06-19-2017, 09:41 AM
Mad Bull sputtered and belched out a salty stream of water from his throat. He rubbed his head in consternation and tried to clear away the daze that still surrounded him after being repeatedly beaten upside the head then spun around fifty times in the raging surf. It was the officer’s first combat encounter with a Prime. Mad Bull had been on the force for some time, bashing in criminal’s faces, blowing away rapists and drug pushers… but never a Prime. It was an easy thing to make a show of bravado when the fight wasn’t square; here on this island it’d be nothing but Primes vying against one another. The violent cop couldn’t help feel a sense of trepidation that more difficult battles were yet to come.
The waves had died down; perhaps they had only been spurred on by the brow-beating throw-down between the Sergeant and Lord Zedd in the first place. He felt sore, but still intact. The lawman tentatively touched at a purple shiner glazing his cheekbone.
“Yeeouch. That skinless creepo sure knows how to slug it out,” John Estes thought to himself in admiration.
Realizing that licking his wounds wouldn’t get him much of anywhere, the burly cop fished into the nearby waters and found his bindle of supplies and sidearm revolver. His nightstick was floating along languidly on a wave, and that too was scooped up and shoved back into his waterlogged leather utility belt. In exhaustion, Mad Bull flicked open the cylinder of his revolver and looked at his ammunition.
“Whatta waste…” he muttered quickly as he tossed aside the spent rounds and the other ruined remains. Groping into his water-tight supply bag, his took out another six .38 special bullets and methodically loaded them, savoring the habit and almost meditative quantity of this career-long ritual. He let out a sigh, feeling finally whole again with his loaded weapon, and relaxed, trying to melt away some of the pent up exhaustion of the day.
The waves had died down; perhaps they had only been spurred on by the brow-beating throw-down between the Sergeant and Lord Zedd in the first place. He felt sore, but still intact. The lawman tentatively touched at a purple shiner glazing his cheekbone.
“Yeeouch. That skinless creepo sure knows how to slug it out,” John Estes thought to himself in admiration.
Realizing that licking his wounds wouldn’t get him much of anywhere, the burly cop fished into the nearby waters and found his bindle of supplies and sidearm revolver. His nightstick was floating along languidly on a wave, and that too was scooped up and shoved back into his waterlogged leather utility belt. In exhaustion, Mad Bull flicked open the cylinder of his revolver and looked at his ammunition.
“Whatta waste…” he muttered quickly as he tossed aside the spent rounds and the other ruined remains. Groping into his water-tight supply bag, his took out another six .38 special bullets and methodically loaded them, savoring the habit and almost meditative quantity of this career-long ritual. He let out a sigh, feeling finally whole again with his loaded weapon, and relaxed, trying to melt away some of the pent up exhaustion of the day.
Quote:Just staying in place, awaiting interaction with another character.