| Discordian Space Truckin' (Part I) | ||
|---|---|---|
| |
Stepping through the fissure at the height of lopsided steps, visitors to the arena are admitted to a coliseum-like seating area, dropping away for what seems hundreds of rows. In reality it's a few dozen, but something in the air distorts perception and makes everything about this bizarre structure - including what passes within - particularly... epic. Those sensitive to fluctuations in power - be it chi, magic, magnetic leylines, or what have you - may be overwhelmed as nothing seems to pass through the walls or high domed ceiling, which broods overhead, and is mercifully lit by streamers of multicoloured LEDs and wildly swaying fluorescent strip lighting. The very basic stone pews are scattered with debris of all kinds, from blankets and cushions left behind by dedicated spectators, to beer cans, pizza boxes, and unhurled missile weapons left behind by the wilder bunch. The latter behavior is very much encouraged; signs festooning the inner arena bear slogans such as, 'Two men enter, one man leaves!', 'If you want blood... you got it!', and 'We're all gonna die, so let's get high!' When fights occur, as if by magic large, marsupial fur-suited attendants appear selling everything a rowdy crowd could need to be suitably rude, crude, and loud - bullhorns, massive foam hands, blank-firing assault rifles, and lots and lots of lovely Spunk. It's a beer, you filth. Actually, it's the worst beer ever designed by a mortal man - and advertisements for it are secreted away everywhere, especially where they're least expected. But it's all about the violence, right? At the base of the gaping terrace squats a malformed, barbed and spiked cage-like structure proudly bearing a 'BLUNDERDOME' sign written in basically-probably-blood. Mutilated stuffed animals have been bolted, hooked, or impaled to the outside of the cage at strategic points, and form chaotic pseudo-rings around the two squat entrance gates. Volunteer bouncers man these keenly, ensuring nobody gets in or out who shouldn't be getting in or out. It's about a twelve foot drop from there to the dirty, bloody floor of the fighting pit. Gather around, you brutal bastards, and place your bets! The doors of the Arena are literally kicked open. In steps a very disheveled looking Ash Williams. Of course anyone that knows the lazy S-Mart clerk will think little of him in such a state as lately this is effectively his default. But he's unusually rattled this day and has the slight stubble to show it. His ever-blue button up shirt is stained with drying beer as his night hadn't gone according to plan. In his one good hand is clutched a duffle bag filled to the brim and clearly heavy from the way he's holding it. He scans the dirty trash filled stands where clearly things have fallen apart since it was used as a town hall by Diablo and squints in the dim light looking for his target. "YO! Sweet cheeks!? I know you're in here somewhere!?!" The doors slam behind him ominously, making the tired old man jump and nearly shit himself from the looks of it. He throws down the duffle bag and brushes off the front of his shirt as if to save grace. "Look, last night was fun and all but you got something that belongs to me. I'm just here to collect and I'll get out of your bleach blonde hair." He looks around anxiously again. This is already not going the way he intended. Why isn't Rebecca already waiting for him? He's a man. She's a girl. This is simple math. March in with the bravado and march out with the book. Maybe a little hot stuff on the side. He picks the duffle bag back up. He'd better not have gotten played again...
Fallen apart?! Bitches, please. The Arena has been gloriously and beautifully recreated into a temple of violence, albeit with rather more stuffed animals than might be typical. If you ask the building's prestigious new owner, however, she'd argue quite otherwise; animals are savage! Marsupials even moreso! The gates part before Mr. William's tender ministrations with a thunderous BOOM that seems profoundly unnatural, the echo working its way around the lofty stands, the central, barbed and jagged cage even rattling a little at the exaggerated impact. The stands are essentially empty, if one doesn't account for the occasional passed-out hobo, or the piles of empty beer cans, or that one-eyed kangaroo in boxing gloves lying at the back, tongue flopping comically out of its mouth and X's for eyes. Nobody ever accounts for Roger. Regardless, it's the non-literal silence of his own echoing voice that first greets the big man himself. Several long, uncomfortable moments pass, and then there's a whine of feedback, and a series of ear-splitting crackles that come through a collection of misshaped, randomly-sized speakers hanging from the ancient stone of the roof. "Bloody 'ell, is this thing on!?" Another screech, and then what sounds distinctly like fingers roughly smacking around the unseen microphone. "Hah! They don't call me The Fuckin' Professor for nothing, eh?! Shut your pervy gob, Camp Koala, that is so my name!" That thickly-slurred Australian accent diminishes into barely-heard babble for a few more moments, a couple of violent smacks almost overcharging the microphone all over again, before there's a final crackle as brash fingertips haul the mic back to beer-drenched lips. "G'day, me old mucker! We're terribly sorry, but the person you're trying to reach can't come to the phone right now. Please try blowing the bloody doors off another day. Ta and thank you!" There's a rip of boisterous laughter, a sound like the crushing of a beer can, and the P.A. system goes dead. Well then.
Now a logical person might think that someone using the P.A. would be in a booth of some kind, but Ashley J. Williams is rarely a person who uses at thing called logic. 'Shoot first. As questions never.' That's his motto. That's why he marches straight down to the show floor so that any and all eyes will be on him as he yells back at the unseen vixen. "Now you listen here, Legs For Days, I'm not leaving here until I get back my property which you-" Absconded? "-abscolded last night from me!" Why's that, Ash? "It, uh. It's very important to me. I need it back and you need to give it back!" There's a nervous look to his features. He knows how badly he's fucked up this time. "This is your last warning and then it's time for Daddy's belt, you hear me?! Give it back and maybe we can go knock boots this weekend for old time's sake." Yeah. That'll convince her. Good job. (For the record he nods his head at his own internal monologue at moments like this. We're not just making fun of him no matter how easy it might be.) The Arena - Pit(#5278R) Well, this is lovely. After dropping from the entrance gates above, competitors on the pit floor are greeted first by the heady stench of sweat, blood, and other less-savory bodily fluids, and then by the squelching sensation of their feet being enveloped by the same. Nobody has cleaned this place in... well, ever. It's a plentifully large area to work with, at least, with a good thirty feet of headspace at the highest point. From this side it's apparent that several monitors have been slung up inside the cage, so those not able or bold enough to press themselves against the cage can be sure not to miss anything, but the experience is clearly geared toward the fighters more than the audience. There's liable to be plenty of fallen weapons around, and any attempts to flee are met on the outside with blistering metal spikes, rough-textured truck tyres, and plyboards covered in rusted tin cans and broken bottles. It's a whole mess of tetanus waiting to happen, just for you, and you! There is one apparent exit; a small, unassuming door on the east side of the pit. It's stalwartly locked, and apparently unbreakable, so long as more than one person remains conscious and/or breathing inside. Upon a combatant achieving victory, it 'pings' open with a delightful little fanfare - customized to the participants... somehow - and allows the winning competitor to make their dramatic exit. The loser... who cares? Probably they'll be hauled out and left up top somewhere, where their miserable fans can kiss them better. We did say the P.A. system died, didn't we? The thing about that is, things have a nasty habit of coming back to life where Ash Williams is concerned. It starts distant, the manic flutter of a cackling menace to society, growing louder as the cunningly-hidden Miss Buck returns to the microphone, the whine of feedback beginning before she snatches it up and simultaneously triggers a massive halogen spotlight to snap on and illuminate the Arena's central structure. The cage gleams rustily, and almost seems to be steaming under the synthetic brightness. A moment later, fairy lights flash on too, illuminating further the sign reading 'BLUNDERDOME' in bloody cursive. "Ladies and gentlemen!" Crows the Aussie from wherever she may be, "Tonight and for this night only, your once-in-a-bleedin'-lifetime opportunity to see THE Ashy Slashy Williams in hot, sweaty action! Can I get a hell yeah?!" From the stands, Roger flicks his tail. A hobo rolls over behind Ash, and belches loudly. "Hell YEAH! Alright, gents and gentlebitches, watch in SHOCK and AWE as the contender makes his way into the cage, where he's most definitely, assuredly, and completely gonna show us all who is the one, the only BOSS of THE ARENA!!" A buzzer sounds, and the gate to the cage pops open, falling half off its hinges as it does so, with a pathetic sort of creak. "It's Daddy's belt, versus your one and only Queen Bitch's reigning CHAMPIOOOON! Oi, oi, oi, oi!" She punctuates each hooligan syllable by smacking the microphone some more, causing a din to make up for the almost complete lack of crowd. There's an awkward moment then, after which the mic crackles to life for the third time. "Uh. Sexy Chin? This is the part where one man enters. Do I really have to explain this shit to you?!"
A heavy sigh comes out of Ash as he throws his duffle bag to the floor. "I didn't want it to come to this Rebecca Fuck." That's her name, right? He reaches down and true to his word pulls a belt out of it which he promptly wraps around himself like a harness. "I wanted to do this the easy way." He twists off his wooden hand and throws it into the bag. A moment later he reaches down, pulling a chainsaw out of the bag. The rear of the power tool has been modified to allow his stump arm to slide inside it. There's no explaining the click when it locks in place though. "But you give me no choice." He reaches down again and pulls out a shotgun, spinning it around before sheathing it on his ba-wait, when did he get a shotgun sheathe? How did that belt suddenly become an actual harness?! NONE OF THIS MAKES SENSE! Ash grabs the pull cord of the chainsaw and it roars to life loudly. Deafeningly. Yet, somehow there's a quiet hush as he looks upwards towards the lights and scowls. "Alright. Let's go."
"That," points out Tank Girl, apparently putting her mouth right around the mic, judging by the muffled boom that follows, "Is a bloody shame." Normal service resuming, she lets out another hearty guffaw. "This is exactly what I wanted it to come to! Gentlebeasts, one man has entered THE ARENA. Now, the moment you've all been waiting for since this bleedin' ballet began; the CHAMPIOOOOON, as fuckin' beautiful as she is utterly undefeated! The mysterious, the captivating, the very, very hungry... EMPRESS-ah! MILEENAPANTS-ah! THE BITEY-ah! FIRST-ah OF HER NAAAAAME-ah!!" With no more warning than that very long, noisy introduction, there's an expulsion of violet energy from inside the arena pit, a mess of virulent chi strong enough to blast a normal male off his feet. Of course, Ash Williams is no sucker, and certainly hasn't been duped soundly by the belligerent Aussie on-high. Nonetheless, in the wake of the explosion emerges a dark and languid figure, slit amber eyes glaring with unmatched sternness above the mask covering her mouth. Her figure is statuesque, a predator's confidence as she surges forth from the disturbance. Dark hair lashes on the breeze, a sharp hiss taking on bass note behind that mask. There's a moment where the crowd would probably cheer, if there was one, and then Mileena, former Empress of Outworld, closes upon the Deadite-stomping hero in a dizzying rush, taut muscles dragging her to the ground where - in a second burst of sickly purple - she becomes a spinning blur, tumbling across the ground to power him from his feet. "Ohhh fuck! Remember last time you were on your back, Ashy Slashy? They don't call me Rebecca Fuck-Your-Brains-Out for nothing! LET'S GOOOO, DADDY-O!"
"Mileenapa-a-a-ants?!" No one can sound cool when they're being knocked aside and nearly off their feet mid-word. Ash is no exception. He stumbles, nearly face planting, before he rights himself long enough to give the Empress a raised brow and a slight smile, "Oooh, Daddy like." He doesn't get much farther than that as the Outworlder charges him, sending him crashing onto his back directly on top of that sheathed shotgun filling his world with bright red stars of pain. Luckily he recovers quickly as he swipes blindly with the chainsaw to clear a space and shuffles to back on his feet. "Hey, y'know? I don't remember telling you they used ta call me Ashy Slashy." It's a little late for him to make this realization and certainly not the best place to be while pondering it. Ash seems to pop his jaw back into place as he eyes for the purple temptress. "Hey, look baby? Rebecca Fuck-it-all don't mean nothin' to me. How's about you and me go find us a cheap hotel and we'll fight this out the way nature intended? You. Me. A six pack of suds and a good porn. I've got this tape from last night that's outta this world." He's focused on the game, honestly. Maybe not the right game...
The roar of that decapitating tool mingles with a snarl from Mileena as she redirects her motion mid-tumble, spinning into the air as she unfolds her genetically-perfect body to evade the screaming teeth by inches. Feral eyes follow the weapon up its wielder's arm, rapidly but with great interest, meeting his eyes finally as she pounces off the cave to land upon her feet, stalking the edge of the cage in a crablike motion. "You are NOT my father," is her dismissive, sneering reply to the verbal flailings of the questionable hero, "And nothing cheap can satisfy the daughter of the great Shao Khan!!" She seems to start forward and then hesitates, "Well, perhaps the... OTHER daughter." Drawing herself back to focus, the abomination's matted hair slaps her cheek as she drops into a stance and throws up an arm, jabbing her index finger forward, "Whatever manner of foul creature you are, Tarkatan halfbreed of Earthrealm SCUM, your cheap and tawdry offers are not FIT for an EMPRESS! Kneel to me, and you shall be spared..." It's at this point that she lunges, finally, pulling a single sai from her back and feinting toward her powerfully-chinned foe. The blow naturally goes wide, but it also leads into a spin that sees her thunder out a snapping back mule kick a half-second later. "To serve me, and bring me my throne!!" From the speakers, Tank Girl hollers, "Whoa whoa whoa! Fuck no! This is a fight, not a negotiation! Don't make me bring my tank down there!"
Oh, yeah. Ash is all about that genetically-perfect body. He watches her dance gracefully back with obvious interest. "Listen here, baby doll. There's nothing cheap about old Ashley J. We Williamses are nothing but class. We're talking only the most expensive suds. The good stuff that you can't get in a keg down at the 24-7." The thrown sai distracts him long enough to shut his mouth long enough to get a mouth full of foot as she catches him square in the chest. (Don't think about that description too much) He's taken back but not before grabbing her leg with his good hand and bringing her down with him. That wasn't his plan, mind you. He meant to throw her to the ground and stomp her, but this is the first real throw-down fight he's been in on Twisted while he's been sober. Again his world goes red as again he's brought down onto that stowed shotgun, but this time he's got a beautiful woman sitting atop him. "Sure, baby cakes. I'll give you a throne to sit on, but how about a little sugar first?" Yeah, he's a sleaze to the end. If you haven't figured that out, you've not been paying attention.
Outworld's former Empress crashes to the mulch of the pit floor with her prey, their collision throwing up a swathe of grungy, blood-caked dirt. It stinks down there, and Ash will certainly see the material of her mask sucked against her nose as she inhales deeply. Mileena spins abruptly, wrenching her leg free with considerably more power than even that lithe frame suggests, and then she's straddling his bruised chest, gazing down with feral eyes ablaze. One long, whipcord arm flies upward and then down, answering his question with the stinging immediacy of a slap across the left cheek. "Foolish mortal," hisses the animalistically-graceful fiend, "If I desire your sugar I shall take it... and desire I do..." The other hand lifts to her mouth and hauls down the regal purple mask, letting it fall to her throat to bear the barbaric rows of sharp incisors forming the freakish face she habitually denies to the world. Saliva drips from the twin gouges in either side of her otherwise pretty face, disconcertingly human lips parting as she lunges forward in a game attempt to sink her teeth into his chin, tongue lapping with a profoundly inhuman hunger. The slapping arm simultaneously presses against his neck, thighs pressing tightly to keep him pinned for the most delicious of bloody kisses. "Keep watching, y'fuckin' barbarians!" The Arena's mistress yells excitedly through the arrayed speakers, "This is about to get SEXAYYYY!" And then she belches. Classy.
Ash might have seen the teeth when she inhales, but let's be honest. He's staring at her breasts. He looks a bit sad when she declines his offer, but that smile comes back when he hears what he thinks is an invitation. But then he sees it. Her beautiful smile the likes of which only a Tarkatan could love. There's a scream of terror as he pushes back, dragging both her and him through the dirt as he tries to run. She's got a significant opening as he realizes he can't use the chainsaw at this angle, which mysteriously has turned itself off as well, but he manages to grab the hilt of his shotgun and bring the stock down against her head. "What the fuck, Momma! Did your Daddy make out with a porcupine before he knocked your mother up!?" If he manages to shake her off himself he'll get back to his feet and promptly try to run, literally, as far away as he can get. Otherwise there might be another scream the likes of which usually accompanies the wetting of pants. "I didn't agree to this, Rebecca Fuck-face!! You let me out of here right now!! You don't know what powers you're dealing with in that book! If you want to come down here and have a pillow fight with Miss Fangs-You-Very-Much I'll referee for you, but I don't want any part of this!!" Assuming he does get away from Mileena she's probably about to pounce, so doing his best Stooge impression, Ash runs for the opposite side of the cage. Why did it have to be a cage?!?
Whatever sort of a buffoon he may seem, it's notable that Ash really isn't just 'any other man'. Just... don't tell him that. Regardless, his struggling is rewarded as Mileena tightens her grip and clings on, gleaming ambers wide in shock at the resistance presented by the Earthrealmer. Plenty of that dripping saliva splashes about as she bucks atop him, and then is discarded to the foul dirt with what should be a hearty thump, or at least a squelch, bar that she vanishes in a fresh implosion of virulent chi, appearing in an unfolding flip a couple of feet below the aforementioned cage. "Defiance!" Hisses the filthy-haired abomination, clinging to the rusted metal with one arm and glaring balefully down. "My glorious father is many things, but he would NEVER stoop to spend his mighty lusts upon a stinking animal! My sister, on the other hand..." Wow, she's really not letting go of that. She is at least letting go of the cage, opening clawed fingers in the same instant she kicks up both legs and acrobatically flings herself toward Williams like a gruesome lawn dart, landing behind him with both hands pressed into the pit's unpleasant goop. He's quick on his feet, evading what would follow, and instead she flips once more, spinning through the air to land in front of him, mid-tirade. "What a fun game," the former Kahnum chirps coyly, tipping her head to one side like a feral bird and bursting into violet atoms once more. She'll cut back in on Brave Sir Williams at the end of his yelling, trapping him between her and the cage as she steps out of her own sickly mist. "But now, YOU will die!!" Well, he did insult her mother, as well. She might not have the best-written lines in Hollywood, but Sindel is a wonderful stepmom, thank you very much. Mileena powers forward with a double palm-thrust, the weight of her bracers compelling the strike to be even more ferocious than her already-crushing potency allows, slamming into the exact spot her boot found before. Then she spins and rises to her full height, bringing down an equally-punishing backhand to the collarbone before sinking in for a second attempt at an all-you-can-chew buffet, her form blurring with the speed of eldrith energies and dread maw opening in the instant before she quite literally goes for the throat. "Not to be a stickler for the rules, mate," comes the now-rather-relaxed tone of good ol' TG from on high, "But you agreed to this when you stepped in the cage. Two men enter, one man leaves! She's not a man, but close enough, I'd say. It IS 2019. Somewhere. Else. Oi, Camp Koala, pass the cheese dip, wouldja?" (To be continued... eventually) | |
Enable comment auto-refresher