Roleplayer Guild

Rules
1. No magic/powers.
2. No weapons.
3. Deathblows allowed. It doesn't really matter if your character dies in the arena, you can just bring them back in the next fight.

OOC: I love fistfights. Just plain old fistfights. I might love them even more than gunplay. I'd take gritty, blood, snot, and dirt bareknuckles boxing match to a Dragonball fireball throwing contest any day. So if you're up for it, join up, and we'll have ourselves a good fight.

IC: Well, let's face it. Roger was never a terribly bright young man. Getting punched in the face a lot had probably contributed to that, and this was gonna be one of those days when he was liable to get punched in the face a couple times. For whatever reason, every Friday night, he found himself in a parking lot, locked into a ring made out of cars parked in a circle with their headlights facing inwards to provide lighting.

Cheering and jeering fans sat atop, around, and in the cars, rooting for their favorite fighter. Even though it was an underground thing, there was alwaysa pretty good turnout. What's better than watching a couple of guys beat the living snot out of each other?

Why, beating the living snot out of someone, of course.

Roger faced his opponent. There would be no introductions or monologues. This wasn't pro wrestling, and there was no point in that bullshit. This was bareknuckle boxing. This was real.

He had cut his hair down to where it wasn't much more than stubble. In a fight, there was no point in having hair; it was only a liability and an extra handle to be grabbed by. He wasn't wearing anything else but a pair of blue jeans and some steel-toed work shoes. Once again, the more crap you packed around, the easier it'd be for your opponent to grab you.

You ready for this?

Quin was a small dude. As he entered the ring of metal mayhem, wind blew and he seemed to have trouble fighting against lift off. Like he was about to go airborne or something. Embarrassing, dammit. Fortunately the breeze stopped and he could plant his leather clodhoppin' shoes down, which appeared to be three sizes too big for him; They were massive. - But he had big feet. The doc said he'd grow into them some day. ...Lying bastard. He was twenty-three and had the same build as his eleven year old brother.

He stood at one end of the circle, headlights reflecting off of his bleached skin. Although his reflective pastiness was blinding, that wasn't the reason Quin wore sunglasses. He heard sunglasses were cool and made one appear older. But it was alright though, he didn't look bad in them. Besides, it was f---ing bright in the circle of vehicles.

Some of the cars were gloating their sound systems, stomping the ground with bass frequencies that almost threw Quin's balance off. - It was a hard life being small-framed. He often was mistaken for his younger brother, and could only spark interest in high school freshmen girls. - Then again, he was an ugly guy too. He sported a overly prominent nose that seemed to weigh his head down, and thin facial hair that had been struggling to turn dark and coarse since he was fifteen. He had a late-arriving acne problem and his hair naturally parted straight down the middle.

Yep, he was ugly all right. --An ugly dude that sought redemption. Redemption for the wee ones. An ugly guy that was getting ready to take one or win one for the little guys of the world. The guys that never got the girls and the guys that never won fights.

He lit a cigarette and stared into his contender's eyes, trying to broaden and hulk his shoulders and appear menacing. He probably would've looked even cooler if he actually inhaled rather than just release the thick, unfiltered smoke from his mouth into the light evening air. Oh well, he reasoned. There's always hope in the afterlife.

Quin sucked another mouthful of cigarette into his mouth and let it right back out, attempting a french inhale. It curled upward past his upper lip, catching slightly in his darkened peachfuzz before rising again into his nose. He took some in, suddenly bailing and blowing it back out, hacking and coughing. Smoke rose into his eyes. They watered.

Play it cool, Quin. Play it cool. He tried to pretend his eyes weren't watering, nonchalantly rubbing them. Maybe he could play it off like he was allergic to something... perhaps to headlights or moonlight. No, that's stupid Quin. Stupid idea, Quin. Suddenly his hand was forced into his face and his cigarette dropped to the ground. Roger's fist continued into Quin's eyesocket. "DAMMIT. I wasn't ready, man!" He covered his eye with his hand. This cat is using freakin sneak attacks. Quin was angry and anger is hard to portray when your eyes are watering and you're rubbing your wound to prevent bruise formation. But Quin tried.

He shook his head and cracked his jaw. He loosened his shoulders and wiped his eyes. He made eye contact with a hot chick sitting on a truck. Damn, she probably thinks I'm crying. Come on Quin! Get yourself together! Quin's knuckles grew white has he launched his first attack. Approximately one yard away from Roger, he hunched forward and stuck out his right arm, clenching a tightly wound fist. From here, he performed what he called "the Grounded Helicopter attack," quickly turning in circles. Once he attained a decent speed, he slowly creeped toward Roger like a power saw of human knuckle about to grind into a piece of wood. This guy's toast.

Roger backed up a bit as Quin assaulted him with 'the Grounded Helicopter Attack.' This was shaping up to be the weirdest fucking night he'd ever spent in the ring.

"What the FUCK are you doing?" Roger begged, backing up just enough to stay out of the helicopter's blades. "Stop that. No. Hey, damnit! I'm gonna kick you. I'm gonna..."

Cutting himself off, Roger launched a right-legged side kick aimed right for Quin's head. His leg was easily longer than Quin's arms, meaning that he was pretty unlikely to get smacked in the nuts. As most guys aren't, Roger just wasn't too fond of that, and probably wouldn't have launched the attack if he wasn't confident that he could avoid ball-smashing.

Roger's kick would be difficult to avoid, since Quin would be spinning around, maybe even facing the opposite direction while Roger launched it. That sort of thing made it harder to pay attention. Well, except for the fact that Roger told him he was going to kick him.

Even whilst in grounded flight, Quin was all ears.

"What the FUCK are you doing?" Roger begged.

Kicking your ass, Roger. Just kicking your ass. However, it appeared that Quin's Heli-Knuckle spin attack was going nowhere quickly.

"Stop that. No. Hey, damnit! I'm gonna kick you. I'm gonna..." Roger warned.

"Roger, a simple principle of fighting Quin Maroni is..." Quin said between rotations, "you can't bluff Quin Maroni." Roger said kick, but Quin was one step ahead of him, an alluding reason why he is so damn good at Paper Rock Scissors: Quin is the master of counter-counters. Roger was likely going to throw a punch, trying to mislead Quin by announcing a kick, but Quin was no dumbass.

Quin abruptly stopped spinning, crouching on the ground. He eyed each of Roger's knuckles, ready to deliver acute blocks to any facet of punch Roger could concoct up. Too bad Quin was intercepted with a kick to the face.

His chin was throttled upward over his back and onto the ground and he laid there as the red faded from his eyes, replaced with profuse watering. Quin tried to glare at his contender, who was still in battle stance before him. Too bad the water pouring out of his eyes obstructed his "don't mess" look he was trying to give Roger. Enough's enough. It's time to bring this horse home to the stable. He was unsure of the exact phrase, but that sounded good enough. Satisfied, he repeated it aloud as he pulled himself back onto his feet: "Time to bring this horse to its home at the horse stable." Dammit Quin. That sounded stupid. Stupid!

Following his failed cliche, he had to do something bold. And fast. Time to play dirty. Quin executed a forward somersault, and on the way down, scooped a handful of... Damn cement! Empty handed, he unraveled himself and with as much momentum a somersault could muster, he sprang from his ground, head first, towards Roger's knees.

Roger was starting to feel bad about knocking this guy around. He didn't seem to get it. Quin was like that one guy from Kung Pow. God, what was his name? Oh, yeah... Wimp Lo, Roger thought. Well, at least I'm not getting my ass beat.

"Time to bring this horse to its home at the horse stable."

"Wait... you're gonna what?" Roger asked, confused. Maybe thats this guy's strategy. Confuse me. He's gotta get sick of getting nailed in the face sooner or later, though.

Just then, Quin launched into a forward somersault right towards Roger's knees. Roger's natural reaction would have been to dodge, but he decided to take a different route with Quin. He launched his right knee at the kid's face. Since that was where Quin was already headed with all of his momentum, he'd likely hit his target; just with his face instead of, well, whatever he had planned before.

Quin caught Roger's knee squarely with his face, letting no knee escape the forceful centripetal momentum his face had gained from the somersault.

The irreducible shock of solid kneecap bludgeoning Quin's facial features, prominently his oversized nose, sent him quickly into a delirium as he flopped on the ground like an exposed earthworm, struggling to get to his feet. His front and upper few teeth ripped from their roots and mauled the back of his throat as their decapitated nerves frantically dumped raw blood into the tongue.

"Ha-ha! Couldn't evade my Navy Seal Tactical Roll?" Mid sentence, blood profusely spurted from his flared nostrils in timely pulsations that erupted with each word thereafter. The rest of the blood rolled down Quin's nasal cavity into the back of his throat and with heavy gulps, Quin tried to choke it down casually as though his mouth wasn't gushing with blood and broken teeth.

Quin, with sudden and unexpected vigor, crawled between Roger's legs, who seemed to almost be curiously letting Quin through. Stopping briefly only to speckle the ground with a wheezing cough of blood, he successfully made it to Roger's backside, marking his accomplishment with yet another vomited puree of blood and tooth. Think you're winning, Roger? Is that it, Roger? You didn't even stop me! You know why, Roger? Cuz you can't. You can't stop meh! And with that (his empowering monologue), he launched off his feet and onto Roger's back, simultaneously gagging on the thick blood that drained down his esophagus and began uncontrollably hacking like a cat valiantly battling a hairball. His legs now wound tightly around Roger and his hands clenched into Roger's shoulders as Quin fought the gagging ferociously, coughing up blood onto Roger's back and throttling his head around irrepressibly as the coughing continued.

"GET OFF MY BACK! What the FUCK are you doing, you little moron?" Roger cried, twisting and trying to swat Quin from his perch. He was quickly getting soaked in blood.

I'm probably going to get some sort of fucked-up disease from this little retard, Roger thought. Wait, I got an idea...

Roger flopped onto his back. The idea was to trap Quin underneath, and smash him under Roger's greater body weight. If he was really lucky, Quin would crack his head on the pavement and get knocked out.

How much more punishment can this little guy take?

Within seconds of enjoying the upper-hand candidly perched on Roger's back, Quin suddenly found himself airborne. For a complete second, he was weightless. The panging in his head and the pulsing eruption of pain in his mouth halted. He even enjoyed a slight breeze on his open wounds, pleasurably closing his eyes until he colliding directly with Earth. Roger's falling body continued to plunge the small-framed Quin into the pavement as weary bones struggled until they broke under Roger's bodyweight. A deep chorus of cracks resonated from within Quin's body. His lungs were captive in an imploding cage as ribs bent then snapped. Organs and internal fluids were confined between a parking lot and Roger, desperately searching for orifices to ooze from. Some were successful.

Quin fortunately was knocked unconscious upon impact and got to directly bypass the pains of his body's structural failures. He laid there like a totaled car. A complete and irreparable mess.