Arrival x Excitement

The streetlights were on, it was obviously too late for kids under the age of 18 to be outside by law. But that's not a feature that particularly mattered on this side of town. Hell a police officer making a curfew arrest around these parts would be simultaneously a miracle and a horrendous risk to their safety. No, this area was unsafe to walk around in at night for totally different reasons. Mitch knew this all to well, but at the same time, something like personal safety in relation to a neighborhood like this was not really on his mind.

See, the Vipers were this really notorious gang that was claiming up the turf in this area really quickly and violently. A gang of bullies, thugs, and even legitimate criminals, taking ownership of the town and extorting its people and facilities. A real thorn in the side of anyone who wanted to walk around town in peace at any time of day. Mitch himself, was not here for anything in particular, except to make sure the path he liked to take to the river on the opposite side of Low Key City was still clear. After all, he wouldn't want to bring a ladyfriend through a treacherous gang-infested path to see his second favorite body of water, would he?

It most certainly wasn't a thing he was doing for anyone else but himself, especially not any elementary schoolers who needed to pass into Middletown with their lunch money intact. And he's most certainly always been a fan of that river. That was his story and he's sticking to it, obviously.

Nonetheless, even if it wasn't a fact based in one-hundred percent true reality, he was at least using it as an excuse to go and knock some heads together. And really, isn't that what the spirit of helpfulness is all about?

Along his route to the river, he was crossing the street towards another alleyway, when he saw a group of young gentlemen, along with a rather scantily clad young dame, doing the typical thug-get-together thing where they stood around, smoked and bullshitted about some really poor decisions they were making and acting proud of such. Mitch, would stare at the lot, standing in the middle of the street where the streetlight made illuminated him, his pompadour acting as shade to prevent the flashlight effect which would normally make him blind to anything outside of that light.

His outdated if not outright questionable choice of hair shaping served him some purpose here.

Over his shoulder was slung a backpack, which was kept slightly open with a handle sticking out from the hole, one which resembled the handle of a bat. Which obviously meant it was a bat. An aluminum bat, meant for professional baseball leagues. This didn't really make him much more imposing, after all, he was only roughly average height, and these punks were either older than him by a year or two, or had hit puberty quite hard. Especially dollface in the tube top. He knew this, because he has this way of staring at punks which tended to invoke their fury.

Their poorly controlled, and badly aimed anger. You don't try and kill a tiger with a peashooter.

But they couldn't have known that, despite his name around these parts at 'the Butcher'. Probably didn't help that the rumors painted the picture of a demon with a horse-cleaver dulled from a never ending bloodbath. He carried around a bat and practiced kendo, so obviously he had nothing to do with that psychotic son of a bitch.

"What are you looking at punk?" the forefront thug would say, stepping up to show the clear height difference, his chest in Mitch's face, then leaning over him and turning his head sideways like he was some kind of owl. His chest was rubbing against Mitch's face literally, which was disgusting on account of the fact that he was wearing this greasy wifebeater that hadn't been cleaned since it was manufactured in the 80's.

Astounding how fashion came full circle just in time for that to make sense.

Mitch suddenly snapped... which was less surprising than how long it took him to do it, "What the hell d'ya think you're doing, ya damn thug!?" he would roar, before decking him in the jaw and sending him soaring several feet, before plummeting into the ground unconscious.

"What the hell?" one of the 4 other male thugs would question, his cigarette falling out of his mouth.

"Don't worry about him. If I were you, I'd be worrying about my own hide." Mitch would smirk, in a confident mannerism. "Your hangout is in my way, so I hope you don't mind if I just sort of... remove it."

"Whatever, let's beat this punk blue," spoke another thug, pulling out a switchblade, and flipping it open.

Mitch gave an exasperated sigh, reaching for his bat, and swiping at their charge in a single motion, swiveling, ducking a slash at the same time and winding up behind the remaining three, having stricken all three of them in the sides of their heads.

As they would collapse, he would be standing next to their ladyfriend. They'd stare at each other awkwardly for a few seconds, before the pompadoured bad boy would give a kurt upwards nod, smirking and clicking his tongue twice at her, and forming a single pistol with his fingers to direct his greeting. She would run away. A weak dame like herself didn't deserve the bat, so he let her go.

And so he would stare at the unconscious gentlemen littering the ground. After another few seconds they would start getting up, before running away from the area themselves. Mitch would sigh and lean against the wall for a moment, making sure they weren't getting backup, and sliding his bat back into his backpack. This was when he saw a rather large and buff individual walking in his direction from down the road, The pompadoured male eyed this man funnily, suspecting him of being backup for the Vipers he'd just removed from the area. "Are you here to finish what those goons started?" he would inquire, "If not, you seem lost..."

Well, this did not necessarily answer his question... Mitch was most certainly not going to turn down the fight though. Hell, with a physique like the one accosting him was sporting, he was sure to get a challenge out of the aggrievement.  Plus, a guy with a pompadour like Mitch's would almost certainly be able to make some inferences.

So the situation basically broke down to two parts: A giant meat tank of a guy charging him whilst letting out a battle cry, and Mitch was leaning against a wall. Not the ideal combination of events to be concurrent, but not completely disadvantageous. Mitch didn't really feel like backing down, but obviously a fist like that, paired with a wall behind the impact zone was not okay.

So he would raise a hand and press aside the assailing fist. That was when he realized that this guy was stronger than he looked, and that was saying something. It didn't stop him from parrying it, but holy fucking shit, his arm was like a tree made of wound iron cables. Mitch had parried this individual's fist into the wall next to his head, which caused a significant cracking in the bricks.

Not wasting any time, he would hop away from immediate reach of a followup attack, and pull out his bat. His foe was armed with a pair of fists that could break building-grade concrete. "Nice punch.  But that doesn't answer my question," he would speak up. "Not that I think you're going to at this point." With that he would grip his baseball bat with both hands in a kendo stance.

"The name's Mitch Banning. Can I at least get a polite introduction outta ya?" he would ask before taking the scuffle any further.

After giving the man several seconds to respond, he would either nod approvingly (if a name was given), or he would roll his eyes. Either way, immediately afterwards he would get a fire in his eyes. Finally, a good fight to be had in this town. There were certainly a large number of contenders for a good fight, but he was never lucky enough to come across any of them. So his fights were typically dull exercises in merciful baseball bat beatings. He's had this habit of never using more force than is necessary for a long enough time that he almost forgot that 'as much as is necessary' is occasionally more than a single swing.

He would suddenly return the favor of dashing at his opponent, brandishing his bat, before unleashing a wild barrage of swings. The polished aluminum surface glinted in what little light there was as it whipped about in a veritable of flurry of attacks, aiming to bash his foe repeatedly. This was his 'Gagaga Fierce Combo' although he would never say it out loud. He much preferred to think it in his mind, that way he didn't sound like an idiot, but he could still maintain the feeling of being in an action manga.

Move Used:

After watching his opponent pummel a house until the load bearing wall gave in and collapsed, Mitch would snap at his opponent out loud, his eyebrows would furrowed and eye twitched, as he would scold aloud his opponent, "Hey! Who the hell d'ya think you are!? People fucking live in this neighborhood, ya damned moron!" While he was personally impressed by how dedicated this jerk was to acting tough, that was no excuse for causing bystanders financial stress. Obviously, he was dealing with a berserker who snapped or something. Whatever... He carried out aforementioned attack, only to have his bat eluded.

This guy was more agile than other fellows of his muscular persuasion. Not merely a massive man of musculature, but a man of agility as well, akin to a football athlete. To a normal combatant, this would have been a troublesome development, however, Mitch was no such combatant. In fact, he was more than pleased with his opponent being a well-rounded combatant. Not enough people appreciated appropriate cross training.

Still, his foe was pretty strong. He knew that much by his blatant display of physical prowess. And when the man readied his fist, Mitch didn't necessarily care at who or what it was aimed. He would continue his swings for a moment, but as he launched his fist forward, the pompadoured fellow, would adjust the angle of his bat mid-swing, simultaneously adjusting his footing. As the two striking surfaces collided, the muscleman with a temper would find a woeful amount of give.

The cause of this was Mitch altering his bat's momentum, so that it could take the full of the tremendous punch in stride, and use it as a launching pad. The pomp-haired fellow with the jacket over his shoulders would use the footing he'd set up earlier to spin in place in an instant, adding tremendous torque power to his bat's heft being launched by the man's punch. He would take his 40 ounces of aluminum bat, whipping at vast speeds into the crook of his opponents neck with both hands gripping the handle. The total force would probably be enough to cause the wall that his foe had punched down earlier to be demolished as though a wrecking ball struck it.

But he didn't stop there, he would pull his bat back, and stepped his inside foot to his foes opposite side, and twisted his body to strike the man's midsection-abdominals, striking it like he was trying to get a home run. His two strikes happened within a second of one another, and Mitch would slide away all dramatic like, his bat's follow-through  carrying him a few feet away. He turned to face his opponent, grabbing his bat's handle and placing it into a defensive stance.

Mitch's eyes burned with fighting spirit. Fighting spirit, and fury unlike that most others would see in one of the local thugs. He was ready to fight still, not tired yet, and unafraid. No... it was the opposite of fear. Mitch was having a god-damned blast.

Impact. Satisfaction. Pain. These sensations were tantamount, and simultaneous. Indeed, Mitch had felt the shock of his foes cross-counter, an equivalent exchange of force, directed straight into his ribcage. The pompadoured high schooler was sent flying several feet, flung upwards and away by the sheer power of the opposing man-mountain's fists. He was not without his own degree of satisfaction, the heft of his aluminum baseball bat collided solidly with the intended target, sending the opponent reeling himself, chain-colliding into the pavement.

Mitch was by this point in his life accustomed to taking bone-shattering impacts regardless of where it was established. He took a breath and proceeded to adjust his center of gravity, and in doing so, adjusting his position midair. His feet would fall soundly upon the asphalt of the street, setting his bat upon his shoulder. This trusty bludgeon of his had been through thick and thin with him, even throughout his stint as 'The Butcher'. Being so reliable as it were, not even a dent from his most difficult victories was present on its surface. It still shone in the streetlight, dentless. It was impressive on its own considering he might have paid around 20$ for it a few years prior.

Nevertheless, the fight appeared like it was going to continue onwards. There wasn't a fear to share between the two of them by the looks of it. Mitch was the calmer between the two. He would heal from that punch even if it ruptured an organ in a few minutes thanks to the nano-boosters his school provided. He could keep going as this event were for a vastly long time. Personally, he was pretty sure that his opponent could as well.

It would take him a moment to notice that his jacket had been knocked off of his shoulders and was now fluttering in the breeze. He would catch it and sling it over his shoulders in a single swift motion, before taking his bat in both hands once again. "Not a bad punch. Hell. I'll even call that a fantastic punch. But if that's all yer bringing to the table, then this is only exciting for one'a us," he would say, seeing the adrenaline in his opponent's eyes.

He then took on the most stock kendo pose imaginable, a foot forward, bat held as a sword from just above his hip with both hands so that it was angled upwards, free to guard. "I'll end this in an instant," he would announce, not particularly in the mood to explain himself any further.

Suddenly he would dash in, sword raised overhead and whipped down in an instant with a great might, as if he was trying to cave in the guy's skull. His arms pulled towards himself, raking the bat across whatever guard his foe had placed should one have been placed, and then plunged the broad tip of that bat into his foes diaphragm. This was his method of attack known as 'One Point' wherein he would aim to score a point by destroying his opponent's guard and following up with a quick attack they couldn't defend against. Even if they didn't put up a guard, he was relentless in the attack, so sometimes it was known as the 'One Shot' since it utterly destroyed his foes that couldn't react fast enough, which tended to be the majority of them.

But that's enough history lessons about 'The Butcher'.

Given he'd managed a brutal enough shot to the diaphragm, his opponent would be winded and hard of breathing, and thereafter wide open for another shot at his neck. With that, he would raise his bat up once more, and bring it down within the same blink of an eye, aimed for the same crook of the neck he'd stricken earlier. A motion trail followed the path of his bat it was moving so quickly and precisely. Mitch would then take a step back, his bat being set back into the stance. An instant had passed. Not even he had enough time to catch everything that had happened. So the pompadoured high schooler watched his foe like a hawk.

Move Used:

The bat was in motion, and he couldn't quite stop it at this point. As his opponent abandoned defensive defenses entirely as he should have anticipated, and instead used offensive defenses, Mitch found himself in a bind. All at once he needed to solve his problems. But he needed to act quick, this exchange left no room for the dumbfounded.

Mitch shifted his top hand's grip on his bat a bit higher, which changed the arc of the swing, and he took the blow directly to the handle of his bat, transferring the force into his arms and then his shoulders. This indeed stopped the attack altogether, and the pompadour-having, thug-looking fellow was lifted off of his feet again. This was where he delivered his counter attack, as he was forcefully lifted off of his feet, he would sent a kick up towards his foe's jaw. Since this was a drastic change in tactics he had hopes the shock value would give him an edge. Not that it mattered one way or the other.

Performing a back vault using the remaining liftoff force, he would shoot his bat down into the ground, literally stabbing it into concrete as though it were instead cookie dough. From that point, he had a fulcrum to work with, and he converted the remaining force into a centripetal whirling action, still within range of his opponent, close enough to deliver a brutal sweeping kick at his foe's knees.

He would finish his rotation around the fulcrum point of his bat, and skid to a halt upon the ground. Doing that sort of futzed up his new sneakers, which was something he'd been hoping to avoid on this trip. "Dammit guy you're making my arms sore here," he would speak up. "And if you're thinking you can bust my bat up, you'd best be thinking again."

With that he would take a couple steps forward, and initiate one more attack. Pulling on his bat, he would not simply pull it up, instead he opted for the way that utilized tensile force. The only thing more powerful than pivot power was tensile force. It could turn a poke into a flick, an arrow into a lethal instrument, a rock into something that could destroy castle walls. In this case, it was just another means to add the required oomph to his attack.

Mitch would appear to strain against the concrete for a slit second, before some of the sidewalk was ripped up from the ground, and his bat was released forward in an upwards arc, starting low to sweep the ground, and then going high to strike middle and high. To take this blow was to invite disaster, it would surely be a knockout blow even for a man with physicality on par with a bear's. No, that was being too harsh on this poor soul, a bear would have been killed by the blow he took earlier. This man was more on par with a rhinoceros, a tough-skinned pachyderm which charged down opposition with its brutal horns. An admirable foe, but one which had to be felled to be calmed.

Mitch was starting to theorize that this fight was all a huge misunderstanding anyways.

That attack was not the only layer. Comparing this man to a mere castle wall was insulting. No it was a multiple layered attack. Should the man find it in him to successfully dodge such a brutal affront, the concrete that he'd ripped out of the ground would soar at him as well, and strike him with similarly tremendous force. This was a pretty awesome idea actually. Mitch figured he should probably give it a name and do it more often. But not now. Now, he needed to tranquilize this raging rhinoceros, before it destroyed more homes.

The trajectory went a bit differently than he'd originally planned. So he was hurled back a few feet instead. His foe was indeed a versatile force as far as his punches went. It was pretty cool, actually. But he had a fatal flaw, his fists were just a part of him. Indeed this would be a challenge, the man was slamming his fists into metal and brick like they were nothing. But there was simply nothing else to say on the matter.

That was when the man resorted to a rather desperate sort of move, unleashing a barrage of heavy handed punches. Certainly this man wasn't trying to pin him to the wall at his rear. Mitch would grin... no a grin is something friendly, showing something like having fun. This shit was getting irritating... And he was gritting his teeth visibly with his lips curled slightly upwards. "Alright princess, you wanna play hard ball? I hope you're up to date on your nano-boosters, because you'll need to get your hands reattached after this little dance," he would say, his eyes filled with bloodlust.

Was he going to back down? No. He waited to the man to approach fully, reading his moves.

Once he was within range, Mitch reeled back his bat for an instant, and with a roaring battle cry, he unleashed his own barrage. His own barrage matched that of his opponent blow for blow, except for one detail, his bat wasn't even getting a little dented. It was as though it were made of something other than aluminum. But that certainly couldn't be the case, could it? He bought it from a pawn shop a few years ago for 20$! If anything, the damn thing should have been flimsy!

But it didn't give into the punches which could destroy homes. It didn't give in to the might which could treat concrete as cookie dough. It didn't even give into the combined force of those two mights colliding over and over, like a jackhammer. Not a dent, not a scratch, not even a little scuff. Mitch noticed this, and began to strike harder, and faster, now doing more than just matching his opponent blow for blow. He was striking his opponent's fists with his bat, and then occasionally striking him otherwise.

Suddenly he would stop, his eyes calmed down, and jump up high and backwards impaling the wall with his bat as though it was cookie dough, punching a clean hole through it. He then stood upon his bat, which would act as support for at least the few seconds before his opponent would figure out a way to get him down and execute it, even if he had it in mind already. In the mean time, Mitch pulled out a comb from his pants pocket, and would begin fixing his pompadour, which was becoming slightly unraveled from the combat at hand. "You should give up. I haven't tested the upper limits of this bat's durability, and I'm starting to think this is getting out of hand," he would proclaim, suddenly calm. The ground underneath them was clear of debris, showing that their collisions were causing shockwaves that rattled the air around them. "Not to mention I'm still not sure why you're attacking. You ain't answering my questions, and I feel like we could at least be kicking eachother's ass in mutual understandin', y'hear?"

Given the wall hadn't been nearly collapsed by this point and his foe was not literally jumping up to punch him in the face, Mitch would sit down, "I'll even throw in the fact that people are trying to sleep. Don't get me wrong, if this was any old thrashing they'd snooze right through it, but we're lowering property values out here and I'm starting to go deaf from the repeated sound of metal hitting shit real hard."

Move Used:

The battle finally calmed down for a bit, and Mitch had managed to get his opponent to explain his side of the story. He'd watch the man's hands, which were now bleeding pretty badly. The guy was pretty big, so Mitch was sure that his blood levels wouldn't drop too low before the nanobots got to patching them up for him.

With the announcement of his reasoning for fighting him, Mitch would tilt his head back a bit in understanding and embarrassment at the humongous misunderstanding was going on. Letting the man finish his, rather short-winded statements, Mitch would begin to clarify the situation his muscular opponent had witnessed.

"I gotcha, now it all makes sense. You saw the aftermath of some grade-A self defense. Those mooks you saw littering the streets over there? They were harassing me, something about looking at them funny," the Pompadoured man would explain earnestly. "The first dude was all up in sticking his greasy unwashed wifebeater in my face as some kind of intimidation tactic as he took a nice eyeful of the partition of my hair.  I decked the damned thug and laid him out flat. With my fist, like a civilized gentleman," he continued, sort of pantomiming the uppercut that took out the first thug earlier.

"But then his three cronies didn't believe my course of action to be appropriate, and decided to respond in what I deemed less than acceptable methods. One of the bastards pulled a switchblade on me, and then all bets were off," he would say, gesturing with his hands generously. "Generally, I don't bother with the bat against people weaker than me. But sometimes people gotta learn that a weapon is a dangerous tool that really fuckin' hurts." he added, straightening his hands in a forward gesture to establish a strong point, vocally emphasizing the last three words.

"So I real quick dispatched them. A solid clock to the side of the head knocked them all over. They were out for maybe 15 seconds. Long enough for me to put the moves on their ladyfriend while I was at it. She immediately ran away all fearful-like. And so did the rest of them when they got up. And then you came along, which was why I though you might be showing up to finish what they started. I tend to give thugs a 5 minute grace period to bring me a real fight before I leave a scene."

"Look, I'm not trying to say I didn't hit 'em with my bat. I'm just sayin' they fuckin' deserved it was all. Heck you've felt what I can do with the thing, I gave them a slap on the wrist if their skulls weren't bleeding. Which they weren't if you'd noticed. Just a normal concussion that they probably won't even remember in a few days, since it'll just be a headache by the time they get home."

Indeed Mitch was a long-winded fellow. But he was telling the whole truth, it was easily visible in his eyes. Thereafter he would drop down, and tug his bat slightly before letting it go. It would slide out of the hole it made and flipped down into his backpack, which had been slung over to the side when he'd drawn it earlier. Well it sort of just landed on the backpack, since said sack it was cloth and rather flimsy, compared to a more sturdy one.

"Not going to lie though, I had to try really hard to restrain myself from continuing to fight you. That was damned fun. Say, why haven't your hands stopped bleeding?" he would question, arms crossed, now smiling like the fight just now was more like a debate about which anime character was the coolest, and they just realized they were saying different names for Master Roshi.

He was glad that his words finally managed to reach his opponent, since a lack of communication was indeed what caused the bout to begin with. With his explanation out of the way, it came time to move on to the heart of the matter, that being why Mitch had any semblance of victory here. It was because he had nano-boosters, and his opponent did not. He'd come upon situations similar to this one before, which was why he was ready for one.

He would stick his hands into his pocket and pulled out a pill bottle. As the man, who up until a few seconds ago would have probably punched Mitch's face in, bowed in apology, the pompadoured fellow would raise an eyebrow, and offer a couple nano-booster pills, transparent capsules with red pluses on them, filled with dark grey (metal) nanobots which speed the healing process up. "Here. I've bumped into a few others like you back in middle school, so I skip a few days each month to have some pills to spare. For first aid purposes, take these, and your hands'll be nice and fixed up in a few minutes."

The gesture was akin to a hand shake in form, holding the pills in the palm of his hand. "I hope you'll be fine without a drink. I don't carry around beverages," he would say in a joking mannerism, a guy like this one here being tough shit as he were, the guy obviously could handle a flavorless pill.

With the transaction proceeding as it would, Mitch would cap the pill bottle and then re-pocket it. Going over to his backpack, putting his bat away, and slinging it back over his shoulders, in turn pinning his jacket-cape to his back. "So, what's your name, tough guy?" he would ask in a casual mannerism, "I'm Mitch if ya couldn't hear over the fury." Obviously Mitch can't have that level of combat with someone and not pick up their name at some point. All strong guys knew each other, it was an irrefutable law of nature.

"Mitch Banning."

The pompadoured fellow acted like this around his friends in school, casual and somewhat rude, but not altogether unpersonable. It was a delicate balance, which he kept without even trying. He was a genuine jerkass with a heart of gold. "Anyhow, I'm pretty sure the route to the river is cleared by this point. So I'll call it a day, where d'ya live? Or you need a place to bunk? Let's get you out of Low-Key City and into Middletown, that's where the folks don't try and beat you fer breathin'. Just a half an hour walk this way," he'd ask and explain, beginning to walk out of the alleyway.

"Hey! Pompadoured freakshow! You been messing with my boys?" called a new voice.

Mitch would slow his walking pace and turn his gaze towards the poor forsaken soul who was coming to actually finish what those thugs started. "The fuck did you say about my sweet-as-fuck hairdo?" he would say, his eyes converting into pure bloodlust. The person who he'd turned his gaze toward immediately backed off, so quickly Mitch couldn't even get a good look at him.

From behind a corner Mitch heard the voice in a hushed but urgent tone explaining, "That's Mitch the goddamned Butcher, you fucking idiots. Do you want me to die?" The pompadoured man would sigh and turn a relaxed gaze to his compatriot, "You coming?"

Rewards!


Ken "Kurohyou" Jackson:
+27 exp
+1 Punching


Mitch Banning:
+32 exp
+1 Slashing