capeandcowllogs | (no subject)

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(no subject)

WHO: Thomas and The Narrator
WHERE: A bar which will remain nameless, obv
WHEN: Tuesday night.
WARNINGS: UH, HELLA VIOLENCE. LIKE, BUCKETS.
SUMMARY: The Narrator is crazy, needs to get his kicks, Thomas obliges etc etc
FORMAT: Quicklog all night, baby.

[ He really doesn't know why he agreed. Why he agreed multiple times. But Thomas is sitting at a table of a relatively quiet bar and he just doesn't care anymore. It's not the first time he's asked for water at a bar, not being one for other's opinions. He is, admittedly, intimidating.

But there's a certain radio silence echoing in his head. It's not about him, after all. It's a favor. Encouraging self-destruction shouldn't be a moral issue for him.

His eyes are focused intently on the door, his only movement being his leg bouncing in barely hidden anxiety. ]

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[It's just like his fight with Tyler. With hands around his throat, he can't feel pain, but he can feel his throat desperately working, all the cells in his lungs starting to die, all that fuzziness in his limbs. It's pain without pain, the threat of death without actually being able to die. It's something.

So he does little to stop Thomas' hands. Once he takes hold, though, the Narrator aims a stomp down at his feet.]

[ Expecting retaliation towards hands (or groin, considering the frequency people DO aim there), the pain in his foot is unexpected, to say the least. He's not exactly sure where to go for a person who doesn't seem to mind being choked. Unexplored territory.

He loosens both of his hands, using the strength of his arms to push The Narrator backwards, a few feet away. To gain distance. ]

[He stumbles back, but only for a moment. His entire body is thrumming with recovery-- or rather no recovery at all, because he doesn't need it. Immediately, he's charging at Thomas again, screaming, fists going for his shoulders, chest, face. Anywhere.]

Edited 2011-01-23 03:53 (UTC)

[ Thomas catches his right fist in his respective hand, The Narrator's left hand making its mark to his cheek. Droplets of blood flies outward--his cheek being cut by a tooth, probably--his head moving in the direction of the hit.

His mind is swimming, not sure what to do and not sure what is where. He yanks on the Narrator's fist, trying to send him flying toward himself. There is no strategy in this; only reaction (which is all that matters, in truth). ]

[Skewing balance is just about the only thing that works for a man who can't feel pain, and it does work. With his energy focused on hitting Thomas, the Narrator has nothing to balance himself, and so he stumbles forward. If Thomas weren't holding onto him, he'd fall flat his face.]

[ He catches the Narrator's weight, an arm wrapping around his back in what seems to be a brutish imitation of embrace. There is a brief moment where Thomas realizes that this is the perfect opportunity to bite him, to push teeth into eye or cheek, but dismisses it as, well, fantasy, would be the best word for it. But here is where he pauses, unsure of what to do to an opponent that cannot feel pain, cannot die. Because that's his damned gimmick. ]

[Try harder, Thomas, he hisses inside his head where no one can hear. He decides (in a bastardized, sloppy definition of the word) that he's fine with winning if Thomas lets him. If Thomas can't bring him down like Tyler did, he deserves all those punches, he deserves being pummeled into unconsciousness. He shoots a fist at his stomach. Every ounce of his energy is behind it]

[ Thomas feels the hit, hard, grunting as the fist bruises his stomach. It's clear that the man he's fighting is much, much more personally invested in this than he is-- he might as well put some damned effort in it.

Hand scrabbling to the back of the Narrator's neck, he slams his head forward into the his, in an attempted headbutt. ]

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