The book of bad juju

Yu-Gi-Oh Soul R (Still Accepting)

Nope. Feel free to make a post about the growing, awkward silence that's presumably going on between them right now.

Yu-Gi-Oh Soul R (Still Accepting)

Nope, and nope. Not really sure where you got that idea from. At last count, my character was next to Dragonmancer's, talking with him before he got caught up in a duel with Garland's. Since the Duel ended and Garland's char wandered away while Dragonmancer hasn't posted IC since, it's probably a safe bet to assume my character is still there and still bored out of her tiny skull.

Or, if you want, feel free to move her wherever, i won't mind too much.

Yu-Gi-Oh Soul R (Still Accepting)

@KOgaming, that'd be nice, thanks.

Yu-Gi-Oh Soul R (Still Accepting)

Aw man, our little working girl

@manapool1

Please tell me that expression means something different in america, because over on this side of the pond it means something TOTALLY different.

Yu-Gi-Oh Soul R (Still Accepting)

Don't act like the fan translations are perfect and infallible. We've never really managed to recover from Revise Dragon

World Warriors: The Nomadic Fist (Quirky Fighting Game Influenced Roleplay)

Nobody in the history of ever has once called Rio a sleepy town. The city sits on the coast like a hundredweight, distorting the local landscape around it for hundreds of miles in every direction. Every day, thousands of trucks laden with eggs, bacon, milk, coffee, beans, pork, flour, leather, cotton, wools, paints, woods, cans, tins, metals and stone slabs pour in through the city, to be chewed up and swallowed down whole by 6.33 millions of people each and every single day. And in return, the city sends out music, art, culture, and most importantly of all, people. Not all of them can live the happy, crime-free lives of a first world society, and every society has it's bottom rung, those for whom life dealt the mother of all bad hands. Two of those sorts of people are coming down the road now. Try to imagine their lives now. Whatever's going through your head, it's worse.

The eldest took a moment to sniff the air, idly scratching his bare ribs. Something around here smelled different then normal. He made a gesture to his younger companion, and pulled a tiny metal object out of the waistband of his saggy trousers- A Taurus revolver, more rust and twisted metal then anything resembling a firearm. With it, they were kings of the Favela. And like any king, it was their solemn vow to repel any invaders who crossed their paths or tried to ransack and pillage their streets. The two of them moved quickly, scoping out the area, converging like rats on a fresh slice of fruit, and combing the area. They barely made a sound as they passed by ramshackle houses and lean-to sheds filled with the quiet murmurs and snores. Finally, they both converged at the mouth of an alleyway.

The eldest made a motion on the mouth of the cave, indicating to his companion to go forth. He did, his bare feet tipping and toeing their way around trash. Finally, he saw his objective. Footprints, and fresh ones. Not foot shaped, but big boot-heeled things he could make out even in the terrible light. They led to the very end of the alley, and disappeared where that bundle of clothes was nestled next to the trash bags. A bundle of clothes that hadn't been there this morning. The youngest one went out, pulling out a screwdriver and waving it about in the darkness in front of him. He'd stab it. And he'd stab it good, making sure that nobody was trying to smuggle no substances or glass into their shantytown. He moved in close, raising his arm to strike...

---

The next thing that the youngest street rat knew, he was face down in the dirt. Somebody's boot was pressing into his face, and somewhere up beyond where he could see, dazzling lights were filling the night sky. He felt the bangs before he heard them. The echoed around his head, along with the crack and zing of bullets being fired and cloth being teared. Then a lounder, deeper bang. Then everything was silenced. He barely had the strength to get up as the boot under his face. He didn't need to, as the boot was replaced with somebody's hairy arm across his throat. At least that brought his attacker's face nearer to his own, although in retrospect he wished he hadn't. His breath stunk of boiled holly as it ran through yellowing teeth.

"Bom Dia" He said. There are many things to be said about the beautiful portuguese language, or the wonders of the Brazillain dialect, but their adaptability for foreign use wasn't one of them. The stranger sounded like a conquistador's pet frog had lept into his throat. "So, Mano Menino, what's the big idea of attempting to assassinate me all of a sudden, eh?" If he was waiting for an answer, he wasn't getting one. His thick hairy arm was restricting his windpipe, and he could only gasp. For a moment, he thought about trying one gasp for yes and two for no, but he restrained himself.

The Stranger picked him up and threw him, bodily. He landed on something soft and sticky, which wasn't as nice as he was expecting. He raised a finger up to his eyes, confirming his suspicion. Blood. He'd landed on somebody who was bleeding, and from the ragged breath, he could guess who. He turned, more to confirm his fear then anything else. The elder of the two had curled himself up into a ball, trying to seal a nasty gash near his head. The youngest breathed out, smiling despite himself. Gosh, he'd been all worried that he'd been shot or something, but he'd banged his head while trying to dodge the stranger's own shots.

The stranger was walking away now, moving out of the allyway and down the main street. The younger streetrat looked around, at his elder companion, his head in his hands, the terrible gun on the floor not too far away, picked it up, turned, pointed, clicked-

The bullet slammed into the dust beside his feet. He pulled the trigger a few more times, but it was too late, the thing was empty. And the stranger, who by all the laws of physics should have been curled up in a ball with an ounce of lead in his stomach was still standing. He hadn't quite seen what he'd done, between the darkness in the night and the one under his poncho. He'd sort of turned as the projectile had been moving and... twisted in the air for a moment. Then he bolted, sprinting like an olympian off the starting blocks. They'd never meet again. The two hood rats would later both die in a turf war trying to pretend their shitty pistol was loaded, and somebody called their bluffs. So it goes.

Joaoquim ran through the city streets, trying to put as much distance between him and the Favelas as possibly. He had no plans to die in Rio of all places. He hated cities, and this one in particular creeped him out. Nobody spoke right. They all sounded like they were trying to cough while they spoke, it was unnatural. As he hopped, skipped, and jumped through the suburbs, he headed for the lights. Lights, hope, civilisation. He could totally make a break for it there. Why did every single street have to be so rocky, too? Haven't these people heard of asphalt and tarmac?

He took a corner, grabbing onto a lamp post for support and tighter cornering, and slowed down. Apparantly, there was a disturbance in the road. Somewhere behind the crowd, there seemed to be a mighty big kerfuffle going on. Something the police would probably come down on like a ton of bricks, not to mention any more gangland violence. Best to stay out of this one entirely, Joaoquim thought. It's not like he was dressed distinctly, what with his poncho and cuban heels and all. No way they'd be able to pick him out of a lineup or anything. However, from the sounds everyone was making over the standard noises of flesh hitting flesh, there was something a little more interesting going on. Maybe this could be an interesting piece of street theater.

He climbed the lampost in a few quick movements, using a handy piece of rope as leverage, before vaulting off it at the very top and grabbing onto the ledge of a relatively short house and somersaulting onto it's roof. He lay low, dropping his form close to the ground so nobody could see him, and by dragging his belly over the floor, he managed to find a good enough perch so he could see without being seen. He was right, there was some amazing bunch of characters somewhere in the middle of all the chaos. Excellent fighters. Downright balletic, although he personally doubted any ballet could afford so much red ketchup.

World Warriors: The Nomadic Fist (Quirky Fighting Game Influenced Roleplay)

Yeah, but then we'd be hard pressed to have our characters meet up and interact, and we'd be forced to basically play with ourselves.

Post coming up as soon as i can get past this writer's block, if anyone cares.

Yu-Gi-Oh Soul R (Still Accepting)

@Menhir Probably this. The English name's not official, so whenever it gets a real name we're gonna have to change all of this.

Yu-Gi-Oh Soul R (Still Accepting)

Yeah, but then it wouldn't be a loser's club. We'd have to re-sign the charter and reapply as the "club half full of people who lost and half full of people who are winning as of right now". Which just doesn't roll off the tongue very well.

Yu-Gi-Oh Soul R (Still Accepting)

You can come hang out in the losers club with me.