark-skinned women with smoldering eyes twirling between mustachioed men in a scene of energetic revelry.

"Jineteando en mi caballo
Por la sierra yo me voy.
Las estrellas y la luna,
Ellas me dicen donde voy.:

The walls of the rickety wooden bar sway gently two and fro, causing the weathered wooden sign out front to clatter rhythmically above the door. Such is the noise that nobody within takes note of the throaty rumble of motorcycles coasting into the gravel lot without. Kickstands spray tiny rocks as they are slammed down, heavy biker boots thudding to earth beside them.

"Ay, ay, ay, ay,
Ay, ay mi amor.
Ay, mi morena,
De mi--:

As the Mariachi continue their song, the front door is shoved open. The milling mass of the crowd does a good job in disguising just who it is that shoves their way inside, however, as a cheep wooden bar stool comes hurtling out of the darkness to strike the lead singer in the face, the energy in the room dies.

The mustachioed man flops to the ground in a shower of wooden splinters, his hat tumbling away and blood spurting from his likely broken nose.

Into the sudden silence, a deep, hateful, smoke and whisky voice speaks.

"Heh. Fuckin' beaners."

As one, the room turns on the owner of the voice. And there, standing at the bar near the back of the room, a conspicuous gap in the lien of stool open just beside him, is a bulky, brutal looking old white man in an open leather vest. His scarred face is twisted into an expression of ill tempered amusement, grey eyes staring into the faces of the people who's night he has chosen to ruin.

"The fuck you lookin' at?"

This used to be a better establishment. It has seen better days, but here, there were some good memories to be had. As a number of careers came to an end that fateful day some time ago... now's the time for some new memories in their place!
A number of Tizoc's old federation friends (and foes - on stage, of course) have all gathered to have themselves a time. All except one have moved on from their days of athletic entertainment, free to be open with one another and just be people, talk, drink, have a good time all together at once in public, for the first time. They used to have to go all at separate times when they were still their characters. The faces one time, the heels another.
The exception among this gathering is - naturally - Tizoc himself, who still wears the griffon mask upon his head.
"You're serious about this even now," says a large, paler man who has let himself go - easily nearing 400 pounds, now - having a good laugh with a person who is rising back into prominence, "keeping the hope alive, huh, Ti--"
"Griffon Mask," he's quick to correct, nursing a glass of beer that no one thinks they've seen him sip yet. "You know how it is, old friend."
"Y-Yeeeeah." The heavy-set friend casts a look with the others, masking nervousness with laughter. "Well, take it easy for your amigos, why don't you? C'mon. To our health!"
Glasses are raised and clinked around the time that the commotion begins. The violence. The slurs. The stares. The one active wrestler's mug is gently set down as he moves to leave his chair, as one hand is placed upon his shoulder - by one of the better technicians of the day, a limber and lean bald man.
"Griffon Mask," another reminder, more insistent.
"You don't want to start nothing with that guy. No."
"That's Rae Briggs." Says the heavier guy. "Sit back down, he'll--"
"A good man does not back down!" The words of the heroic Griffon Mask, or the words of the man Tizoc who is imprisoned by what they stand for, either way, he rises up out of his chair with such a flourish that it tips over... and is neatly caught with a foot to be nudged back upright.
The rest of his friends know what Tizoc is capable of as a wrestler, his skill, his strength. The world got to see him debut again against that kickboxer... and later, an exciting battle with MURDERHOUSE Mick.
It is precisely that they know of what Tizoc is capable of, that they are now frightened about the idea of him standing up to the likes of the truly infamous outlaw, Rae Briggs, whose violence has no boundaries to speak of - and feel powerless to do anything to stop this from escalating.
"Villain!" The Griffon Mask points, purely out of his element as a splash of bright red, yellow, and white colors among the more muted tones of this entire establishment and its people, sees fit to call attention and lock eyes. "I, the Griffon Mask, shall not allow such cruelty and hateful talk to go unpunished!"

There is a certain outlandish flare to the costume of a luchador. An almost cartoonish level of color and personality that helps them reach into the hearts and imaginations of the people.

Rae, on the other hand, is just an ugly, hairy old gringo covered in tattoos and scars. Lots of scars. A whole hell of a lot of scars. Like Jesus, how do you even get yourself stabbed in the face that many times?

The brutish old biker's heavy brow furrows, the amused hatred of his expression darkening into something wilder, thunderous even. The emotion seems just as projected and over the top as any heel Griffon might have worked with, but the murder in those light grey eyes is all too real.

"Where the hell these shit heads keep comin' from?" Rae grumbles angrily to the air around him. "Was that red bitch with the guitar and tits, then that mouthy little shit in the skirt. A fuckin' ninja. Now I got the god damn bird man on my back."

Rae's boot thuds heavily down onto the uneven planks of the floor as he steps aggressively forward, head drawing down on his thick neck as he squares up with the wrestler. The posture is not unlike a bull readying to charge. His scarred lips pull down into a frown, dark grey hair hanging across his forehead as he glares into the masked face of his latest target.

"You best got a way to back up them words spewin' from yer beak, chicken head, 'cause I'm 'bout to roast your stupid ass."

One can only wonder why Rae never became a wrestler himself. He's a natural.

COMBATSYS: Rae has started a fight here.

[\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\  <
Rae              0/-------/-------|

COMBATSYS: Tizoc has joined the fight here.

[\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\  < >  //////////////////////////////]
Tizoc            0/-------/------=|-------\-------\0              Rae

On paper, one might not blame the far younger, far larger man for seeming confident in what he stands for. He's still in his physical prime, much taller, heavier. Significant advantages.
His friends, too, largely share many of these advantages. Yet, all of them would elect to keep their heads down around Rae Briggs. There is a good reason. Powerless to do much of anything, one thinks to head up the stage and see to the well-being of the mariachi singer.
"Ho ho... listen well! It's no 'bird' mask," the Griffon Mask says as he parts his arms open, "my identity's guts and justice, not just a mask! The Griffon Mask!"
He points a finger up into the air, which is what the crowd of a ring likes. Sure, there might be a few here who are into it, even in this bar that's gone steadily towards 'dive' in the passing years, but...
Heedless of Rae's readiness to just rush in and smash him flat, further words start to fly out the mouth inside the mask. Whatever they are, it is not important to yet put into print, for this might be the part where Rae might see fit to use his fists to put a hard, punctuated stop to any part of it.

COMBATSYS: Tizoc takes no action.

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Tizoc            0/-------/------=|-------\-------\0              Rae


Atop the stage, the downed Mariachi is just beginning to regain his wits, struggling to make sense of how he wound up flat on his back, covered in blood and bits of furniture. Perhaps it is not altogether good for his health that the first thing his bleary eyes focus upon is a hulking brute of a man looming over him with the best of intentions, but such is life.


'The Griffon Mask!'


The crowd that had once surrounded Tizoc's tall, impressively muscled form draws back. Perhaps that has something to do with the force of his personality buffeting against them. But it probably has a good deal more to do with the insane old man who is charging toward him, head down and crooked yellow teeth bared.

Thud. Thud, Thud thud thud.

"RAAAAAAAAAH!" A bellow of unrestraint hatred tears itself from the chest of the brute as his pounding steps come to an abrupt end. The loose floor vibrates with the echo of his charge as he launches himself into the air not 5 feet out from his masked opponent and swings his booted feet forward. Hellish fire roars up from his heals to engulf his lower legs, his stiff old body rotating to fly parallel with the ground as he attempts to put all 200 pounds of his hairy bulk into a flaming dropkick to the chest.

Hit or miss, the furious old demon will then begin to drop toward the ground. Unless his fall is interrupted, he will strike the floor back first, causing the structure around them to rattle and shake.

COMBATSYS: Rae successfully hits Tizoc with Bat Out Of Hell.

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Tizoc            0/-------/--=====|==-----\-------\0              Rae

"Should you dare strike n--" Those were the withheld words from earlier on the record. It's ironic, in a way. Rae does, in fact, dare strike now while he's warming up that usual challenging spiel, as he dares to pontificate and perform before the hellfire-summoning biker dropping all the red flags about just how much hell is about to be unleashed.
Lifted clean off his feet, the Griffon Mask is launched through a table that was wisely abandoned. Yes, through. It is a precise hole, rather than splintering the table in twain.
Rae might be 200 imperial pounds. The way the flaming dropkick goes, the way it strikes deep into the Griffon Mask's chest... that felt more like a 500-pounder, as he lies prone.
"Stay down," whispers one of the friends, "just stay down."
The Griffon Mask does not listen, foolishly, not even to look down upon the burn marks on his chest as he hefts himself up with a start that is just one of those annoying sparks of youth.
There's some distance to make up. The heroic luchador - the foolish lunatic? - leaps across the air, threatening to scrape up against a low ceiling as he orients his left elbow to point towards the ground, with the expected cry.
"OLYMPUS OVER!" An elbow drop... even if he does hurl himself upon Rae, there is a lot of wood ready to turn to splinters. He might risk stabbing himself upon such things. Wood splinters are not fun to get out. Even if you are a giant, shirtless, muscle-bound 260 pound man.
(Especially if you are. Heroes hate getting splinters, too.)

COMBATSYS: Rae endures Tizoc's Olympus Over.

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Tizoc            0/-------/=======|====---\-------\0              Rae

Though Rae is a lot of things, nimble is not one of them. Flames continue to lick along the heels of his boots as he rocks back and forth on the ground, the motion not unlike a turtle trapped on its shell. However, after a couple of readying sways, he throws himself forward and digs his boots into the planks, levering his stiffening body awkwardly back to his feet. Joints crackle and pop throughout his muscular frame, but he pays it no mind.

Light grey eyes glare about in search for his opponent. Where did that mouthy little prick get off to, and who the fuck is yelling? Is he hiding? Is the little terd tucked away in the crowd, backed up against the wall?

A rumble of growing fury bubbles from between the biker's lips as he glances up to fidn the source of the yelling, the floorboards already beginning to smolder beneath him.

The Griffon's elbow lands directly between the hateful man's eyes, driven downward with all the weight and momentum the powerful young wrestler was able to gather from his spectacular leap. It is a blow to end fights. A maneuver with which to strike down evil.

Rae's head snaps back, a rough grunt escaping him as his shaggy grey hair flaps out in all directions. Beneath his flaming feet, the already loose wooden boards collapse, legs vanishing up to the knees as he drops into the shallow crawl space beneath.

But still he stands.


The expletive tears itself from Rae's lips as he reaches up, rough old hands clawing for a grip on the obnoxious little shit crashing down atop him. His fingers dig viciously into the wrestler's ribs as he applies himself, muscles flexing in an attempt to tear the unfortunate young man off of him.

If he can get that grip, he will hoist the masked fellow high above his head, wood shattering as he tears his feet free to stomp back up onto the flooring proper.

Scruffy chin tilted up, he glares into the beakish face of his opponent, before bringing him crashing down in a vicious slam, his right knee jerking up in a collision course with the costumed hero's no doubt brassy testicles. Hellish fire races up his leg as it rises, attempting to add a little extra to the already dastardly blow.

Regardless of weather or not he manages to re-arrange Tizoc's naughty bits, Rae will then hurl himself backward, his broad back crashing to the shaky floor once more as he swoops the larger man up and over in a belly to belly suplex that will hopefully end with the masked man's head being smashed clear through the floor.

COMBATSYS: Rae successfully hits Tizoc with Devildriver.

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Tizoc            1/---====/=======|======-\-------\0              Rae

"Gnnfph!" It is not a cry of surprise when he lands upon Rae, it is a cry of pain. Landing upon an opponent who still stands, there is additional pressure placed upon where he does - a shock that Tizoc is not accustomed to. It might have dislocated his shoulder.
He had full confidence that the Olympus Over would lay him flat, given superior size and weight...! Even the mouth of the mask goes agape. (And yet, not agape enough to see inside...) There is no meaningful vocal defense about his relationship with goats.
Rae puts that lower center of gravity of his to work as he has his way. Wind escapes his lungs for the way his midsection gets squeezed, and he looks into the eyes of an opponent who, on the surface, is not as terrifying to look into the eyes of as one 'MURDERHOUSE' Mick.
It's what is communicated through them that makes it a match - this is someone who is truly going to demolish him, as he's helplessly held above...
Kneed in the groin! The head tilts back, and that mouth goes even further agape. (Even the eyeholes seem to have gotten wider!)
It pales to the impact, as his upper body disappears through the floor and at least some of the bottom of the crawl space. Smoke and ash meet splinters and dust, as much of the crowd is stunned to silence.
Underneath the mask, Tizoc swims in and out of consciousness. Only the stubbornness that he is the Griffon Mask, that he would not allow these kinds of people to do as they please...! To fall in front of the...
Arms pressing up against the flimsier, splintered floorboards, the Griffon Mask miraculously brings their head back above ground, but their backside remains facing to Rae as they size up the crowd of this bar through the blur of pain, and blood getting in the eyes of the man proper underneath.
This bar, it...
It doesn't have any children here to cheer him on.

COMBATSYS: Tizoc takes no action.

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Tizoc            1/---====/=======|======-\-------\0              Rae

Finding himself once more flat on his back, Rae scowls up at the ceiling. Yet more hellish fire has begun to roar out of his fists, rolling up his bare arms and causing the bits of splintered wood around him to burst alight. The fire spreads outward from him, crawling across the floor and sparking a note of primal panic in the silent watchers.

As one, the gathered crowd begins to scatter, flooding toward the exits on mass. One of the bulky wrestlers helps the still dazed Mariachi off of the ground, picking up his tambourine before ushering him quickly toward the door. Sure it is a small fire, but there is a very angry half demon lying in the center of it. And, well, if you are flammable and have legs, you are never blocking a fire exit.

Those who had watched the fall of the Griffon mask, had put their faith in him to protect them, fade away as they hustle out of the smoky room. Some glance back over their shoulders. Some look ashamed. But none of the common folk stay to help.

A flaming fist pounds into the floor as Rae levers himself to one knee, scowling around at the quickly spreading flames. As his gaze falls upon the slumped forward form of Tizoc, he lets out a harsh, coughing chuckle.

"Got good prison posture, boy. Been practicin'?" Dragging himself to his feet, the bulky brute lumbers forward, one flaming boot lashing out toward the Griffon Mask's ribs. With casual cruelty, he attempts to smash him tumbling across the floor, following at a steady amble.

"'Least that mouthy little Canadian bitch had some spirit. You all mask, chicken head. Got no soul. Got no guts."

Another casual kick is thrown, Rae attempting to punt him off of the ground and send his body smashing through a couple of bar stools.

"Country's a god damn shit hole too. Ain't no police goin' to save yer sorry ass. They busy doin' blow with the Mayer. Probly ready for a little kiss and tickle with an underage prostitute. It's a fucked up place, ain't it? Bet you're proud."

Looming over Tizoc, the hateful old man stoops down in an attempt to grab him by the nape and crotch, to swing him up from the ground and smash him face-first into the rickety bar.

The room is quickly filling with smoke, flames crawling up the walls as Rae steps back, then aims a furious kick toward the back of the masked man's head, attempting to use his face as a wedge and split the bar in half.

COMBATSYS: Rae successfully hits Tizoc with Unforgiven.

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Tizoc            2/<<<<<<</<<<<<<<|=======\-------\0              Rae

Smashed across the floor, the torso of the wrestler does, indeed, now find himself in the company of splinters and sharp ends of a floor that is in the middle of transforming into a fissure. (A shallow one...)
The Griffon Mask tries to stand up. He's helped up with another kick straight ahead, through those bar stools. His arms lie up against the bar counter, head pointed down in a daze.
Mexico has not been in the greatest of places. Even Tizoc himself was - and continues to be unaware of - the true nature of that fight promoter who had set up his first return bout. The one whose death he so attempted to avenge by stopping the assassin in question...! He's had to have seen the worst of it. This is his home country, and he himself grew up poor and destitute...
One beefy hand tries to latch around the hand going for his neck, as if to protest. The crotch grab ensures he does not find the strength nor footing (...handing) to get any ideas of meaningful defense.
Tizoc is concussed through that very bar. He pushes himself up agai--
One more kick ensures that's not a bar. That's not even two planks of wood between his head.
That's a pile of woodchips that may now also be on fire.
He doesn't have the words to speak back. Under the mask, Tizoc's face is too... bruised. Beaten. One of his eyes is swollen shut, and the other can't see clearly through tears and also the aforementioned blood that he can't wipe away from his face.
The Griffon Mask stands against evil.
He is the Griffon Mask...!
These thoughts repeat, as though a madness. Madness it could be, but it is the only comfort to him as the smoke ensures he shall find it difficult to draw further breath.
His vocal response, one shouted through a dry, sore throat and not enough oxygen in his lungs...
He swings a clothesline from up high by his right, an overhead.
Daedalus Attack...!" He finishes this with a second, a clothesline from low, as if less to bludgeon the abdomen (it would, of course) but to keep Rae standing. But...
It matters not what he shouts as he swings those forearms into Rae. There isn't even an audience left. No one to partake in the subtleties of a clothesline swing from above, alternating with one from below to keep an opponent in place for the combination.
This is no exhibition for the entertainment of all who come.
This is no fight in any ring where there's some semblance of rules, restraint, or honor.
This is about as real as it gets, and how much is a series of six alternating clothesline strikes that end in a final, advancing one that could go past Rae be truly worth? That's a technique born for the entertainment and enjoyment of spectators.
There's none of that left.

COMBATSYS: Rae blocks Tizoc's Big Daedalus Attack.

[                    \\\\\\\\\\  < >  ///////////////////////       ]
Tizoc            0/-------/-<<<<<<|=======\-------\1              Rae

After you've been through enough real fights, you learn to feel when someone passes the point of no return. When their spirit flares, and they truly enter the moment. Truly throw themselves into the struggle. Some fighters crave this in an opponent. They see that barrier as something to be broken, so that they may fight one another at their peaks.

Rae's scarred face twists ghoulishly in the wavering fire light, light grey eyes containing little tongues of flickering flames. That demonic gaze meets Tizoc's as the bigger man rounds on him, having finally broken through his barrier, ready to fight.

The Griffon mask's opening forearm descends like a sledge hammer, but there is no glorious retaliation. There is no justice. The brutish biker's hairy forearm lifts, feet braced on the groaning floor, and meets the bigger man's limb blow for blow.

The impact of the opening strike rattles through the bikers sturdy old bones, but he does not buckle. Instead he reaches forward with his right hand and catches Tizoc's rising left, burning fingers closing about the younger man's wrist as he strains to keep it back.

Having deflected the first descending strike, Rae pushes against his battered opponent, slamming his shoulder against his chest as he flings his left arm up to smash aside yet another attempted clothesline. A soft, hacking laugh rasps its way up from the demon's chest as he continues to force himself forward, attempting to drive his prey backward into the smoldering wreckage of the bar and tackle him into it.

Moving slowly but powerfully, Rae attempts to mount the masked man, looming above him in a kneel with knees to either side of his chest, lips pulled back from jagged yellow fangs as he leers down at the boy. The illusion has fallen away. He is no old man. He is a devil. A demon. A spawn of hatred and hell, with eyes of fire and the fangs of a beast. A creature of death and war.

Still the hell spawn's shoulders shake with slow, hacking laughter as he begins to rain down punches upon Tizoc's face and shoulders, attempting to hammer his flaming fists through any guard the man might try to put up. To pulverize him. Destroy him. Drive him down into the wreckage.

Flames continue to consume the building, threatening to drop it upon them both. This fight is going to have to end soon, one way or the other.

COMBATSYS: Tizoc blocks Rae's Harmageddon.

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Tizoc            1/-------/<<<<<<<|=======\-------\1              Rae

Pushed out of one of the Griffon Mask's most famed techniques, Tizoc stumbles and falters up towards one of the racks behind the bar... and go prone. He is defensless to being mounted.
Tizoc, for what he can see, would not be certain how much of what he sees is true - to watch the visage of the old man Rae... teeth. Fangs! Those eyes, the way they...
He hides his face with his forearms. This might be what saves him from being completely pulverized. He can't see it. He can only feel it. The burning. The scorching! This is unearthly... what can I do against that? I am but a man...
I am the Griffon Mask. Is that honestly any sort of refuge? What good is a name and a mask against the fists of who may or may not be El Diablo looking to turn him to ash...?
The Griffon Mask...
...The Griffon Mask stands against evil. What is evil? What kind of evil does Griffon Mask stand against?
Tizoc's mind spins over whats, hows, and whys as he is both being beaten and burned to death... which gives way to adrenaline... which gives further way to panic...
The Griffon Mask stands against all evil! I am the Griffon Mask, I stand...
Kicking his legs up and out to try and jolt Rae's mount, he pushes himself up from underneath to a stand. He is saying words. They slur. They are nonsense. Gibbering. From his mind, deep within the recesses of Tizoc's happiness, they come clear.
He hallucinates the lights cast by the flickering flames as something else. Faces. Wavy, smiling, red-orange-yellow faces that are too big, too many. The faces of...
The heat of the moment - the heat of everything, really! - as the searing flames of the abyss grow hotter, starting to blister at the exposed flesh of the battered masked man... leads to further ill considerations.
He falls upon the signature technique. To defeat this evil! He is the Griffon Mask, and what does the Griffon Mask do to evil...?! Reaching out with hurt and tired arms to try and wrap around the demonic bike-- no, the demon's body, he'd attempt to leap up...
The Justice Hurricane requires far more vertical clearance than he has. Falling back into the emotional safety net in the way the Griffon Mask fights, fights back, fights hard against all the visual cues, the terrible sounds, the burning feelings... none of them can overwrite the very physical limitations of this burning bar. The very reality above his griffon-brained head.
Even if he does clutch a hold of the demonic biker gang leader...
On the way up with Rae in tow, Tizoc would throw himself through a thick ceiling. He has enough strength and lift to go through the ceiling, sure, but...
After that, his world would turn from heat to chaos and confusion with the further cranial trauma. How high up am I? Where am I, this isn't a ring, I-- what's going on-- what just happened-- whowhatwherewhyhow
All this, only if he 'succeeded' in taking hold, but it would be no success to bust out the roof, tumble against the uneven and ram-shackle roofing, and promptly deposit himself face-down against the ground barring some sort of further interruption or retaliation above and beyond the ceiling's own machinations.
Rae would be free to control his own fall - or maybe the larger wrestler's! - as he saw fit, even in a worst-case scenario.

COMBATSYS: Rae blocks Tizoc's Weakened Justice Hurricane.

[                       \\\\\\\  < >  /////////////////////         ]
Tizoc            1/-------/=======|=======\-------\1              Rae

Rae's fists fall, impacting Tizoc's crossed arms with sizzling, meaty thumps. There is no real skill behind the blows, no focus. Only fury, unleashed with wild, pounding abandon into whatever the biker can get his hands on.

Behind the flaming orange eyes of the monster there is pain, and joy, and hate, so much joyous painful hate. So much. Hate, Hate, Hate, Hate, HATE.

The biker spasms, flames roaring from his body as he is hauled into the air, muscular arms wrapped about his heaving chest. His elbow lashes out, clipping the wrestler's forehead, but he seems unaware of his surroundings.

"AAAH, GRAAAH!" He roars, his laughter having turned to cackling shouts, bellows, noises of overtaxed sensation. Fire explodes out from him, his entire body igniting as he is dragged into the air by his leaping opponent.

As Rae's back strikes the ceiling he thrashes violently away, tearing himself free of the Griffon. The masked warrior continues up, smoke billowing out around him as he ascends into the air over the bar in preparation for his dramatic plummet, but Rae is not with him.

The spasming, roaring devil , having bounced off the ceiling, tumbles through the air and smashes through the blazing floorboards. Impacting the dirt floor of the crawl space, he lies flat on his back, face toward the sky as he laughs, and laughs, and laughs.

That hacking, cackling roar continues until it is drown by the raging rush of the fire, and the groaning, crashing rumble of the bar finally collapsing. The ceiling crashes down, walls crumpling as it falls in upon itself. The full weight of the burning rubble drops upon the laughing demon, leaving nothing behind but a mound of smoldering rubble.

But if any had the ears to hear, or the senses to know, below the flaming wreckage, a tattooed figure lies on its back, a flaming beam driven through its gut, and laughs a bloody laugh. Too insane to fight, too tough to die.

COMBATSYS: Rae takes no action.

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Tizoc            1/-------/=======|=======\=------\1              Rae

Outside the collapsed, burning bar... now little more than an oversized bonfire, a figure lies prone in the dust and grime of this part of the Mexican countryside.
The mask of the Griffon Mask, miraculously, is not charred for the experience. For all the blood, sweat, and tears it has soaked, it remains that same bright red feathered head. It is a bright beacon of red, white, black, and a bit of yellow, somehow ever more visible against the flames that match this same palette.
The rest of him cannot be described any sort of flowery, poetic terms, except for 'is alive,' and also 'is moving.'
Flesh burnt and blistered, blackened with dust and ash from plowing through the ceiling, the wrestler can only stir up to a seated position. The wheezing is prolonged, lungs too weak to yet try and forcefully expel any irritation in the throat. Tizoc's consciousness starts to come to and understand that it is a consciousness, to register something beyond mere basic instincts to try and rise and move...
The head slowly turns towards the growing flames. There's not much clarity to his hearing, but... is that laughter he hears? He turns his head all about, but does not find the source.
The Griffon Mask-- I, Tizoc-- yet lives. That much is as close to certain as anything, among scrambled recent memories that may not take into the long term thanks to extensive trauma to his head.
For being near such a hot, open flame...
He feels chilly.

COMBATSYS: Tizoc takes no action.

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Tizoc            1/-------/=======|=======\=------\1              Rae

Log created on 18:13:16 09/25/2016 by Tizoc, and last modified on 01:13:14 09/26/2016.