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| Alcohol; I love you more than..(Group PM to join) | |
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| Tweet Topic Started: Aug 28 2009, 04:18 AM (1,281 Views) | |
| Run4 | Sep 3 2009, 02:58 PM Post #16 |
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Iron Crow
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Caleb shuffled into the building with all the noise, scanning the room for anyone who could cause trouble. Like the man sitting on the far side of the room, with a table full of empty glasses in front of him. The other man, arms folded, concealing a knife with his upper left arm. And the scrawny guy sitting among a group of not-so-scrawny not-quite-friends. No one else Caleb could spot that would potentially turn what was a happy bar into a large-scale brawl. He rubbed his still-painful arms. Scratched raw and covered with deeper cuts from his near-mauling by that Molerat. Caleb looked around the bar again, this time searching for any faces he recognized. Maybe a few of O’Boyle’s hunters were here. He spotted Darrel leaning on the bar, apparently trying to mingle with a group without drawing their attention. Caleb, intrigued by this, looked at the people Darrel seemed intent on not talking to. He noticed a silhouette he recognized. Tall, lanky, scrawny, shifty. Eli! Who else could be so damn tall and still look like he thought everyone wanted to stab him? Caleb then spotted the top of a blonde head through a gap in the crowd. As the crowd shifted again, he recognized Betty’s face. Damn! Haven’t seen her in a while. The crowd shifted a little as he weaved his way through them, and he spotted the new outfit. He stopped for a while, as if he’d just been slapped in the face. His metaphorical blue-screen over, Caleb resumed his weaving through the crowd. He approached the group, slapping Eli on the shoulder (thankfully it was Eli, as he caught the lanky man somewhat by surprise). Caleb nodded to the group, and guessed how far ahead of him they were. Intent on catching up, Caleb ordered a drink and chugged it. As with his second drink. His little display of boozing prowess over, Caleb settled into his third drink, feeling the cheap, home-brewed, high-volume whatever-that-was catching up on him. “Caleb Wolff. Hunter, ranger, trapper. It’s good to see a few friendly faces,” Caleb said to the assembled group, directing the last part at Betty and Eli. |
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Caleb Wolff, Level 7 Tribal Ranger. (Inventory) Jackal, Level 5 Glowing Ghoul. (Inventory)[/align] | |
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| Dave Vaz | Sep 4 2009, 12:50 PM Post #17 |
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Ready! Set! Fail!
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((OOC: Sorry to keep everyone on the wait, I won't be having time to reply here for about a week longer -- I'm slap-bang in the middle of exams and my time is very limited. Just pretend Dave drank a couple of Nukas' and ignore him ![]() Anyway, sorry, guys :()) |
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Dave Vaz: SPECIAL: 6, 6, 4, 6, 8, 5, 5. Level: 1. Karma: 0. Rachel “Rae” Johansson Mayu Frederick: SPECIAL: 5, 6, 6, 2, 10, 7, 5. Level: 1. Karma: 0. | |
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| Harley | Sep 5 2009, 03:58 AM Post #18 |
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Wastelander
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(OOC: It's been fun, but I'm writing Patrick out. He's got some wasteland to be aimlessly traversing. Thanks for the company, all.) Patrick engaged in some meaningless (and extremely slurred on his part) conversation with Dave over the weather, raiders and Nuka-Cola for several minutes, but things lost steam and both men returned to their drinks, facing the bar. It was then that two new men entered the bar, one after the other. One was a large, menacing looking guy with dreadlocks and a relatively less menacing guy clad in a lot of black clothing. Both approached the (now quite large) group in front of the bar. The large guy seemed to dive head-first into the conversation taking place, while the guy in black seemed to hover near the edge of the crowd, right by Patrick. Eyes forward, Patrick downed the rest of his beer and reached for his last one, smirking when he saw the pile of empty bottles he’d left in his wake. Well, seems the cute-but-lonely girl ain’t so lonely any more. Patrick knew he was drunk now – the few of the day’s events he could recall at that moment seemed pretty funny. Especially the whole “robbing the dead” thing he was so hung up about earlier. Thinking back on it, Patrick chuckled. Things aren’t so bad. I’m not dead. The guy was, but he didn’t seem to mind. And he had hides. I should probably thank him for the hides. I wonder if he’s staying nearby? He looked really tired before. I bet I’d be tired too if I was dead. That’d be funny. Come to think of it, I am pretty tired... Patrick grabbed his last beer in his right hand, slapped Dave on the back in a farewell, hopped off his bar stool and walked groggily for the door. He walked out into the quiet outside the bar, contemplating whether or not to open his beer. I probably should save it. I bet I’ll be thirsty later on. I’m tired. Patrick looked around for his house, until he realised he didn’t have a house. He settled for the alleyway between the bar and the next building. He tried to get comfortable on the dusty ground as he clutched his bottle tightly. Here’s to a wonderful evening. Patrick fell asleep. |
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"Aim for the head! That's where the pudding is!" Patrick Reynolds, Wasteland Doctor S.P.E.C.I.A.L.: 3-8-3-4-9-6-7 Level/Species: 3/Human Karma: -50 Traits: Good Natured, Fast Metabolism Inventory: [2 Small Hides], [Pipe Rifle], [Rudimentary Revolver], [Switchblade], [Tattered Leather Satchel] Appearance: Average height and weight. Green eyes. Dirty brown hair tied back in a ponytail. White buttoned shirt, black trousers and brown boots. | |
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| Zilabus | Sep 7 2009, 08:09 PM Post #19 |
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Er'ry day I'm overseein'
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The other two could not, for the life of them, hold in their liqour. It didn't take long for them to go totally over the edge and start drunkenly talking to eachother, eventually leaving together as well. Sometimes it was smarter to be a little more conservative, even when you wanted to celebrate. That seemingly only left Betty and Eli, but not for long. Eli felt a rather heavy hand slap him on the back. It wasn't the strong, forceful type of slap he was expecting, but it made him jump anyways. It was the softer, nicer, calmer kind of pat on the back you expect from someone you know. "Caleb Wolff. Hunter, ranger, trapper. It’s good to see a few friendly faces," Eli smiled. It was good to see a few freindly faces, namely, two of the first people he had met when he had first arrived in this region of the wastes. Large, cresting dunes wheren't exactly inviting, but the people he first met where extremely friendly. "I haven't seen you in a long time either, Caleb. I was starting to worry you went out ang got yourself killed." Eli glanced down at the tribal's rather new scratches. "Hell, it looks like you've been trying real hard!" |
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Eli "Slim" Ambrose SPECIAL: 3, 9, 2, 7, 9, 3, 7 Level: 5 Bucket town reputation: -175 Equipment Weaponry: Molotov, Cherry bombs, Combat Knife, Laser pistol, Tack Mines, Smoke grenades, Syringes. Armor:Post-war suit Tattered leather jacket Inventory Homemade shotgun, Gumballs, Bedspread Mentats x3, Psycho x2, Jet x1, Wiskey x2, vodka 4 1/2 x Hides, 15 LSB dollars Appearance Caucasian Very tall, lanky, and slim, jet black hair in a greased into a subdued pompadore style. Dark eyes and a cleanshaven face. Brown Windowpane suit. Kelly "Featherweight" Capozzi | |
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| Clearing | Sep 7 2009, 08:35 PM Post #20 |
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Official Code-Puppy
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People left--but immediately two more came in. An extremely shifty--but surprisingly familiar looking figure. And, an actual familiar face. Neither one had a name, though. Maybe she was just smashed, but neither one had a name. Real familiar, though. A huge-ass tribal built like the typical tank. And the other one...blonde, had a great smile. That didn't seem familiar. The nice-smile'd one sat down nearish Dave, who was busy getting smashed. She turned right over to him and flashed him a smile. "You sure look familiar, stranger." Betty said, looking past the empty seat and the drunk Dave. "Seen you around town? Nah...Maybe I'm just smashed. You got a nice smile, I like that. I'm Betty." Before she could actually pay attention to this guy, however, the tank slapped Eli on the back. "Caleb Wolff. Hunter, ranger, trapper. It’s good to see a few friendly faces." Betty jumped. "Caleb! Hey ya big dog! How the hell are you!" Today was a good day. People popping up from all over. [[Ooc: Establishing Post order until Dave comes back. Zilla, me, Rad and then Run.]] |
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| Radiation King | Sep 8 2009, 07:25 AM Post #21 |
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"We can't stop here! This is bat country!"
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((WOOHOO! Bronze medal in the post order!)) Darrel smiled back. The girl was, indeed, totally plastered. It was fairly obvious, even from a few feet away, that her face was almost aglow with the warming effects of alcohol. He attempted to form words which only succeeded in catching in his throat and forming an awkward, bitter-tasting lump. Well, that was new. Either there was some sort of vocal inhibitor forced into his lungs or Betty actually had him charmed within five sentences ((goddamn charisma stat)). Luckily, Caleb rolled through the door right behind him and took the heat off. So Darrel just kept right on smiling, averted his eyes (forcefully) and continued to sip on his scotch. "Glad to see you're still alive," he said off-handedly to Caleb when he had finally finished his scotch, then added: "Why haven't you headed over to Nance's and gotten yourself patched up yet?" |
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Darrel Cohen, the smooth-talking "Gentleman Thief" (Level 3) Evan Laramie, the down-home gunslinger (Level 1)
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| Run4 | Sep 8 2009, 08:55 AM Post #22 |
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Iron Crow
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"I'm good. Pretty good. Got a few questions for when the tongues loosen a little later, but for now, I'm gonna get trashed. Who knows, maybe the signbacks are gonna kill us. Might as well get blitzed while we can," Caleb said, in response to Betty's question and to Darrel's. He spun a bottle of whiskey in his hand, pulled the cork with his teeth and started into it. He had no idea who was paying for the drinks, but they'd be broke by morning. And Caleb probably wouldn't wake up until noon, if not later. He threw back some more whiskey from the bottle before homing in on whatever parts of the conversation were interesting. Even playing catch-up at the speed he was, Caleb had a feeling these folks'd be on the floor before him ((Chem Resistant)). He threw back more whiskey. Or tried. Bottle empty already. Somewhat sadly, Caleb put the empty bottle on the bar-thing, just to have it replaced with another similarly sized bottle. Caleb sniffed it, took a small mouthful and sloshed it around his mouth. Rum! Caleb swayed a little before getting himself back under control. Slow down. Taking his time now that he caught up with the group, Caleb began to take part in the conversation, laughing at some joke about Nixon and a chicken, against his better judgement. Then someone ordered shots. The night was looking up. |
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Caleb Wolff, Level 7 Tribal Ranger. (Inventory) Jackal, Level 5 Glowing Ghoul. (Inventory)[/align] | |
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| Zilabus | Sep 8 2009, 03:50 PM Post #23 |
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Er'ry day I'm overseein'
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((I hear talk of a barfight, but I didn't know if I should be the one starting it or not. Sorry if it's a little short, also.)) "I'm good. Pretty good. Got a few questions for when the tongues loosen a little later, but for now, I'm gonna get trashed. Who knows, maybe the signbacks are gonna kill us. Might as well get blitzed while we can," "It all sounds like a sales pitch to me, man! A lotta people freakin' out over nothin' more then some crazy old man trying to make his goods sell better. He probably just got caught by a couple of critters, and had the brilliant idea of blamin' it on some impending doom. Or... maybe he was telling the truth. Either way, there's no point in worrin' over it now. Corroto's gonna win the election, and he's gonna set up somethin' to keep Bucket Town safe. " Eli said it like he meant it, and he did. At this point if Corrotto failed it could be catastrophic. Too many people asking questions could lead to a trail leading straight to him. It was time to start drinking, and to start drinking hard. Eli wasn't the type of person who could just stop after one, unless he did some major trying. Even then he usually did more then he should have. Why bother kicking out earlier when the getting was good? It was amazing how many people where drinking themselves stupid on that paticular night, likely to the owners great happyness. It wasn't the celebratory kind of drinking, but the afraid, panicy type of drinking. The atmosphere was still light, it just meant it was a lot easier to set people off in the wrong direction. |
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Eli "Slim" Ambrose SPECIAL: 3, 9, 2, 7, 9, 3, 7 Level: 5 Bucket town reputation: -175 Equipment Weaponry: Molotov, Cherry bombs, Combat Knife, Laser pistol, Tack Mines, Smoke grenades, Syringes. Armor:Post-war suit Tattered leather jacket Inventory Homemade shotgun, Gumballs, Bedspread Mentats x3, Psycho x2, Jet x1, Wiskey x2, vodka 4 1/2 x Hides, 15 LSB dollars Appearance Caucasian Very tall, lanky, and slim, jet black hair in a greased into a subdued pompadore style. Dark eyes and a cleanshaven face. Brown Windowpane suit. Kelly "Featherweight" Capozzi | |
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| Clearing | Sep 11 2009, 08:04 PM Post #24 |
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Official Code-Puppy
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[[Writing Dave out, as per his request. Also using the magical power of ‘Betty has had way too much to drink.’]] Betty waved as Dave walked out. He had muttered something or other about an idea earlier and now was out among the world. Probably drunk off his ass. I’ll probably see him when I walk home, passed over on the street. Poor guy. Before she could spin around back to her drink, she heard someone calling for her from the back of the bar. Or, at least calling in her direction. Her name wasn’t ‘Sugar-tits’ to the best of her recollection. She span around in that direction, crossed her legs and looked around. A particularly rowdy group waved at her. Yeah, that’d be them. “Yes?” Betty said, raising an eyebrow. She might’ve been more impressed by their guts had they picked something a little less bizarre to call her than ‘Sugar-tits.’ “My buddy here wants to know what you’re wearing under that tank top?” One of the men in the group said, elbowing another in the ribs. They all chuckled. “Bikini. Just came from work. I’m a model.” Betty said, picking up her drink and taking a sip. Laughs. “What you hanging out with Blondie, The Twig Tower and Fozzy the Tribal Bear? C’mon over here, show us your bikini. We’ll buy your drinks.” The same guy offered. Obviously the spokesperson. “I think I’m fine with Blondie, Twigs and Fozzy. Besides. I like real men. Not boys. Bet Fozzy here could eat you all for breakfast anyways.” Betty said, shifting to lean on Eli’s shoulder. That shut ‘em up. She turned around and continued to lean. She really loved the way Eli smelled. Mmm... And his nervousness. His skinniness. That he was so goddamn tall. His smarts—and smart assery. His humor—not all of which she got. His laugh. Betty started tracing designs on his chest with a finger, giggling to herself very quietly every now and then. Quiet those lascivious thoughts until you are sober. Talk to the one with the nice smile. Learn his name. Don’t you want to know! Huh! The little voice of reason said, but it was drown by the significantly louder slosh of booze. Betty hiccupped, then sat up, leaned in, and pulled Eli’s head closer to her’s. “Hey Eli. I’m only gonna be in Bucket Town for a little while longer. But why don’t you come home with me tonight. I got a big, warm, soft, comfy bed...Room for two.” Betty whispered, letting her lips brush against his ear. “How does that sound?” |
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| Radiation King | Sep 13 2009, 07:41 AM Post #25 |
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"We can't stop here! This is bat country!"
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Darrel camouflaged his face by downturning his head and slipping the brim of his trilby to cover his eyes as his face quickly burst into a wide grin. It was humorous, watching Betty attempt to seduce the clearly distressed Eli. It was like watching the spider hypnotize the fly, shortly before drawing him in for a quick snack. Darrel chuckled out loud at the analogy he had made in his head, along with the fact that it applied so well to the situation. His face glowed a bit. It was the drink talking. Darrel had never been able to hold his booze in an exemplary manner, and the fact that there were pretty girls, and a couple of lechers angering the pretty girl... If he wasn't a master of self control, Darrel could have gone off the handle right there. As it were, he just kept himself calm, breathed in and out a few times to steady himself, and took in more of his unintentionally-aged scotch. |
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Darrel Cohen, the smooth-talking "Gentleman Thief" (Level 3) Evan Laramie, the down-home gunslinger (Level 1)
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| Run4 | Sep 13 2009, 08:05 AM Post #26 |
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Iron Crow
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Caleb altered his standing. Fozzy wasn't the worst people had called him. He flexed his fingers around the neck of his rum bottle and took another swig, while sizing up the drunk sex-pests over at the table. Eli looked a little uneasy, although that could have been a result Betty chatting him up. He shifted his stance and placed a booted foot against one of the unoccupied stools nearby, subtly sliding it into a position where he could kick it at any of those dicks at the table if they tried to start something. The atmopshere in the place was wired like a powder keg. Even if nothing came of this in the bar, Caleb wasn't in any mood to let those assholes away with talking to Betty like that. He'd deal with them when the place closed down and they staggered home. When he was done, they'd be replacing staggering with crawling, or more likely, screaming for help. Caleb just went on, taking a sip from the rum bottle every so often as he kept an eye on those rowdy mutts at the table. One of them made eye contact with him, and then muttered something while gesturing towards the blood spatter on Caleb's face and upper arms, as well as the blood and cuts on his forearms from the Mole Rat attack. Caleb just watched them as they went from their seats to the bar and back, each time they went to the bar they picked a point slightly further away from where Caleb was standing. Tensions had yet to reach fever pitch, it seemed. |
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Caleb Wolff, Level 7 Tribal Ranger. (Inventory) Jackal, Level 5 Glowing Ghoul. (Inventory)[/align] | |
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| Zilabus | Sep 13 2009, 11:57 AM Post #27 |
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Er'ry day I'm overseein'
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((The narrator kind of broke into the scene for some reason, but I like how it came out, so get off my back.)) I wonder why they would call me fozzy? And I'm not even a tribal in the first place. I mean, I can understand Caleb being called twiggy. Just look at him! Not nearly as beefy and muscular as me. In any case, his supposedly newly found rivals made Eli jumpy and nervous, and sobered him up a bit. Even the air he breathed felt a little tense. these sort of places where supposed to be relaxing and enjoyable. This one seemed to have a rather large number of assholes. Eli suddenly became even more nervous, but this time it was because of one of his companions. Betty started tracing designs on his chest with a finger, giggling to herself very quietly every now and then. Eli nearly died. Betty certainly wasn't being shy, but it was such an inoppurtune ti... oh, forget it. Eli was totally enjoying it, and he was starting to lose site of what he probably should have been focused on. Betty leaned in and pulled Eli’s head closer to her own. He still tried to keep his focus on the angreir men acrossed the room, but who was he kidding? Caleb seemed t have it covered, for now, at least. "Hey Eli. I’m only gonna be in Bucket Town for a little while longer. But why don’t you come home with me tonight. I got a big, warm, soft, comfy bed...Room for two. How does that sound?” Say no. Just say no. She's drunk, and much younger then you, and she's probably just doing it so "Yeah, Betty, that sounds just great." Acrossed the room, someone, or, actually, multiple someones stood up. |
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Eli "Slim" Ambrose SPECIAL: 3, 9, 2, 7, 9, 3, 7 Level: 5 Bucket town reputation: -175 Equipment Weaponry: Molotov, Cherry bombs, Combat Knife, Laser pistol, Tack Mines, Smoke grenades, Syringes. Armor:Post-war suit Tattered leather jacket Inventory Homemade shotgun, Gumballs, Bedspread Mentats x3, Psycho x2, Jet x1, Wiskey x2, vodka 4 1/2 x Hides, 15 LSB dollars Appearance Caucasian Very tall, lanky, and slim, jet black hair in a greased into a subdued pompadore style. Dark eyes and a cleanshaven face. Brown Windowpane suit. Kelly "Featherweight" Capozzi | |
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| Clearing | Sep 14 2009, 07:26 PM Post #28 |
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Official Code-Puppy
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“I bet it does. Tell me when you wanna leave. I can go anytime. Say you’re walkin’ me home or something.” Betty said, nuzzling into Eli’s neck. She perked up slightly at the noise of chairs moving. She glanced around. Didn’t see anybody. She did notice that Caleb had some mean lookin’ cuts on his arms. What the hell had he been doing? Wrestling bears? Betty laughed to herself and then stopped. Strangely enough, that made a lot of sense. She leaned forward for a minuet and asked after a glass of water. She figured she had had way too much by now. And, while she wasn’t exactly sure considering that this was maybe the second (at best) time she had got completely smashed, she figured she might not have the highest tolerance for alcohol. She had learned early on that while women were in no way an inferior sex (men, even ones smarter than Betty still had difficulty finding where her eyes were) they were smaller. Sipping the glass, she leaned back up against Eli. “Hey, Sweet Cheeks. Outta the way. We got some business with Twigs and Fozzy that doesn’t concern you.” Betty sat up, turned around and looked at the speaker. Guy who had called her ‘Sugar-tits.’ His ‘entourage’ was behind him, looking equally ass-hatty. “Besides, I’d hate to hurt such a pretty face. It’s not just the body that’s alluring, then. Bit mouthy for my taste, though.” He traced a finger under Betty’s chin. His ‘entourage’ was just behind him. “Hey, ass-bag. You buzz off or I will fuck you up so hard with this barstool you won’t know your hands from your feet.” Betty said, splashing her drink in his face. This seemed to amuse his ‘entourage’ and piss Mr. Assbag off. [[Ooc: Also, happy fucking birthday Rad.]] |
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| Radiation King | Sep 15 2009, 12:23 PM Post #29 |
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"We can't stop here! This is bat country!"
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((Thank you very much, Clear.)) "You touch him with that barstool and I'll rip your arm off and shove it so far down your throat that you'll be punched in your stomach with your own arm." Darrel said, and not entirely in a coherent manner. With a lightning-fast motion, Darrel reached down and retrieved his switchblade, releasing the blade with a sinister snikt, bringing it so close to the drunk's face the guy could see his reflection in the mirror-like blade. "Now do you really want that, boy? Or should I get 'Fozzy' over there to tear your intestines out and throttle you with them?" The thief said, scowling, his formerly somewhat happy face replaced with a blank, scowling face bearing a mildly annoyed expression. |
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Darrel Cohen, the smooth-talking "Gentleman Thief" (Level 3) Evan Laramie, the down-home gunslinger (Level 1)
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| Run4 | Sep 15 2009, 12:56 PM Post #30 |
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Iron Crow
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((OOC: Time for some good ol' fashioned bar room brawling)) As Darrel pulled a knife, all chances of resolving this without violence went out the door, along with about a dozen patrons. Caleb winced and turned over one of the glasses on the bar, taking a mouthful of vodka from a bottle nearby. That. Is. Not. Vodka. Caleb thought as the foul liquorice taste of sambuka saturated his senses. As one of the asshole's entourage stepped towards Eli, Caleb grabbed a candle from the bar and spat a mist of sambuka through the flame, sending the gangster reeling as the flames burst across his face. It set his whiskey-soaked beard ablaze and the thug staggered away, flailing at his own face in an attempt to douse the flames. Once the other drunk sex-pests had recovered from their shock, one more went at Caleb, judging him to be the greatest physical threat, and consequently, beating him would garner more glory. Caleb punched him in the groin, grabbed a fistful of his hair and slammed him face-first on top of the upturned glass on the bar, smashing it to fragments and burying several sizeable chunks of glass in the unfortunate drunk's face. Caleb yanked the poor bastard's head back and lunged a ridgehand into the man's ribcage, just below the heart, staggering him and decisively knocking the wind out of him. Caleb followed up with a punch to the prick's upper arm, right in the belly of the muscle, leaving it limp and useless. As a dazzling finisher, Caleb grabbed the poor fucker's head and swung him down, face-first onto Caleb's rapidly upwards-moving knee. With a crunch, the two connected, dropping prick-features with a crushed nose and smashed front teeth. Caleb spat down on the unconscious drunk and turned back to face the others, somewhat shocked at the rapid demise of their unfortunate friend. Caleb eased into a relaxed boxing stance, flipped off the prick who'd tried it on with Betty and nodding to the group as a whole. "Next," Caleb snarled to the remaining ass-hats, as Betty had muttered earlier. |
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Caleb Wolff, Level 7 Tribal Ranger. (Inventory) Jackal, Level 5 Glowing Ghoul. (Inventory)[/align] | |
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