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5 yrs ago
Current Moved to Discord. Visit my YouTube channel (ArtyPickles PvP) at m.youtube.com/channel/UCVer…

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Call me Doc. I prefer RM, UM, or LP fights, with human or peak human hand-to-hand or swords & sandals being my speciality.
Challenge me to a match any old time!

Arena Characters: http://www.roleplayerguild.com/topics/87852-docs-characters-no-posting/ooc#post-3105991

Most Recent Posts

@Everett

Ah, Sky had really caught Gonad in a noogie this time. As previously mentioned, Gonad had strength in excess, strength that could ascend to counter any direct display of overwhelming force. But strength was not the same as weight, and as Sky was susceptible to being blown around, so was Gonad. And as Gonad was briefly ragdolling in open air, he had no means to propel himself away from the homing spear.

Furthermore, Gonad did indeed not know that it was homing until it had whirled to track him from scarcely a foot away. Under normal circumstances, Gonad could bat away a spear thrust with contemptuous ease. But that was because he had seen thousands of thrusts directed at his person. He had never experienced a homing projectile with such a level of sensitivity.

It would pierce into his solar plexus at the destined point from the angle it had turned into, puncturing his right lung as it escaped out through his right flank, shearing apart two ribs in the process. The hole the spear left would be big and nasty. The kind of wound that would bleed you like a pig in mere moments. Gonad would spiral into a nearby car, metal screaming as it was torn asunder. All would be quiet. By now Sky must have known how Gonad functioned. He did not pull tricks or try to disguise his intentions. He was stupidly honorable. Were Gonad to still be capable of battle, he'd certainly not prove it by suddenly leaping out from the ruins or by trying to be at all sneaky. Either he was dead or dying from blood loss, or was busy trying to do some sort of manly barbarian thing that involved lots of sweat, exercise, and grunting.
@Liliya

John Cena's crotch literally exploded. Blood and intestines sailed through the air like crimson streamers. A testicle landed in some fat nerd's popcorn. The referee nudged a bony chunk of pelvis through the ropes.

Gonad was back on his feet, and nodding with sagely approval at the outcome. The match was back on! Gonad dropped to his knees and began hobbling towards Billuh. It was common knowledge that to beat a midget, you had to fight like a midget.
@Krot
"First-Degree" Donny


Donny wasn't a happy boy. His soundless flirting with the desk clerk had gone absolutely nowhere. She hadn't even moved from her seat after ten minutes of winking and waving. Such was life. Donny was left with an empty feeling in his guts, and his finger tips still buzzed with the groove. His omnipresent smile was gone. It was the late hours now, but he didn't feel sleepy. It was Friday, for fucks sake. HIS Friday. His night to do whatever he wanted. He could sleep in tomorrow and get back on his tight schedule the day after. He didn't care about Sundays. The time he had firebombed a church after the "Clench" of 99' proved that. He streaked through the night, rolling down both windows. A reckless act for him. In this cruel world, you had but one life and the ease with which you could lose it was almost comical. Donny wasn't the sort of man to take chances, but he was desperate now. He was losing his night, losing his high. The corners of his mouth twitched as he saw something. Ahead was the Gotham Shipyard. A big ol' fire blazed out there. The Russians were active. Perhaps they had some new toys to play with, and if not, maybe he could play with them. There were few things more entertaining than trolling foreigners.

He allowed his van to idle, and coasted silently up into a nearby lot. He withdrew his switchblade. There was something he had to do before continuing. After he did it, he tucked the switchblade away and watched the bonfire. Donny had made dealings with these chumps before. Russians were hard and tough, but as slow on the uptake as molasses and about as imaginative as a dead goose. Their scorched earth tactics during WWII proved about as much. Donny blinked slowly. Gunshots. The men at the bonfire yelled in their stupid blocky language and ran towards the ship. A mushroom cloud of hope blossomed within Donny's chest. There was going to be some fun after all.

He wanted to watch the situation unfold as a spectator, to get an understanding of what was going on. His fedora was cocked back to give him a full view. Only idiots wore their brims over their eyes. What if a gunman was positioned above your field of view, and the hat blocked them from sight? He could always tilt it back down and look like a badass when he was in a bar or safe house surrounded by loyal cronies, or in an alley with a single woman and nobody else. More gunfire. The Ruskies were screaming at each other. Donny could see them trying to file into a door on the ship, only to drop back dead one at a time. It was like an early Metal Gear Solid game, where you could safespot the enemy soldiers and kill them one at a time by hiding behind a corner and abusing the A.I.

Donny blinked again. A shadow had left the ship. He had barely managed to glimpse it. Apparently whomever had fucked up the Russians played Metal gear too. He squinted through the flickering darkness to keep the shape in sight. Donny watched as the figure moved closer and closer, and then stopped ten meters away to muck about with a newspaper and a big Tupperware box-thing. Donny leaned out the window, cupped his left hand to the side of his mouth, and gave the stranger a shout out.


"Ayuh! Don't be alahmned, nahw strangah. I don't mean yah no haaahm. I's jus' admirin' yah handah-work. If yah don't got no rahhhd, there's always a spahh seat in hee-yuh. Bah thuh wahey, name's Donneh. "First-Dahgree" Donneh to m'frands."

TRANSLATION

"Hey! Don't be alarmed now stranger. I don't mean you any harm. I was just admiring your handiwork. If you haven't got a ride, there's always a spare seat in here. By the way, name's Donny. "First-Degree" Donny to my friends."
@Liliya

Gonad cracked his knuckles and took a step forwards as the bell rang... Then suddenly the announcer began screaming into his microphone!

"IT'S JOHN CENA! JOHN CENAAAA!!"

John Cena's theme blared as he leapt into the ring and clotheslined Gonad to the mat. Apparently he was a regular in the Smoker Pit.

@Everett

The problem was, Gonad's berserk strength was a +1 over his adaptation to match power. As such, there was no possibility of the wrap stopping him. Furthermore the barbarian's grip was his greatest strength, and as such the wrap wouldn't even be able to slip from his grasp to snap back as he quickly peeled himself out. It wasn't a matter of whether or not Gonad could overpower the trap. He'd be out in a jiffy. It was a clever ruse all right, and could have worked on anybody. Anybody but Gonad. Overpowering things that weren't meant to be overpowered was his specialty. The proportions had never been on par to begin with. This wasn't an indeterminable contest where the result swayed endlessly with whomever was imposing their will at the time.

In trying to keep up a steady offence and defense at the same time, Sky was spreading his strengths out as he had when fisticuffing Gonad. Blocking and striking simultaniously, distributing himself. Gonad took on one task at a time, and with all of his might. Sky's butter was spread thin on toast, but Gonad's was a single chunk still in the fridge. He had simplicity on his side, in all of its unmediated glory. Not to say Sky had no chance of beating Gonad in a straight fight, but he was just working the wrong angles. A man has the power to kill a lion with a gun, but not beat it at arm wrestling. Not unless he has many men with him to help restrain said tiger, carry it into a lab, and then hook it up to an arm wrestling machine, but that was getting too technical. Sky had the advantages of reach and durability (his kinetic absorption) over Gonad, and without a doubt if he could pierce the barbarian's vitals with his spear, it could certainly bring the brute down. If he slashed at Gonad's naked arm with his weapon, it would cut tendon and muscle and render the limb useless, just as a blade would to a common creature of flesh and blood. He had the capacity to kill Gonad, but killing and overpowering were two vastly different beasts. He was trying to arm wrestle the metaphysical tiger, all by himself, whilst using his free hand to try stabbing at it. It wouldn't work well to expect both endeavors to succeed.

Sky's spear was fast all right, but when compared with the power scaling ability of Gonad, it might as well have been a normal throw launched against a mortal warrior. A skilled combatant could see it coming. As for Gonad perceiving it, he had an answer to that. He had complete control over the functions of his body. Blindsight, the ability to transmit senses other than sight through modules in his visual cortex. Many know the legends of old masters, who can fight with blindfolds on. Gonad could run rings around those chumps. The air pressure gradient of the oncoming spear was the biggest tell. At the last millisecond Gonad would do a peppermint twist to the right, and unless the spear could whirl on a dime it'd miss completely. Before Sky's next attack, Gonad would have probably pulled free from his restraints. He'd have unbound it from the inside, his great hands wadding up and disengaging the cocoon in short order, as one unfurls a hot tamale.

The air pressure from the spear was dangerous, yes, but one had to understand that at such speeds these combatants constantly submitted their bodies to such velocities. If a man got hurt just by waving his hand and having the air resistance and minute heat from said resistance around his hand damage him, what sort of fighter would be make? Gonad could throw punches at the near the speed of that spear, and it didn't hurt his fists none. Common sense dictated then that the rest of his body was suitably durable, in that the only effect that the conal shockwaves and heat would have is sending him flying, for as great as his strength was, he didn't have the physical weight to stay in place. At least, this was how Gonad's power was interpreted.

Were Gonad to finally get free, he'd take a big breath in through his nostrils, like a proud father standing outside in the morning wearing his bathrobe, inhaling the sweet scent of the world waking up. Gonad didn't fight for want of an ending, not since the days of his ambitious youth. He sought only more experience. In the eyes of a child, the world is new and brilliantly lit, and he gazes upon it with wonder. Every fresh battle for Gonad was one such experience, a bracing new adventure to enjoy. Opponents with powers that he had never before conceived or suspected. Such was his desire.

And were Gonad to free himself, he would gaze upon Sky as a child would. This one could block the mighty punches of Gonad with his bare hands, and turn his surroundings into lethal traps. He had MYSTERY powers! The barbarian's bottom jaw would tremble in awe.
"First-Degree" Donny


A white van roared down the highway, twenty miles over the speed limit. The damned thing must have been outfitted with some sort of muscle engine. The windows were tinted black as the night. It screeched to a stop directly in front of the local police station. The engine rattled to a stop. The driver's side window rolled down, and Donny rested his elbow out. He watched, in plain sight. Just watched that front door, made of glass, scoping out the desk clerk and the officers mucking about within. They wouldn't arrest him. Nobody who knew First-Degree Donny and recognized him lived. At least, not those that knew how to keep their traps shut. It might have been suspicious for a pervy ginger in a pedomobile to have a staring contest with the front of a police station, but Donny had stopped giving a shit years ago. Right now he was bored out of his skull, the high from blowing apart those three gutless mooks having already dissipated. Like a heroin addict, it was becoming harder and harder for him to get his fix. He needed more. He needed a challenge. The police were more challenging than common thugs. But what if he grew tired of popping cops as well? What was the next rung on the ladder? As Donny stared at the female desk clerk sipping her coffee inside, his seawater-green eyes widened to glistening marbles as the answer came to him. It whispered from his lips, his ever-present delicate smile trembling.

"Batman. Ayuh... Tha'd jus' abaowt do thuh thing."

The gears began turning, turning, turning. Batman had been gone quite a while. Probably off to brood about stupid flying mammals, or to cry about his dead mommy. Donny was only a few inches short of clinically insane himself, but even on his worst days he wouldn't consider putting his underwear on the outside and then leaping out of a window to go goomba stomp clowns. Insane wasn't the same as stupid, though, and Donny was far from stupid. He knew how plans like this played out. The nasty old bad guy lures the caped crusader in with a hostage or something, then launches some complicated trap. Batman whips some perfectly relevant item out from his belt, something ridiculously convenient, and uses it to escape, whereupon he mashes said bad guy with his fists and locks him up somewhere that can be easily escaped from. Donny had no doubt he could escape from Arkham Asylum. If that fuckwad Joker, with his bad sense of fashion and love for procrastination could do it, anyone could. They never learned from their mistakes, not Batman, not Joker, not nobody.

Donny knew how to learn. He was a rational, fully functioning human being, unlike most of the other crackpots that wore crazy getups in this hack city. Capes. PUH. Donny spat out of his window at the thought of being caught dead or alive with a cape or a mask on. Sure, he wasn't no George Clooney, but at least he didn't have a mug like Two-Face. Ahhh, good ol' Two-Face. Probably the only other sane man in Gotham. Ugly, sure, but at least he didn't put on makeup or try to pretend he was something he wasn't. If folks were meant to be robins and bats and clay and gators and penguins and clowns and fuck knew what else, then there wouldn't be no Arkham Asylum. But no, everyone was nuts, and Donny knew what he had to do to scratch that itch that had been plaguing him all day and all night. Kill Batman, plain and simple, in such a way that were a screenwriter to pitch the method to a network executive as a plot to a Saturday morning cartoon, the executive would say, "You're fired."
He'd not boast or brag. He'd not even let the cat out of the bag until he had earned his moneys worth. He could go around meeting with all the other fruits, telling them that for the right (exorbitant) price he'd kill the Bat. Then he'd take the body and make a circuit the next night, gettin' them shekels from each moron villain. He'd probably need to stop by the Bat's actual home after the identity was revealed, clean out whatever trash was living inside, and make use of whatever proof was concealed within to make sure the rubes were convinced. A few might try to double cross him. He was hoping for that. Their seized assets would make a hefty turnaround.

But Batman could wait. Right now he was feeling the "groove". It was like black electricity, like the buzz of deliciously bitter coffee. The female officer had noticed him. Within the grinding confines of Donny's brain, as he looked at the desk clerk he imagined how the it would feel were his claw hammer to split her temple. There was never any great resistance, but there was always one hell of a mess. He could almost see her smooth legs kicking spasmodically as dark blood hosed up the front of his jacket and splurted over his face, again and again with each successive blow. *SCHMUCK*... *FWSHUNK*... *WHOCK*...

The desk clerk looked up, noticing the weird nerdy guy staring at her from a big white van parked outside. Weird and nerdy, but hardly threatening. He looked to her like the sort of man that could have that bobbing apple throat you see on beanpoles and geeks. The kind of yutz that broke out in a sweat after ten push-ups, scrawny arms shaking with determination. His cheeks were soft looking, his eyes big and guileless, and there was the dorkiest little pouty smile on his mug. She smiled back.


@Liliya

Only two-hundred spectators. Then again, that was to be expected. Such bloodsport couldn't be high profile. Only the wealthiest and the most trustworthy yuppies were allowed to view what occurred within the confines of the Smoker Pit. No big entrances, no bursts of smoke or light shows. Not even a theme song. Gonad stood already in his corner of the ring, entirely naked like the fearless Celts of old. Several women in the audience had already been removed, after having fainted away. Three men had also been carted out after Gonad began his warm-up squats, albeit due to the stench of his sweat.
Arena: The Smoke Pit


An underground ring used for illegal, no-holds-barred wrestling tournaments. Instead of plywood beneath the mat, there is only unforgiving steel. The ropes are metal cables thick enough to stop a runaway tractor.

Match Theme:

@Krot

Is it fine if I make a post before your first, and Donny arrives at where your character is and just invites him along? Like say yours is hanging around near an alley and Donny just pulls up in his van, identifies him, and is all like, "Jus' guht awn in naow friend, an' we'll go have ouwahselves a bat roastah."
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