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FITE NITE; Death to Vagrants, Tyrants, and Beasts
Topic Started: Jan 19 2013, 10:50 PM (836 Views)
Zilabus
Member Avatar
Er'ry day I'm overseein'
[ *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  * ]
Here we are, in the largest showdown in forum history. Six characters enter the pit - only three shall come out victorious. For this, the opening event of Roy's new fighting pit, he pulled out all the stops. Calling in on new players in town, and even somehow managing to pull in long gone associates to come into the ring for the chance of great rewards. When the night actually arrives, almost all of bucket town is in the crowd, rowdy from the flowing of liquor and the excitment of bloodsport.

The title fight, Eli (Ambrose) Vs. Max shall be split into three segments, one opening post, one middle, and then one final post. In between these, there shall be the intrigue of two smaller fights - first between post one and two, a climactic battle between Glides on Ruin and Jesse Winters, and then the second (between post two and three) an epic war waged between Jules Thorton and Eli Toppins. (Of course, with a big event like this, delay of fight is a serious event. If a member takes too long to reply, and/or blatantly ignores the topic he will forfeit.)

Because this is a payed event, fighters are getting a cut, with an extra large hide from the house going to every victor. A draw will result in an even split between the two fights. Between fighter bets are encouraged, heavily, and these bets shall be displayed by the fighters as the make their first moves (first post). All fighters must make a one hide buy in by this same merit, although if they can not provide one at the time of the fight, Roy will float them. These one-hide buy-ins go to the title fight winner.

Let Buckettown's new premier fighting event begin.
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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Zilabus
Member Avatar
Er'ry day I'm overseein'
[ *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  * ]
(Eli is putting up his signature suit as a wager. Max will bet his favorite chem-addicted smoothie, Carmen, and a pending foot-based ailment known as wetfoot. In a tie we'll just keep our personal items. This event takes place between Static and the events in which Eli elopes to the swamps with Hagan and Shawna. I know you're thinking, but man, when you lose, Eli's suit, the major set-piece for your whole adventure, will be gone, how will you explain that? I won't lose. )

Eli could feel his thoughts start to calm and his mind begin to expand as he let a mentats tablet slowly dissolve under his tongue. It was a strange phenomenon, and one Eli had never experienced before. His sea of errant thoughts dissipated, leaving only and endlessly expanding horizon of calculation and mindfulness.

Baby if you give it to me, I'll give it to you, as long as you want.

Eli's thin pale chest was exposed as he walked down the narrow, tight pathway to the main pit. The whole setup had been dug out near the center of the town, with a large square chamber for the fighting area and two smaller rectangular ones for the fighters to enter from. Above him, Eli could here the drunken yelling and laughing of the crowd. He had to bend over to avoid skimming the earthen ceiling above him as he made his way towards the fighting pit.

How the fuck Roy got Eli into this fighting gig was a mystery - and he could barely remember any of it, thanks to what he suspected was some heavy Buffout doping. All he remembered was wandering back into town and suddenly being scooped up by his old heavyset associate with promises of big payouts and a hand in Buckettown's new wealth and new government. Roy'd even apparently set him up with some kind of dumbshit tribal manager. However he'd gotten into the situation, Roy's hired hand pit fighters on either side made it clear that he wasn't leaving it without a fight. He cursed under his breath.

Eli'd never known shit about fighting, especially not in a pit where he wouldn't be able to use his lethal explosives or laser weapon. He'd make it work with his lesser equipment and his own body. This would not be an enjoyable undertaking, win or lose.

Eli emerged into the square ring, deep enough that the feet of all his fans and detractors where above his head. He heard their loud shouts and cheers now, and he looked over to Roy's giant form in the center of the ring. Eli closed his eyes as he awaited the arrival of the other fighter.
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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LMGVagabond
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Crispy, Creamy, and Quite Dreamy
[ *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  * ]
(I do agree to your terms, Zil; although keep in mind that for the past 3 months, I have been studying the art of showmanship from Macho Man Randy Savage, so you are in for a snappy match.)

Serving community service for killing and attempting to eat a dog in Bucket Town, Max Gersten was being forced into the pit to fight like a.....pit dog.(?) Sitting on the bench in preparation for the fight, Max's trainer, Amos Hennigan, began to recite an emotional speech that would no doubt inspire any man to do his best, or to fight his hardest.

[*][*][*][*][*][*][*][*][*][*][*][*][*][*][*][*][*][*][*][*][*][*][*][*][*][*]

Max walked down the dirty halls leading to the Pit with anticipation, because one, he now knew the guards' methods with tracking dog killers, which would make them eaiser to avoid in the future, and two, because he was about to kick someone's ass for free. (Also, as is the norm in the Pit, he would be given a reward in hides for winning.)

Standing at the gate, looking in to the bloody chamber that was the Pit's pit, Max swelled with excitement. The blood stained-floor, the drunken spectators throwing bottles and cans down into the arena and shouting profanities about the fighter's mothers was truly a marvel. Loosening up and cracking his ancient knuckles, Max waited for the match to begin.
Luis d'Duret
6.3.5.9.7.3.7
Level 1

Root Beer
Level 1

PLEASE UNMOD ME ;( ;(
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Midnight Rider
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The Super Cereal
[ *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  * ]
Both fighters were in the ring so it was showtime for Peter. He looked good in his referee uniform and he put a little swag in his step as he stepped up to the crudely constructed microphone. He hoped that this would work and not give him tetanus.

"Ladies and Gentleman!" Peter boomed into the microphone. "We are pleased to welcome you to our fight lineup tonight. Our first bought is the first round of our title card match up."

Peter took a moment to catch his breath and let the sound of voice sink in on the crowd. An effective pause can be more effective than words at times. After the moment passed Peter turned his attention to Eli.

"In the blue corner, hailing from the swamps out east, participating in his first sanctioned fight, standing at 6'5'' and weighing in at 200 pounds, Eli "Slim" Aaammmmbbbbrrrrooossss!"

The audience thundered in support of the challenger as Peter rattled off his name.

"And in the red corner, hailing from Austria, also participating in his first sanctioned fight, is a dirty rotten ghoul that you all love to hate, Max Gggeeerrrsssttteeennn!"

A healthy mix of boos and applause followed Max's intro, but like a true showman Max took it in stride. Peter called the two fighters to the center of the ring. As they arrived he began to give the usual intro.

"Alright I want a good fight you two. Nothing lethal, everybody goes home at the end of this. Go to your corners and when the bell rings come out swinging."
Posted Image
Gordon "Stone" Hennigan, SPECIAL: 5.6.9.3.5.10.3. Level: 6 HC
Peter McCullough SPECIAL: 4, 4, 4, 10, 10, 4 , 4, Level 3 HC

THE CURSE OF THE MUMMY

The spirits have taken an interest in you for all the wrong reasons! Unexpected challenges will come to you during your RPs but the rewards doled out will be much juicier. It is possible to live with such a curse, but if you would rather live curse free, you could simply sell the corpse and wash your hands of the whole situation.

Lmgthev: MBP is handsome
LonesomeDrifter23: Sometimes I think MBP is a being made entirely of satire.
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Zilabus
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Er'ry day I'm overseein'
[ *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  * ]
Eli's eyes flashed open. Of course it would have to be a ghoul. Of course. Why did the wasteland have to be so full of disgusting things he had to touch? He tried to shrug it off and think of the more important aspects. The ghoul was similar to Eli in build, although not quite as tall. Eli didn't know a lot about a fistfight, but he knew reach would come in handy.

Eli felt the rush of the Mentats affect his mental state. The ghouls clouded eyes and what might've been favoritism for one of his legs became apparent. Possible weaknesses.

Why the fuck did Roy convince him to do this again? Even if he did get drugged, Eli was confident he wouldn't do something stupid like this without some kind of reason, some kind of play.

He threw that to the back of his mind momentarily and prepared for the worst. Fighting a ghoul, again. First order of business - attack the eyes. Eli leaned down casually with his eyes on opponent and grabbed a handful of the dusty sand that covered the floor of the arena.

He stepped forward slightly and blasted the area near the ghoul's face with sand, immediately stepping back near the edge of the arena. He'd let his opponent make the first move.
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
Offline Mini Profile Goto Top
 
LMGVagabond
Member Avatar
Crispy, Creamy, and Quite Dreamy
[ *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  * ]
Seeing the lanky and frail figure before him, Max wondered how he got mixed up in all this. The man gave off an aura of conference and intelligence that made Max see him as a kindred spirit, two ambitious men stuck in a fool's world, alone. But fuck all that spiritual shit, it was time to kick his ass. Max noticed his opponent pick up something off the ground, but he couldn't tell what it was. Almost as soon as he took a step forward, his opponent hurled the object at him. Startled by the movement, Max evaded most of the sand, but a few grains landed in his left eye, irritating the hell out of it.

Charging at his foe, eye still really irritated, Max used his speed and agility against his opponent. He wasn't very strong, but he hopped that if he struck fast enough, he could wear down the other man. When he came within striking distance, he swung a couple of quick jabs on the man's fragile, feminine face before finishing with a few body shots, swinging at the man's gut with butterfly-esqe speed.

Waiting for his opponent's counter, Max danced around the ring, dukes raised in anticipation; and in the back of his head he could still hear Amos's speech. A single inspirational tear ran down Max's rotten face.
Luis d'Duret
6.3.5.9.7.3.7
Level 1

Root Beer
Level 1

PLEASE UNMOD ME ;( ;(
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Cewebwalz
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Henshin a go-go baby
[ *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  * ]
(Jesse is betting his whole inventory. GoR is betting a possibley degrading sexual session with a person of Jesse's choice. (I believe?) Because we are only doing one post, I am just going to RP the entirity of the fight. I hope that's cool, if not, idgaf)

Jesse Winters stood up as his name rang out. He was going to do battle with the other man’s coach, and to be frank, Jesse’s boi Gerkenstein or whatever was bringing the mother fucking beat down. Winters looked over to the side at his new manager, the cut he was collecting was redonkulous, but Jesse was vaguely positive that he was coming out with the larger sum. In the ensuing bet, Jesse had thrown down everything he owned. Not really a smart affair, but if he lost in the ring again, Jesse was just going to fucking off himself. First that swamper he did in a year ago that fancied himself a grappler, and now some upstart whacky tribal? In any case, he’d make the fight short enough for him to return to ringside, and allow his ghoulio to continuing smashing the fella with the striking resemblance to his old pal Eli before the doppelganger could recover from his blows.

He stretched out as he lead himself down into the pit, armed so heavily with cold steel and such that he half resembled a raider war chief. He held his bone spear in one hand as if he was anticipating some sort of wild beast charging, while he placed the straight razor in his front pocket. He stepped into the cage, and heard the roar of the crowd, all standing atop like vultures circling an old lamb and a wolf. Jesse being the wolf, and tribal being the old lamb. Hopefully.

The door shut behind him, and Peter returned to his broadcast news anchor ways. As he rattled off the names, and Jesse realized he was about to fighting a walking acronym, Winters tore off his biker jacket and threw it to the side. He had an old belt wrapped around his waist, and the end of the Tsunami race team outfit, a suitable pair of trunks for the brawl. He was shirtless up top, showing off his well muscled and hella scarred bod'. Jesse was like, pretty sure, someone in the crowd was checking him out. Hopefully. Strung on the inside of the belt, however, was the rest of Jesse's fighting gear. Ellis Colbeck's small cleaver, the ballpeen war hammer (a slightly larger ball pen hammer, believe it or not), and Jesse placed the straight razor in there as well for good measure lastly.

His opponent on the other hand, was armed similarly, but less severely than Jesse. The sleek tribal had some kind of funky hatchet, carved out of what looked like bone. His club was almost as funky, and it looked like he had brass crudely attached to the hilt. He carried a small quiver on his back, and Jesse almost laughed at the notion. Tribal please, YOU AIN'T GOT NO BOW, HOW THE HELL YOU GONNA USE ARROWS IN A MO' FUCKIN PIT FIGHT? Jesse than laughed just a little.

Roys booming voice, and his foot stomping on the top of the cage, announced that the battle had begun. Jesse lowered the tip of the spear, and started to make a slow approach towards the tribal. He did a few little spear thrusts, testing the weight, only now remembering that he had no idea what the fuck he was doing with a pointy stick. "God damn it Ellis!" He said it just loud enough for the tribal to hear, but Jesse just shook his head and continued. He slowly backed the tribal up against the wall with wide swings with the bone spear, and soon realized that it was meant to be used as a thrusting weapon. Jesse found himself lucky to not be laughed at, shrugged, and did a full on charge, spearpoint first. The tribal was caught off guard, backing up, and just as Jesse was about to impale him, he slipped out of the way like a bar of soap, and the spear tip found itself embedded in the wall. The tribal was quick to act, swinging the club at Jesse's head while Winters was pulling at the spear, and Jesse only barely dodging it. I'm used to dodging fists, not clubs....

Winters went to grab his cleaver, tugging at it, but the tribal wasn't going to relent now. His club came at an obscure angle, swinging from under the spear, and turning Jesse's ribs into kindling. The crack was so audible the audience cheered, and Jesse darted back before the tribal could deliver more blows. Jesse didn't look down at his rib cage, and for a moment under all the pain reality set in. Cracked, but not broken. A stronger man would've snapped the bones with the club, but the tribal only managed to get in a few fractures. Jesse almost smiled, but then the pain bit back like a fucking canine wrapping it's jaws around Jesse's chest. Winters looked over at the tribal, who had backed up a few feet, and just as Jesse finally managed to pull the cleaver from his belt, he snarled and tried to goat the tribal in. "What's wrong, brahmen-bitch? Gonna run from me all day or fight?" The tribal paid no heed, and went into a full sprint, leaping up into the air, landing like a gymnast on the spear handle, and using it as a spring board to fly at Jesse like some some sort of animal, bringing the club down (momentum and all), and Jesse failed to dodge. The tribal missed his mark, but the club ripped into Jesse's left shoulder, and the crowd screamed in delight at the trapeze act. Winters fell to his knee's, and the tribal rolled to a recovery, not breaking his stride.

The tribal didn't speak a word, but Jesse saw the delight in his face as the fuck assumed he was winning. Winters hissed in pain, standing to both feet, and glaring down the tribal as he made his third advance. This was direct, before he was weakening Winters, now he was moving in for the kill. Jesse outstretched his small cleaver at the last second, catching the club with the blade, and Winters surged forward, slamming his forehead into the Tribal's, and sending him back. Winters pulled the cleaver from the club fluidly, and wrapped his one good hand around the taped up grip, and sliced at the tribals neck. The tribal backed recovered from the headbutt sooner than Winters wished, and his neck was only grazed by the cleaver. Jesse lifted up his right foot to deliver a firm kick to the groin, intent on winning one way or another, and in some pre-karmic retribution the tribal leaped back, and in doing so gave Jesse a flying kick with both legs. Winters dropped the cleaver in surprise, and was sent sprawling back some six feet and almost into the cage, before recovering his footing. The tribal got back on his feet, the move was tricky, but did no real harm to Winters. The adrenaline was pumping now. Jesse despised fucking pit fighting, turned men into animals, but it was hard to get this kind of a thrill without having the hide. He reached down into his belt, and seeing that the tribal kicked the cleaver to the back of the cage, reached for the hammer.

He pulled the ball-peen use, and he was far more familiar with it's weight and size than either the spear or the cleaver. He came forward, the tribal clutching at his club still with both hands, starting to look exhausted from all his ballerina act. Jesse would end this before the tribal killed Winters via a thousand paper cuts. Winters spun the hammer in his one good hand, eyeing down the tribal, and when the two met in the middle of the pit, the crowd started to pound their feet in anticipation, watching the fighters circle each other. Jesse licked his lips, and moved in. He feigned an attack with the hammer, before criss crossing it's flight path and pounding into the hand he held the club with, cracking fingers, and sending a jolt of pain through the tribal's body. Jesse kept up the attack, the tribal switching the club to his off hand, slower with the club, Jesse swinging right and left, the tribal had reach but he failed to use it, and Winters pressing in. The hammer bashed the side of the tribal's war club, sending it out of his hand, and Jesse gave the longest wind up of his life as he prepared to lobotomize the tribal with the ball-peen point. The tribal was too quick, and in a show of nimbility, slid under Winters leg. If Jesse had been surprised he had certainly shown it, and before he could turn around the tribal had pulled out his hatchet, and swung at Winter's leg.

Jesse had a small chunk of his leg sliced clean open, and fell to the ground. He rolled to his back, eager to avoid the next swing, and saw the tribal standing over him, raising his hatchet like an executioner. Jesse kicked out, slamming the tribal in the crotch, and breaking his concentration. He wavered, and Jesse exhausting all the strength he had left in him, sprung forward, tackling him to the ground, and pulled the straight razor. He flicked it open, and lying on top of the tribal, he swung for the jugular. The tribal reached out, grasping the blade with his hand an inch away from his throat, and blood poured down his hand onto his arm, onto his body, as Jesse pressed on harder. Just when it looked like Jesse would have to start sawing through bone, the tribal burst up, wrapping his mouth around Jesse's hand, and biting.

Jesse held the blade in position for a moment, but he lost his resolve when the tribal drew blood with his teeth, every canine, incisor, and molar feeling likes tiny daggers pushing through Winters skin. He let go off the blade, and the tribal slipped between Winter's legs. He backed up, reaching into his jacket, pulling an arrow from his quiver. Jesse was out of his bag of tricks, but the tribal still had something left in him. Winters, in a move of sheer coincidence, backed up against the cage, and recalled the glass raps in his pocket. It'd take a second to put them on, but in doing so, he'd be at least able to add some extra punch, to his, well, punch.

Winters pulled out the raps, and sooner than later, had one hand wrapped. As he began to wrap his main hand, the tribal realized what Jesse was trying to pull. and charged Winters, blood dripping from his hand and onto the arrow shaft.

Jesse, on the other hand, couldn't exactly dodge with his leg wound being as severe as it was. He stood still, one hand holding onto the cage for support, the other out in front of him. Jesse panted, and the adrenaline started to leak, and he panicked. His mind went back. Past Texas, past the rest of the god forsaken south, and back to New York. He reconciled for half a second, and remembered the jailhouse, and had the horrible notion that the only way he'd be able to defeat a near crippled tribal, was the following.

Winters took one step forward, and in his last burst of energy, side stepped the tribal, wielding two arrows like daggers, and grasped him with one hand, and Winters using the entirety of his body weight slamming the smaller man into the wall of the pit. He did it once more for good measure, before the tribal dropped to the ground. He turned around, life still in him, throwing an arrow like a dagger and grazing Jesse. He threw the other one, and it landed a few feet away, too weak to focus. He got to a half crawl, and the tribal used the last drop of his strength to pull himself away, and to the center of the pit away from Jesse, before reaching for another arrow in his quiver.

Winters leaped, and pain flared up in his sliced up leg, kicking the arrow out of the tribal's leg. Before Jesse collapsed, he got on top of the tribal, sitting on his torso, with both their eye's locked, the tribal raised a hand to try and give Jesse one last puncture wound with an arrow some two feet away, just out of arms reach. Winters raised both fists and started to bash in the tribal's head, and Jesse's thick calluses went to work. He smashed every part of the tribal's face, turning it into a bloody pulp. He busted open his lip, broke his nose, clobbering both eyes, and threw more heavy, sloppy blows than he had in the last year in that minute. The tribal only surrendered when his body forced him to, the pain over riding his systems, and falling unconscious while Jesse's hands were still at work, and only when Jesse's arms began to tire, and the adrenaline let the pain return, did Jesse roll off the tribal.

He crawled to his feet, feebly attempting to celebrate for the crowd, before someone from outside the pit came rushing in for his, and the tribal's, treatment.
Jesse Winters - Penitentiary Pugilist
8(+2).5.7.5.5.8.4, Level: 4 -HC-

Grace Van Vliet - Indie Incinerator
5.7.7.5.5.4.7, Level: 3 -HC-
Quote:
 
Lmgthev:� Like tbh I agree CP is not the golden boy at all
Lmgthev:� You're like John Candy from Cool Runnings
Lmgthev:� Washed up has been who teaches the newcomers the trade� :D

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"What is Adderal, anyhow?" - Funky Fan
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Midnight Rider
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The Super Cereal
[ *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  * ]
Shit man this wasn't even close. The tribal hit the mat like a sack of mutfruits and Peter began his count. 1... 2... 3... 4... 5... 6... 7... 8... 9... 10...

The bell rang and the crowd roared as Jesse was declared the victor in this bought. A team of medical professionals escorted the defeated tribal out of the ring. It was going to be a rough night for GOR as he now had to live up to his side of the wager.
Posted Image
Gordon "Stone" Hennigan, SPECIAL: 5.6.9.3.5.10.3. Level: 6 HC
Peter McCullough SPECIAL: 4, 4, 4, 10, 10, 4 , 4, Level 3 HC

THE CURSE OF THE MUMMY

The spirits have taken an interest in you for all the wrong reasons! Unexpected challenges will come to you during your RPs but the rewards doled out will be much juicier. It is possible to live with such a curse, but if you would rather live curse free, you could simply sell the corpse and wash your hands of the whole situation.

Lmgthev: MBP is handsome
LonesomeDrifter23: Sometimes I think MBP is a being made entirely of satire.
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Zilabus
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Er'ry day I'm overseein'
[ *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  * ]
(I figure I've waited long enough to give you some wiggle room, braj LMG. If not, well, GET AT ME. Also I believe this round or whatever should only be one post long to keep momentum and keep things going. Also, at the end here I leave a little openess. Give n' take, ya know? Feel free to have Eli strike in any way that's appropriate - as long as you don't make it obviously favored towards you or exploitable or whatever. )


Eli heard the sound of flesh slapping on flesh as the ghoul swung his atrophied, patchy looking fist into the side of Eli's neck. Eli'd awkwardly sidestepped it, which made the blow slightly less painful, or at least as far as he could guess. The ghoul, after the short exchange, bounced back on his feet, surprisingly quick. Eli was okay with giving him some space, stepping back himself.

Eli could still feel the sting of the blow on his neck.

Eli could see a single tear run down his opponents grotesque face. In the crowd, out of his peripheral vision, he could see a fly floating upside down in the beer of some drunk, bald-headed goatee sporter.

He could almost see too much, comprehend too much.

It was jolting and lagging and strange, slowly working into the Mentats high. As moments passed, he slowly started to regain focus, and he brought it down onto his opponent. Something suddenly felt familiar about the scarred form and discolored skin of the ghoul opposite him. He shrugged it off and decided to reengage his opponent. He knew he had to find a way to gain an advantage.

He suddenly flung multicolored orbs off onto the smooth ground in front of him at his opponent. It was time to try and expose the weakness of the possibly favored leg. The gumballs normally would've been more treasured, but he had more then a handful of them, and they'd grown so hard that they where teeth shattering more then jaw-pleasing. Technically, they wheren't outlawed, in the pit he knew. They where just candy he'd accidentally dropped.

He advanced on his opponent, preparing to strike out at him if he faltered on the hard round objects that had scattered toward the ghouls feet.
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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LMGVagabond
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Crispy, Creamy, and Quite Dreamy
[ *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  * ]
Max was anticipating his opponent to pussy out, causing him to close in. Just then, his opponent surprised him by hurling something at him, scattering all about the floor of the pit. Losing his balance in a hilarious fluttery dance-like movement, Max finally slipped on the objects and fell flat on his back on the ground, trying to use his agility to get back on his feet, all the while trying to brush the mysterious pebble-like objects out of his way.

In the confusion, his opponent delivered a wild kick to the side of Max's head, causing his head to jerk to the right and disorienting him further. Continuously raining down the wild, random kicks on Max to the point were he was beginning to be overpowered by the onslaught. However, he seemed to tire quickly, and backed off, giving Max some breathing room.

Keeping things simple, so that his opponent couldn't try anything else so clever, Max scooped up some of the rock-hard objects, harnessing all of his strength in his throwing arm, he pelted his opponent with the objects like a shotgun firing birdshot, causing both satisfying thuds against the man's body and loud plinking from the pit's walls each time a pellet struck it. Getting back on his feet, Max backed up to his corner, awaiting the next round.
Luis d'Duret
6.3.5.9.7.3.7
Level 1

Root Beer
Level 1

PLEASE UNMOD ME ;( ;(
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TheTyrantOfTyrus
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What is YOUR meat agenda?
[ *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  * ]
(Betting Eli's Amarillo Cola, and Kitchen Knife)
Eli slumped forward, his hands intertwine shaking nervously. He was alone in this ready room of sorts, it was more of a simple underground earthern room. The walls were jagged with rocks and had large dirt clumps, it seemed weeks of tunneling and digging is still pretty rushed. Eli wasn't even supposed to be in this fight, he didn't even actually volunteer. It seemed like only a few hours ago that a man knocked on the roof of Eli's lean-to promising rewards. Of course Eli knew that the Fighting Pits were building a new arena, but he hadn't know until after he accepted the contract that he was going to fight hand-to-hand as a kinda first blood blessing.

He heard the various drunken cheers and jeers outside that seemed to penetrate into the underground room, it was night time though. He may not be able to win throught force of strength. But his mind was focused and clear as the night air, his eyes were focused and had absorbed every little detail about the room. It's recent scrapes and scrathes, footprints and random clumps of dirt, drag marks and blood stains. Quite strange since this was the "christening" of this boat of blood.

He continued down the earthen tunnel, emerging from it, Eli heard the full force of the wild screams of drunkards and junkees. He gazed at the audience; drunkards, junkees, and Vernon hooting their asses off to see some blood spilled. He felt the calm night breeze on his bare chest, turning he extended his arms outward. His burns were grotesque and morphed, they covered most of his chest and parts of his abdomen with some small burns extending into his shoulders. Apparantly fighting shirtless was the most honorous way to fight, than Eli glanced at his opponent.

Jules Thorton was his opponent, he seemed a bit small and compact with ebony skin. He seemed well-toned, his muscles lean and mean and graceful looking. But he was off-putting, a scar crossed his eye leaving it milky and greenish. He probably wasn't going to like Eli if he tried to act friendly after the fight. This was worrying, he seemed faster and stronger than Eli, this fight wasn't fair. Than again, every fight that Eli had fought was not fair, but if anything that his older brother's aggresive beatings taught him something. Any man can fall, if you strike the right place.

"ELI! Just so you know, I have some hides on ya! Try not to lose!" Henry shouted drunkenly, trying to rally Eli's fleeting bravery. He raised up his glass, it's contents toppling and splashing outwards. "Lutte, lutte, lutte, lutte!" Eli gazed at his friend, he sighed with embarrasment.

Both of their names were sounded by the referee, Eli held out his hand and they shook. Toppins took that initiative and struck with his forearm into his opponent's chest, Jules recoiled backwards. The burnt man stood high, then his smirk turned into a frown as he felt himself fall on back. His body was aflamed, his chest singing with pain, his breath hardened and quicked as he felt some spit pooling in his mouth. Jules struted over to Eli, who poised himself back on his feet.

Eli spat out a mixture of blood and saliva, and Jules seemed to have a smile on his face. Jule's opponent smirked too, his teeth stained crimson, the crowd was hollering and Henry was embarrased by his companion's humiliating actions. Eli charged out Thorton, tackling him as he thrusted the small man onto his back. Toppins had kept his knee pressed unto aggresor's chest, balling his fists, he struck him once than twice, each time putting his strength into every strike. Jules gained the upper hand, Eli felt the course dust of the floor of the arena dig into his back, a foot upon his chest.

Another foot smashed the side of Eli's face and again it happened, Eli's face bleeding and bruising and bright red blood streaming from his nose. Jules' foot stop however on his third strike as Eli clutched his foot, Jules crashed down onto the ground, as his opponent pushed himself onto his feet. Eli threw a weak punch, one that beared no real damage, than he felt a swift strike to the chest and than another to his side. Then Toppins felt a kick to the leg, he caught himself on kneeling with his breath quickened as ever. Than a strike to the face, than with a stong thrust he felt his face smash against the floor, a blood splattered on the floor as Toppins spat out. The burnt man's hopes for victory were as fleeting like the blood in his mouth that was escaping. But pride is a powerful thing that cannot be ignored.

Jules was ready to smother Eli into the blood-soaked dirt again. However, twisting himself so that he could both shake off his aggressor's grasp and so he can land on his back, he took both his feet and kick with all his remaining strength. Jules rebounded as Eli poised himself, gripping his knees as supports. His nose and mouth were bloody, his face was bruised and scratched, his pants were drenched with blood, and . Jules seemed a bit winded, but not as winded and far gone as his opponent. Pride is a powerful thing, that was most evadent when he charged again, limping forward to attack a man with a superior advantage.

Eli didn't know if it was the element of surprise or the fact that Jules didn't think much of Eli's advance, but he was able to catch Jules off guard. Eli clumsily hooked his opponent, knocking him off balance and pushing into the wall of the cage. Keeping his forearm against his opponent's throat, Toppins jabbed Thorton's thick broad face quickly, than again, than again, than again. Finally Eli lifted his forearm and uppercutted his opponent. Jules' eyes closed and he slid down the wall, snoring and deep asleep. Eli fell to his knees as the adreniline left his body, then a silence was broken, and screams roared. Than Eli passed out bleeding.
Marshel Vic HC
7 4 8 6 6 4 5

Aryanna Leatherback
9 2 7 2 4 8 5

Charlie Klams
5 4 5 6 8 8 3
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Blue
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Showdown Record: 1 - 1 - 1
[ *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  * ]
(Jules is betting his switchblade and a jet inhaler.)

Despite the massive crowd of nearly fifty bloodthirsty onlookers, the whole setup felt rather ragtag and unprofessional. His time with West Texas Hunting Coalition had gotten him a contact with some of the sheriffs, and after a friendly day of patrols they had retired to Bobo's. Jules even bought the first round, but his reception slowly dropped to the dumps as he robbed the poor sheriffs blind in a drinking game. After winning both of their clubs and pistols, as well as a week's worth of food rations, the pair had sent Jules a job offering; one week later the pair drug him into Roy's Office, where he 'volunteered' for a round of fighting with another outsider.

Now, Jules sat in his small dugout, waiting for a large African and his tribal opponent to finish their bout. His prep room was a small underground chamber, filled with a cot occupying the wall opposite the door, a washtub on the right wall, and a full length mirror in the other. The walls ran with both fresh dust and dirt, supported only by a triangular set of support beams on each wall not touching the doorway. Atop the cot, Jules's form lay stretched out flexing his leg muscles. He had no idea what type of fighter he would be up against, and his speed and dexterity would be his greatest strengths no matter his opponent.

Should his foe be a powerful slugger, dancing around his punches and wearing him out would be his plan. If a grappler showed up, Jules would do his best to avoid the bastard's holds and throws, using his speed to slither out of any sticky situations. And finally, if another speedster showed up, he would be prepared for a ballet dance of death. Jules hopped off his cot and crossed over to the washtub. The cold water splashed over his face, keeping him in the moment. Somewhere not far off, a bell sounded and the crowd roared in approval. His manager, a short, dopey buffout addict, strolled in and said:

"Howdy champ, its show time."

Jules nodded and splashed another handful of water on his face. He shook his arms out to loosen his shoulder joints, then quickly followed them up with a trio of shadow punches. His footwork was prime, dancing around the small dugout for no one to see.

"Is someone getting excited about the pitt finally?"

Bailey, the odd southern accented trainer, laughed as he took in Jules's zoned in pose. The fighter threw a few more jabs then nodded solemnly.

"Not to fight," Jules replied coldly. "I'm here for the money, except my prizes will go towards survival, not a new batch from Hooked."

"I can assure you Jules those are just rumors," Bailey stammered, a hurt expression on his generally upbeat face. "I only have you're best interests at heart."

"Yeah, well, my bad then. What kind of sap am I fighting?" Jules said. Deep down a little ashamed for hurting Bailey's feelings. Despite being a former fighter, the man was friendly and respected Jules after their three training sessions. Maybe he would be rooting for him just a little bit less now.

"Some slicked back motherfucker from out east," Bailey said with a cheap, plastered on grin. His face was happy but his eyes still held some hurt. As a rookie manager he had wanted his first prospect to at least like him. "He looks kind of thin, moved a little awkwardly, but his eyes were creepy and darting. I'd watch it, hit him with some feints, they're your strong suit, and then just go at him. You can take punishment; he looks soft."

Jules nodded and brushed past him on the way to the arena; before he reached the waiting area he turned back and said:

"Thanks for your help Bailey, know its appreciated."

He never saw Bailey's response. ______________________________________________________________________




The pitt, as horrid, cramped, and vile as it was, managed to tarnish its namesake as little as possible; for the homemade arena was just that, a poorly dug pitt. Jules stood, not very tall, but proud against the sea of screaming faces. The last bout hadn't been a fight so much as a slaughter. The tribal was bruised and battered, yet the African and champion had walked away unscathed. It has been flashy and exciting, but the crowd had grown restless due to the length and lopsidedness of the conflict. Now they feasted for a real show and there was spite in their howls; the good folk of Bucket Town hadn't seen blood spilled since their own revolution, and they wanted the suffering to change hands, if only for an evening.

Jules stood proud against the onslaught of cruel chants meant to infuriate him. They were getting to him, driving his muscles to flex and his eyes to narrow at his target as the tall Cajun stepped into the ring. Bailey's comments about his opponent came back to him. The Cajun had six inches and maybe ten pounds on Jules, with the same black hair except lazily slicked aside and hanging in strands around his eyes. The man was shirtless, clad only in a similar pair of shorts as Jules was; each constructed of jumpsuit-like material meant for brawling. A series of sickening, off-color scars ran across his body, which upon on closer inspection, Jules realized were burns.

The flesh seemed to glow and steam in the light, offering a ghoulish view of his rival pitt-fighter. A bell sounded somewhere, the ill chimes of brass were but a call of death against the jovial uproar of the masses. Jules circled his opponent, feet chopping with swiftness, eyeing up the Cajun. Each move Jules threw at him, a feint here, a shadow jab there, was studied and reacted to perfectly. The man was a tad clumsy and built rather non-threatening, but his eyes darted back and forth at a speed to match Jules's legs, ready to block his every move. Some fighters attacked, others played defense; and without prior knowledge of the Cajun, Jules had to assume the man could do both. The darting eyes claimed as much.

Unwilling to wait for the Cajun's inevitable attack, Jules broke his routine of circling and feinting, and charged forwards into the maw of battle. His first move was to target his opponent's legs and remove him from the speed game. Jules dove for the man's leg, rolling away when the Cajun launched a wicked kick at the young mercenary. Without breaking stride, Jules rounded back and flung himself at the Cajun's kicking leg, wrenching backwards on it and slamming the man hard on his ass. Jules was on him in an instant, sending a storm of punches at his incapacitated rival. A long, shrill scream rang out as the man's burns erupted in agony against the rocky floor. Jules's weight pinned him to the ground for a few seconds, but the Cajun rolled him off with a powerful shove and scrambled away from the young fighter.

The intensity of the combat had momentarily blocked the sting of his wound, but the Cajun's kick had caught Jules square in the ribs and left him with a deep pain in his side. Jules's wasn't ready to relent his goods and cash just because his ribs hurt, and readied himself all the same. His eyes found the Cajun's, and they locked each other in a lengthy mental battle. Jules, full of passion; the Cajun, full of hatred. What felt like an eternity of stare-downs and side pain was really only three seconds, enough time for Cajun to go on the offensive. He wasn't quick enough to get through Jules's defense, but the man kept sending punches that somehow nearly broke through. Cajun picked his shots with a inner ferocity, keeping Jules from retaliating as the young mercenary was forced to dance around his punches and favor his injured ribs. The entire time this second round of sparring waged, both fighters remained locked in a brutal mental standoff, neither willing to relent and break eye-contact. Honor was on the line.

One punch broke through Jules's parries, lighting up his ribs in pain. It was a perfectly timed and aimed shot; for such a physically unimposing fighter, this Cajun certainly knew how to control his shots. Another came through Jules's defenses, catching his shoulder. Then came another. And another. As pain filled up his core Jules's lost focus, his vision blurred, and above all else, his ribs were on fire. In desperation, he tucked and rolled through the sweaty and bloody sand, ending up clear of the Cajun's punches. A chorus of perfectly timed boos rang down from the onlookers. They wanted blood. At this rate, it would be Jules's.

As it happened, the Cajun also had a craving for Jules's blood, and took to the offensive once again. Jules was the wounded animal, ready to be picked off as soon as his weakness could be exploited. Rather than retreat and go on the defensive, Jules made a mad-dash at the Cajun, spearing him with a full on gore tackle. The crowd leaped to their feet and screamed bloody murder. Above even the sudden and powerful roar of the crowd, the Cajun let loose another bloodcurdling screech as pain lit up his wounded back. Jules was elsewhere; oblivious to the man's current pain and focused upon only dealing more and more to the wounded Cajun. His fists began to grow raw and his side struck him with a lighting flash of pain, but the onslaught of fiery fists rained down upon the Cajun, who feebly struck at Jules's weakened flank. The pain in Jule's side was white-hot yet oddly energizing.

Blood spilled from the Cajun's nose as a vicious punch broke his nose. It ran lazily down his face as he continued to hammer at Jules's side, his strength draining away with the blood from his nose. Jules heard another sick crack and pain shot through his knuckles; he made a mental note to watch his right pinkie, it was broken. Yet the fighting continued, if it could be called that. Finally the guards drug Jules away from the unconscious Cajun. His shoulders and arms were on fire, his right had had swollen up to the size of his bicep, and worst of all, his hip wouldn't support his weight.

Bailey was there when they dumped him into his training room. The guards had complained openly to the trainer; they wanted a showy fight, not a bit of dancing and glorified ground game . Bailey simply had sent them packing and ordered up Jules medical attention from one of Roy's goons. The man was no doctor but he excelled in patching up brawling wounds, more from experience than actual intelligence. Bailey finally excused himself after Jules's injuries were treated and he was given the cot to sleep on for a night, thanking Jules for giving him a start. Jules would have replied, but sleep proved to be the most efficient opponent that day, and Bailey's thanks fell on deaf ears.
Gilbert Rose Level 5
S.P.E.C.I.A.L: 3 5 3 8 6 9 6
Weapons: Type 57 Machinepistol, Stun Grenades
Short, thick brown hair and beard, lanky and surefooted.

"Doctor" Jasper Cobb Level 1 -HC-
S.P.E.C.I.A.L: 4 6 6 3 10 6 5
Weapons: Scalpel
Short, with round features, looks unsettling to most.

Sebastian Coates Level 1 -HC-
S.P.E.C.I.A.L: 7 3 6 6 4 7 7
Weapons: Homemade Shotgun, Cultist Knife (Tier 1)
Average height, bulky for a ghoul.

Sun Apr 30, 1:17:19pm
cewebwalz: your my spaghetti daddy blue

Tue June 19, 9:52:57pm
lonesomedrifter23: ^Blue the best mod in the business
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Midnight Rider
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The Super Cereal
[ *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  * ]
Both contestants had heart and hurt themselves badly trying to knock out the other person. In the end though only one man can be left standing. The burned man ended up like Shaka when the walls fell and Peter began his count. 1... 2... 3... 4... 5... 6... 7... 8... 9... 10...

The bell rang and the crowd roared as Jules was declared the victor in this bought. A team of medical professionals escorted both men out of the ring for medical treatment. This had been a much closer fight than the one previous.
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Gordon "Stone" Hennigan, SPECIAL: 5.6.9.3.5.10.3. Level: 6 HC
Peter McCullough SPECIAL: 4, 4, 4, 10, 10, 4 , 4, Level 3 HC

THE CURSE OF THE MUMMY

The spirits have taken an interest in you for all the wrong reasons! Unexpected challenges will come to you during your RPs but the rewards doled out will be much juicier. It is possible to live with such a curse, but if you would rather live curse free, you could simply sell the corpse and wash your hands of the whole situation.

Lmgthev: MBP is handsome
LonesomeDrifter23: Sometimes I think MBP is a being made entirely of satire.
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Zilabus
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Er'ry day I'm overseein'
[ *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  * ]
(LMG approved by the way)

Eli's opponent was valiant and they traded blows for longer than he would have liked. He was quick, erratic, and had a penchant for stepping back to guzzle mustard directly out of the bottle before coming back swinging.

Eli didn't know what to do. He'd used some of his best and the ghoul just kept coming. Eli had no respect for ghouls. But he had some strange, unlikely respect for this ghoul.

Eli moved forward on the ghoul in a final effort, swinging his arms wildly as he approached him.

Before he made contact though, the ghoul started to wheeze - even more than a ghoul normally does.

His eyes turned red and with a dread shriek he clutched at his heart and stumbled to the ground.

Mustard rolled on the floor before him - leaving one long lonely arc of it's contents. Was it possible to overdose on mustard? Eli didn't know.

He did know, plainly, that is was over.

At this, even the crowd seemed to take a second. A man had died here today. A bizzare man who's mind had long been riddled with tumors, yes. But even so, the crazy around town making everyone uncomfortable had almost become a fixture of the settlement. Something you expected from time to time.

Whatever the case, it was over for the ghoul. Even crazy didn't come back from death.
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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