03-05-2017, 09:21 PM
The trio of orcs stood impressively in a circle for a moment of complete silence. One of them, a tall brown orc with sunglasses, levels his gun casually at Harlan. A pair of Jacks move menacingly forward, but are stopped by a quick raised finger from Harlan.
"Now listen up-" the orc begins to say.
He is cut short by a gut-wrenching scream from his compatriot, who is currently having his guts wrenched from him by Kirg the Indomitable. The Klingon growls as he buries a wickedly curved blade deep into the orcs stomach.
The crowd breaks as the remaining orcs spin around and let fire with their submachine guns, shooting tiny bolts of bright red lights. The witches conjure a shield charm, pushing both parties back about five feet as the lasers fly. The witches start dueling, taking turns casting shield charms and stunners, while the orcs keep up a steady spray of bullet fire that ricochet into the fleeing crowd.
Harlan frowns and snaps his fingers. Small yellow tendrils appear from beneath the floor boards. The fighters all find themselves standing on banana peels and within seconds have fallen prone and helpless.
"You cats like bananas?" asks Harlan as he stares down at them. He peels a banana as he saunters over.
"Fuck your bananas," one of the orcs says as he rises. "We got guns."
"Are you sure?" asks Harlan seriously. "That don't look like no gun."
The orc growls but to his astonishment, realizes he is holding Harlan's half-peeled banana.
"So," says Harlan as he raises the barrel of the orc's sub machine gun. "I asked you politely, and I'm only going to do that one more time. Do you cats like bananas?"
The orc roars and rears back his hand to throw the banana at Harlan.
Harlan lets off ten shots into the orcs chest, and lights a cigar with the tip of his smoking barrel.
"Well how ya like them bananas?" he asks to the nearly deserted dance hall. Only a few gangsters and injured civilians remain, and Cody Chode passed out on the stage. Also a robot, seemingly unaware that the commotion has died down as he collects cash and drugs from the barroom floor.
Harlan eyes the last remaining orc, one with matted fur and a patched leather jacket. The orc is seething, saliva dripping from his tusks, but his gun pointed at the floor.
"Fuck you waiting for, hit the bricks," suggests Harlan. The orc does not move. "You got melons for ears, monkey boy?"
"He's waiting for his gang," explains one of the twin witches, glaring at the orc. The orc grins.
Harlan rolls up his sleeves. "Yeah? Well me too."
The orc starts to laugh as the thundering sound of Harley Davidson mufflers fills the bar. A window is shattered by a shotgun blast and headlights stream in through the broken window. The Westside gangsters appear nervous and move into a tight circle, but they needn't have bothered.
A chorus of orcish screams erupts from outside the bar as blood splashes in through the open window. A gun is fired, then more orcish screams, then nothing. A pair of high-heels can be heard click-clacking on the pavement before the front door is pushed open, and a beautiful greyscale woman creeps demurely into the bar.
"Excuse me," she says with a flirty smile as she dabs at a huge smear of blood running down her neck with a dainty silk handkerchief.
The orc stops laughing.
"Now listen up-" the orc begins to say.
He is cut short by a gut-wrenching scream from his compatriot, who is currently having his guts wrenched from him by Kirg the Indomitable. The Klingon growls as he buries a wickedly curved blade deep into the orcs stomach.
The crowd breaks as the remaining orcs spin around and let fire with their submachine guns, shooting tiny bolts of bright red lights. The witches conjure a shield charm, pushing both parties back about five feet as the lasers fly. The witches start dueling, taking turns casting shield charms and stunners, while the orcs keep up a steady spray of bullet fire that ricochet into the fleeing crowd.
Harlan frowns and snaps his fingers. Small yellow tendrils appear from beneath the floor boards. The fighters all find themselves standing on banana peels and within seconds have fallen prone and helpless.
"You cats like bananas?" asks Harlan as he stares down at them. He peels a banana as he saunters over.
"Fuck your bananas," one of the orcs says as he rises. "We got guns."
"Are you sure?" asks Harlan seriously. "That don't look like no gun."
The orc growls but to his astonishment, realizes he is holding Harlan's half-peeled banana.
"So," says Harlan as he raises the barrel of the orc's sub machine gun. "I asked you politely, and I'm only going to do that one more time. Do you cats like bananas?"
The orc roars and rears back his hand to throw the banana at Harlan.
Harlan lets off ten shots into the orcs chest, and lights a cigar with the tip of his smoking barrel.
"Well how ya like them bananas?" he asks to the nearly deserted dance hall. Only a few gangsters and injured civilians remain, and Cody Chode passed out on the stage. Also a robot, seemingly unaware that the commotion has died down as he collects cash and drugs from the barroom floor.
Harlan eyes the last remaining orc, one with matted fur and a patched leather jacket. The orc is seething, saliva dripping from his tusks, but his gun pointed at the floor.
"Fuck you waiting for, hit the bricks," suggests Harlan. The orc does not move. "You got melons for ears, monkey boy?"
"He's waiting for his gang," explains one of the twin witches, glaring at the orc. The orc grins.
Harlan rolls up his sleeves. "Yeah? Well me too."
The orc starts to laugh as the thundering sound of Harley Davidson mufflers fills the bar. A window is shattered by a shotgun blast and headlights stream in through the broken window. The Westside gangsters appear nervous and move into a tight circle, but they needn't have bothered.
A chorus of orcish screams erupts from outside the bar as blood splashes in through the open window. A gun is fired, then more orcish screams, then nothing. A pair of high-heels can be heard click-clacking on the pavement before the front door is pushed open, and a beautiful greyscale woman creeps demurely into the bar.
"Excuse me," she says with a flirty smile as she dabs at a huge smear of blood running down her neck with a dainty silk handkerchief.
The orc stops laughing.