I would like to say that the best way to win in a fight is to cheat.
Actually I wouldn't, because the idea of cheating in a fight is inane.
There is no cheating in a fight. For there to be
cheating, there has to be rules in the first place.
Fights. Real fights. Do not have rules. Unless you count don't fucking die as a rule. Even then, it is not much of a rule, or at least the kind that requires some sort of referee.
If you die in a fight, you are your own referee and disputing what you consider an unfair call is problematic.
Speaking of that. There is no fair
either. No clowns. No cotton candy. No
funnel cakes. No rickety rides. On the plus side, no Carnies
either. Or were there? I had a bullshit hypothesis brewing about
that.
Here it is. For those sitting in front of the
screen there was a direct one to one translation. The backside that you were staring at suddenly slamming into your
reality. For some this was no doubt a disturbing event. As it should
be. For some it was an earth shattering event. As it should be. For some, the novelty of having sudden and easy access to a pair of pneumatic super-heroic boobies was such that they still had
not managed to leave the house. Perhaps not as it should be, but no doubt how it was in some cases.
What about others in the room? Where did the
field of whatever happened begin and end? If so, without that key connection, would the defining imprint be based upon
what else was one the screen? Heroes, villains, civilians, thugs and monsters.
Were there non-playing wives and spouses who had gained the powers of Outcasts, Carnival or; I shudder to even consider it; Prometheans.
As I said - it is a hypothesis, to be played out when more data becomes
available.
If I survived.
Three on one, and they were wary now. The first
one had been surprise and superior technique. I still had the one, but not necessarily the other. At least that was
what they thought. They weren't right, but that is what they thought. I had
used one surprise, I had others. I willed the katana away, replacing it with my paired bastard swords. Excalibastard, my favorite fighting sword in my right, it's companion in my left. The
smaller sword doesn't really have a name. It is also a bastard sword, but with a shortened blade; even though it
retains the heavy guard and pommel of the other.
The angels spread out trying to surround me. I
let them, moving to keep all three at the edge of my vision. I waited until the two behind me stepped to leave my line
of sight, then acted. I hurled the shorter blade at the angel in front of me.
Hard. I was not trying for a glorious act of knife throwing prowess. The blade
rotating on its axis to plunge up the quillions into the heavenly henchman. I just chucked three and a half pounds of
steel in a whirling arc. I followed it. The angel ducked, throwing his arms and
blade up to intercept the steel. It struck off his sword and forearm, drawing a pained exclamation. That was too bad. I was hoping he would use his lord's name in vain and suddenly go up
like a feathered firecracker. I was hoping, but I had a backup plan. I always
have a backup plan. I stepped past him, driving a hard horizontal cut into the raised blade and forearm. They were both driven backwards and the edge between them caught the angel in the target I had been aiming for. The forehead. There was a crack of bone breaking and the angel tumbled back.
I pivoted sharply, the thrown blade vanishing from the floor the reappear in my hand.
I pointed one at each angel, halting their advance.
Two against one.
Still not good.
But better than three on one.
Actually I wouldn't, because the idea of cheating in a fight is inane.
There is no cheating in a fight. For there to be
cheating, there has to be rules in the first place.
Fights. Real fights. Do not have rules. Unless you count don't fucking die as a rule. Even then, it is not much of a rule, or at least the kind that requires some sort of referee.
If you die in a fight, you are your own referee and disputing what you consider an unfair call is problematic.
Speaking of that. There is no fair
either. No clowns. No cotton candy. No
funnel cakes. No rickety rides. On the plus side, no Carnies
either. Or were there? I had a bullshit hypothesis brewing about
that.
Here it is. For those sitting in front of the
screen there was a direct one to one translation. The backside that you were staring at suddenly slamming into your
reality. For some this was no doubt a disturbing event. As it should
be. For some it was an earth shattering event. As it should be. For some, the novelty of having sudden and easy access to a pair of pneumatic super-heroic boobies was such that they still had
not managed to leave the house. Perhaps not as it should be, but no doubt how it was in some cases.
What about others in the room? Where did the
field of whatever happened begin and end? If so, without that key connection, would the defining imprint be based upon
what else was one the screen? Heroes, villains, civilians, thugs and monsters.
Were there non-playing wives and spouses who had gained the powers of Outcasts, Carnival or; I shudder to even consider it; Prometheans.
As I said - it is a hypothesis, to be played out when more data becomes
available.
If I survived.
Three on one, and they were wary now. The first
one had been surprise and superior technique. I still had the one, but not necessarily the other. At least that was
what they thought. They weren't right, but that is what they thought. I had
used one surprise, I had others. I willed the katana away, replacing it with my paired bastard swords. Excalibastard, my favorite fighting sword in my right, it's companion in my left. The
smaller sword doesn't really have a name. It is also a bastard sword, but with a shortened blade; even though it
retains the heavy guard and pommel of the other.
The angels spread out trying to surround me. I
let them, moving to keep all three at the edge of my vision. I waited until the two behind me stepped to leave my line
of sight, then acted. I hurled the shorter blade at the angel in front of me.
Hard. I was not trying for a glorious act of knife throwing prowess. The blade
rotating on its axis to plunge up the quillions into the heavenly henchman. I just chucked three and a half pounds of
steel in a whirling arc. I followed it. The angel ducked, throwing his arms and
blade up to intercept the steel. It struck off his sword and forearm, drawing a pained exclamation. That was too bad. I was hoping he would use his lord's name in vain and suddenly go up
like a feathered firecracker. I was hoping, but I had a backup plan. I always
have a backup plan. I stepped past him, driving a hard horizontal cut into the raised blade and forearm. They were both driven backwards and the edge between them caught the angel in the target I had been aiming for. The forehead. There was a crack of bone breaking and the angel tumbled back.
I pivoted sharply, the thrown blade vanishing from the floor the reappear in my hand.
I pointed one at each angel, halting their advance.
Two against one.
Still not good.
But better than three on one.