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Prelude; Showdown RP #1
Topic Started: Jan 16 2008, 02:17 PM (56 Views)
Murrr
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sVo Rookie
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September 13th, 2003

We find ourselves at the wrong end of a grim, dark Detroit alley, surrounded by packed trashcans, rats, used needles, but most significantly of all, a blood-thirsty mob. The mob, predominantly male, are drowning out the pitter-patter of the near-torrential rain with their chants & calls, and all have menacing grins planted firmly across their faces despite the fact that most of them are soaked to the gills.

Suddenly, a well-built, battle-scarred man standing at about 6’5” bursts out of the crowd. He has a face that suggests he has been in far more fights than the average man, and he too has a grin across his face. The presence of the man, who wears a pair of black boots, black jeans, and a black leather trench-coat, seems to silence the mob.

“Brothers and sisters, our final fight of the night!” he yells out, his rough tone of voice echoing throughout the alley. “You’re gonna love this one… introducing first, making his DEBUT on the Detroit fight club scene… MARKUS KING!”

As the man says this, the mob erupts into cheers, as a battle-ready competitor steps out, arms raised, soaking up the crowd’s adoration. Markus King stands at a similar height to the announcer, and is certainly dressed for a fight; his wrists and fists have been taped up, and he wears a grey vest with a pair of blue jeans. King’s long blond hair is tied back into a ponytail, and he has a small, stitched-up wound in the middle of his forehead.

“And his opponent, you all know him, you all love him… DRAKE HAZARD!” wails the announcer.

Again the crowd goes nuts, as the man we recognise as Drake Hazard steps out from the opposite side of the crowd. He towers above everyone else in close proximity, standing at 6’11”, and has arms the size of which could probably hold off a tank. He wears nothing but a pair of fingerless black gloves on his upper body, showing off an almost completely tattooed torso, his chest, back and arms covered with images of serpents, barbed wire, fire, and various words and phrases. He wears a pair of black pants, has his brown dreadlocks tied back in a ponytail, and instead of showboating to the crowd, Drake steps right up to Markus, sneering in his face. This riles the crowd, and the announcer is forced to step between the two.

“Whoa whoa whoa! Don’t jump the gun, guys!” he says to Markus and Drake.

“I’m going to tear you limb from limb, fucker,” declares Markus, which is met with a grim chuckle from Hazard. Eventually, the two calm down a little, with Markus taking a step back.

“Alright both know the rule,” the announcer says, glancing at both men, “the first one to pass out, loses! Are you ready?”

Both Drake and Markus nod their head in reply.

“Good, then let’s get it on!”

And with that, the announcer dives back into the rowdy mob, who damn near explode as Drake Hazard and Markus King leap at each other. As Markus grabs the far larger Drake in a headlock, the sounds from the alley dim somewhat as the thick, raspy voice of Drake Hazard narrates.

Street fighting? Possibly the single-most brutal “sport in modern” society? Yeah, I’ve been there. For seven years, I OWNED the streets of Detroit. I took down everyone that they could throw at me… no matter what size, or what shape, they all met the same end.”

Back in the heat of the battle, Hazard has managed to shrug off the rookie’s headlock with relative ease. King charges back at Drake, but runs right into a hard right hand straight to the jaw. The blow sends Markus reeling backwards, and the follow-up jab sends him falling backwards into the mob. This, of course, fills the blood-thirsty gang with delight, as they throw King back into Hazard’s clutches.

”Some call it a bloodsport… and you know, they wouldn’t be far wrong. Every night you’d go into a fight not knowing whether or not you’d be able to walk out on your own accord. Hell, I’ve seen stupid, naive kids lose their lives on the streets… they thought they could handle it. Everyone loses their first couple of fights, that’s just want happens… heck, even I took some vicious beatings back in the early days.”

Markus makes a charge at Drake, and strikes him full-on in the chest with his fist. He continues the assault, trying to bring Hazard down until a rain of constant hard jabs. However, King’s punches are comparatively weak, and Drake absorbs them long enough to land a blow of his own to the forehead of King. The sewn wound on Markus’ forehead bursts open with this shot, sending a thin splattering of blood into a portion of the crowd; the sight of which only riles the mob up even more. Drake grins as Markus raises his hand to his forehead, before lowering his hand, and looking at disbelief in the amount of blood that has actually soaked into the tape on his hand.

“You done yet, kid?” Drake snarls, as Markus looks up.

“The hell I am!” he snorts, before leaping at Hazard once again. This time, he hardly manages to get any offence in whatsoever, as Drake kicks him straight in the groin. King arches over, winded, which allows Hazard the chance to club his opponent across the back of the neck, sending Markus tumbling to the floor.

”The premise is simple; you beat the other guy to a bloody pulp until he passes out, but of course, there is the chance that the guy could do the very same to you. So why do it? Because it’s the biggest fucking rush known to man… nothing else I have experienced can match the thrill of a good beat-down, and nowhere else is suited better to it than the streets of Detroit, Michigan.”

Back in the fight, Drake takes advantage of his fallen opponent, and clamps both hands firmly around King’s neck, strangling the life right out of him. In vain, Markus attempts to break the iron grip of Drake Hazard, but fails in doing so. As he feels the last few gasps of air attempting to leave his body, Markus slaps the palm of his hand down on the ground repetitively, signalling a submission. The crowd roars in celebration, as Drake releases his grip, before getting to his feet, one arm raised in celebration.

”When you’re winning, as I was doing consistently for a long, long time, it is the best feeling in the world. But of course, things can, and will, turn the other way…”

The scene slowly fades into a very similar scene. Again we are in a dark alley, surrounded by a rabid crowd, only this time it isn’t raining, and the alley doesn’t look nearly as scummy as the last one. This time, we are right in the middle of a square off between Drake Hazard and an even larger opponent. The man stands at least two inches taller than Drake, has a shaven head, and wears nothing but a pair of Dr. Marten’s and some long denim shorts. This taller man shoves Drake forcefully, and knocks Hazard straight off his feet and onto his backside.

”When you’re losing, it becomes quite the opposite… I believe it to be the worst feeling that a human begin could EVER feel. It’s akin to being sucked through a black hole, right into the gaping jaws of hell…”

The strength of his opponent seems to amaze Drake, who used to be the one that did the pushing around; it didn’t suit him at all to have the tables turned. Nonetheless, the leapt back up to his feet and with a sneer he charged at his opponent. However, the bigger man was unaffected by Drake’s attempted tackle, grabbed Drake’s skull, and head-butting Drake straight in the nose, sending blood flying everywhere.

”The night that I faced Piotr Kwitkoski was the worst night in my life.”

The opponent, presumably Piotr Kwitkoski, saw Hazard reeling backwards, and took full advantage of the situation. He grabbed him, and whipped him straight into the mob. Drake took down a few crowd members with him, as he crashed into a nearby pile of trashcans hard. The “fans” soon scuttled away, as Kwitkoski paced towards Hazard, who by now was holding his back and screaming out in complete and utter agony.

”Yeah, I’ve head injuries… broken bones, torn muscles, you name it. I was always able to recover in the past, but facing this guy was like driving straight into a tornado. He beat me like no man should ever be beaten.”

With a grin, Piotr grabs one of the trashcans, and empties its contents humiliatingly on top of Drake. The crowd cheers at this, and cheers even louder when Piotr brings the trashcan crashing down across Drake’s head, deeply lacerating his forehead.

“WHO’S YOUR F*CKING HERO NOW, HUH?!?” Piotr turns and yells in an Eastern European accent to the fickle mob who respond with rabid cheers. Kwitkoski turns around, and sees Drake lying on his side. He takes a short run up, before booting Drake straight in the stomach with his steel toe-capped boot, sending a violent eruption of blood spurting out from Drake’s mouth. Piotr does not relent, however, and sets about assault Drake’s legs, stomping down on them.

”When I woke up in hospital the next day, I knew I had to give it up. I ate my food through a tube for a whole fucking month, and I had broken bones that I didn’t even know existed…”

The scene changes again. This time, we find Drake lying in the only hospital bed big enough to fit his massive form. In his private ward, he sits staring aimlessly out the window opposite his bed, watching the ambulances and paramedics arrive and depart in a flurry of activity. He is in a terrible state; one of his legs and one of his arms is in plaster, his face is covered with cuts and bruises, and there are several different tubes attached to him, some pumping painkillers in, some supplying him with food.

”It took me a long time to recover from that, and even though I knew I’d never fight in an alley again, I had to satisfy my bloodlust in same shape or form. And what better place to do this than inside a wrestling ring?”

Back in the hospital, Hazard closes his eyes and lets out a long slide, before drifting away to sleep.

”This shit is a piece of cake… from now on, the wrestling ring is where I come to play. This coming Sunday night on Showdown, make no mistake, I am going to fucking obliterate TJ. Little punk calls himself “The Soul of Philly,” the cheesy little swine. I don’t care how good he may think he is; I’ve spent most of my adult life beating men half to death in back alleys, some jumped up shitbag with a stupid two-letter name ain’t gonna pose much of a threat to me at all. Wrestling? It ain’t shit. On Sunday night, I’m going to show the world exactly what I am capable of as I tear TJ limb from limb, I’m going to send you pig ignorant fuckers a message; sVo, meet Drake Hazard… things may get a little turbulent from hereon.

Fin.
Drake Hazard
W-L-D: 1-0-0
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