El Hombre Pájaro
Join Date: May 2006
Re: Ultimate One Universe RPG: IC Thread
Spoiler!!! Click to Read!:
Originally Posted by Byrd Man
My attacker and I both crashed through the twentieth story window, rolling across the beige carpet of an office. I slammed against a cubicle wall and crashed into the work space, my right boot kicking in a computer monitor as I fell.
I groaned and tried to pull myself up. The quiet sound of footsteps crunching on glass hit my ears. I looked forward and saw a pair of sandaled feet walking towards me. Grunting, I lunged forward and grabbed his ankle. A powerful karate chop knocked my hands from his ankle. A kick to the face knocked me back further into the cubicle. I slumped against the far wall and knocked a kitten calender to the floor.
The attacker wordlessly walked towards me, intent on continuing his beatdown. No jokes, or quips, no monologues. I went from a guy who wouldn't shut up, to one that doesn't talk. Wouldn't be so much a problem if not for the fact this guy doesn't stop.
"Oh, come on," I said as the guy picked me up off the floor. "Can I please get a brea-- gaak!" A karate chop to my throat cut off my pleading. While I gasped for air, he tossed me across the office and into another cubicle.
Coughing violently, I finally snapped. Standing up before he could come after me, I popped an escrima stick from its holster and stepped out from the cubicle. A balled fist whipped towards me from the right. I brought my stick up and blocked the blow. I shoved my escrima stick forward and knocked the attacker off his game. He swung with his free hand and I ducked it, falling on my back and kicking out with my legs together. The two boots struck him in the chest and knocked him off his feet.
My turn to go on the offensive, I jumped up and charged him. He sat up and tried to sweep his leg at my feet. I jumped, tucked my arms and legs, and landed just in front of his head. I brought my stick down to his head, but it was blocked by a karate chop to the wrist. The block sent me stumbling back a bit. With quickness and grace, my attacker was back on his feet and charging towards me. I danced, ducked, and dodged around his quick blows before I snagged his wrist and shoved him forward. He stumbled and smacked head-first into a copy machine.
He was sightly dazed and I took the initiative, grabbing him by the back of his head and pulling it up above the copy machine. I opened the copier and shoved his head down on the glass. I slammed the cover down on the back of his head several times, cracking the glass and breaking the skin.
"Who sent you?" I growled every time I slammed the cover back down on his head. "Talk, dammit! Tell me who sent you!"
After a minute of the beatdown, I pulled him out of the copy machine and shoved him to the floor. His face was bloody, his glasses cracked and broken. His eyes were cloudy, a concussed and on the verge of unconsciousness.
"TALK!" I yelled, punching in the gut.
"Morgan," he said dreamily. "Morgan Jones."
Just like that, I was out of the office and in the air, swinging north towards Harlem and Morgan Jones' criminal headquarters.
"Let me down!" The thug pleaded from ten stories above the pavement. I smirked and watched him sweat as he dangled in the air., the cable of my grapnel gun wrapped around his ankle. The man in question was Jontavius Peters, a mid-level thug in Morgan Jones' drug dealing empire. When I busted into Jones' offices ten minutes ago, Jonatvius was the only one there.
"Tell me where your boss is and I'll let you down."
"Some meet in Brooklyn! That's all I know! Now let me go!"
I said, uncoiling the grapple line slightly. He began to fall towards the ground, screaming his head off. The cable of the grapnel went taunt and stopped. I reeled him back up to my level. "Now, tell me where in Brooklyn he is and who he's meeting."
"RED HOOK!" He yelled, trashing wildly. "MEETING WITH SOME BIKER GANG! NOW, PLEASE, PUT ME DOWN ON THE ROOF!"
Red Hook, Brooklyn
Morgan's car pulled up into the warehouse parking lot with Wilson Fisk's men behind them. Morgan, his men, and Fisk stepped out of the car and walked to where a dozen motorcycles were parked. Idling around the bikes were a group of bikers. One of them stepped forward towards Morgan's entourage. His cut-off leather jacket had a patch on the breast that read "President." On the back of the jacket was knight in a suit of armor, riding a horse. "Crusaders Motorcycle Club" was written underneath the logo.
"Guys," the man said with a nod. "Which one of you is Jones?"
"I am," Morgan said, stepping forward. "You Blackwood?"
"That's me," he said with a glance to Fisk and his muscle. "Didn't realize you ran a diverse crew."
"It's the 21st century," Morgan said with a wry smile. "Gotta get with the times, man."
"So, what's the business deal you had in mind?" Blackwood asked. "Something to make us a lot of money, I hope."
"Your club has chapters all over the country and into Canada," Morgan said with a nod towards Blackwood's friends. "Nearly a thousand men on bikes all over the country. I want to use you and your bikes as mules, carrying coke and dope smuggled into Canada down to America and across the country."
"That's risky business," Blackwood said as he stroked his chin. "How much money are you talking about making off this deal?"
"Hundred thousand dollars to your club for each mule run into the states," Morgan said. "As well as a discount on any product you might want to push on the side."
"We don't **** with drugs," Blackwood said with a scowl. "No selling at all. Why the hell should we stick out neck out for you? Because you say you'll pay?"
"That," Morgan started. "And, we both know your club is going under. The days of the outlaw biker gang ain't what they used to be. You're hurting for money, the ATF busts your balls day and night about that little weapons trafficking business you got. Fact of the matter is you need this. Say yes."
Blackwood looked back at his fellow bikers, then back to Morgan. He shuffled his feet and exhaled before finally nodded. "Fine," he said. "When do you want to get started?"
"I'm surprised in you, Mister Blackwood," a voice echoed around them.
Fisk and his men pulled their weapons at almost the same time the Crusaders did. The two sides looked all over the parking lot for any indication of the voice's owner.
"The hell was that?" Morgan asked, looking at Blackwood. "You trying to pull something on me?"
"Me? What about you?! You're a goddamn informant or something?!"
"Excuse me," the voice continued. "I was talking here. So rude. As I was saying, I'm surprised in your, mister scary biker man. Also a bit disappointed."
Out of the shadows, a red blur slammed into Morgan and knocked him to the ground. Both sides opened fire, Blackwood fell to the ground as bullets fired above him. The figure jumped away before the bullets could tear into them.
They swung back into the shadows and up onto the roof of the warehouse.
"Only a dope says yes to drugs," the figure said, coming into the halogen lights of the parking lot. It was the devil... or a man dressed like it. "I mean, c'mon, didn't Nancy Reagan teach you anything? Just say no!"
The devil man jumped from his spot and dove into the middle of Morgan's men, taking them on with a pair of sticks at close range.
"These are the times that try men's souls... Tyranny, like hell, is not easily conquered; yet we have this consolation with us, that the harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph."
-- Thomas Paine
"People never lie so much as after a hunt, during a war or before an election."
-- Otto von Bismarck