Shadaloo - It Even Makes Julienne Fries

Description: Shadaloo's premiere assassin delivers a finely tempered artifact of rage into the hands of one ideally suited to its use. MURDERHOUSE starts out his mission of stabbing in the name of Lord Vega by getting repeatedly stabbed. Bad things happen to men who smack psychotic killers in the head with pipes.

He'd been doing alright so far. The big man had defeated the small speedy dancefighter Pupa...and then him and another dancefighter, Mr. Jones, had beaten each other into unconsciousness, a vicious moment ruined by some Mad Gear Goons trying to stomp a mudhole in the defenseless afro'd man. Though usually he didn't give a shit about other's problems, the fight and the moment had gotten to Mick in a way...

Here he was now, he came here sometimes, to collect his thoughts. It was empty, every light off, except ones that illuminated the squared circle, as an almost...magical place. Not that Mick believed in magic, or any of that hokey shit, but he believed in peace and quiet, something he got now. Dressed casually, of course that included a gray hockey mask, he sat in one of the corners, a cigarrette dangling between his fingers, a beer held in the other hand. How did drink and smoke wearing a hockey mask?

Shut up, don't ruin the moment.

"Do you ever wonder what it would be like...." The voice is smooth, coached calm and melodic as the oceanic sunset, touched by a distinct old-world Spanish accent... "If every seat, when it filled, it filled for you? Every voice, every woman... screamed for you?" The implications are a fairly obvious dichotomy. Temptation, offset by ridicule. Promise, offset by demeaning distaste. It's all there in the hushed tones.

Hushed because they're spoken directly above Mick. Balrog perches on the turnbuckle, though when he arrived, close enough to drive that triple claw that glints in the spotlight through MURDERHOUSE's neck, is anyone's guess. He's crouching up there now, somehow in a perfect, unwavering two footed perch on the little pedestel. The lithe, yet formidable assassin admires the shining light on his claw, rather than even looking at Mick as he speaks, from directly overhead.

The serpent, its eager maw tattooed over the assassin's left breast in intricate, flowing detail, each scale catching the light as it coils around his right shoulder, eyes MURDERHOUSE more eagerly than Balrog himself.

And here, alone, in a modern tribute built to satisfy ageless bloodlust, were two men especially noted for their savagery. And right now, Mick didn't immediately react, but his muscles...they would tense, of course, rational alarm flooding for the briefest moment that someone snuck up on him, like a goddamn snake(Oh, how little he knew at the moment), but soon, very very soon that 'alarm' just turned to anger. Mick's default, actually, the thing that fueled him, kept him going. The thing that kept his body together sometimes, actually...he flicked his wrists, cig hitting concrete, while his can of beer hit the opposide, liquor and fire thankfully kept away from each other, but that wasn't Mick's concern at the moment.

His hands came up, gripping the ropes, rather close to Balrog, uncaring about the closeness. Mick reasoned that if an attack was gonna happen, if would happen by now. So, since he didn't eat a kick or a punch or some other attack to hise skull, he figured he was free to move around...he 'brought' himself to his feet rather deftly, stalking away from Balrog before turning around, almost like a shark. Like a predator in his own domain. He eyed the serpent before him, of course noted the similar mask...and the big claw. That thing looked like a motherfucker...Mick spoke, his voice naturally quiet, but somewhat more...gravelly, compared to Balrog's, this was a man used to work, and struggle, and turmoil...

"And what makes you think I give a shit who they're rooting for? Have you seen what I used to do? I was never fuckin' "cheered", and it didn't matter, because I always turned the other guy into hamburger. I made all those people you're talking about, wash the blood of their heroes out of their goddamn pants and skirts later. How about you drop the Rocky Horror fisting yourself with that claw bit, and tell me why the fuck you're here, huh?"

It was clear, Mick hadn't the slightest clue who this gaudy looking chump was here, and it didn't matter. "MURDERHOUSE" was officially in 'that place'...well, almost. If he was there, Balrog might encounter a toaster or something heading toward his face.

That might happen later, actually.

Balrog, conversely, seems totally relaxed. More relaxed than a guy crouched on a wrestling turnbuckle should be, really, particularly when he's in the process of pissing off an Irishman a foot taller than he is, and twice his weight. It's almost like the demon /knows/ something. Whatever it is, those blank, black slits that pass for eyes in the white mask he wears, featureless save the echo of a serpent on its left cheek, betray nothing. Less than nothing. Hell, he's still not even really looking at Mick, by all appearances.

"You resent them." The soft-spoken, yet deadly intent Spaniard contemplates, as if he were realizing it just now. "Just want to take them down a peg, hm? Show them what's... really on the inside." This prompts an all-too-happy little chortle from the assassin, not in the least bit warm nor comforting. "Fine. Fine." Balrog hops down off the turnbuckle. More accurately: He frontflips, thrice, as if it were nothing, in the scant space it takes to leap overtop of Murderhouse and land behind him, nearer to the center of the ring. The shirtless Spaniard draws himself to his full 6'1", with fine posture, and hurls a leather band and scabbard filled with the hilt of - and presumably the REST OF - a very particular knife. It clatters and scuffs along the ring for a few moments before stopping between Mick and Balrog.

"Look. Mick. I'm going to be up front with you, like you ask, largely because you seem like the guy who'd be /incredibly/ boring to manipulate. I represent powerful associates. My associates want you to take that sharp object, and stab people with it. They want you to build your power. Do it properly, tap your potential, and I won't have to kill you. Hell, we might make you stronger than you could possibly dream." Pause. The featureless gaze eyes Mick up, and down, "Actually, that might be all you dream; but we're very, very good at what we do."

COMBATSYS: Balrog has started a fight here on the right meter side.

                                  >  //////////////////////////////]
                                  |-------\-------\0           Balrog

COMBATSYS: MURDERHOUSE has joined the fight here.

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MURDERHOUSE      0/-------/-------|-------\-------\0           Balrog

Really, the portrait of Mick and Balrog was a bit like throwing a number of startling similarities in two bags of completely different things, and seeing what you got. Both were masked men, each were violent, each was actually a bit lean for their respective builds, and each had freaky eyes. But there, the similarities ended. Balrog was much smaller, a refined gentleman, and an absolute sociopath, who fought with agility and fluid grace. Mick...well, Mick had his..special attributes. They were even dressed different, Balrog's uniform no doubt much finer material and in greater shape than Mick's ripped jeans, steel-toe boots, and bloodied Harley shirt. Mick looked down at the knife, the fancy looking thing, and never being one to refuse a weapon, snatched it up. He looked up at Balrog, now.

"Thanks." And with that, he casually tossed it aside, it surely landing in a sack of weapons he carried around, something else to try out on the field, as it were.

"Now piss off, get that Banana Republic sash shit out of here."

Mick would wait, respectfully, until Balrog crouched down, perhaps turning his back...when Mick suddenly grabbed out randomly, grabbing from his bag of old lead pipe! Being in Metro City he decided to get in the spirit of things, but it was never used quite like this, spinning sideways, making it's way to bean the bullfighter right in the back of his skull, if he wasn't wary!

COMBATSYS: MURDERHOUSE successfully hits Balrog with Thrown Object.
- Power hit! -

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MURDERHOUSE      0/-------/-------|=------\-------\0           Balrog

Balrog sees no mirror of himself in MURDERHOUSE - he sees a blunt instrument, he sees, well, a /tool/. It's a sentiment that's damn well reinforced when the Spaniard spins around, braid of brown-blonde hair whipping out alongside him, and takes a lead pipe /right upside the head/. There's no comment. No sound. Other than breath, heavy, volatile, a simmer that threatens to boil over any moment, echoed even unseen in those black slits of eyes.

What was it the Serpent said about killing this guy?

COMBATSYS: Balrog calculates his next move.

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MURDERHOUSE      0/-------/-------|=------\-------\0           Balrog

"Heh." Balrog doesn't really expect Mick to go along /that/ easily, does he? He's done this a few times. Maybe he really /does/ write the big oaf off as that damn stupid and simple. Maybe he's that distracted by the way the light catches the gleaming, carefully honed edges of his claw. It's not bloodied. That does bring a frown to the assassin, for just a moment underneath his mask.

Balrog sees no mirror of himself in MURDERHOUSE - he sees a blunt instrument, he sees, well, a /tool/. It's a sentiment that's damn well reinforced when the Spaniard spins around, braid of brown-blonde hair whipping out alongside him, and takes a lead pipe /right upside the head/. The reinforced (thank god) white mask is dislodged, ever so slightly. It's a head-ringing shot, but Balrog cricks his neck back, rights his posture, slips that phantom's shield back into place. There's no comment. No sound. Other than breath, heavy, volatile, a simmer that threatens to boil over any moment, echoed even unseen in those black slits of eyes.

What was it the Serpent said about killing this guy?

Oh, it wasn't to say that Mick thought of them as similar, or as equals...Mick just saw an obnoxious girly man with long nails, who twirled like a dancer. He always made sure to drop those guys harder on their heads, when they thought they could be wrestlers. Mick stalked forward as the bullfighter started to turn around, Mick pivoting his entire body, and putting all of 294 pounds of muscle into a right-handed punch, that was aimed right for that reinforced mask. A smart fighter would aim for the throat, or the sides of the head where the ninja had less protection, but the seven foot Irish monster didn't give a damn about that. He just wanted to hurt somebody.

Did he know how close it was to being him who was hurt, badly? If he did, did he even care?

COMBATSYS: Balrog dodges MURDERHOUSE's Fierce Punch.

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MURDERHOUSE      0/-------/-------|=------\-------\0           Balrog

Balrog's not so easy to pin down. In fact, he all but vanishes out of the space in the time it takes Mick to rear back and roar, rushing for the bull-fighter. It's an old matador's trick, possibly even before the ninja thought it up across the world. The motion of his arm, the mass of his frame, it obliterates Mick's view of Balrog for an instant, as the Spaniard simply tumbles, rolled into a tight, compact coil, right around MURDERHOUSE's flank. He comes to his feet on the other side even as the punch is whiffing through air, the serpent shaking his head.

"I suppose this is one way of complying with my very generous offer." He murmurs, in a darker dialect of that same, Spanish-touched symphony, "Pursuing this course with me, however, presents... other hazards." Not the least of which is the sudden velocity with which the refined ninja tumbles in, whipping in a blur as his claw lashes out in mid-descent. It's only aim is to keep Murderhouse at arm's length as Balrog rolls low, crashing harshly in at the wrestler's legs, before seeking to come out with perfect form, left arm flexed and extended, that nefarious triple claw gouging in for Mick's chest. Apparently, consequence #1 is potential heart surgery.

COMBATSYS: Balrog successfully hits MURDERHOUSE with Rolling Crystal Flash.

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MURDERHOUSE      0/-------/----===|==-----\-------\0           Balrog

"Ahhhh, shit." That claw's a motherfucker, alright, and Mick's calm exclamation belies the fury that ensues. He somewhat pivots his body, but that doesn't help much as the claw is slicing through his shirt and into his flesh, the claw getting it's damn fill, as well as the ground beneath them. Mick, to his credit, didn't cry out, didn't even show any reaction outwardly, but Balrog, being the expert crazy fuck that he is, would no doubt feel Mick's muscles and innards tensing reflexively, not expecting to be endangered quite so brutally. But Mick is spinning around, and soon that monster of a right elbow pad is sailing forward, right for the face of Balrog. It seemed Mick was on a mission to do -something- vicious! He didn't roar, but this upcoming blow would, if it hit!

COMBATSYS: Balrog dodges MURDERHOUSE's Roaring Elbow.

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MURDERHOUSE      0/-------/----===|==-----\-------\0           Balrog

Yes, it's true. That is another piece of common ground, though Balrog would /never/ admit that his crazy was anything like Mick's crazy. Still, the big Irishman certainly has the /strength/ to punish Shadaloo's premiere assassin... but bringing it to bear is another matter entirely. The Serpent is notoriously slick and quick, in or out of combat. In, he's a whirlwind of deadly, destructive motion, every bit as dangerous as his ominous stage presence and theatricality might suggest. As that weapon of choice suggests.

The clawed Elite comes in low, and smart money would be on going /under/ that swinging elbow. Instead, with uncanny swiftness, the Spanish ninja ascends, flipping his feet up overhead in a full inversion. His path is not so much over Mick, entirely, as /through/ the rabid wrestler. His arms come close to his chest, and whip outwards in a downward arc of his claw, seeking to /ravage/ a path along Murderhouse's shoulders as he crosses over deftly to the other side of his assailant.

"Does it make you angry, all your shortcomings? Do you think I'm some idiot here to please the crowd? I'm the one who takes /you/ apart in the dark, and loves it all the more. Will anyone care... when they find your body?" The musings come sooner or later, regardless. It's like the very idea fascinates the brutal Spaniard.

COMBATSYS: MURDERHOUSE fails to counter Flying Barcelona Attack from Balrog with Cemetary Gates.

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MURDERHOUSE      0/-------/----===|====---\-------\0           Balrog

Another loop, another savage attack to the big man, this time an overhead thing...Mick walked past it, letting sharp metal tear through his shoulders, going down, letting plasma drip. He refused to let it show, refused to show this piece of shit pain, rather just continuing his slow walk, slowly walking to a turn, and finally facing the warrior hopefully across from him. Those eyes of his-just pupils, no irises-stared right at the masked man who was giving him a fair amount of trouble right now.

"They never do. That's not the fucking point. You hit too soft, try that again."

Goading the opponent, right now with possible destruction looming before him, he didn't give a shit. Let it stampede toward him, full fucking stop. He'd welcome it, like he always did...

"Tch. Don't be so impatient." Balrog observes, ice in his smooth tones, as he paces around Mick thoughtfully... flanking him, assessing him, allowing the blood time to flow. "If you take the same approach to lovemaking that you take to fighting, 'tear it open and get it over with', it's easy to see why you're this filled with impotence and rage." The almost pity filled singsong likely doesn't make it any easier for MURDERHOUSE to take.

"Besides. Ripping out your throat just isn't as much /fun/ as watching you struggle." The explanation is left at face value as Balrog approaches the bloodied wrestler with abrupt, deadly intent. Left arm whips around, claw cutting air in a brutal diagonal line for left shoulder then right hip, as the Shadaloo Serpent seeks to drench his blades in MURDERHOUSE's blood anew. He would step in, then, and thrust his right hand for the mighty Irishman's neck, with no care for comfort.

This is followed with strength and inner power one wouldn't expect from the lithe, astonishingly quick matador of death. He abruptly seeks to chokeslam Mick, leaping into the motion and twisting about to add that extra 'oomph'.

COMBATSYS: Balrog successfully hits MURDERHOUSE with Armed Combo.

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MURDERHOUSE      0/-------/--=====|=====--\-------\0           Balrog

Mick saw him coming, and knew on some subconscious level that the little man was speaking, but he didn't care, just heard blood pounding in his ears...and now, he was slashed yet again. Pale skin, red blood, this was looking more like a Dracula movie, and less than the standard fight around here. Really, this was Mick's domain. And a rare moment indeed, Mick was on the receiving end of his own move. It was debatable whether Balrog hit it harder than Mick, but it wasn't debatable that Mick hit the mat viciously, his shoulders, recently opened up, hit with a hard sting. Instantly, however, Mick was on the move, his leg shooting up, steel-toe boot aiming to make contact with the dancer's groin. Now was no time for talking. Now, was time to survive.

COMBATSYS: Balrog dodges MURDERHOUSE's Roundhouse Kick.

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MURDERHOUSE      0/-------/--=====|=====--\-------\0           Balrog

Speaking, jumping, slashing, psychoanalyzing, having a grand old time. At the least, a substantially better time than his compatriot in carnage this evening, the bleeding MURDERHOUSE. Balrog just kind of leisurely rises back to a proper upright stance and gazes as his claw when Mick hits the canvas, eyeing the dark crimson and bits of wrestler hanging and dripping therefrom with a head-tilted pensiveness that looks utterly satanic in his blood-spattered, dark featured facemask. He inhales, deeply, along the length of the claw, as if in some gruesome ritual of divination.

"If I let you walk out of here alive... you're going to do exactly what I came here to ask you to do, aren't you? You just can't help yourself, can you?" Balrog laughs, at this, even when his opponent tries to make his juevos pop out his ojos. Into the air goes the demon of Shadaloo, ascending in a corkscrew spin and backflipping over his towering adversary once more, this time slashing out with a swift downward slice of all three claws, aligned with Mick's own mask... and the face behind. It's a move that would deprive your average man of his life. It's a good thing this one is tougher stuff, and that the assassin seems to have deduced another way.

"Feed that rage, slaughterhouse. I will... be in touch."

COMBATSYS: MURDERHOUSE blocks Balrog's Random Strike.

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MURDERHOUSE      0/-------/-======|======-\-------\0           Balrog

Mick sat there on the ground, by all accounts, he was beaten, bloody, against an opponent with a great deal of experience...who was a whole lot faster. So, Mick was beaten, right?

Not quite.

That claw came down, that gleaming bit of deadliness, and Mick lay motionless, when at the last moment, both his hands shot up, go grasp the wrist of the killer descending. Even exhausted, he was pretty much able to prevent Vega's full body weight from smashing into him...though that claw did graze his mask a little. Mick spoke briskly.

"Talk too much."

In one fluid motion, Mick would spring to his feet(somehow) and still grabbing that arm, attempt to simply 'throw' Vega, into a turnbuckle, or somewhere, he didn't care, because he was face down no matter what happened, on his hands, and working to his knees and then feet.

COMBATSYS: Balrog fails to interrupt Fast Throw from MURDERHOUSE with Scarlet Terror.

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MURDERHOUSE      1/-------/=======|=====--\-------\0           Balrog

Oh, Balrog sure does try to make Mick's day that much worse. It's safe to say that at this juncture, the not-precisely-merciful operative probably isn't in a giving mood. It's certain that he doesn't particularly like letting Murderhouse lay hands on him. The attempt is not to evade, this time. No, as Mick's grip finds the demon's clawed wrist, muscles flex, blank eyes stare, and Balrog pushes onward, seeking to forge a renewed offensive from the retaliation.

Instead, Murderhouse finds leverage, and fast, Balrog's taken off his feet, and sails through the air... to all but straddle the turnbuckle as he collides with it, absorbing much of the impact into his arm and legs before backflipping off, and to the top rope, standing there easily despite the buoyant terrain.

"You're just lucky my associates have a soft spot for 'violent and too stupid to live.'" The ninja notes coldly. Like a cat, he meant to do that.

It was good that Balrog wasn't pressing the attack, because Mick was finding it hard to stand...maybe he'd rest here a bit, gather his strength. Yeah, that's it.

As suddenly as it began, the demon is gone. No sound. It happens when Mick shifts his eyes, it happens in a flicker of light, an almost absence of motion. The deadly, ominous stink of murderous ki in the air, the taunting words and swift, air-shifting movements. The only indications left are the slight tremble of the ring's restraining ropes... and the blood leaking in full pints from the man who can, at least, say he really did have the balls to slam a Shadaloo Elite in the head with a pipe. It was real. Not an illusion. Probably.

COMBATSYS: Balrog has left the fight here.

[                  \\\\\\\\\\\\  <
MURDERHOUSE      1/-------/=======|

COMBATSYS: MURDERHOUSE has ended the fight here.

Log created on 19:42:20 12/13/2011 by Balrog, and last modified on 23:15:35 12/13/2011.