ArchivedLogs:Mutie Fight

Mutie Fight
Dramatis Personae Murphy, Dante
In Absentia	2013-04-25 Dante gets involved in mutie fights. Murphy is an asshole. (Warning: Violence, seriously vulgar language, so much preposterone)
Location
Dante's current watering hole of choice seems to be experiencing a bit of chaos in the backroom. It's one of those nameless shitty dives on the wrong side of town; the sort of bar that looks like it's about two steps away from getting itself condemned. The bartender's an ugly sod named Jim; he's got more than a few criminal connections. Runs numbers for the Maggia. But who gives a fuck, right? Dante's probably just here to get plastered. Except that chaos - that /noise/ - keeps interrupting him. Shouting, yelling, /crunching/. Occasionally, cheers, and the sound of a muffled announcer yelling something over a crowd. Jim doesn't say anything about it; nobody in the bar even seems to care. But eventually, Dante's got to get curious, right? Maybe. Maybe not. Point is - it's just about midnight and it sounds like the WWF is happening in the bar's backroom. There have been some big decisions in his life. Namely, when he found out about his abilities...Risk telling your father who, despite being on your side your entire life, may grow to hate and abandon you like everyone else in your life? Do you come back to the city that turned it's back on you years before, when you were most succeptable as a young man? Do you continue to put yourself in danger, knowing the life of a little girl is now, essentially, in your own hands; especially after you were in some way responsible for her current situation? But at the moment, the most recent decision was the most difficult: Sit here, and enjoy your first love, Crown n Coke? Or investigate the possibility of perhaps Layin the SmackDown on some loudmouthed Jabroni's? All of these thoughts race through Dante's mind as he swirled the fresh drink in his hand, which he had just recieved moments ago...despite ordering it about 5 minutes ago. "Eh, hell with it." he says to himself, bringing the glass to his lips, ready to savour the sweet whisky/soda concoction... "Hey, watch it, asshole!" a voice called out beside him, as a random patron collided with his back, as if it was HIS fault that his body was in this man's drunken path. The impact thrust Dante forward, throwing his drink out of it's glass and all over the bar. With a loud sigh, Dante rolls his eyes, turning around and facing the back room...now that the precious drink had eluded him, and ESPECIALLY considering he wasn't going to wait another 5 minutes for a drink...that back room was becoming incredibly appetizing for his curiosity. When Dante moves toward the back door, Jim gives him the stink-eye - but makes no move to stop him. He just gives him the Look. The one that says 'Mind your fucking business, padre, or you'll be suffering from an acute lead allergy tonight'. Inside the backroom are all the familiar stenches to those initiated in the fine art of urban decay: Stale cigarettes; urine; sweat. Perhaps just a tang of blood. The space is cramped - bigger than the bar, but with more people, and so much more going /on/. A crowd of twenty or thirty - red-faced men, some drunk, some sober, all flustered and all screaming - surround a shabbily constructed ring enclosed in a chain-link fence. 15 by 15 yards of space set aside for two fighters - who are now in the process of preparing for their match. One fighter is bare-chested, his skin glistening - covered in a network of unusual pock-like scars, red welts that almost resemble bee-stings. It's clear at a glance - he's either suffering from a serious skin malady, or he's a mutant. He's in his 40s, by the look of him; he seems jittery, with a salt-and-pepper beard that hasn't been shaved for years - his teeth are just jagged, mishapen tusks. An acute case of 'Meth Mouth'. By the look in his eyes, he's ready to kill somebody - anybody - and he probably doesn't even know where he is. The other guy's different. Calmer. Dressed in a loose fitting t-shirt and jeans; he's pale, with a face covered in burn scars - burn scars that extend over his skull and down his neck, across his arms - leaving him with little to no hair. Like a low-level Freddie Krueger. He's got a cigarette in his mouth, currently lit - and he's sitting down on a stool, glaring at his opponent. Meanwhile, the announcer - a short, grinning bastard - cheerfully narrates: "The Bumble-Bee versus our mystery contender - taking all bets! Just thirty more seconds, ladies and gentlemen! Who you gonna bet on--" By the look of the board, Bumble Bee's the safe bet. He's won three fights so far. This is Freddie Krueger's first match, and most of the money's on him going down. Pushing through the large, stinking crowd seemed to be less trouble than Dante originally thought it would be. Most were too drunk to notice someone pushing them ever so gently out of the way. And Dante had been front row at more than his fair share of rock concerts...pushing through a wave of folk was not unfamiliar to him. Within only a few minutes, he is able to make his way towards the front of the cage, his eyes setting upon a round mass of a man, clad in a beat up suit, and a cigar that looked to be about 50 percent ash hanging lazily out of his mouth. The whale of a man sat by the entrance gate, flipping through a large wad of cash, seeming to be content just counting it over and over and over...and over...again. Something told Dante not to trust the crowd, who seemed content to cheer the bulbousy man's corner. There was something about a man ready to fight with a lit cigarette that told the young fighter 'this is the guy...' "Excuse me," he asks, tapping the man on the shoulder, and producing a 20 dollar bill between his slender fingertips. "What're the odds for Third Degree over here?" Dante's free hand points to Freddy Krueger, indicating whom he'd like to bet on. Before getting an answer, however, he places the 20 on the table, as well as a much more crisp 50 dollar bill. It seemed almost instinctual for him to do so...Something rushed through his blood when he heard the crowd, when he saw the cage, when he smelt the blood. He could feel adrenaline starting to pump through his veins...something in his head told him, drunken idiots aren't cutting it these days...something more organized was needed...not that this was exactly organized, by any means...but hey, choose to go DRINKING in a place like this...if you're gonna get wet, might as well go swimming... "Just in case there's an entrance fee for the next round..." he adds... "Five to one," the man counting the money says; no sooner has he announced it then is Dante's money gone - replaced with a ticket stub, stamped and with a densely scrawled '70' on it. "Thanks for your business," the man adds, producing a fat grin. And then the bell. Just like that: DING DING DING. Bumble Bee /shrieks/, throwing his head back in a savage, horrifying roar - and then the welts start to /bulge/. From every one of those circle-shaped wounds, a /stinger/ portrudes - nearly half a foot long, each is a sharp, barbed speartip - pulsing, /wriggling/ as they emerge from his flesh. He's covered in about forty of them, now - several coming out of his fists, his palms, his torso, his shoulders - the process is clearly agonizing, but it's also clear that he's on enough drugs right now that he sincerely does not give a fuck. The crowd goes fucking /nuts/. Oh yes prepare for the PAIN. Freddie Krueger finally gets up. Drops his cigarette, grinds it down into the floor. Boredly lifts his hand up to Bumble Bee. A blue lightning bolt /tears/ out of his palm, spearing into Bumble Bee's chest; there's a horrible *CKRRRT* as Bumble Bee's body snaps back, going into convulsions; his jaw snaps down hard - his entire body spasms - and he drops to the floor, smoking and twitching. The crowd goes silent. Even the announcer isn't sure what to say. Freddie Krueger just drops back into his seat, produces another cigarette, then fumbles for a lighter. "...ahem. Mystery contender wins," the announcer finally manages to croak. Dante blinks slightly at the result of the match. Not that he didn't see the action, thought one would have missed it if they'd blinked...He had the feeling the mystery man would win...but to what extent, and in what mannar...he never could have guessed. The silence is awkward, it seems to stretch time to a crawl. Who knows how long passed; seconds, minutes, hours...it felt like an eternity. Until a singular pair of hands begins clapping. Dante's. It's a calm applause, one of respect and awe. One by one, other patrons seem to pick up the itch to finally react, until the entire back room erupts into cheers, pandemonium returning to the crowd. Dante looks back to the promoter for a moment, who has gone back to counting his riches. His gaze follows the crowd back to the cage, as the announcer seems to be recomposing himself after the surprise...match...if one could call it that. Dante looks down then at his stub, reading the number...God, does that mean he's 70th in line? is he going to wait through this many more contenders? or has he come in at the perfect time? or will every other contender, at least non-meta'd ones, back down after such a showing? Only one way to find out... Dante shifts slightly, taking a few more steps closer to the cage door, as Bumble Bee is being taken out of the arena. "Hey. Hey. /Hey/," the man behind the counter shouts, pointing at Dante's back quite suddenly. "He's up next." There's more than a little savvy in this move. Dante just won a good sum of money; one quick and easy way to make sure he never collects: Put him in the ring with a guy who spits fucking /lightning/. If Dante doesn't live, then hey - no skin off /their/ teeth. But even as someone's stepping forward to open the cage for Dante, 'Freddie Krueger' is getting up - moving toward the exit. Finally producing his lighter as he does. Click, click, *flick*... puff, puff. Seems like they're doing rotations. Krueger's not Dante's opponent. Nope; as Dante gets shoved in, he sees the next fighter ambling up from the other side. Big guy; kind of rough looking, but kind of quiet, too. Big lips. Scruffy face. Wearing a sleeveless white t-shirt, a scowl, and - like Freddie Krueger, a cigarette. Except his is unlit. Under the shirt, there are scars - one notable one. Three talon-marks that crawl up past the neckline, over the portion of his exposed chest. When he sees /Dante/ stepping into the ring, his scowl deepens. "I ain't here to fight /him/--" he starts, looking back to the announcer - but the gate's already closing with a metal ka-*kish*. He turns, /glaring/ at Dante now - like this mother-fucker just took a shit on his filet mignon. The announcer, overhead, gives the deal: "In /this/ corner, we have... another mystery contender!" he shouts, gesturing to Dante. And then, down to the guy Dante's facing off. "And in /this/ corner... ...'Law'? What kind of name is--" "Fuck you," Murphy Law responds. "...right," the announcer replies, looking back to the card he's reading from. "Law. Who's power is... 'I fucked your mom'?!" "Damn right," Murphy replies, eyes square on Dante. Dante enters the ring, a small scowl across his face as the opponent changes. The whole reason he put his money in was to fight someone he'd just watched, make it a little more easy to figure out how to win. He didn't like coming into a fight unprepared, especially if he was facing someone who could possibly be on his level... Then again, he hadn't yet found any who were... Dante leaned over to the announcer when he referred to him as a "Mystery Contender." "Next fight...Call me 'Shaolin,' if you would..." he says softly, and smiles across the ring at his opponent. An opponent who, Dante so accurately noticed, didn't seem content to fight him specifically. Why, he had no idea. Didn't matter to Dante. He didn't know the guy, didn't care; he paid to fight, so fight he would. Dante returns Law's scowl with a lighthearted smile, keeping his eyes on the man as he brought his hands up, fist encased within his palm, and bows low. "Good luck to ya, sir!" he calls over to the man, as he begins now to stretch slightly, swirling his arms in a circle to stretch his shoulders, then lowering into a crouch to stretch his legs and knees. "Shaolin," Murphy says. "Seriously?" "SHAOLIN!" the announcer shouts, and the audience seems to like it; there's more jeering, more screaming. The general gist seems to be in Dante's favor; Murphy's definitely the black sheep of /this/ fight. Probably because he looks rough - a hard, coarse stone to Dante's polished muscle. Murphy doesn't do stretches; he just cracks his neck to the side. Series of pops, loud and clear. And then: "Are you fucking kidding me. You named yourself /Shaolin/. You're some pretty white boy from the west coast and you're callin' yourself /Shaolin/. You just blundered into a fucking mutant-powered murdermatch and you're callin' yourself /Shaolin/. Little boy, get the /fuck/ out of this cage before I gouge your eyes out and /skullfuck/ you." "Hey now, buddy. I wasn't the one that made fun of YOUR name," Dante quips slightly, a slight grin on his face despite his retort. He doesn't seem phased by the man's trash talking, electing to instead ready himself for fighting. He drops his hips and knees slightly, keeping his feet parallel to each other. His arms raise, elbows inward, in front of his chest. One open hand remains close to his chest, while his closed fist points directly at his opponent; both hands remaining within his center line. It is a very Chinese-inspired stance, with very few holes in it's defenses. The crowd seems to rouse as Dante readies himself, knowing they're about to see a fight, and probably a good one at that. Surely the pre match trash talking helped get the crowd excited. All the while, Dante breathes slow and deep, concentrating his Chi outwardly. He is ready, at a moments notice, to tap into his inner power to increase his physical ability...He feels the familiar power swell within him, his body pulsing with newfound energy from his gifts... "You ready? Or are we gonna discuss more of your bed fetishes all night?" "You don't understand," Murphy says, and then he's walking forward. Slowly. Not in range, yet. But getting closer. "See, you're gettin' all into your stance and shit. Yeah, you know how to fight. You might even be fucking /good/ at it. Hell, I bet you're hot shit. But here's what you're failing to get, /hero/:" Fists clenched. Eyebrows knotted. Baring down toward Dante like some merciless dragon; one can imagine /smoke/ swelling from Murphy Law's nostrils. "You and me, we ain't about to have ourselves a fight. I /don't/ fight. Never learned how. No, the only thing /I/ know how to do is /break/ shit. Bodies. Brains. People. Lives. So I'm gonna be all Guanyin up in this shit and give you one more warning: Walk. The. Fuck. Away. Otherwise - one way or another - you ain't leavin' this cage without scars." Dante's smile faded ever so slightly, as his concentration heightened further. His stare became less narrow...but not necessarily less precise. It seems as if he stares at everything at once...yet, at nothing in perticular. It's the famed "fighter's stare," that many martial artists talk about trying to attain. That look of pure purpose. There was no fear in his eyes, no more smile as Law continued to walk towards him. He shook his head slightly as the man spoke to him, less of a trash talk, and more of a real threat...though, nothing he hadn't heard before. "Trust me, I'll walk away. When I'm done beating you, and collecting a nice little paycheck tonight. I'm not a pussy, I know what I signed up for...I'm not backing down, my friend." With that, his body shifts slightly to the side as he lowers himself further. JUST as Murphy comes into range, his open hand quickly balls into a fist, and flies directly forward, aimed towards Murphy's chest. It's an incredibly quick movement, probably faster than most of the crowd can even see... And it hits. *WHUMP* - right in the sternum. Murphy steps back - grunts - air rushing out of his torso. Sternum shoved back. And then, with a cackling /cough/, he starts to laugh. And starts throwing punches. Not with fists, though. No, Murphy Law ain't a fighter. Murphy Law /breaks/ shit. So he starts throwing his punches - with /words/. "You still have nightmares 'bout the fire?" The question is sharp. Piercing. And worst of all, /mocking/. Murphy asks the question with a choked laugh; a thick, coughing cacklesnarl. "'Bout that woman you couldn't save? You know what it's like to die in a fire - you ever see it? Lucky ones, they asphyxiate. Smoke inhalation. Ones like that lady, though - get flesh hot enough, it melts. Even worse is when the fat starts to crackle and burn - s'hell of a smell. Kinda like roast beef. You like roast beef, /hero/?" The roaring crowd suddenly went silent. The lights suddenly went black. Not really...but in Dante's mind...The world seems to stop when he hears those words. When the man talks of Jillian's mother...and in an instant, all the thoughts flood through his mind. Who is this person? Why would he DARE use such a thing against him? It seems more people than he thought would recognize him. Probably was on him for using his Vigilante name...but still...WHY? "How...dare you..." Dante replies, slightly inturrupting the man's speech for a moment, appauled and stunned by the man's words. Until his last statement. Such trivialization of death, of wonton destruction... Dante's fist begins it's travel just as the man stops talking, aimed straight for Murphy's face. Despite it's blinding speed and the Chi packed behind it's strength, there was very little style to the attack. Very little form. It was a wild hook, much more emotionally charged than Dante would have wanted. But then, it wasn't Dante who threw it...it was Dante's emotion. It was the fear, the anger, the blind REACTION from his primal mind. But that primal mind packs one HELL of a punch...a punch flying now directly at Murphy's jawline, a very faint blue light engulfing the fighter's fist and forearm... Murphy wasn't expecting the first swing. But he /is/ expecting this one. Even as he chokes, his feet have shifted their posture on the floor - gone from a straight march to a careful brace. His arms have shifted, hands rising to his waist. And his eyes - watery and bleary - aren't looking at Dante's face. They're looking at Dante's arms and shoulders. Skilled boxers know not to telegraph their punches; they train for years to learn how to properly feint, step, and shift the tell-tale signs of a swing up until the moment of the strike. But Dante's not a boxer - and worse still, he's not /thinking/ about this blow. Murphy probably sees it coming before Dante even realizes he's throwing it. And suddenly - Murphy is /down/, low and hard, and his fist is /swinging/ up - using the force of Dante's own swing against him. Knuckles rising to meet Dante's throat - Murphy's full weight plus the weight of Dante's forward swing. If the hit connects... it's quite possible it'll crush Dante's trachea. Leaving him, well. Choking on blood. "Izzat why you gave up? 'Cuz you were too much of a fuckup to save that stupid bitch? Good plan. You /are/ a fuckup. Fuckup." Murphy's hit DOES connect...though not as soundly as one would hope. The Chi flowing through Dante's system helps cushion what his blind actions do not...As if Murphy's fist had conected with bone insead of soft tissue... $r$rButhurt it does...pain shoots through Dante's body, rocking him back forcefully. Coughing and sputtering, the young man takes two steps back, clutching his throat in pain. The world continues in silence, Murphy's final words falling on deaf ears. Pain enhancing his rage, Dante grunts a bubbled growl, a few trickles of blood rising up through his lips and coating his tongue. He rushes in sloppily once more, rising his knee towards Law's abdomen. The fighter cares not for the roar of the crowd, thirsty to see even more blood. He cares not if his second wild strike connects, for he quickly follows up with his arms forward, grabbing the man's arm and shirt. He throws his body to the side, putting his hips against Law's, attempting a powerful hip throw that, if succesful, would take both fighters down to the hart mat below... There is /nothing/ sloppy about Murphy. Not anymore. He might have approached Dante like some stupid, shit-talking brute - but now he's completely in control - holding the stance of a trained boxer. He's still talking - but the words are slower, now. More abrupt. Using them to keep Dante stupid, even as he maintains that cold, brutal focus: "People dyin' in fires. An' what do you do? Put on a mask. Jump on rooftops. Throw batarangs. Good job, /hero/." Each sentence is punctuated by action, by movement. Murphy is never staying still. He is no longer /waiting/. When Dante rushes in with the knee strike - sloppy and half-blind with rage - Murphy responds by hopping back and to the left - and firing a quick one-two set of jabs straight to the solar plexus. Just /one/ would be enough to leave an ordinary man gasping, reeling for air like a land-born fish; Murphy figures two should be enough to force Dante backward. Should they hit - and should Dante crumple beneath their force, failing to perform the throw - Murphy's hands will reach for the back of Dante's head, aiming to /shove/ his face down into a rising knee-strike. One that might result in a very serious concussion. "I ain't even a mutie and I'm kickin' your ass, /hero/." Murphy doesn't play fair. Murphy doesn't even know what playing fair /means/. Dante's knee does connect...but the rage, the fury built from Law's taunting leaves the attack virtually useless. It was thrown with no perticular intent, and Dante's opponent had the understanding enough to soak the majority of even the Chi-enhanced strike. Dante, would he be in his right mind, would have been thankful that his martial training allowed him to instinctively block the first jab. But as the second connected, he buckles slightly, allowing Murphy the opportunity to grab as expected. What was not expected, however, was Dante's hands, one placed atop the striking knee, the other placed firmly on Law's planted leg. There's a funny thing about anger, especially with fighters. Sure, it clouds one's judgement for a moment. To those less trained, it can consume them indefinitely. But in Dante's experience, if your martial training is high enough...when your life is consumed by fighting, training, and bettering yourself physically and mentally...your body will take over when your mind is in no space to work. Martial artists of old called to a state of "Mushin," or "No Mind." Few fighters ever understand this state, even less have an opportunity to experience it. But in this moment, Dante had achieved this state....and as his Chi flowed through his injured, rage fueled body, his gifts took over for him. And perhaps it helped his emotional state, for when Murphy called out once more, Dante hears not his voice. He hears Logan within his mind... "Shaolin may be finished...but ya can always put on another mask..." Dante was no longer fighting. Shaolin was no longer fighting. Something new had taken hold of this body, something different had grabbed Murphy's leg. An unknown being had wrapped it's free arm around Law's planted thigh, forcing it's body against his waist. It was a basic move, a jujitsu/wrestling doubleleg takedown...the force was perfect, the form was impeccable, and the intent to win had never been stronger... Murphy grunts as Dante's arm slips around his thigh; his hands - still gripping Dante's head - now /clench/ into fists, seizing handfuls of hair -- pulling /violently/ back. As Murphy goes down - one hand continues to pull, the other crawling - trying to reach the front of Dante's face. Thumb aiming to /thrust/ up against his eyeball. There is a certain amount of pressure that can be exerted upon the eye before you risk gouging it. Murphy knows precisely how much force that is. And he's currently interested in exerting /precisely/ that amount of force. Should he manage to pull it off, the next words he speaks are in a low, throatish growl - as he hits concrete with a gruesome *CRNKT*: "Yield. Or invest in eyepatches." The two fighters slam into the floor, hands grasping at body parts, limbs contorting with other limbs. The crowd is loving it. Cheers roar through the racious partons, realizing their seeing probably the best fight of the night, bar none. Nobody wants it to end... Nobody but Murphy, it would seem. Whatever his reasoning may be, when he speaks "Yield," it snaps Dante back into gear. It brings him directly out of his rage, disrupts immediately his mindless effort. He awakes mid-fight, finding his hand wrapped around his opponents throat, thumb inserted directly behind Law's windpipe. Never has Dante's entire body been encased in blue light. Never has he felt his Chi surround him like a wall of flames, threatening to burn and scorch whatever touch this wild energy. God, Murphy's hands must be burning something fierce... "I...do not yield...NEVER have I backed out of a fight," Dante growls, his one unhindered eyes staring directly into Murphy's gaze. His right hand was pressing up against the wrist that held his face, his left grasping tightly to his opponent's throat. The two were at a standstill, as close to a 'draw' as one could consider. With a split second, either fighter could cripple the other. With a single provocation, either man could be escorted out of the ring...and not of their own valition...it would come down to who was faster...and who was more willing to truly cause the other debilitating pain... "Gngh. Oh, /fuck/ this," Murphy whispers, voice hoarse and raspy beneath the squeeze of Dante's fingers - feeling his hands somehow /burning/ on contact with Dante's skin. And then, gasping, wheezily, his hands releasing - drawing back from the pain of the heat - as Dante's entire body seems to /ignite/ with blue flame: "I yield, chucklefuck." That was all Dante needed to hear. The final word that pulled the fighter totally from his rage-filled stupor. He released his grasp on Murphy's throat, climbing off his opponent slowly and backing up one step, two, then three. The blue embers that engulfed his body slowly wither and dissapate, until the azure glow fades completely from his skin. Dante turns his gaze towards the announcer and speaks softly. "You heard him. Fight's over..." He hesitates for a moment, his rage and power calming quickly, as he relaxes his muscles and walks slowly towards the downed Law. As if in slow motion, Dante's hand extends towards Murphy, in a half-hearted attempt to help the fighter to his feet. Honor has always been ingrained in Dante's being. It was one of the first, and most powerful lessons he had ever learned from his father...No matter what happens, a figher without honor has no place being called a "man." Strangely enough, despite everything this man had thrown at him, physical and emotional, Dante stands there, arm outstretched, with a slight smile across his face. "How bout a drink... Murphy spends several moments trying to hack up a lung. Coughing, spluttering - his hands still singed, the skin upon them blistered and cracked - two pinkened, peeling palm-prints burned into his throat. When he speaks, it's just a hoarse gurgle - and when Dante offers his hand, Murphy responds by /swatting/ it away. Despite the fact that those crowded blisters on his palm /roar/ with pain. "Fuck you, you smegma-slurping piece of slurrified /dogshit/," Murphy hisses. Struggling to get up to his feet. His words still just a wheezing gasp. "Go put on a different mask. Go /keep/ being a fuckup. Mask don't matter. It's what's under it that matters. And /surprise/; what's under it is /fucking stupid/." Murphy struggles to get to his feet; the crowd doesn't seem pleased with the fact that the fight's ending with /both/ fighters capable of walking out of the ring. Murphy manages on his own, nevertheless; once he's up, he's limping toward the exit. Still wheezing. Dante watches as his opponent saunters out of the arena. Instead of collecting his own winnings, Dante follows the man, climbing down the steps out of the cage, before grunting in pain, the wounds of battle finally revealing themselves to him now that his power had dissipated. He clutches his side quickly, feeling also a throb in his head. There was no question, this man HURT him. His eye throbbed something fierce...definitely a headache in store tomorrow. Dante finally caught up to the man about halfway through the rowdy crowd. The patrons seemed increasingly angry that their fight was cut short...but short of throwing angry jeers their way, none seemed to want to get within arms reach of these two warriors...they'd just watched them beat each other up with more skill than they probably witnessed in their lives...no WAY they were going to get involved physically. "Hang on a bit...I said the fight was over...but you and I still got unfinished business...and I'm sorry, but you got some explaining to do before we go lick your wounds." Dante called out to the man, placing his hand on Murphy's bicep to stop his exit from the backroom. Murphy's picking up his coat, first. Big. Black. Wool. Putting it on is agony; he slings it over his shoulder, instead. Marching toward the door with a slow, pained step. When he reaches it - and when Dante brings his hand to touch Murphy's bicep - there is a low, thunderous growl. "'We' ain't going anywhere. /Fuck/. /Off/." In the ring, he had control; he was almost surgical. Now? He sounds - and behaves - more like a cornered animal. Eyes narrowing at Dante as his head rotates to /glare/ at him. "We're /done/." Unless Dante tries to physically restrain him, Murphy's moving out that door. The stare looks all too familiar...feral, wild...unhindged. The man's eyes burn into Dante's being, worse than anything that unfolded within the confines of the ring. Dante had felt fear before...he'd confronted fear, attacked it head on, stubbornly pursued it like the fighter that he is...but this was different, somehow...this was a type of fear he'd never before encountered...a type of hesitation that made him stop in his tracks, if even for just a moment... But a moment was all this man needed...Dante's fingers loosened their grip, the man's arm sliding through his hand. There wasn't much for Dante to say or do to stop him...He watches, frozen in time, as the man slipped from his grasp, and walked directly out of the open doors. Once he gained his composure, once the man had vanished from sight, Dante made his way zombie-like towards the promoter. He brushed his long brown hair from his face, before stretching it out towards the fat man, his voice low and soft, just loud enough for the man to hear over the dull roar of the crowd, gearing up for the next round of fights... "I'll be takin' that payout now, sir..."