03-02-2018, 12:16 AM
(This post was last modified: 04-07-2018, 11:37 PM by Kelly MacAryn.)
The leader of the Corduroy Mob (whose name actually was Wellington) watched the action unfold with a growing sense of irritated disappointment as Resho screamed nonsensical threats at his men.
The arms dealer had always suspected that maybe his gang wasn't as tough as he liked to think they were, but this was just embarrassing; If the no-account would-be 'hero' had dispatched them all in an effortless display of power and athleticism that would have been one thing, but the Corduroy's were beating the tar out of Resho and he was giving the same right back garnished with halfway-clever taunts. The only real difference seemed to be that the interfering bastard could handle his medicine and Wellington's boys couldn't.
"You know dOOd, you might want to put me down. Or at least, like, stop grinding my face into these cinderblocks?" SL Greg suggested. "I think you're going to want both hands to fight that guy."
A gunshot went off, the muzzle-flash blooming like a fast-forward sunset in the toxic mist, followed by an enraged cry of "OH THAT IS IT! I warned you mother fuckers!"
One of the two Beardos - a name they had chosen for themselves - ran past Wellington, his feet splashing on the wet pavement, yelling "OH EMPEROR FUCK ME, HE'S ACTUALLY DOING IT!"
He was right; Further down the alley, Resho had scooped up one of Karl's radiation-blackened ankles in each hand and was swinging the corpse around by the legs like the world's least practical flail. He only actually managed to score two hits on the deceased skinhead's brethren - one on the upswing, clocking the remaining Beardo under the chin with Karl's skull, and one on the downswing, flattening a machete-wielding Corduroy under the dead man's blistered trunk - before Karl's knees gave up the ghost and his lower legs, their connective tissues wasted and burned by the man's own crappy plasma-pistol, came off in Resho's hands. Still, the psychological effect was profound: The remaining gang members scattered, losing themselves further up the alleyway or fleeing out into the rain-sodden street.
Wellington opened the lid of the nearby dumpster and stuffed Gregory inside, eliciting a cry of shocked distress as the man slammed it shut. Then he drew a vibro-knife from a sheath on the small of his back and turned to face the interfering busybody who'd humbled his men.
Behind him, a muffled voice exclaimed, "AHG! dOOd! It's full of broken glass!"
Resho stared at the pair of shins in his hands for a moment, taking note of the cheap sneakers protruding below his grip, then reversed his hold so that the shoes were on the business end and raised them threateningly. He leveled his gaze on the sole remaining gunrunner. "Run away, hairclub-for-psychos. Run away really fast, or I'm going to kick you to death with your idiot minion's feet." He waggled the charbroiled appendages for emphasis.
Wellington grinned savagely, backed up against the dumpster, already making a plan; it didn't matter how tough this wannabe hero was - he presumably still needed his kidneys. "Just you try it you worthless cu-"
The lid of the dumpster popped open. "Shenk! Broken bottle," said SL Greg, his voice full of practical good cheer. It was followed shortly by a sound as though someone had upended a bucket of chocolate-syrup.
A look of confusion flickered across Wellington's face. He suddenly felt very cold - and then he didn't feel anything at all. The former leader of the Corduroy Mob collapsed into an already-massive and rapidly-expanding puddle of his own blood. The neck of a broken bottle was sticking out of his back, just to the left of his spine, pulsing an outflow of deep red liquid in a steadily-weakening stream. Above him, SL Greg's beady black eyes peered innocently out of his blue penguinoid face. The prinny was peeking over the lip of the dumpster with his flippers hooked over the side. Ignoring the rain, and the smell, and the corpses, it was almost adorable.
Resho looked down at the fresh body then up and SL Greg and let his arms drop to his sides. He was still holding Karl's legs, but he'd forgotten them for a moment while he processed what had just happened.
"Thanks for saving me dOOd!" Said Gregory, levering himself out of the dumpster and dropping to the ground. He tottered for a moment on his two cedarwood peg-legs before finding his balance. The Special Liaison drew himself up to his full two-and-a-half foot height, broadcasting oblivious good cheer at a hundred megawatts for all to see. "I've been in some fuckstupid bad trouble before, but those dOOds were really gonna kill me!"
Resho continued to stare. Now that he was getting a really good look at the person he'd saved, he was even less sure that 'person' was the right word. SL Greg looked like a child's stuffed toy that someone had tried to adapt for the mall-goth generation, a navy-blue, velveteen pot-bellied penguin with two peg legs and a pair of bat-wings peeking out from the neck of his stained t-shirt.
"You're welcome...? Also, why were they grinding you into a wall? Also, what the fuck are you exactly?""
"I'm a prinny, dOOd!" said Gregory, deliberately ignoring Resho's first question. He did a little pirouette on one leg and pointed a triumphant flipper towards the disgusting sky. The filthy drizzle was beginning to cleanse the soot from his self-promoting shirt. "But that's not important. What's important is that earlier you said you were broke, and you just saved my life! We're in this together now, dOOd! I owe you big-time!"
The hero frowned, instantly suspicious. "What do those two things have to do with each other? This is going to involve some kind of bullshit curse or something, isn't it - some leprechaun thing where you grant me wishes and they all end with me getting punched in the junk. Or I'm going to end up on some kind of underworld hit-list."
He went to put his hand on his face and nearly poked himself in the nose with a sneaker. Irritated and belatedly grossed out, he tossed Karl's limbs aside. "Fucking instincts," he muttered. "I knew this was a bad idea."
"Naw dOOd. None of that stuff! And I'm WAY better than a leprechaun." SL Greg returned to his resting position, standing at ease in a pool of Wellington's blood with his flippers against his sides and gazing attentively into the depths of Resho's soul with his empty marble eyes. His beak didn't move when he spoke. "How would you like to make some real-people money?"
The arms dealer had always suspected that maybe his gang wasn't as tough as he liked to think they were, but this was just embarrassing; If the no-account would-be 'hero' had dispatched them all in an effortless display of power and athleticism that would have been one thing, but the Corduroy's were beating the tar out of Resho and he was giving the same right back garnished with halfway-clever taunts. The only real difference seemed to be that the interfering bastard could handle his medicine and Wellington's boys couldn't.
"You know dOOd, you might want to put me down. Or at least, like, stop grinding my face into these cinderblocks?" SL Greg suggested. "I think you're going to want both hands to fight that guy."
A gunshot went off, the muzzle-flash blooming like a fast-forward sunset in the toxic mist, followed by an enraged cry of "OH THAT IS IT! I warned you mother fuckers!"
One of the two Beardos - a name they had chosen for themselves - ran past Wellington, his feet splashing on the wet pavement, yelling "OH EMPEROR FUCK ME, HE'S ACTUALLY DOING IT!"
He was right; Further down the alley, Resho had scooped up one of Karl's radiation-blackened ankles in each hand and was swinging the corpse around by the legs like the world's least practical flail. He only actually managed to score two hits on the deceased skinhead's brethren - one on the upswing, clocking the remaining Beardo under the chin with Karl's skull, and one on the downswing, flattening a machete-wielding Corduroy under the dead man's blistered trunk - before Karl's knees gave up the ghost and his lower legs, their connective tissues wasted and burned by the man's own crappy plasma-pistol, came off in Resho's hands. Still, the psychological effect was profound: The remaining gang members scattered, losing themselves further up the alleyway or fleeing out into the rain-sodden street.
Wellington opened the lid of the nearby dumpster and stuffed Gregory inside, eliciting a cry of shocked distress as the man slammed it shut. Then he drew a vibro-knife from a sheath on the small of his back and turned to face the interfering busybody who'd humbled his men.
Behind him, a muffled voice exclaimed, "AHG! dOOd! It's full of broken glass!"
Resho stared at the pair of shins in his hands for a moment, taking note of the cheap sneakers protruding below his grip, then reversed his hold so that the shoes were on the business end and raised them threateningly. He leveled his gaze on the sole remaining gunrunner. "Run away, hairclub-for-psychos. Run away really fast, or I'm going to kick you to death with your idiot minion's feet." He waggled the charbroiled appendages for emphasis.
Wellington grinned savagely, backed up against the dumpster, already making a plan; it didn't matter how tough this wannabe hero was - he presumably still needed his kidneys. "Just you try it you worthless cu-"
The lid of the dumpster popped open. "Shenk! Broken bottle," said SL Greg, his voice full of practical good cheer. It was followed shortly by a sound as though someone had upended a bucket of chocolate-syrup.
A look of confusion flickered across Wellington's face. He suddenly felt very cold - and then he didn't feel anything at all. The former leader of the Corduroy Mob collapsed into an already-massive and rapidly-expanding puddle of his own blood. The neck of a broken bottle was sticking out of his back, just to the left of his spine, pulsing an outflow of deep red liquid in a steadily-weakening stream. Above him, SL Greg's beady black eyes peered innocently out of his blue penguinoid face. The prinny was peeking over the lip of the dumpster with his flippers hooked over the side. Ignoring the rain, and the smell, and the corpses, it was almost adorable.
Resho looked down at the fresh body then up and SL Greg and let his arms drop to his sides. He was still holding Karl's legs, but he'd forgotten them for a moment while he processed what had just happened.
"Thanks for saving me dOOd!" Said Gregory, levering himself out of the dumpster and dropping to the ground. He tottered for a moment on his two cedarwood peg-legs before finding his balance. The Special Liaison drew himself up to his full two-and-a-half foot height, broadcasting oblivious good cheer at a hundred megawatts for all to see. "I've been in some fuckstupid bad trouble before, but those dOOds were really gonna kill me!"
Resho continued to stare. Now that he was getting a really good look at the person he'd saved, he was even less sure that 'person' was the right word. SL Greg looked like a child's stuffed toy that someone had tried to adapt for the mall-goth generation, a navy-blue, velveteen pot-bellied penguin with two peg legs and a pair of bat-wings peeking out from the neck of his stained t-shirt.
"You're welcome...? Also, why were they grinding you into a wall? Also, what the fuck are you exactly?""
"I'm a prinny, dOOd!" said Gregory, deliberately ignoring Resho's first question. He did a little pirouette on one leg and pointed a triumphant flipper towards the disgusting sky. The filthy drizzle was beginning to cleanse the soot from his self-promoting shirt. "But that's not important. What's important is that earlier you said you were broke, and you just saved my life! We're in this together now, dOOd! I owe you big-time!"
The hero frowned, instantly suspicious. "What do those two things have to do with each other? This is going to involve some kind of bullshit curse or something, isn't it - some leprechaun thing where you grant me wishes and they all end with me getting punched in the junk. Or I'm going to end up on some kind of underworld hit-list."
He went to put his hand on his face and nearly poked himself in the nose with a sneaker. Irritated and belatedly grossed out, he tossed Karl's limbs aside. "Fucking instincts," he muttered. "I knew this was a bad idea."
"Naw dOOd. None of that stuff! And I'm WAY better than a leprechaun." SL Greg returned to his resting position, standing at ease in a pool of Wellington's blood with his flippers against his sides and gazing attentively into the depths of Resho's soul with his empty marble eyes. His beak didn't move when he spoke. "How would you like to make some real-people money?"