[center]A flurry of rapid kicks. Booted-heels dug deep in the rain-sodden flesh of their target, again and again. A salvo perhaps to quick for even the S-Rated hero, Golden Eagle, to perceive. The steaming mind of the masked lucha' nearly stagnated, continuously asking a recurrent question, 'how could one be so fast?'

Of course, not all is as it seems.

Crossing his trunk-like limbs in a frail attempt at guard, 'Angelo readies himself as splashes through the forming puddles underfoot herald the blazing McNail sibling. For but a moment, the block is good, brought up to intercept the charge at the most optimal of angles, and yet without even the blink of an eye, a stinging pain erupts from the giant's left side. Had he not even noticed in but an instant? The wild man vanished and now stood with a grin most shit-eating upon the mustachioed man's flank.

[i]
'What on Earth?' [/i]

One of many queries Michelangelo held of the situation. As yet more attacks ricochet off his mighty physique 

[i]'This-a--man. . . He is-a-fast, very-very fast indeedy. . . No, this is not correct. If it were simply speed then surely I could match it.[/i]' The gears within are dusty, they shake the cobwebs away and laboriously turn. [i]'Aha! Teleportation then! It must be, there is nothing more to do then to lead this-a-man's movements!' [/i] And with that, the time-worn eyes of the luchadore gleam with victorious intent.

[h3][color=aba000]~~~ KA-KRACK ~~~[/color][/h3]

A horrendous explosion of thunder emerges from the ever darkening skies overhead. Calling for yet more legions of water drops to burst of their clouds, thickening the already thick rain. Alongside, the weather swirls into a light mist, or fog, that encroaches, enveloping all as the steady march of liquid cascades across bricks.

It was in this time that 'Angelo believed to find his mark, gathering might within his right arm, ready to swing clumsily at the exact place in which Ferghus would certainly move to. His pattern was prevalent, a kick to the jaw, a right hook to the abdomen, a round-house to the left illium, and finally heaved boot to the lower spine. It was during the bowler-wearing man's second movement, in which our hero would strike. 

And so he did, the piston-like fist swiftly actuating toward that exact spot connecting with nought but the falling rain. Before even registering that his blow was not only perceived but even entirely avoided, a fracturing kick brought all of the spent man's attention again toward his left flank. The pattern only continued. . . 

[i]'It is impossible! Surely I was-a-absolutely certain 'de man would appear to swi-'[/i] 

The thought was cut off by yet another pounding upon the back. Staggering the mighty man forward, yet not to the grounds. Still yet he stood, enduring under every heave and blow from the fire-headed ruffian. With conviction to see it to the end, whatever end. So again, 'Angelo's eyes focused, upon every move, yet not the attack's follow through.

It was perhaps in one of these most arduous moments in which a vague [i]something[/i] could be realized. A minor flash of understanding, the only clue. At every analyzed movement, the very same could be witnessed, a man-shaped hole through both fog and rain for but only a second in the instant of Ferghus' apparent vanishment. 

Clue enough to try something rash. The blooded and broken luchadore fished deep in a trench of a pocket, producing a flawless white handkerchief, at the moment of jaw being blasted by yet another impermeable kick. With dignity, 'Angelo so stood tall, wiping the crimson gushing from his lips, before haphazardly discarding the large cloth to his left. In the same instant, his powerful right flew in, to the second move of Ferghus' bias. . .

[centre][s]---------------[/s][/centre]

[i]"Don'tcha learn big man, your attacks jus' won't work on me! Eheehehee!"[/i] 

The elder brother laughed with ever such confidence, as all of his willpower focused on one instance. One single second of the turning clock, Ferghus himself robs the universe of yet another moment, crystallizing that fragment of time in which [i]all[/i] things wind to a solitary halt.

Every droplet remained stationary, perceived almost as if a streaking or dash of dull colour, through which Ferghus moved with all haste, swerving around the frozen fist, moving on to his next position of attack. The man readied his right leg, swinging it around toward his target's flank one more time. Picture the shock from which his confidence melted away, as the remaining cannon limb, gently-obfuscated by a stained cloth fluttering by, drew in to his perception, at the instant of the next tick of the clock. 

[h3][color=ed1c24]~~~ WHAM ~~~[/color][/h3]

A momentous fist, rocketed into Ferghus' slack-jaw, crumbling his attempt at attack, carrying the man off his own wobbly stance. Following through, cracking bone and cartilage, sending a shockwave through the fog at the impact, temporarily disrupting the local fall of water. Sending a limp body sailing across wet grounds with audible thumps, tailing abaft his own blood.

[b]The McNail Brother is defeated.[/b]

[centre][s]---------------[/s][/centre]

In Ferghus' next perceived moment, he was staring down that ox of a man, held tight in a grasp from even which he could not escape. The fire-headed man spat teeth from his bloodied maw.

[i]"Ya gonna end it. . . Or what?"[/i] 

He enfeebled to say, though his words were callous, without a hint of remorse or regret.

Michelangelo pondered for a moment, but he did not need to, through calm, accented words he responded, [i]"Of course not, it is-a-already over. A prospective hero would never cause harm unwanting."[/i]

[i][b]"HERO?!" [/b][/i] Ferghus spat again, this time into the masked face the victor. [i]"Ye say you'd never cause unnecessary harm?! [b]RICH![/b] Where were you high and mighty do'gooder types when one of your ilk were beating the [b]ever-loving piss[/b] outta our middle brother!?"[/i]

Water rushed down the face of the broken man in 'Angelo's hold, draining away the red with his conviction.

[b]"WHY'S LITTLE IAN DEAD IN A DAMNED DITCH, 'N THE ONE RESPONSIBLE GETTIN' FUCKIN' PRAISE FER IT!"[/b] He screamed his heart out, what was left of his energy drained away in those final words, drifting him off from consciousness. 

'Angelo was left in the rainfall, as thunderous sounds returned to his perception. solemnly he spoke, [i]"Like wolf in 'de sheep's clothing, there are-a-those who would masquerade as heroes in 'de association, perhaps they are-a-worse still than even 'de villains. . . Accept my most sincerest apology Mister McNail."[/i]

With that, the trench-coated luchadore slung the man over a shoulder, and gazed down the way, beckoning that arrow-faced oddball and the merwoman as well, whilst his staggered movements drove toward the great association threshold. 

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