A Grand Day Out (closed to Salem and Pes)

[BlackAndBlueEyes]

There I sat, right leg crossed over the other, on the lonely monochrome bench. I waited with nothing but patience in my mind.

All around me was silence. The rollercoaster's carts were parked underneath the entryway awning. The two-tiered carousel was still, and no music played from within it. Each and every single booth on the midway was empty, save for the various trinkets and gray-furred overstuffed teddy bears that tantalized the young and scammed the parents out of their hard-earned silver. Bits of torn fliers advertising the world-famous freak show and napkins stained with hot dog grease still littered the well-trodden pathways throughout the carnival. And yet, not a single soul--alive or otherwise--was around to step on them and kick them around.

It was an utterly lonely, stark, gray afternoon in my personal carnival. Apparently even in the spirit world, they had holidays that shut everything down.

Everything was cast in various shades of gray, even the bright sun overhead. The only color in this world were the light brown of the leather gun holster that hung at my hip, the green of my vine-woven arms, and the disease-fuelled rings of purple around my piercing baby blues.

One could argue that the milky tones of my skin could be considered color, but I would be quick to remind them that I'm pale as fuck and therefore it doesn't count.

I took a deep breath and leaned back on the wooden bench that sat in the midway, facing one of the numerous scam games that littered the ghost carnival. I believe it was the "throw these darts with dulled tips at the balloons and pop three in order to get this cheap plastic ratchet thing to annoy your parents with" one. I had asked the Ai'Brone monks for a bit of a challenge today. I was stressed due to recent events involving the Crimson Hand, and was looking for a bit of an escape. But not only was I looking for an escape; but I was looking to unwind as well.

And the gods know that I find nothing more unwinding than snapping necks and melting faces without any moral or legal consequences to be had.

The kind monk who saw to my needs had promised me more of a challenge than usual, given how wound-up I was. He told me he would give me two opponents today. I welcomed the challenge.

Bring it on, losers.

[Pestarzt]

Earlier (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y7nIywla0DU)

The sun peaked high above, roasting the world below in an oppressive heat. The smells of Radasanth collected into that stagnant, omnipresent haze that wearied any city-dweller into keeping their doors and windows closed. Every step was a struggle against nature and lethargy. Clever layabouts found some sliver of shade to find respite, while finer folks hid beneath billowy umbrellas held by valets. Children ran wild from one stagnant pool to another in an attempt to beat the heat, their ear-splitting screams masked only by the occasional, lazy trot of a horse-drawn cart. And amidst all this sweltering misery, Alex Alfons had forgotten his pouch of tobacco.

”Of course.”

His cabin on the ship he traveled on had grown cramped and the company he saw day-in and out had bred a simmering content within him. He needed to stretch his legs and immerse himself in a brickwork labyrinth with a swiftness that forgot the essentials. And so an epic quest began; a search to score a loosey.

The Pestarzt dragged his feet with every step, searching for some sweet, faint whiff of stale smoke rising above the mired muck that caked his shoes. Every step seemed a herculean task as sweat slid down his suit leg and drenched his dress shirt. The crowbar that hung from his belt might as well have weighed ten times as much. Each time it struck against his leg, he felt as if he was almost crippled. His lungs were coated in a fine dust, thickening with each pant. His lungs ached and seemed to cry for mercy.

”Damn, I need a smoke.”

Fate intervened with her kindly hand, pointing against the wall of a half-collapsed hovel. Like a beacon on a hill, a single ember from across a crowd called out to Alex and beckoned him onward. Drawn by some natural instinct, he found himself face to face with a man in a bright green collard shirt, matching hat and tie. Every puff he took sent tempting tendrils into The Pestarzt's nose.

“Spare one,” said Alex, suggesting more than asking. He held his hand aloft with his middle and index finger split, gesturing for some human kindness.

“Get lost. I don't give handouts to losers.” Venom was spat beneath a pencil-thin mustache.

“What about the lovably absentminded?”

The smoker removed a pair of sunglasses to give him a once over. He caught sight of the crowbar and gas mask beneath the tatters of Alex's suit jacket, and finally noticed he had at least half-a-foot on him. “You some sort of strange adventurer?”

“Some sort,” Alex sighed, seeing the other man's small, beady eyes for the first time. “Does that get me one?” If one listened carefully, they could almost hear an eagerness in an otherwise lifeless voice. The smoker smiled a toothy grin and got far too close for comfort. Wrapping one arm around Alex and using the other to fetch a loose cigarette from his back pocket, his whole demeanor seemed to shift from curt to slimy.

“People call me Garish. Not my name, but people talk.” His breath reeked of day-old gin and faint mint. “I've got needs of a man with particular talents, help spice up a friendly wager I put together once in a while. You ever been to The Citadel?” He lit The Pestarzt's cigarette and took his hand to shake. Alex took a few solid draws before pulling it out to inspect it.

“An Angry Dwarf? These take forever to finish.”


Present

Still only halfway done with his deathstick, Alex surveyed a battlefield he'd somehow been talked into. The stillness of the rides seemed a rightly somber match for a withered and worn grass they lay upon. The only motion he noticed was the odd bit of paper scurrying across the ground and nearly giving him a heart attack. His normal plodding pace was quickened by the impending sense of dancing that hid beneath muted pop-tanks or behind the counter of games. As he peaked his head inside a confectionery kiosk in hopes of finding some sickly sweet spirits, he came out with only an oversized sucker that seemed all too grim for its ludicrous size.

Despite the eerie calm before the storm, Alex knew that winning this fight would mean a whole carton of Angry Dwarf's. It's slow-burn treasure could last a man a lifetime; or in Alex's case, several hundred. And, for some strange reason, he was told he'd have a partner in the fight. He knew his opponent was bound to be something special if such special circumstances were called for. A cigarette in his mouth and a lollipop in his hand, he nearly dropped both when he rounded the next corner. Sitting on a bench just beyond the rides was a face he never thought he'd see again.

”Mammoth woman.”

[Salem]

“Tick… Tick… Tick…”

His mental clock ticked as he seen the imaginary clock hands spun round and round. He didn’t smile to himself. A broke warlock, wizard or magician; no matter what cute or whatever iconic term and title you placed in front of his “0” dollar having self. Salem knew some friends that could teleport money into their hands.

“Why could I not figure out some cool trick, yea he could fling fire balls with the best of them but eh…”

Well that’s what happens you make a concoction that turned a big bad family boss into a walking, talking stuffed animal. So long story short; yea getting a job like a normal person fits nowhere near his life; but cash was needed none the less.

Salem loves to fight but he likes to play with other’s lives not his. Kind of like a betting a being that they couldn’t stack a mini chocolate bars on another without allowing the heat to get to close and cause the bullets on top to go off from killing themselves. By the way this very mean to pull such tricks on drunk humans yet hilarious.

So in the end of his countless rambling of both physical speech to himself and insane like ideas of a good time he found himself Heading to the Mad Hatters Tavern. Such peachy little place with nut jobs galore.



Some Time Later…

There he walked of a shoddy stair casing as he flashed a flame from his hand. The door man then moved away. With a creaking sound groaning every step as stepped through the door way. His bright yellow eyes pierced the open away filled with trash talk and bellowing smoke from pips and cigars.

He walked up to the green haired bartender,” I need work “. The middle aged women opened her hand up. He could take hint. Pulling two pieces of coin from his purse and handing them over. He would a receive a cup of ale. Taking the whole thing in a single gulp. Nothing for free and even more so to a non-customer.

A laugh came from his right as a older grey breaded man below out three rings of smoke each bigger than the last and then a cone like shape. Grinning as they each connected forming a witch like pointed hat. A short laugh slipped through his lips. With a smile and open ears he listen to the proposed match. Salem eye lite up in excitement; these kind of two on one deals were fun because they didn’t come around much without a special kind of bad mamjama looking for fun. Salem couldn't help himself.

Yes he spook with more of his facial and physical body language then words.

The details were hashed out and he now knew the time and place. Oddly enough most matches like this were keep for private viewing and not at a place like the Citadel, but o’well.

He took his leave to the stomping grounding of combat. With a closed hand and two finger like solute as his goodbye. The root of maddens is money and he would bask in the savory excitement.Turning the corner to find he was the last to make their appearance. His yellows would most like give him away with was always funny. Yet this was not the place to play head against such an opponent. He pulled from his pocket his mask that would make his head disappear. And with a laugh.

“ Lets get this going “

[BlackAndBlueEyes]

The sounds of boots crunching on the dirt-covered walking paths of the monochrome carnival alerted me to the arrival of one of my opponents. I casually looked off to my right to see a figure clad in purple and black walking towards me. He was tall and a bit on the thin side. His blond hair was shaved on the sides, but whoever did the job forgot about all that matted crap on top of his head. But what I noticed most was the thing that he wore on his face, which had been tilted just enough to allow him to dangle a cigarette out of the corner of his mouth.

It was a gas mask, and it was instantly recognizable. Let's go back to a recent bar fight I found myself in the middle of--where I curb-stomped a woman with a metal jaw and had Ashla Icebreaker cornered like the dirty little rat she is. During that fight, I had been confronted by someone similarly tall, lanky, and blond, who had an incredibly similar piece of headgear.

I stood up and made a show of dusting the front of my pants. "Hey, you're that asshole who smashed a chair over my back in that Serenti tavern!"

The boy obviously recognized me as well. He nearly dropped both the cigarette and the multi-shades-of-grey-swirled lollipop he stole from one of the confectionary booths along the way. His lips quivered as a whisper escaped his lips. "Mammoth Woman," he said, his words barely audible despite the silence of the carnival's inactivity.

I cocked my head to the side. "Excuse me? What did you call me?" My briar-knit fists curled into balls and my lungs filled with purple plague smoke, ready to unleash hell on this rude little prick. I took a step towards the masked asshole when I noticed another figure walking down the midway. He too was tall and lanky with a head of blond hair, and pulling a mask of his own out of his pocket.

Great, I thought bitterly. It's like they're bizarro-world twins or something.

Gritting my teeth and steeling myself for the upcoming battle, I filled my hands with pools of acid that quickly crystallized into clumps of jagged amber shards. "Let's get this over with," I yelled as I threw forward my hands. A quick burst of pressurized hair exploded from my palms, sending the storm of sharp death towards my two opponents.

[Pestarzt]

Sorry for the delay!
Memories of that bar brawl in Serenti came flooding into Alex’s head with such clarity, that he was sure he was suffering some sort of drug induced flashback. Iron-Jaw’s face became one with the floorboards as that Mammoth Woman stood atop her in some sort of violent glory. Glee was an emotion the vigilante was only passingly familiar with, but the glee he saw in that psychopath’s face with each sickening stomp curdled in his stomach like a poorly made White Salvic. The second he saw her rise, The Pestarzt took in a deep and hurried breath.

From inside his mask, he could hear the heating coils roar and crackle, vaporizing the contents within the chamber. A harsh, hot mist filled his gasmask, which he swallowed with a greedy abandon. Though seconds passed, the world seemed to stay still. Even frozen in place, his body tingled with an exciting pulse from toe to head. His heart skipped a beat, before pounding against his chest with a renewed vigor.

The doldrums spectrum around him seemed to ignite. Where once there were muted rides and dour tents, an explosive neon wave swept the scenery in a technicolor dawn. Like a child’s unsteady hand, the vibrant shades seemed to leak from the lines into the surrounding foreground.

Alex didn’t notice when his partner entered the arena; he wouldn’t have cared if he saw. The second the world steadied itself enough to make sense, he was off in a full sprint towards the villain. His heavy boot falls kicked up clouds of pink dust in a mad dash to close the distance. He could see his opponent mouth a few meaningless words (the throbbing in his ears muted her devilish tongue), but he saw her summon some fetid lances into her hands. For some odd reason, they and their conjurer appeared as gray silhouettes, but Keti’s visuals always had some strange new hell for him; at least it had the decency to color everything else first.

As the ashen missile made its way towards him, his heart changed rhythm again. On instinct and adrenaline, he leapt nearly six feet into the air. Alex could feel a hot wind brush against his calf on his decent; the acid spear had grazed him where his chest would have been. The pain, though, was mercifully delayed, taking a ticket in line behind his clumsy body smashing into the earth below. Using the momentum of his graceless roll, he sprung back up to find himself feet away from the maniac.

With eager, fumbling hands he drew his crowbar, only to fling it at her righty in a throw that threw him completely off balance. Unsatisfied not feeling the visceral smash of iron against flesh in person, he used what was left of his bulrush to drive a wild left hook at her face.

“Wooly whore,” is what he attempted to shout, but the words caught half-formed in his dry, cotton mouth.