'Special Liaison' Can Mean All Kinds of Things

[The Future Warrior]

"Wow. You guys are literally called the Corduroy Mob. Accurate name, but just...yikes." Resho shook his head in sheer disbelief and open amusement, momentarily forgetting the fact his arms felt like he'd decided to go bare-hand fishing in one of the Creep's acid pools.

He shook his hands and arms, trying to get the burning feeling of cancerous death ray to fuck off, only succeeding in coating them in a fresh layer of liquid garbage from the disgustingly gray drizzle pelting down from an artificial sky overhead. 'Where does the rain even come from?' he thought, as he frantically barged into one of the incoming textile clad crackhead, bowling the man over and into one of his rambunctious ruffian allies. 'Ain't a thing up there except fake-ass sky-ceiling whatever-the-fuck. Can't be high enough for actual weather patterns to form. Maybe run-off from somewhere higher up...just piped through a bunch of big-ass holes drilled in things to make it seem like rain.'

A knife swept at him and he raised an arm to catch it, blade sinking into the skin and flesh like a laser through cardboard. "....fucking jankstains," he grumbled, as the knife struck bone in his arm. The impact reverberated comically back through the corduroy crackhead's hand and arm, like a genius striking a streetlight with a metal bat in miniature. He recoiled instinctively from the shock, loosing his grip on the knife in the process. In that moment of dumbstruck idiocy, the opposite arm of the lackadaisical hero swung around, with all the grace of a recently-fired drunken construction worker. Half a heartbeat later, knuckles of a closed fist met teeth of a gaping mouth like a sledgehammer meeting the side of a defenseless cement mixer. Shortly after, skull met puddle as the mustache-challenged no-knife-haver touched down with a noise like a strangled cat falling out of a tree into a pool.

"Look, I gotta say, guys...you're not impressin' me here," Resho grumped. "It's just...like--" He was cut short as bullets introduced themselves to the party, with a lazy staccato of noise and the delightful smell of poorly maintained gunsmoke. Five quick, thunderous CRACK-[/b]BANG[/b]s followed by only three resounding, meaty thwaps. Two shots went wide, hitting walls across the street half a beat later with whining crunch of tiny metal hitting large brickwork.

The sailor-mouthed 'hero' stumbled back from the impact of bullet-to-torso trauma, wheezing and looking down at his fresh new wounds. Among the tattered, scorched remnants of his coat and shirt it was hard to see much of anything, save for a little fresh blood trickling from three puncture wounds roughly clustered in his upper chest. He brought a shaky hand up, clutching at the wounds and staining his hand with fresh blood. It was quickly washed away by the deluge of liquid ass falling from the Sky™, but the red stains lasted long enough for him to put on a wide-eyed stare of, presumably, panic. "Dude..."

His eyes lifted to stare at the two offenders, sporting a matching beard attempt to denote their 'teamwork' among their woven thread-based criminal gang. "...not cool. That almost hurt." The reaction was priceless, both of them raising eyebrows so high they almost disappeared into a thinning hairline. They shuffled and readied to fire again, but Resho held up a hand, pointing toward them. "NO. NO MORE OF THAT!" he barked. "IF YOU SHOOT AGAIN, I SWEAR TO PALPATINE HIMSELF..." He swung his arm to point at the deep-fried crackhead, Karl. "...I WILL BEAT YOU TO DEATH WITH CAPTAIN CANCER."