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| Jacob Hale vs. Franklin James Burke; Run4 vs. Munk | |
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| Tweet Topic Started: Jul 20 2010, 10:13 AM (311 Views) | |
| Run4 | Jul 20 2010, 10:13 AM Post #1 |
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Iron Crow
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Round 1 Fight Jacob Hale (Run4) vs. Franklin James Burke (Munk) |
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Caleb Wolff, Level 7 Tribal Ranger. (Inventory) Jackal, Level 5 Glowing Ghoul. (Inventory)[/align] | |
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| Run4 | Jul 20 2010, 10:41 AM Post #2 |
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Iron Crow
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Jacob Hale Equipment
Total: 50pts |
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Caleb Wolff, Level 7 Tribal Ranger. (Inventory) Jackal, Level 5 Glowing Ghoul. (Inventory)[/align] | |
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| Munk | Jul 20 2010, 12:03 PM Post #3 |
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One-Man Conga Line
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Franklin Burke Equipment
Total: 40pts |
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Andrew Hagan, Level 6, BTR: +40 Weapons:Switchblade (Concealed) Hunting Rifle (GC), 10mm Pistol (PC), Hunting Knife, Homemade Flamer (GC) Armor: Reinforced Leather Vest, Repaired Blue Jeans Currency: 2x Normal Hides, 1x Large Hides Tack Morgan, Level 3, BTR: -50 Weapons: "The Neurolizer" (Teir Two - Laser Rifle) Armor: Arena Denim (Teir One - GC) Currency: 0
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| Run4 | Jul 24 2010, 02:00 PM Post #4 |
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Iron Crow
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Hale crouched at the "Starting Gate" as he called it. A small chamber sane fighters were allowed to psyche themselves up in before fights. He ran his fingertips through the sand at his feet, closing his eyes and smiling faintly as he remembered the rivers of blood that flowed over it back when he was in his prime. His mind snapped to attention as the bell sounded. Not a ring bell. An old church-style bell. It was probably symbollic at some point. Hale didn't give half a fuck. He rose from his crouch, bones creaking as his heavy, sinewy muscles shifted and twitched under his scarred, tattooed skin. The attendant fixed his helmet in place. It was heavy, restricting. His thick neck held it well. It narrowed his vision, right down to where it was important. The enemy. The target. The victim. The bitch. In the end, they were all little bitches. His little whores. Snapped like chalk. He growled as he built himself up for the fight, shifting his weight from foot to foot. He reached out his left hand, sliding one monstrous, bludgeon-like fist through the belt-like strap that would hold it steady as his thick, calloused fingers clenched around the handgrip. He slid his short sword from his belt, spinning it in his grip to loosen out his colossal arm muscles. He sighed, calming his breathing as the gate opened in front of him. He stepped out into the oppressive heat of the arena to dead silence. Old man. Broken old man. Stupid old bastard. He knew what they were thinking. The young ones. The little shits picking their noses and fucking anything that walked during raids. He knew what the older veterans were thinking. Hale's Last Stand. One more tourney for the old dog. Burke's gonna die. Burke stepped in across from him to cheers from the young crowd. Hale silenced them. He raised his sword and pointed it straight at Burke, emitting a low, throaty snarl that reverberated through the ground and was felt in the gut as much as it was heard in the ears. A bone-chilling, psychopathic growl. Like something that should have been left asleep being poked awake. Something that should be feared being taunted. Hale smiled inside his helmet, slowly dragging his sword through the air in front of his neck as he watched Burke pace in front of him, wiry, lithe, his whole body moving in a way that blared out whipcord strength and blurring speed. Hale, on the other hand, was raw, brute power. An unstoppable juggernaut. The ground as good as shook as he moved. His monstrous, slab-like pectoral muscles heaved as he took a deep breath. No battle cry. Just that low thunder of the bell. Burke was on him before he'd taken two steps. That whip lashed out, ringing and scraping across Hale's shield. The noise shattered the silence of the noon, scraping like a blunt razor on a windscreen, throwing everyone off their guard. Hale answered with a vicious sword thrust that evolved into a hooking slash halfway through. Burke dodged without much trouble. Hale followed up with a backhand cut that nearly opened Burke's guts. Again Burke dodged by the narrowest margin, lashing his whip up around his head. Hale ducked, all but dropping to the ground to avoid the strike. He slid his massive frame backwards and circled Burke for a few seconds. Sizing each other up after both initial rushes failed. Burke circled like a Fox Rat sizing up a wounded target. Hale stood up straight and circled like an alpha male sizing up a potential usurper. He kept eye contact. He couldn't see it to prove it, but Hale knew Burke wasn't holding his gaze all the time. Every few steps he'd make an oddly precise one, like he was looking down at his feet. Hale readjusted his path. Putting his experience to use, he gradually began to back Burke towards the arena wall. Burke caught on though. The fuckin' little bitch. Too smart for his own good. The prick whipped low this time. Hale couldn't jump. He let the whip rake across his armoured calf. However, Burke was skilled. He flicked his wrist, sending a wave of motion along the whip. The razorweave piece of shit wrapped around the unprotected back of Hale's leg. The massive Pit Lord snarled and slammed his shield down on Burke's whip cord. The blow drove the cord into the sand and wrenched the grip from Burke's hand. The bastard dived after it, his hand grasping thin air as the piece of shit lashed beyond his reach. Hale took too long disentangling his leg to push the advantage. Getting slow. Time to push the experience again. He watched Burke's movements. Slower. More precise. Cagey. He was beginning to realise that even at his age, Hale was a formidable foe. A living bulldozer. Hale watched Burke. No more stacatto precision. He was keeping his eyes on Hale from now on. Never underestimating him again. The whip lashed out. Hale raised his shield, but the bitch did his wrist flick again, redirecting a small lash of the whip. It grazed Hale's ribs. Not a severe wound, but painful. A shot that moved every time Hale breathed. Every time he moved his arms. And every time, it tore just a little more. Hale felt the sticky warmth of blood trickling down his flank as he continued to circle Burke. This was going to be one of those fights. Not much damage until someone made a mistake. Then it'd descend into utterly random brutality. Hale made the first move. He burst forward, not taking up a lot of speed, but his massive strides ate through the distance between himself and Burke. He jumped at the last second, thrusting over Burke's left shoulder. A down-ward angled strike that'd slive his lung, heart and spine. Burke twisted at the last second, raising his shield just in time. The blow rang like thunder in the arena. The older spectators sat forwards. No one, no one, had ever stopped that before. The attack took a toll nonetheless, driving Burke to the ground and forcing him to roll away madly as Hale landed, his own impact with the ground throwing up a cloud of sand. Burke jumped to his feet, his left arm hanging noticeable lower than before, numbed by the nerve-burning impact of Hale's sword. Hale smiled inside his helmet and surged forwards again. He feinted left with his sword. He feinted right with his sword. He lurched his shield around. Burke blocked, bringing the rim of his own shield down on Hale's with a ringing bang, both shields humming briefly as they vibrated with the energy of the impact. The whip hummed around again, scraping off Hale's shield. Too difficult to ues this close. Hale swung his sword around again. The blow rang on Burke's shield, staggering him with the force. Hale's heavy-set muscle absorbed the impact effortlessly and allowed a follow-up. He rained thundering, ringing blows down on Burke's guard, staggering the smaller man around the arena like a child kicking a chicken around a barn yard. Burke ducked low and hammered his shield into Hale's armoured thigh, numbing the juggernaut's leg and gaining a brief respite as Hale staggered in his own turn. They both shook off their minute rattlings and returned to the fight. Hale brought his sword around, then followed up with his shield. Burke blocked the sword, then went to counter-strike. That was the mistake that reduced the fight to brain-boiling violence. His head was left wide open to Hale's shield bash. Burke's head snapped back against the impact, blood splashing out through the face guard as Hale's brute strength hammered the helmet back into Burke's face. Hale followed up with another shield bash, a wide, hooking blow that shattered Burke's whip arm. Burke fell to the ground, rolling and raising his shield as Hale made another jumping thrust. Another thunderous bang as Hale's sword impacted on Burke's shield. Burke was tossed back to the ground. The first man to block Hale's death blow. Twice. Such a shame he was a sadist and tried for pain, rather than the kill. And a masochist too, Hale mused. He could've sworn he heard Burke chuckle through the blood after Hale broke his arm. Burke staggered back again as Hale advanced. The bastard just wouldn't quit. Burke even tried to fight at this point! Hale swayed back as Burke's shield swept through the air dangerously close to his chest. Hale answered with a hobnailed boot to Burke's chest, pitching the younger fighter back into the dirt. And Burke jumped to his feet. Again. Like he enjoyed the punishment. Hale went at him again. Burke could only block the shield bash this time as Hale swung for him with his sword. The blow floored Burke as Hale followed his head. He missed the neck, but the impact would leave Burke's whole skull ringing. Hale grinned as a pair of rivets popped free from Burke's helmet. He slammed the guard of his sword down into the side of Burke's helmet, knocking half of the hinged faceplate off, leaving it hanging onto the rest by a few token pins. Burke grinned and slammed the flat of his shield up into Hale's face. Hale swore as the blow caught him off-guard. He lost his balance, scrambling to his feet in time to avoid a follow-through with the sharpened rim of the shield. Hale countered with his own shield, knocking the rest of Burke's faceplate off and sending it sailing into the crowd. Burke was spun from his feet, his neck almost snapped by the force. He shook his head to clear it as he rose to his feet. Hale was already in the air. Again, came the thunderous bang as Burke blocked Hale's deathblow a third time. However, the tide truly turned as the bang was accompannied by a lighter, but no less audible snap as Burke's elbow finally surrendered to Hale's strength. Hale towered over Burke as the younger fighter tried to get to his feet with two broken arms. To Hale's disbelief, and disgust, Burke was smiling. Against all odds, the sadomasochist got to his feet again. Hale lashed out. Burke ducked. He swung his head at Hale like a bull, his helmet spikes narrowly missing Hale's gut. Hale swung a counter uppercut, taking Burke's helmet off completely. It spun across the arena, ringing as it bounced off the wall. Hale snarled as Burke jumped him and sank his teeth into Hale's overly-muscled neck. Hale butted his heavy helmet into Burke's head. And butted him again. Only when Hale landed a third headbutt did Burke relinquish his grip, his teeth breaking free of his gums and remaining lodged in Hale's massive trapezoid. Hale was airborne again before Burke could recover. No defence this time. Hale's sword slid down between the vertebrae of Burke's upper back, through his left lung and through his heart. Burke fell, his body sliding effortlessly off Hale's blade as the giant landed. Hale himself dropped to his knees, his body aching as it protested this punishment. Too old for this shit. Last chance. Last stand. Won this one. Hale forced himself to his feet and turned to Burke's body. His face was still twisted into that sick, sick grin. Hale shuddered as he returned to the ready room. |
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Caleb Wolff, Level 7 Tribal Ranger. (Inventory) Jackal, Level 5 Glowing Ghoul. (Inventory)[/align] | |
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| Munk | Jul 25 2010, 12:48 AM Post #5 |
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One-Man Conga Line
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Franklin was in heaven, though most would call it hell. The raw heat below from the smith’s furnace and the impossible darkness of the corridors which was only broken sporadically by dimly lit torches. The sounds above of the dead and the dying, the clash of swords and the screams of the injured. The roar of the crowd which silenced at the killing blow and then erupted stronger than ever afterwards. Some cheered and some jeered, others had made their fortune in bets and other had lost everything they had. The other men would refuse to look or talk with you, afraid, so desperately afraid, that they may recognize you and therefore make what lies ahead much harder. They all know what lies ahead. Death. Death for each and every one of them. Frank’s lips curled into a soft and gentle smile. “You!” The guardsman shouted. “Get to the armourer. You’re up next.” Franklin looked over and knew who the guard was talking to. He stood up off the bench, where he’d been wedged between a pedophile and a young child, maybe sixteen years old, who‘d who had beat his own mother to death because she wouldn‘t put out. Hell though, at least they weren’t tribals. Damn savages, high on voodoo and vision spirits, trying to eat your heart and get your courage or whatever the hell they believed nowadays. Frank wouldn’t trust a tribal to piss on him if he were on fire. He walked the dank corridor to the amourer‘s room, perfectly concealed in the darkness. A phantom, roaming the endless corridors and halls of his old walking grounds, awaiting the day when the exorcist comes with cross and bible in hand, spouting fire and brimstone. The air was thick here, a sulfur smell so strong that you could taste it in your throat. The heat rose and rose as Frank approached the dim red glow at the end of the hall. The banging and loud “tink, tink, tink” of the Blacksmith’s hammer became deafening now. Occasionally the blacksmith would pump the bellows, causing blue flames to raise high and then fall. He would take rough flats of iron and metal from the furnace and hammer them into what could be called a sword. But Frank was not here to see the black smith. He was here for the armourer, who worked close by and in the same room. She was a burly women, bigger than Frank and far more muscular. Her head was shaved and she stole glances at the female combatants who were dressing and undressing. Frank walked up to her. “What’chu need fag?” She asked, her voice far too feminine for that outer look, she covered it up with language that would make a ghoul blush. “You stupid?” Frank asked. “I need armour. Why else would I walk the fuck back here?” “Don’cha talk ta me like that you fuckin’ pussy. I’ll wring you out, cut you open and stomp your tiny balls into a bloody fuckin’ pulp.” “You wanna go, you bitch?” Frank asked, throwing his arms out. She looked him up and down and decided it wasn’t worth getting thrown in the arena herself. “I’m not paid to fight you and you wouldn’t be much a challenge if I did. Remember that.” She glared at him and pointed at the racks and tables, situated at the other end of the room. “Armour’s along that wall. Hurry it up. I’m looking forward to seeing you get fucked over.” Frank ignored the urge to slice the woman from hole to hole. Why do that and risk an onsite execution when he could make them suffer in the arena above? He traveled between the table and racks, each was lit by a single candle and the metal of the armor glinted a little in the flicker of the light. Frank made careful decisions. The pants were seemingly just baggy jeans with metal plates affixed to the front and outer sides. Both shinplates were studded but the studs were dull and rounded. The left knee had a single spike welded onto it. He put them and they fit well; loose but protective. He chose the sharpest shield he could find, an octagonal thing made from an old stop sign and reinforced like a tank. The edges and corners were ground to a fine blade. The helmet was an old, very deep metal cooking pot, covered in welded spikes and with a spot the size of Frank’s face cut out and replaced with an openable grate. Frank’s entire head fit inside, though it was hard to see and fit awkwardly on his shoulders. And finally, the final piece to his armor, his whip. An old bullwhip, slightly weighted at the end and weaved with razor wire throughout. Frank wondered why he never thought of it. It looked so delightfully painful. He took it and returned to the Armourer. “You ready, meat?” She asked, apparently unsure of who was underneath the cooking pot helmet. Frank nodded his confirmation. She stepped out of the way and revealed a long darker hallway at the end of the hall she was standing in front of. A small elevator platform could be seen, which was really just a big, square piece of wood suspended from chains and driven by a winch. Franklin walked down the hallway and stepped in the platform. He heard the old engine of a Ford Nucleon roar to life, it’s rotating drive shaft now serving as a winch to lift the platform up into the arena. The steady whine of the platform as it lifted was soon drowned out by the massive roar of the crowd. Women and men and children could all be heard screaming and cheering from the stands. It rose like tsunami, inciting Frank with a strong fervor. He clenched the whip tighter, until his knuckles turned white. The platform rose up out of the ground fully and stopped. Franklin stepped off it and onto the blood smeared and steaming sands. The whole place stank strongly of death, blood and sulfur from below. Franklin loved it. The arena was an large oval, with concrete walls built ten feet high. Shards of glass, nails, and other assorted pointy bits had been embedded inside the wall, waiting for the blood of anyone unlucky enough to fall against it. In the stands, people made bets and screamed wildly. Vendors passed around sub-par food and drink. A raffle started, one woman won a full bucket of whiskey and a man won three Yao Guai. He was dragged away to “accept” his prize. Now Frank heard it. The whine of his opponents platform. On the other side of the arena, the opponent came up. “Holy shit. That’s one big motherfucker.” Frank said to himself. He was right. His opponent must have been bigger than anyone else in the arena by far and had the body of a man who fights bears on mountaintops. He wearing full armor, dressed like a damn tank. He held a big sword in his hands. It looked heavy, more like a claymore that he held in one hand. He twisted it in his hand and went down into defensive position, even before the match had been signaled to begin. Burke thought he heard something, a growl or snarl. Maybe the man meant to scare him? The announcer chimed in from a private box on his big, homemade bullhorn. “Two men enter! One man leaves!” He paused, listened to the crowd shout and cheer. He continued. “There’s only one rule! That rule is… don’t follow the goddamn rules!” The crowd shared scattered laughter. The announcer got to the point. “Hale! Burke! I don’t give a shit if you’re ready! Fight!” A blaring alarm went off and it began. Hale was already on the move, barreling across the sand like a freight-train. Frank didn’t have time to do anything but lift his shield up and put his bodyweight to it. The shields of both men collided. Frank felt himself being physically thrown from the force of impact, his back jolting as he fell face-up and slid across the sands. Hale was on him already, standing over him, raising that big sword to shove it point-first into Frank’s chest. Frank rolled and managed to escape the sudden descent of the sword. He got on his feet quick, let the whip unroll from his hand and gripped the handle of it tightly. He snapped it. Hale raised his shield but the whip bent around the top, striking Hale’s forearm. No scream from Hale, no fear. Hale wouldn’t be any fun until he started screaming. Frank yanked the whip back, snapped it again. Hale sidestepped and dodged it. He charged at Frank again, shield up front, body down low. Hale, it seemed , was skilled. Frank ducked and went completely prone as Hale reached him. Hale swung his sword where Frank’s neck had formerly been. Frank punched rather clumsily at Hale’s shin with the edge of his shield. Didn’t hurt but it staggered him. Frank grabbed Hale’s ankle, yanked it forward and the big man fell. Frank was up. He jumped, literally, onto Hale making big punches with his sharpened shield edge. Hale was swinging those massive tree-trunk arms trying to block. He struck Frank and Frank rolled off of him. Hale’s size was making it difficult to stand again. Frank snapped the whip at him, wrapping Hale’s leg and then pulled on the whip hard. The back of Hale’s leg opened into a gash and a river ran from it, red and bright, the essence of all life. It stained the sand beneath him, made it clump and for just a moment, Frank contemplated building a sandcastle. Hale didn’t like that idea apparently, he was coming at Frank again, swinging the sword in wide arcs. Frank snapped the whip and Hale got it along the chest, another gash ripping open. Frank was getting excited now. Hale swung, Frank ducked. Frank came up as the swing passed over and pushed Hale’s arm hard. The arm went farther than it should’ve, throwing Hale off-balance and Frank landed a punch to Hale’s helmet with the shield. The shield edges cut one of the straps holding Hale’s helmet on. Hale swung his arm back now. Frank ducked it once again and used a shield punch to cut the other helmet strap. Now he backed off. Frank had a moment to hear the crowd. They were maddened now, completely lost at the battle. The women were worse, they screamed and stomped their feet, beat the backs of the men sitting in front of them. Completely stark-raving mad. Men would shout, throw things, children laughed and made bets, mock swordfights would break out between them. Frank needed to get back in the fight, Hale was coming at him. He was slower on his feet now, the gash in his leg restricted his movement. That was good. Frank snapped the whip which wrapped around Hale’s armored shoulder and rips into his unarmored back. He pulled the whip back and snapped it again. Frank was moving as soon as the whip contacted Hale. He closed the distance, ducked under and behind Hale’s shield. He grabbed one side on Hale’s helmet with each head twisted it. The helmet was loose, heavy and, without the straps holding in place, spun easily. Frank twisted it completely around, leaving Hale blind, staring into the back of his own helmet. Frank got behind Hale who was frantically attempting to right his helmet. He snapped the whip at Hale’s back, rending it open. Frank snapped the whip again and again, revealing a little more of Hale’s anatomy with each hit. Skin, then muscle, then Hale’s spine, the back of his ribs. Frank was jumping frantically up and down wild a wild ape, swinging the whip harder and harder, laughing like a damn madman. His own laughter deafened him inside of his helmet. Hale went to his knees, then on all fours and finally collapsed face first, his helmet still backward and Frank liked that. He whipped the body still, high on life, death and adrenaline. When Frank stopped, brought down from his high, he looked at the blood-smeared body. Hale was still breathing shallowly. Frank stomped him in the center of his back, ground his foot into Hale’s exposed vertebrae and reached for his knife. He removed the backward helmet and spurred on by the raving crowd cut a clean line across Hale’s throat. He shoved Hale’s face back in the sand and stood up fully. The crowd loved it, Frank loved it and everyone was happy. “There you have it folks!” The announcer shouted. “Your winner, your champion, your loveable hell beast, Buuuuuurke!” Frank took the platform back down. He passed the next bit of entertainment for the crowd. Two men, handcuffed together. One held a shield and the other held a sword. They would be facing a captured hellcat in the next round. Obviously, the crowd wanted some comedy. |
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Andrew Hagan, Level 6, BTR: +40 Weapons:Switchblade (Concealed) Hunting Rifle (GC), 10mm Pistol (PC), Hunting Knife, Homemade Flamer (GC) Armor: Reinforced Leather Vest, Repaired Blue Jeans Currency: 2x Normal Hides, 1x Large Hides Tack Morgan, Level 3, BTR: -50 Weapons: "The Neurolizer" (Teir Two - Laser Rifle) Armor: Arena Denim (Teir One - GC) Currency: 0
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| Zilabus | Jul 25 2010, 01:21 AM Post #6 |
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Er'ry day I'm overseein'
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So this has been a difficult one for me to decide. All in all, you all had strong points and weak ones. Hales story was definately a bit more give-and-take then the story from Frank. But Franks side had a more cohesive style, and although it had less focus on the battle itself, it was more then suffecient in it's description. Then again, it is a pit fight, and one of you focused on the pit, the other the fight. I don't know where to go with this one. You both did good, but of course, you can't both win, especially not in a fight to the death. So, in the end, I found it too close to call, at least too close to call and be confident in my decision. So, I'm going to go by the judge packet I got, and settle on one of the tie-breakers. Repetition doesn't come into play yet, although cost does. 40 pts spent vs. 50 pts spent results in a win to the 40. Although honestly, I think if you where in different brackets, you most certainly both would've progressed past this round. |
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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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