ArchivedLogs:Showdown

Showdown
Dramatis Personae Trib
In Absentia	2014-01-25 (Part of Morpheus TP.)
Location <NYC> 311 {Trib} - Sunrise Apartments - Clinton
For a room in the Sunrise building, this apartment is pretty well-furnished. There isn't much in the way of art - though on one wall, there are the beginnings of what appears to be a collage of articles; most boxing, although there are a few news stories and glossy physique images from muscle magazines. Against one wall is a plush brown couch is wedged between matching end tables, with a matching ottoman seated in front of it, and a blue throw blanket draped over the back. Set diagonally from that, next to a brass floor lamp, is a matching brown recliner - clearly, the three are part of a set. Decidedly /not/ matching that furniture is another couch on an opposing wall with stripes in varying widths in shades of blue, green, teal and brown; this one is a bit cheaper looking, with canvas upholstery and bare wood arms. Under it all, a mottled brown-and-ivory rug covers the hardwood floor. The only other wall with only space has a set of hooks screwed into it, which usually has a blue street bicycle hanging from it, and a skateboard leaning against the wall on the floor beneath it. The whole living room feels a bit cramped, though the relative lack of clutter keeps it from feeling too over-crowded. Through the small, dingy kitchen is the entrance to the bedroom, where a new-looking platform holds an oversized bed; the only piece of furniture in there. The door to the bathroom is closed, but it's likely stocked with bathroom-appropriate accoutrements. The locker room is so familiar. That might be because Trib's been here before, or simply because it looks like a hundred locker rooms in a hundred gyms across Manhattan. Outside, there is the anticipartory rumble of the crowd as they gear themselves up for this match. Inside, there is only the smell of sweat and Trib, sitting alone on the bench and listening to the man in front of him who looks a lot like Cage. Then someone pokes their head in the door, and the man in front of Trib leans in with a big smile. "Are you ready?" Trib nods, and stands, catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror as he does. His red silks shine in the fluorescent light, and the gloves on his hands glisten with the shine of just-conditioned leather, and have an odd pattern on them. Fish shapes swim across the shiny surface, but before he can study them too closely, a hand closes around his bicep, and TUGS him towards the door as the crowd's roar intensifies. In the distance, an announcer's voice rings out. "LADIES AND GENTLEMEN... RETRIBUTION JOOOOOOOOOOONES." Trib struts towards the ring, down an impossibly long aisle. The crowd roars its approval when he lifts his arms over his head and shakes his gloves. He can feel his heart swelling at this show of support, and he does an impromptu dance as he goes, earning more cheers. By the time he gets to his corner and begins to climb through the rings, the crowd is fully on his side. He can totally tell. He grins at Toru when the pup brings up the stool for his corner and sets it down. The teenager offers him a cocky sort of smirk before he jumps down and fades into the blur of the crowd. He can't hear the announcer as he reads the card for his opponent. It sounds like off-key trumpets as he announces the champion. Trib is used to this, though, and he bounces his knees as he waits for the signal to approach the center of the ring. Even looking in the opposite corner reveals nothing; it's lost in a pool of deep shadow. Still, he studies that pool until he finally hears "Boxers, please approach the center of the ring." Then he's up, and moving in that direction, rolling his shoulders and bracing himself for who his opponent will be tonight. Trib's opponent approaches the ring, as well, ducking under the ropes to bound his way inside. Light on his feet, he /moves/ like a boxer, though he's -- not really dressed like one. Or /built/ like one, either; there's a niggling familiarity to his face that brings to mind heavy breathing, the rattle of a subway car, before once more it's just bright-lights and the roar of the audience. And his opponent, standing there dressed in ten-gallon hat and cowboy boots, leather vest and ridiculous shiny buckle, denim and chaps and his hand resting on a -- /water pistol/ holstered at his hip. Very stereotypical /showdown/ music starts playing in the background. The man's fingers wiggle over the handle of his pistol. The crowd is still chanting Trib's name. Trib's eyes narrow, at the flash of memory, and his nose wrinkles as he approaches the center of the ring. His gait is slow, and his hips swivel as if he were toting a heavy iron on one hip. His fish-gloves are raised, guarding his upper body as he nears his opponent. "Thought I gave you till sundown to get out of town," he hears himself rumble. He shifts his stubbled jaw, teeth grinding against the cheroot suddenly tucked into the corner of his mouth. "Just askin' for trouble, ain't ya?" "We all know how this is gonna end," the man says in a stereotypicaly heavy drawl, "Trib," for a moment he lets this name hang in the air before finishing it instead, "-/u/-lation. Ain't room in this one-horse-town for the both of us." He tips his head from one side to the other with an audible snap-crackle-pop of joints. "Trouble do seem to have a way of /finding/ us." There's another whistling trill of music. The bright arena lights take on a sunset hue as tumbleweeds blow through the ring. Over the backdrop of music, the cheers and roar of the crowd grows wilder. The man takes a step towards the center of the ring, too. The spurs on his boots glint in the odd lighting. "The name," Trib says in a slow rumble, "is Retribution. I ain't a tribulation to nobody but your dumb ass." His mouth widens into a grin, and he narrows his eyes gunfighter-style as he mimicks the other man's head-tipping. He steps forward quickly, closing the distance with a few strides and drawing back his hand to take a swing at his opponent's midsection. It lands, Trib's fish-gloves making a loud *SQUEAKY* noise before he draws it back with a surprised grunt. He covers his surprise with a backwards shuffle, pulling up his gloves to protect his face and ribs. The crowd roars its approval, and Trib smothers his surprise to smirk around his gloves. "More where that came from." Squeak or no squeak, the other man goes staggering backwards with a heavy /oof/, boots scuffing against the floor of the ring. His hand drops immediately to the pistol holstered at his hip. "More where /this/ came from, too, boy," he answers immediately, drawing the gun in one swift motion and firing with a deafening /bang/ that fills the arena. Accompanying this noise, the pistol fires at him only a steady stream of cola, cold and fizzy. Bubblebubblebubble. Right in the SOLARPLEXUS. Trib flinches at the gunshot, tightening his arms to block his face and chest, but not before he's hit with the cola. Sputtering, he blinks in the onslaught of sticky, liquid, bringing up his right hand to swipe at his chest. The fish on his glove wiggle excitedly as they gather to sip at the sweet drops before they're gone. "How come that ain't no foul?" he asks the ref, a small asian man with tawny spots running from his hair into his collar. The ref shrugs smoothly, and steps back, motioning for Trib to continue. "Oh, you're askin' for it, ya bastard," Trib says, stepping forward and only sliding in the puddle soda just a bit. He recovers quickly though, and delivers a one-two combination that rings through the arena. *SQUEAKY* *SQUEAKY* "I'm finishin' it off, this time," the big man declares, driving his fist forward into the man's chest. *SQUEAKY* "Delicious ain't never a foul, /Trib/-ulation." SQUIRT squirt! The next squirts come with squeaks of their own, instead of bangs. The man squirts the ref, too, right into his suddenly open mouth. The ref licks his chops, like, ah! Refreshing. Trib's opponent is just lifting his pistol with a menacing look as if to deliver a finishing blow when Trib's fishfist connects! Right with his chest with that last sudden squeak. The man explodes, into a shower of cola and blue ribbons, showdown music mingling with a deafening roar of cheering from the audience. Someone steps forward to drape a /very/ shiny jacket over Trib's shoulders, someone else is lifting his fist above his head. In the strange half-awake manner of those snatches of time between dreams and waking-life, the roar of the crowd lingers in Trib's apartment for a few moments after the rest has faded. A ten-gallon hat hangs on the bedroom door. Trib lays there in the dark, the roar of the crowd still vibrating through his body. Next to him, he can feel Toru's warmth, the teenager dead to the world as usual. Slowly, he rubs his eyes and sits up, yawning widely and grinning as he remembers the half-lit dream. His grin freezes on his lips as he spies the hat, and he becomes statue-like, watching the hat as if it might fly up and place itself on his head. Which is more troubling a thought than boxing cowboys, but only slightly. Only slightly.