The club was deliberately dark, lit by intermittent flashes of strobes, black light tubes and revolving spotlights. The air was rich with a variety of smells; good, bad, and knock a buzzard off a crapwagon. The last is perhaps an exaggeration; but there was a pall in the air, the slightest hint of putrescence. Carrion by Faberge or Buick bumper. I actually knew the smell. All Skulls have a trace of it; the strength of it varying from barely noticeable to I just rolled around on a dead rotted moose and my girlfriend wont return my calls This reek was approaching moose territory; perhaps even with a hint of squirrel.
What patrons remained in the club were milling about like chickens with their heads cut off; thankfully it was just like. Their heads were still attached, even if they were not making the best use of them. Many of them had glow sticks woven into their clothes and hair, adding further bursts of distracting color to the already chaotic atmosphere. The music didnt help. It sounded like Techno, which I am no great fan of; mixed liberally with Disco. Was that the refrain from Staying Alive? Irony was not dead, even when stalked by the dead obsessed.
Three Skulls ahead; dancing; badly. They were thrashing about in a manner deliberately calculated to cause discomfort; their arms, legs, torsos and baseball bats slamming into any patron stupid enough to get close to them. Okay, maybe it wasnt dancing. I can never tell. Spot check. Guns. Yes. Bats. Two. Axe. One. Testicles. Mine. Rapidly climbing up into my body. I was still afraid; you get very good at hiding it, but the fear is still there. My street reputation didnt mention the fear; I would show up, participate in an efficiently violent beating that would not look out of place in a Steve Seagal film, and then waddle off into the night.
I engaged in more than 250 pounds of diplomacy. The Skulls are lightweights on the gang scene, at least in Paragon. I was happy about that. They were all about the joys of personal combat and individual effort. Big strong guys doing big strong guy things by beating up big strong guys; or me. Yeah. Me. Perfect. For me. They train hard, but they are trained to fight as an army of one; teamwork isnt big on their list of things to do. Your mother is higher on their list of things to do than teamwork. Take that any way you wish. She will. I relayed this to them. No one likes you saying that sort of thing about their mother. They didnt. I didnt mean it. Im married, and not to their mothers. They came in with furious anger, I met them. The problem with training for individuals combat is that it breaks down when you bring your buddies. You want to shoot, swing, chop or defenestrate, so do they, and no one can do it well, because you are suddenly afraid of hurting one another. I had trained myself to fight multiple foes. I took the advantage and didnt let it go. I employed a circle, keeping them in the center of the space I was dominating. My blades licked out at the one closest, knocking his bat one way and then the other. Here is a rule of swordplay, dont aim for their shield, dont aim for their weapon. Aim for them.
So why did I swing for his bat? I wasnt trying to cut it in half or something heroically goofy. I was kneading his mind. I swung again. He shifted his grip on the bat, bracing it with all his strength. He wouldnt let the fat bastard knock him around. My sword met his bat and stopped. He was smiling behind his skull mask. He wasnt smiling when he hit the floor. He had forgotten my second sword which had come down hard on his exposed and extended arms. He was in shock. Seeing all of the bones in both of your forearms poking through the skin like a forest composed entirely of compound fractures will do that. If it doesnt you are a freak; perhaps not with a capital F.
The other two were not freaks either. I am sure their eyes were wide behind their skull masks. I pivoted to the right and cut down another one with an efficient stroke to the knee. He was down and screaming. The third one corpsed. Ironic for a skull. He didnt know what do, his bat held upright, but loose in his hands. He was caught between fight and flight. I made the decision for him. I slammed both blades into his bat, driving it backwards into his head. His loose grip was his undoing, but the concussion took him away from the pain his partners in crime. Lucky him.
A line of pain stitched across my shoulders. I hit the ground and found some cover.
What patrons remained in the club were milling about like chickens with their heads cut off; thankfully it was just like. Their heads were still attached, even if they were not making the best use of them. Many of them had glow sticks woven into their clothes and hair, adding further bursts of distracting color to the already chaotic atmosphere. The music didnt help. It sounded like Techno, which I am no great fan of; mixed liberally with Disco. Was that the refrain from Staying Alive? Irony was not dead, even when stalked by the dead obsessed.
Three Skulls ahead; dancing; badly. They were thrashing about in a manner deliberately calculated to cause discomfort; their arms, legs, torsos and baseball bats slamming into any patron stupid enough to get close to them. Okay, maybe it wasnt dancing. I can never tell. Spot check. Guns. Yes. Bats. Two. Axe. One. Testicles. Mine. Rapidly climbing up into my body. I was still afraid; you get very good at hiding it, but the fear is still there. My street reputation didnt mention the fear; I would show up, participate in an efficiently violent beating that would not look out of place in a Steve Seagal film, and then waddle off into the night.
I engaged in more than 250 pounds of diplomacy. The Skulls are lightweights on the gang scene, at least in Paragon. I was happy about that. They were all about the joys of personal combat and individual effort. Big strong guys doing big strong guy things by beating up big strong guys; or me. Yeah. Me. Perfect. For me. They train hard, but they are trained to fight as an army of one; teamwork isnt big on their list of things to do. Your mother is higher on their list of things to do than teamwork. Take that any way you wish. She will. I relayed this to them. No one likes you saying that sort of thing about their mother. They didnt. I didnt mean it. Im married, and not to their mothers. They came in with furious anger, I met them. The problem with training for individuals combat is that it breaks down when you bring your buddies. You want to shoot, swing, chop or defenestrate, so do they, and no one can do it well, because you are suddenly afraid of hurting one another. I had trained myself to fight multiple foes. I took the advantage and didnt let it go. I employed a circle, keeping them in the center of the space I was dominating. My blades licked out at the one closest, knocking his bat one way and then the other. Here is a rule of swordplay, dont aim for their shield, dont aim for their weapon. Aim for them.
So why did I swing for his bat? I wasnt trying to cut it in half or something heroically goofy. I was kneading his mind. I swung again. He shifted his grip on the bat, bracing it with all his strength. He wouldnt let the fat bastard knock him around. My sword met his bat and stopped. He was smiling behind his skull mask. He wasnt smiling when he hit the floor. He had forgotten my second sword which had come down hard on his exposed and extended arms. He was in shock. Seeing all of the bones in both of your forearms poking through the skin like a forest composed entirely of compound fractures will do that. If it doesnt you are a freak; perhaps not with a capital F.
The other two were not freaks either. I am sure their eyes were wide behind their skull masks. I pivoted to the right and cut down another one with an efficient stroke to the knee. He was down and screaming. The third one corpsed. Ironic for a skull. He didnt know what do, his bat held upright, but loose in his hands. He was caught between fight and flight. I made the decision for him. I slammed both blades into his bat, driving it backwards into his head. His loose grip was his undoing, but the concussion took him away from the pain his partners in crime. Lucky him.
A line of pain stitched across my shoulders. I hit the ground and found some cover.