thearena | I've Been Wrong More Than I've Been Right [Closed]

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I've Been Wrong More Than I've Been Right [Closed]

Who| Tim Drake, Tim Drake-Wayne, Punchy, AndrAIa and the Initiate
What| AndrAIa dies and the boys tussle.
Where| Desert Arena
When| Week 3
Warnings| Death of a pre-teen girl, violence, blood.

Punchy's never been good at sitting still. Even back when he was programming on a regular basis - back when he had a computer and wasn't frying like an onion in a pan in this desert hell - he had to get up every ten minutes to stretch his legs, was constantly toggling between screens and monitors, and used a spinny chair specifically to give him something to twirl on when he was penting up energy. Shockingly, the criminal lack of energy drinks in his current diet of cooked rabbits and cactus juice has failed to rein in his restlessness.

As such, he's been spending less and less time with the Tims and AndrAIa, usually using the excuse of going to take a leak and wandering around looking for Holiday and Topher. He's seen Holiday losing an arm on the screen, but her image hasn't appeared in the sky, and he hopes she's not hurting too badly. He keeps his eyes peeled as he circles their camp in ever wider circumferences, despite how red his eyes are from rubbing at them. Who knew that eyes could get sunburned?

But at this moment, he's supposed to stay put with AndrAIa, because the Tims are out finding dinner. He likes the girl; she's a bit of a weird one but so's he, and it's nice to have someone else with an idiosyncratic way of speaking around. But even still, the listlessness is there, and he's hoping Tim and Tim get back soon so he can wander off and do anything but poke at the embers of their fire with a stick.

And when he sees another screen light up again in the distance, he can't resist anymore. He gets to his feet and brushes sand off his rear. "Yo, kid, you stay here, I'mma bump up on that screen and eyeball it close-up. Be right back."

And he takes off.

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AndrAIa wished she were out hunting with the Tims. This was a fighting game, and she wanted to fight- but there was no User here, and so far no enemies had come near. The animal sprites - except they weren't sprites, just animals - could be killed for food, so she could fight and help out the group.

But even though she was a warrior, here she was at a disadvantage. They didn't have any weapons that she was used to using, and she was not proficient with the knife they had given her yet. Besides that, she seemed to need more water than the rest, so it might be risky to go out hunting without enough for her. So most of the time she sat in the makeshift camp, watching for others. At least she wasn't alone; Punchy was often there, too.

Except now he says something and runs off. AndrAIa huffs, frustrated. It's his prerogative, and she can probably look after camp by herself, but lately she hasn't wanted to be alone. She has a lingering fear every time they leave, that they won't return. Like how Enzo and Frisket never reappeared. Or how it must seem to Dot and the others in Mainframe, after they lost that game.

She looks around, then follows Punchy just a bit. Just enough to try to keep him in sight while also staying within sight of camp.

The Initiate spots her from afar, a singular note of teal in a sea of dull browns and greys. And it's neither the Pyrope nor the Neophyte. Maybe she'd bleed the same, a cool oxide, rather than the sick mutant color they all had. It was worth finding out.

He grips the crowbar tight in hand, grin stretching wide to reveal his fangs. It'd been so long since he'd killed. So long since he'd preformed proper rite to the Messiahs. A long time being bored. He stalks towards the camp, quiet, eyes trained on the wriggler-child, excitement and bloodlust running high in his veins.

Oh sweet wriggler, the ticket takers' come. A voice sing-song's in his head. He holds back a laugh.

Punchy's figure gets smaller and smaller and eventually disappears behind a small hill. AndrAIa stamps her foot before turning and heading back to the camp. It's technically still in sight, but she keeps her head down as she walks, watching the ground and keeping her eyes away from the sun. She's relying on her hearing to alert her to danger, though it has seemed less acute since starting this game.

He considers the crowbar. It'd be efficient certainly, but just a little too quick for a first blow, and not near the right size for what he wants.

Sand wasn't particularly quiet, but when one lived on a beach-- lived and fought and survived-- one learned a few tricks. He eases just close enough, then lunges forward. She's small; a low kick would do.

With a spin, he aims for her middle, something to send her flying should it land.

She hears the sound of someone else's footsteps nearby and turns to look, just in time to spot the kick. Instinct kicks in and she braces herself. She staggers back a few steps but doesn't fall.

She doesn't recognize her attacker. He looks very different from the sprites she's used to, and from Punchy and the Tims for that matter. Another game sprite, maybe? One hand reaches for her knife while she flexes the fingers of the other, extending her claws. If she could just get close enough to give him a good scratch...

"Stop!" she shouts, as loud as she can. "I do not want to hurt you, but I will if you attack me!"

She surprises him when she stays standing. Not only that, he's close enough now to see almost-fin ears and it's just the icing on the proverbial cake. An alien sea-dweller. Of motherfucking course.

He watches carefully, both as claws extend and she reaches for a blade. Fine with him. He smirks and readies the crowbar.

"Girl," he says. "AIN'T YOU GOT AT UNDERSTANDING AS TO WHERE A SISTER IS? You're in a death game preparing for carnival. AND HE HAS COME BEFORE SHE AS HER MOTHERFUCKING TICKET TAKER. Ain't about to bargain for things what she can't even offer whole. TRY AGAIN."

With no particular aim, he swings the crowbar at her.

Edited 2013-07-21 07:38 (UTC)

Her eyes narrow. So this one wasn't looking to avoid a fight. And he was even helping her, shouting even louder and making it clear that he was looking to kill. That would get the others' attention much faster.

"We play the games by our own rules," she retorts as she ducks under his swing and lunges. She makes a swing of her own with her knife hand, a telegraphed slashing feint, hoping to make him right into scratching range of her other hand.

"Then she'll understand if he plays by his!"

Her claws are too clearly ready. A dual wielder of clubs, he's preformed similar moves himself. But something he learned from facing so many other trolls, too many motherfucking sea-dwellers, and that was that sometimes, the price was worth the reward. Sometimes it was worth just the look on their face.

He seems to fall for her feint, dodging the blade's swing to fall in easy range of her claws. As the cloth and grey flesh give way to marks of indigo-purple it puts her into range herself; eyes alight, he swings the crowbar at her once more.

He was moving like she wants, but he's also attacking. She decides not to dodge his blow; the opportunity to scratch and incapacitate him will be worth the pain and injury. She feels her nails make contact a split second before the blow from his crowbar hits her hard in the ribs.

She topples and just barely catches herself with her clawing hand. She doesn't bother to push herself back to her feet; instead, she gathers herself into as much of a crouch as she can manage and waves her knife in a threatening gesture. She couldn't defend herself, much less attack him, but she hopes to dissuade him from attacking her again until her paralyzing claw effect kicks him

He laughs at her. He full on laughs as he advances on her. The indigo blood trickles down his arm without notice at all.

He's not sure what her plan is but from his end, it isn't a wise one.

He twirls the crowbar in one hand like a baton, like his old clubs, then rushes her again to try and land another hit.

He's not dropping. That's the only thought racing through her head as her attacker laughs and advances. Her claws had always paralyzed almost instantly; if they hadn't kicked in yet, they weren't going to.

She tries to lever herself to her feet and gasps at the pain in her midsection. She'd gambled on being able to incapacitate him and lost. Now her best chance was to stall him until Punchy heard and returned, or the Tims came back from their hunting trip.

Still on the ground, she holds herself up with one hand and raises her other arm to shield herself from the blow. It'll cost her a broken bone in that arm, at least, but she ignores the pain and kicks out at his legs when they're in range, trying to knock him off balance.

He goes down and rolls into a crouch. The crowbar is dropped to the side for now. She wants him her level? Let her have him. He growls with fervor, fangs exposed.

Then, he leaps. One rake of claws over her mid-section, then maybe her face, if she doesn't avoid him.

[OOC: Tims and Punchy, then GHB joins.]

They weren't terrible company. They were just an organizational mess, which will be hilarious when all of this was over and they'd be shown the reruns over and over again. That was totally sarcastic, by the way, in case you didn't catch it.

And anyway, they hadn't died yet so that was great.

Punchy had been left behind, and... Tim One (hey, the other guy was here first, it was only fair) and Tim Two (second mouse gets the cheese!) had gone hunting. Yes, hunting, like cavemen, or something equally as savage that looked much cooler on television or in comic books than in real life. They'd managed to cut a slab of buffalo flank (jerky, anyone?) and were now making their way back to camp. And Tim Two (that'd be Tiny for you! isn't this great?) kept on wondering about the girl. Who wasn't really a girl, supposedly, but... And see, he just doesn't know the company the way his older self does. Blisters are starting to hurt something awful and his eyes are drying up but if he blinks twenty thousand times a second, he can keep some moisture in them. He's not so disgusted at towing a slab of meat behind him, the food in a bundle made out of extra cloth, or if he is he's just gotten better at keeping from retching.

"D'you really think we should've left them alone?" Alone as in, without one of them there to look out for the remaining two in the gang. He notices he's slurring his words a little. This game is really starting to chip away at him. Tim trudges forward, not even looking at one when he asked his little pointless question.

"We can't follow each other around like ducklings constantly. There's four of us. If any more Tributes turn up, we'll look like a parade. Besides, Punchy makes more noise than ten of us. He'd scare off everything in a two mile radius," Tim pointed out. It was meant to be funny, in a dry sarcastic way, but it's too hot to sound more friendly than only mildly acerbic and bitter. The pair of them had just taken down a buffalo, and it had been easier, this time, to cut away at it. It was probably because he'd had less to do with the innards, not that he was suddenly becoming skilled as a butcher. "

"I don't know if it was a good idea. I don't know AndrAIa. Punchy is safe. I met him in the last Arena. You wouldn't believe the head wound he was walking around with. I saw how he got it in the Capitol: protecting other Tributes. I'm not even sure if he knew them. I don't think he's the closest thing to safe we're going to find. Either we babysit them constantly or we eat. To be more blunt, we risk them killing each other, or we all starve to death. Stop here." He dropped the weapons he was carrying: a makeshift staff, formerly the long handle of the scythe, and the metal edge of said weapon, now on just a two foot stick, to the ground and took the ends of the meat sleigh from his younger counterpart. They were closer to the camp then they were to the kill site. He didn't want to keep dragging a blood trail that lead right to them.

Tim got down beside the meat and unravelled the rope that he'd tied around his waist days ago. Clever fingers trussed up the flank, wrapping it once vertically and twice horizontally before deftly knotting it. He'd left a good sized loop for a handle and was able to easily heft the slab up onto his back as an experiment. Tim held it out. "Think you can carry it, or do you want me to take a turn?"

Personally, Tim preferred being the one toting the weapons, but being the one on the higher weight class was a positive for both fighting and heavy lifting. Besides, it wasn't like either of them were stupid enough to not drop the meat and fight.

And then there was the scuffling of feet on the sand. Tim spun in the direction of the noise and saw only a rising dune. He glanced over at his counterpart and down to the meat, then shoved the scythe into Tim's hands. The message was clear. You've drawn guard duty.

Holding the staff at the ready, Tim silently crept over the dune.

Edited 2013-07-23 00:22 (UTC)

The glow of the screen is gone, as if it was never there in the first place. Punchy's figuring it's some kind of projection technology, but that doesn't explain what they're projecting on, since it seems lower than the ceiling of whatever dome they're in. Thick enough particles of some sort would do it, maybe some kind of mist, which would understandably dissipate before it got down low enough for the Tributes to notice.

Punchy's mulling this all over as he takes a piss on a cactus, because it's really a much more pleasant thought than how his urinary output is practically shrieking 'serious dehydration'. Even the water they got from Timaeus and their occasional runs to the watering hole can't keep the four of them well-wetted when the sun's beating down on them, and Punchy's not much of a fan of the clear and flavorless sorts of beverage. Besides, he's not going to push to try and take more than his share of water when the littler guys and girl need it.

He beatboxes as he does his business. He's that bored.

He zips back up, wipes his hands on the thighs of his pants and, out of habit more than out of any necessity, wipes his brow, too. There's not really any sweat there - they've all spent too long in the sun - but it feels more productive than just baking. He's about to turn around and trudge back to camp when he casts one last longing look at the sky, where the images of the other Arena were moments ago, and sees someone creeping over the dune from the corner of his eye.

His hand reflexively goes to Judy, tucked into his belt, but he drops it when he realizes it's just Tim. He raises a hand to wave, then pauses as he hears something faint back in the direction of camp.

The Initiate stands over the corpse of the girl. A teal sea-dweller girl who bleeds red. Where the to begin with the oddness of that? Maybe the red itself. It glistens bright on his hands, the same long missed consistency but otherwise entirely unnatural. He considers the corpse; he could take the bones and try to recreate his old armor. But no, she'd been far too small. Frail comparatively, even if a fighter, the bones wouldn't make for much use. The blood would do.

He tears the off sleeves of the suit they forced him, at the shoulders, pulls apart what isn't needed and what restricts and restrains. He mutters prayer to himself, bids the soul carnival bound, for judgement and the joyous. Assuming, of course, the capitol didn't intervene again. Then, he bends to take the girl's blood and spreads it in lines over his hands and arms, the only canvas available here.

He gives the body one last nudge, then starts off over the sand hill, painted bright. He makes sure to have his crowbar readied.

Punchy is beatboxing as he pisses. How did he end up with this group? These are not the allies he envisioned himself working with, another version of himself, a little girl, and a walking boombox calling attention to himself at every possible opportunity. Punchy managed to turn peeing into a production, and it does not escape Tim's notice that he's urinating on a cactus, because the acres of open sand aren't good enough for him.

He makes no attempt to hide the frustrated growl. "For your sake, that better not be one of the cacti that we could eek a water supply out of. If it is, that one's yours."

There were, after all, now four mouths to feed, four thirsts to quench, and these were now his allies, however unlikely. Tim took responsibility for all of them, despite the fact that all of them seemed stubborn enough to take off on their own in a huff the second that Tim let even so much as a whiff of protection leak out.

He's about to lay into him a little more when he, too, hears something in the distance. From the top of the dune, Tim jumps forward and locks his knees, letting himself the momentum slide him down the loose sand into a slightly hunched position besides Punchy. And then it hits him. Punchy was going to the bathroom. A male teenager was not about to do that in front of a... "Where's AndrAIa?"

Don't point that way. Don't point to the noise. Don't point back to camp. Tell me that she's relieving herself two dunes east, his eyes plead silently.

The sound is coming closer, and Tim silently curses movie night for introducing him to the Scream trilogy and the rule about not going off alone. He doesn't like this. It's the sun, it's the heat, this is all fine. This is the side effects of the desert, and he had warned himself not to trust his senses completely. Calm down. It's only AndrAIa approaching, returning from wherever she'd sequestered herself. The odds are good on that.

"Jesus, Tim, can't a brother take a leak around this joint without you maddogging up on their bones?" Punchy shakes his head and rolls his eyes, voice rising a little because he's had it just to about here with this Arena. "It's a cactus. You wouldn't even know cactees got the drank unless I been repping Discovery."

But then Tim asks a question that manages to shake Punchy as if his lungs and guts were jelly. He glances back at the sound, glances back as the sound dies as if it were being cut off. It sounded like white noise from a radio out here, lost in the buzz of the desert, but voices nonetheless. "She was right..."

Punchy's eyes meet Tim's, and no words need to pass between them. Punchy doesn't need to ask where the other Tim is, or talk out the logistics of why it's ninety-percent likely that AndrAIa's fine, because he's only been gone a few minutes. Call it Spidey-Senses. Call it superhero instinct. The fact that Punchy doesn't have an answer to Tim's questions speaks loudly enough, and the realization that their fortress gate has been left open spurs Punchy to action.

He turns on his heel and sprints in the direction he left her, in the direction of the sound. Sand kicks up behind his shoes, rolls into little crescents at his heels as he moves, moves, moves up the dune and over it with speed that manages to overpower how clumsy the terrain makes him. Going down the dune is faster, and then up the next-

"Tim!"

He doesn't even pause when he sees a nearly seven-foot figure, painted the crimson of a little girl's death, at the base of the next dune, next to a small canyon that seems more like a crack in the soul of the Earth than a natural figure. He doesn't stop, doesn't think long enough to untangle what the situation is, because the Initiate is so clearly a foe and Punchy has so clearly failed in his one assigned task that there's nothing to consider except how hard and how fast the momentum from barreling down the slant will allow Punchy to hit him. Punchy moves less to tackle the Grand Highblood and more to slam into him like a train on the tracks.

Edited 2013-07-30 22:08 (UTC)

There's not near enough traction between his bare-feet and the sand for him not to slide backwards on the dune. Clouds of dust rise up around them. The Initiate falls into a crouch, one hand in the dirt, then propels himself forward. He brings the crowbar around in wide swing at Punchy.

He doesn't look to see if any others are close.

That's exactly the sort of mistake that Tim hopes people make. Anyone who's watched a few hours of highlights should know that tributes travel in packs, particularly this early in the game. Maybe he thought he'd gotten lucky with AndrAIa, and Tim knows that the troll did as he rushes forward to help Punchy. Any other place, any other time, he'd be checking her vitals before leaping into the fray and hoping Punchy had the sense to roll with the hit. With that much spilled blood in these conditions, she's better off dying as quickly as possible. Triage would only prolong her torment, if she's even alive. Let it have been quick. Let there have been a mercy strike to the head to knock her out before ripping her open.

Tim digs the end of his staff into the sand as he jumps, using it to launch himself higher and reach a higher target while he's still unnoticed. Airborne, he draws the staff up to have at the ready, in case the flying kick intended for the back of the attacker's neck is ineffectual.

Punchy barely avoids getting his face smashed in by ducking and rolling. He quickly finds that while he had some training in sand terrain at the Seminary, a few instances are hardly enough to make moving on this ground come easily or naturally. The dune tries to suck him up, slushing around his ankles as if hungering for prey while he finds his feet (and given the Games, he wouldn't be a hundred percent surprised if carnivorous dunes did exist here).

Sand gets in his eyes, and bringing an arm up to try and clear them only seems to scratch him up. The sun against the Initiate's back makes the already-tall killer look monstrous. The red smears of blood disappear into a black, horned silhouette looming over Punchy with a crowbar.

And yet, rather than expect death, Punchy notices a figure flying through the air towards the Initiate's back like a ballistic missile, like a meteor, like the asteroid that wiped out the dinosaurs. And with lightning fast reflexes, Punchy gets his feet under him and slams a fist at the Grand Highblood's limbs, spitting dirt from between his lower lip and his teeth. Better to give Tim a clear shot at a distracted target.

"Come at me, motherfucker!"

The Initiate grits his teeth, and bares them even, shirking back too late to avoid the punch. The human hits hard, hits almost like a highblooded troll, not perfectly, but close. Strong enough that it actually hurts. To say he expected that, of any human, would've been lying. It changes the game.

He kicks, spinning with a high roundhouse at Punchy. And in doing so-- kick landed or not-- he turns just enough to see.

He knows he's made a mistake once Tim catches his eye. Split-seconds lost in a second-whole, but lost as a wreck to sea. He keeps expecting to still be able sense when others are near, to feel the unease roll of them and return to him in cycle.

And for failure, disgrace of sin, atonement was called to thee, and retribution held above in disdain stained lips as the fiery eyes beheld with mirth for the requital...

Late, he tries to swing the crowbar anyway. Let it hit the other, give him defence against opposing weapon, but if neither were to be granted by Messiahs, he would brace for the blow.

The kick connects, more off center than Tim would have liked, but he's still able to push off the huge troll's back to reverse his momentum and flip back the way that he'd came. It's almost a clean getaway - that nasty crowbar catches his side. Tim's going to be sore until he dies, but he feels more relieved than anything. The teeth of the weapon weren't able to dig into him at that angle. Tim is, for now, spared puncture wounds and rended flesh.

This is when he should talk his way out of the fight. It hasn't served him poorly as a tactic this far, but AndrAI's body is burned in his mind. Tim is finding it hard enough to muster the generosity to stay his hand, and the compassion and forgiveness that letting him walk away would require. The temptation is there - take out such a violent Tribute, and increase the odds for his friends. Tim would be downright mercifully in comparison.

But he's supposed to be better than this. A reversible murder is still a murder, and there are people that Tim wants to look in the eye again someday. He's not an impressive size, but he tries to stand taller, look beefier, spin the Bo to a ready grip with enough bravado that leaves no question: he knows how to use his weapon. "You're outnumbered," he growls out.

He sounds worse than Bruce; he is a synthesized effect away from Jason. Jason would have blown the troll's head on sight, even before he saw the getup, bloody war paint, and crowbar. That would have earned a posthumous double tap to the heart for good measure. Tim allows himself to smirk at the thought. God, he wouldn't be annoyed in the slightest if that happened. "Do yourself a favor. Get away while you can fucking walk."

Punchy, for all his anger, doesn't strike the Initiate when he turns to Tim, only tries to grab for the arm with the crowbar and misses. His foot slides under him in the sand, and he goes down on one knee before pushing back up, and circling around.

He doesn't hit people in the back. Homeboy don't roll like that. He recognizes this troll, the one painting all the pictures in the Training Center, but even if this were a stranger he wouldn't strike the back. He's already not comfortable going two on one, even with...

...even with a dead preteen on the ground. He understands, now, why people throw the rules of combat to the side. He understands why someone would kill. And it makes him want to vomit, almost as much as the knowledge that AndrAIa's dead body in the sand is his fault. But he can't bring himself to attack from behind.

So he flanks.

He can't decide if he's more amused or annoyed with these humans. What exactly did they expect? To take her along until it was just the three of them, and then what? Kill her themselves? Or maybe they were just dissapointed they couldn't kill her themselves. One way or other, they were fighting for pride over anything else.

The Initiate stops. Even straightens when the human before him spins his staff and speaks. Then, he scoffs and spins the crowbar in mirror. A different balance to it, but not so far off from his clubs to be anywhere near unusable. He smiles, unkindly, at them both, moving in an almost snake-like sway, side to side.

"You think I ain't done this before, Brother? YOU THINK I AIN'T HAD SO MANY AS TWO WHAT WANTED TOOTH AND CLAW AND WEAPON CLASH FOR SAKE OF ONE FUCKING THING OR OTHER? You truly up and believe I ain't painted my hive with the heretical guts of more than this? DO NOT MOTHERFUCKING PATRONIZE ME. Messiahs plead I should turn those words on you."

He lunges forward with a feral grin and aims to bring the crowbar down hard on Tim's shoulder-side.

He doesn't move fast enough to get out of the way of the swing. The crowbar does more than make contact; it slams into his shoulder with all of the Initiate's weight behind it. The pain is a white-hot shock to the nervous system, and Tim is too disconcerted to roll with the attack. He winds up getting tossed aside by the force of it, and it's instinct, not design, that lets him land without further injury.

Not a good landing, none of that perfect crouch here when loose sand doesn't provide enough surface friction for his legs to stay beneath him. His feet slide out, Tim is left on his knees. His shoulder hurts too much to try bracing himself on it, but he picks his head up immediately. Reassess. They're up against a religious fanatic, never a good sign. Too many religions have violence interwoven in their history, sacrifice, martyrs, wars, crusades. My god has a bigger dick than your god, and the Initiate already thinks they're heretics.

What else? His staff is fine, luckily, because he wasn't deliberately taking caution to not break it in the fall. His shoulder is damaged, how is unclear. Dislocation, separation, tendon tear, broken clavicle, too many possibilities and not enough time. It hurts like a bitch to move it at all, and Tim gasps when he tries.

"Tim!" Punchy lunges forward and throws himself between the two. Tim's lost his footing, and Punchy defends him with his body. This is more the sort of fight he tends to bargain for - protecting, rather than teaming up against someone. He turns on his heels and keeps a strong stance for just a second of hesitation, balancing hard and flat-footed.

This is the part where he should have a snappy one-liner. Where he should have a response to the absolute driveling bullshit that this way-too-tall Juggalo wannabe is spouting. This is the part where, better yet, he should have a plan. He doesn't, so instead he grabs the back of Tim's clothing at the nape and helps to try and pull Tim to his feet like a mother cat with her kitten.

He puts one foot behind him and, right-handed because now he intends to hurt, because now he wants to break ribs or cause internal bleeding, he throws his fist at the Grand Highblood's trunk. And, unfortunately, he leaves the space right under his left ribs open.

He watches Tim fall, raises the crowbar, ready to smash in his skull, but stops when Punchy gets in the way, taking a second too long to readjust and swing at Punchy instead.

He sees the human's fist aiming before he can try to stop it and he knows then that he's entirely too open to it. He's gotten sloppy in his time in the capitol, in his time where he did as told and spared every life he encountered. This wouldn't do. The punch hits hard and in his mind, it would serve as reminder. It would be his punishment on Messiah's unspoken word for transgressions. For his sin. But he wasn't the only sinner here.

He slides just slightly back on the sand, fangs grinding to keep noise from sounding. He will almost certainly bruise and will feel it even more so later. But now wasn't the time for dwelling on pain, it was the time for inflicting. Now was the hour for performing holy rite of motherfucking murder, third ring of carnival, finest rule.

It's all in few seconds that everything happens. He sees the opening left by Punchy's hit and with the crowbar gripped in hand, he swings. He tries to make it hard enough to hear, to feel the sweet, wet crunch of bone, but the swing is awkward at best.

So, he pulls back quick , spins the crowbar in hand, and sinks the sharp edge into Punchy's shoulder. He kicks the motherfucker down.

Edited 2013-08-22 18:24 (UTC)

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I've Been Wrong More Than I've Been Right [Closed]

ANDRAIA AND GHB

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THE BOYS

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let me know if I should change that

Same here; if anything needs changing, let me know!