Sigil

Titans of Gotham [Spots Available!]

Nah, the Taco Hut is solid - it's a small chain of quick service restaurants with most of the goodies made on site and constructed to order. The horror that befell El Sasquatcho was actually based on a real event that occurred to me one time when I was on an extended culinary contract out of state.

I was put up in a hotel suite for almost two months, and I made a deal with the missus to drop some weight during this time. I tailored my diet around my level of activity, and I consumed primarily fresh fruit, salads, fish, and peanut butter. After a couple of weeks of this, I decide to cheat my diet and grabbed a bacon double cheeseburger (pepperjack) and steak fries. Lots of ketchup. Things got interesting.

I didn't think my ass would be the same. EVER.

After something Kid Lantern said in the Titanpad, I got to thinking, "What would El Sasquatcho have done?"

Forgotten Realms: Tales of the Dead

Surprise struck Keystone as solidly as a fist might. Whether this new voice was Kaylee's true one, or a separate entity altogether, this issue was obviously not over. Uneasiness washed over any feeling of relief he may have had at Telflamm's victory over the army of the dead, or the defeat of Glith.

His feelings on the matter echoed the expression on his face, one not unlike that of the Xiang Temple Master who very unexpectedly graced his presence shortly thereafter. Keystone returned his bow as best he could, mimicking depth and duration. Obviously the elder Elf had something he wanted to take care of, so he kept social interaction at a quiet "Thank you".

Then came the Merchant's Council Welcome Brigade. Upon hearing that the Council wished to speak with him, "requesting" his presence by way of three Red Wizards and a handful of gargantuan slabs of muscle. And some fat official, obviously very important (if he does say so himself). He leaned onto Glith's sword for support, and started to chuckle.

"Yeah. Yeah, no problem, squire." He laughed a little harder, straining his fresh wounds. He really couldn't help himself, though. This was rich. Leaning forward, he entered into a state of almost uncontrollable guffawing, spilling a bit more of his blood from his chest wounds upon the cobblestones beneath him. Sincere amusement playing across his face, he straightened somewhat and continued, "The Merchant's Council wants to see me NOW? Now that the threat has passed. I have been runnin' myself bloody ragged the past few, trying like mad to get someone to listen or help, and NOW the City Bloody Fathers want to have a chat, eh? Will there be crumpets and tea, then?"

He burst into another laughing fit, but this time tried to force it down. The assembly around him didn't seem to find it quite as humorous as he did, and all this laughing was starting to genuinely hurt. "I have a few things I'd like to say to the Council, myself. I don't think this problem's over. If'n you wouldn't mind, Good Sir Merchant, I've wounds need tending. Doubtful the important people of the Council'd want me bleeding all over their expensive tiles and carpeting. I'd be happy to tag along after."

Titans of Gotham [Spots Available!]

@Ghost Queen
Brilliant.

Titans of Gotham [Spots Available!]

El Sasquatcho took another swing at the training dummy. Frightening invention, this. He wondered with actual, honest scrutiny why Wildcat didn’t just bring these things into battle against the forces of evil.

At first, he cranked the difficulty level up to about halfway. You know, start off slowly. He realized his mistake a little too late, shortly after picking himself up from the heap of hair and sarcasm into which he had been hurled, far across the room. Afterwards, he dialed it WAY down and set it to “Intermediate, Instruction Mode”. Scanning through the styles offered, he tried Boxing the first day, figuring it would round out his melee options. By the end of the day, however, he met and fell into heavy flirtation with Capoeira. Something that could compliment his Wrestling, with excellent striking technique, plus capitalized on his abilities as an acrobat.

He spent the next few days dedicating his training time to it.

True to his word, he called his old teacher, Luis Martinez, and gratefully accepted a position with the Gotham Cultural Arts center. A few hours a day, A few days a week, he taught Hispanic Art classes and consulted on similar matters. Growing up as he did, he was exposed to more folk art of this nature than very possibly anyone else in the state. As promised, it was rather easy. It was fun. And he worked with kids that would otherwise not have exposure to their ancestor’s culture. It was an excellent juxtaposition to how he spent most other hours of his day.

It was after a particularly strenuous night of receiving more abuse from the automated training dummies that he took a moment to ponder introspectively. Why was he doing this? For days now, he had spent the majority of the evening hours pushing himself in this underground (and very, very cool) training facility. His jocularity the first night, symptomatic of a colorful, extroverted personality coupled with an awesome burrito high, was replaced with a gnawingly intense need to better himself.

Not that he would tell anyone else around him, but his defeat last week and subsequent forced swim shook him up. The last time he felt that level of helplessness, he was a boy of fourteen. Another bad day. Perhaps his present “flash and fanfare” attitude was part of a defense mechanism, keeping him functioning and driven in the hard world he voluntarily thrust himself. Aw, hell; perhaps he was just hungry.

The furry Luchador, for whatever reason, put himself on a diet consisting mainly of fruit and roughage. The occasional jar of peanut butter and loaf of Hawaiian bread, but that didn’t really count. He craved meat. Meat and peppers and rice. Meat, peppers, rice, and some manner of syrupy pineapple soda. Yes, it was time to hit The Taco Hut. With a vengeance. He threw a coat on over his training gear and hopped in the El Camino.

He returned twenty three minutes later, stacks of refried goodness in large bags emblazoned with the Taco Hut logo; a cartoony pueblo style dwelling with a sombrero for a roof. He made his way to the break room, tossed the food to a nearby table, and bowed with the grandiose flair of a bullfighter, whipping his coat about him. The vocal augmenter in his mask amplified his words into an anti-heroic roar as he exclaimed, “Midnight snacking time, boys and girls! El Sasquatcho has brought a bounty of Tacos and Churro Bites!”

Titans present in the break room, or any within earshot who felt like taking a meal, were greeted with a veritable cornucopia of quick-service Mexican inspired delights. Their signature tacos, certainly, plus fresh avocado guacamole, salsa, and mountains of chips. Boxes of yellow rice, fajita fixings and warm flour tortillas, and a stack of burritos, making way for warm cheesecake-filled sopapillas and chocolate covered churro bites. One bag stood alone, its contents unadded to the mounting buffet of meaty, cumin-ous aromas. “No no, my friends. This one is for me. Enjoy.”

El Sasquatcho dug into the untouched bag with reverent glee, contemplating where to begin his carnivorous destruction of the contents within. He lifted his mask enough to give a wide area of approach for his feast, and began to devour. Through a mouthful of carne asada, inquired, “Ey, is Senor Wildcat still around? Maybe he should get in on some of this, eh?” before returning to his gluttonous rampage.

A few minutes into the meal, he looked at the assembled would-be heroes. “Guys, we have got to get to know each other a little better if we’re going to work like a team, eh? El Sasquatcho has noticed a that we’re all taking a great deal of alone time. Whatddya say, next time we all have a day off, we go… ida know… do something? Like, as a group? Maybe we can catch a movie, or hit the cockfights, maybe go to the park and join a Tai Chi group…”

At this exact moment, a loud issuance of sound burbled from El Sasquatcho’s abdomen, reminiscent of plumbing beginning to back up. “Oh, no.” whispered the luchador, gritting his teeth and swallowing the bite he upon which he was presently working. He instantly regretted his decision to consume massive amounts of fiber and peanut butter over the past few days. The sudden addition of beef and fat and capsicum knocked something loose, somewhere in the deeper reaches of his digestive system; it threatened imminent breach. A threat that sounded strangely like the death growls of two pumas, their tails attached by means of a steadfast square knot.

El Sasquatcho pulled his mask back down fully, praying panic would not overtake him while he tried frantically to figure out how one might relieve themselves in this armor. Dios mio, not in the armor. He had to run. Pulling off his gear mid-stride, he bolted for the bathrooms. El Sasquatcho moved with breakneck acceleration unexpected of someone of his bulk, his years of Lucha training becoming useful as he partially ran on his hands while kicking off his tactical lower garments.

He cared not for which bathroom – blessed oasis of gastrointestinal relief – he entered, male, female, or other, so long as it had a water bearing porcelain seat capable of supporting his weight, preferably with handlebars and a seatbelt. To his own horror, he almost overshot the door to his necessary destination while bounding down the causeway like a rampaging gorilla. Reaching a ham sized fist out to stop his forward momentum, he caught the door frame and was able to swiftly pull himself back onto his path of salvation.

What occurred next would come to be known as The Great Intestinal Rebellion of Grant Gym, to be discussed only in whisper and rumor.

El Sasquatcho hurled himself bodily upon the nearest toilet, carefully tucked away in a well-constructed stall built to last nuclear disaster. This was fortunate, as a DEFCON Level Assplosion was nigh. He barely placed his overly furry posterior onto its preferred docking station, before the torrent of dark, foreboding ichors began spewing therefrom. The force was sufficient to send the large man’s feet skyward, his hands pressing on either side of the stall, holding a tenuous balance. This dump would not defeat him. He would not go gentle.

Unfortunately, he still wore his working headgear, vocal enhancer fully functional and projecting his scrambled voice in a manner that was quite monstrous. El Sasquatcho did not seem to notice, focused as he was on his battle. He began his counterattack as any good Luchador would, by issuing a challenge: “Nunca, foul demonshit! You cannot hope to prevail! LUCHA!!!”

His sputtering foe responded by fro-yo’ing a renewed blast, erupting its fury with the sound of an underwater chainsaw, wielded by an inexpert lumberjack. El Sasquatcho growled and bore down, forcing his will upon the entity of colonic mayhem. “…rrrrrrRRRRRAAAAAHHHH!!! Kneel before me, Cacafuego! You will submit before my massiveness! Tap out, I command you! SUBMIT!!!”

Then the burning began. The feeling of acid marbles forced from a toothpaste tube came rolling down; each cat’s-eye or masher sending rolling waves of growing discomfort through his strain-wracked form. It just kept coming, flowing like a river of all things vorpal – but from his ass. The seeming betrayl of his dietary change, ironically designed to make him healthier, hurt his feelings but simultaneously gave him great resolve. “Bastardo! I have looked into the eyes of suffering! YOU ARE NOTHING!”

The urgency of the noise issuing from his posterior reached a fevered pitch, now more the garbled screaming of a lamentably insane bull moose. El Sasquatcho, not to be defeated easily by anyone, let alone dinner, wrapped his fingers around the handicap assist rails to his sides, and lifted himself up from his lifeline toilet, crossing his legs in the lotus position and straightening his back. Despite resembling some manner of satanic yogi, this position gave him superior control of his core muscles and reliable aim. He growled with effort and pain, preparing to make his move.

“GRRRRRRRRAAAAAAH! Prepare to be pinned, Rectal Fiend! RrrrrRRRRRRRRR … One…. rrrRRRRRR …Two! Grrrraaahhhhgh THREE! EL SASQUATCHO WINS!!!”

In truth, there was more to come, but the fight had left his opponent. What remained, as the Bard said (Shakespeare, not the other one) was: “Full of sound and fury, signifying nothing”. El Sasquatcho took meticulous effort on the cleanup, washed his hands and arms twice, and returned to the scene of the battle.

“You were a worthy adversary, and out of respect, I shall flush twice. Ole.”

He tapped the toilet handle with his foot (twice) and moved to rejoin the others. Glancing at the mirrors on his way out, he finally noticed that he was wearing his working headgear – the mask with the vocal augmentation. Maybe nobody noticed. He returned to the break room, reequipping himself as he came back across his gear. Nonchalantly, he entered the room, checking on the status of his favored meal. He was pleased to note his burritos were still warm, and he retrieved one, intent on enjoying himself regardless of his earlier struggle.

Partway through this burrito, he risked a look at the other Titans, staring at him with shocked (or amused) expressions. Understanding that the jig was up, he responded to their initial silence, “It fought bravely. You would give it proper honor to wait twenty minutes before entering the room.”

El Sasquatcho cleared his throat, took another bite, and tried like hell to change the subject. “Sooo… you guys talk about where you wanted to go while I was away?”

Titans of Gotham [Spots Available!]

Finishing my reading and jumping in the titanpad in just a bit today. I'll be in and out all day cause I got the day off. I already know exactly how Batman will respond to most of you. Anybody already online?

~KL~

@The Kid Lantern

Yeah, online. Same deal here with work and availability.

Titans of Gotham [Spots Available!]

It was late at night when El Sasquatcho exited the Gotham Taco Hut, a lovely franchise, one of many serving the greater Gotham area. True, it was a rather typical taco joint, one step above a pushcart with a questionable Health Department score, but he’d be damned if they didn’t stuff the best beef burritos in town.

And speaking of stuffing burritos, the tall furry youth couldn’t seem to wait to get back to his El Camino before lifting up the bottom of his brown & black sugar skull luchador mask, cramming half his first one into his pie-hole. Manners be damned, those things were awesome. He wrapped his other savory, beef-filled, hot and tangy sauce dripping, soft flour tortilla encased bit of loveliness (with just the right amount of stock infused yellow rice inside) up in its takeaway bag, and tossed it into the passenger side of his vehicle. Leaving the burrito hanging in his mouth, he dug around in his pocket for keys, and readied himself to depart.

He had an appointment to keep, you see.

El Sasquatcho opened the driver’s side door to his car, affectionately referred to as his “Vato Truck”, and ripped the rest of the burrito from his face. Pausing for a moment to chew and swallow his gargantuan bite before hopping in and driving off, he was surprised to hear his name being called behind him, from outside the building he had just exited.

“Hector! Mr. Delacruz, is that you?” this from a man in his late 30’s, carrying two large takeaway bags himself. Trying not to jostle them too hard, he jogged up to the masked man, pausing himself to admire the handiwork of his luchador mask. “Not bad, at all, Hector! I love that you’ve kept up your artistic pursuits. La Muerte’s Luchador, eh? But the colors… it’s not quite traditional, is it? Does it mean something, Hector?”

“No soy Hector Delacruz,” began the masked youth. “Soy El Sasqua..” he was abruptly cut off by the man, honestly not giving a crap for the theatrics.

“Your name is Hector Delacruz, Squatch-boy. You were the only native speaker from my Spanish Language courses who always got a B. You drive the same shitty El Camino you did in your junior year. I just need a favor for a sec, ok Hector?

“Yo, Senor Martinez, don’t knock my ride, eh? The Vato Truck and me’ve been through a lot together. Whaddyou need? I got somewhere to be.”

The man’s voice softened, and he smiled warmly. “I’m sorry, Hector. And please, call me Luis. You’re not my student anymore. I like you. I actually want to offer you a job. It’s part time, but the pay’s ok and it’s actually really fun. You’re keeping up with your art, I see?”

“A little.”

“Well, make it a lot.” Luis set a bag down and handed over a business card, “The Gotham Cultural Arts Center needs someone to help out with Latino Folk Arts. Thanks to your …nonstandard upbringing… and natural talent with art, they’re taking my recommendation. You’d report to me, and I promise I won’t ask much of you. Deal?”

Luis Martinez indeed had taken a liking to the young man. Inquisitive and dramatic by nature, his otherwise horrifying life hadn’t seemed to destroy his spirits. Adversity, of which he’d seen a lot, pressured him to excel. It was a trait that the elder teacher admired and wanted to nurture. Now that Hector was out of school, Luis wanted to make sure the younger man was putting his life to good use, helping people, pursuing his gifts. “Just think about it, ok?”

El Sasquatcho nodded his head. “Sure thing, Mr. Mar… Luis. I’ll call you tomorrow, we can set something up.” In truth, he was relieved to get the offer. He’d been living out of his car for the past week, showering at gyms and depleting his meager savings for selfish things like food and toothpaste. Depending upon what happened later that evening, he may very well find himself in dire need of a stable income. “So, umm, I’ve got an excuse, but what are you doing in this neighborhood at this time of night?”

The teacher shook his head. “My wife, Liz? She’s pregnant. Like, about to pop, pregnant. I’m out here to pick up tacos and scotch. Lots of tacos. Lots of scotch.” The mention of alcohol earned him a quizzical look. “No no, only the tacos are for Liz. The scotch – that’s all for me. Because of Liz. I love her, but sometimes, man… Sorry, would you please look after my bags of tacos while I run across the street to the liquor store?”

The young man nodded, smiling broadly, and put the bags in the back of his El Camino. While his former mentor walked across the blacktop to purchase his necessary libations, El Sasquatcho chewed thoughtfully on his burrito, examining the massive number of tacos in his car. He was unsure how one person, however pregnant, could possibly consume all of that food in one sitting. By the time he had almost figured out the logistics of such an undertaking, accounting for wind resistance and taco sauce viscosity, Luis had returned from across the street. He carried two bottles of what looked like fairly decent quality single-malt scotch.

“Thanks, Hector.” He tucked one bottle under his arm and reached for the taco bags. A repeating tone issued from in his jacket pocket, sounding quite a bit like the intro to Sir Mix-a-Lot’s “Baby Got Back”. Luis sighed, reached into his pocket and answered his cell.

“Yeah baby, I got your taco.. what? WHAT!? It’s coming NOW? Holy shit, sweetie! We’re having a baby! …no, no sorry, you’re having a baby. Yes, I know, the pushing and the small spaces and the … I know. Yes, honey. Yes. I’m sorry. Sorry. Ye… SORRY. You’re having the baby, I’m just the asshat who did this to you. Uh-huh. Ok. Look, you want me to meet you there, or.. ? Oh, sorry for interrupting. Again. …oh, goddamnit… NOTHING SWEETIE! My little churrita. Luis loves his Lizzie-bear. Ok, I’m coming to get you now.”

He pocketed his cell, and shoved the scotch into El Sasquatcho’s arms. “I’ve got to go, Hector! We’re having a baby! Ha!! I gotta run. Call me about that job, Hector!”

Luis ran to his car, totally forgetting about his food, abandoning his booze in the hands of a nineteen year old in the middle on the night in front of a Taco Hut. El Sasquatcho remembered less interesting nights, that’s for sure. He finished his burrito, slid into his ride, and peeled away into the dark night.

---

El Sasquatcho was not the first to arrive, so he had a bit of an audience for his reaction when he first saw Batman and Wildcat standing together to greet them. Now that the circumstances were slightly less tragic, he allowed his fanguyishness to crack open, just a bit. Tacos in one hand, booze in the other, he sprinted three steps and fell to his knees, sliding several feet and rotating fully once. He came to rest about a meter from the feet of the established and respected Heroes, proclaiming loudly and proudly:

“Senor Batman, Senor Wildcat, it is a great honor to meet you formally, sirs. I am El Sasquatcho, Sangre de El Santo, the last of my people, and I present you offerings of Tacos! And Scotch!”

The silence was oppressive. He heard crickets. Really.

---

Inside, he respectfully listened to everything his new mentors had to say. Taking his new surroundings in, he was amazed that such a place existed for his benefit. This location was more than he could have hoped for; a place for him to train and do some real good in the world. “This will make an excellent Squatchcave…” he breathed quietly.

If he learned anything from his failure a week prior, or by looking over his teammates, it was that he could not count on being the strongest, nor the toughest anymore. Certainly not the most experienced combatant. While he did not have to exercise much to maintain his natural strength and stamina, the thing he could do, and swore he would as often as possible, was work on his fighting technique and stealth. These two Heroes were the ones to do it, and this place was perfect. He swore on his ancestors, lest he be forgotten after death, that he would make himself into a Luchador worthy of his people.

He became positively gleeful when the new outfits were presented. He could easily tell which one was his; some jackass draped a shag carpet over the mannequin before putting the armor on. “Ha ehfrigging ha, people.” He sarcastically blurted out as the others went to their own uniforms. Inspecting his, El Sasquatcho’s wry expression evaporated. This guy had him set up in articulated combat gear, armored, made to protect and move around in. No expense spared, it looked like. Matte black and brown – the same color brown as half of his mask.

The headgear, though, was a source of sincere gratitude. The exact styling of his beloved luchador mask, otherwise unassuming, but designed to be protective. Careful to hide his face in the transition, he slipped it on. Oh, the headbutts he could administer with this on…. Yes. Quite acceptable.

“HEY GUYS, LOOK AT…” was that his voice? The mask augmented and amplified his voice, making him roar like an angry hippodemon. He’d have to learn how to control this, but by God this was neat.

He didn’t bother waiting to get to the changing rooms. While the other Titans filed out of the room, The Man With No Shame, headgear still masking his face, dropped trou and began fitting into his new gear on the spot. The impatient, disapproving looks of his mentors was met with a shrug, and an explanation distorted by his mask’s vocal scrambler to a harsh growl:

“I know, I know. It’s like the 70’s down there.”

Forgotten Realms: Tales of the Dead

Keystone activated the enchantment on his bracers while closing the distance between himself and his attackers. Far from being purely defensive, he could feel magical power coursing through his arms, increasing his speed and reaction.

His decision to go after his acquaintance first, the corpse of the wizard Erepar, was a less effective and slightly more suicidal strategy as it was toward the middle of the group moving to consume him. Best to start on the outside and work his way in. If Keystone could hold out long enough, his wizard buddy would still be there in a few minutes.

He closed in, delivering a telling blow to the head of the nearest. Not quite enough to take it down, but enough to slow down his own momentum for the rest of the small horde to begin circling him. For a half-second, he cursed his own lack of forethought. Keystone couldn’t fight this kind of enemy in the same manner as he would attack living opponents. They would not tire. They would not respond to pain. They could not be knocked unconscious. Distracting moves like feints or deceptive footwork would be wasted effort; wholly ineffective techniques against this kind of foe. He had to keep his fight straightforward. His physical conditioning made his body a fast, living weapon. He meant to see how it responded to several slower, dead ones.

Emboldened by his first successful hit, Keystone grabbed the next nearest, intent on using it to bowl over one or two more closing in on him. His hands closed solidly on his opponent’s elbow and shoulder, gripping tightly and beginning to maneuver him into place… …only to have skin and part of a tricep pull away with a tearing noise accented by wet rot. He suppressed a gag, knowing that to lose his lunch would likely result in also losing his life. He didn’t need the distraction. Gritting his teeth against welling disgust, he threw down the stinking, gelatinous flesh, and mentally hardened himself. Using his revulsion as fuel, he slammed his fist through foul creature’s head, downing it on the spot.

A spinning backfist intercepted the shoulder of another nearby, brass knuckles sinking into flesh until bone halted his progress. “Best to stick to the skull.” He reasoned internally. Not a killing blow, but bone separated from bone and its arm sloughed off, distastefully plopping on the ground like wet fruit. Four and a half left. Well, five, if you count Stumpy. The remaining zombies closed in, hungry to cause damage of their own.

A quick sidestep bought Keystone a second or two of time, and opportunity to lay two more solid jabs onto undead flesh. Widening his stance, he drove his fist into the jaw of one nearby and followed with a countering parry block, simultaneously damaging the corpse and preventing it from landing its own hit. Unfortunately, keeping his attacks focused on one target opened him up to his assailants from other directions. His bracers saved him, at least temporarily, giving Keystone the speed enough to intercept an incoming slash. The sudden rush of movement took him out of reach of another attack; one zombie caught only air. The new position gave another the opportunity to open a ragged slash in his shoulder, however. The one who used to be Erepar. Keystone growled against the pain and batted its clawed hands away, promising the former wizard a quick, merciful destruction the moment it was feasible to do so.

Slow moving or not, he was almost effectively surrounded. Keystone was hurt. While not life-threatening right then, it was painful and bled profusely. Perhaps he should consider himself lucky, the flowing blood would wash out a good bit of the gore pushed into the wound by the filthy creature. Still, a change in tactic was necessary. He assumed a lower stance, hovering on the balls of his feet and began to play defense, striking out only when he knew his attack had situational advantage.

For a large man, Keystone had impressive footwork. He dodged a swipe at his face and blocked two more, landing a single skull-cracking blow. Not much of a dancer when asked to (which is rare, believe you me), he was very much a professional stepper in a brawl. A sidestep, pirouette, and partner switch later, the massive pugilist dodged three more attacks, prevented a third from landing, and found himself back in front of the zombie with the cracked skull.

Hurling true power into the attack, a low originating uppercut tore the already damaged head of the zombie from its fleshy moorings and sent it skyward, spinning slightly in the breeze. Ever the showman, Keystone risked a glance to see if anyone saw what he just accomplished.

The dance continued. He started off this particular waltz of pain and decay with a heavy, but sadly not fatal, blow to the next dead person in line, and immediately regained a defensive posture. Though incapable of processing higher emotion, the remaining zombies seemed quite put off at his attempts, largely successful thusfar, to render them inert. Crowding in closer, they assaulted him with sustained vigor. Keystone’s defense, while effective, was not perfect. Blocked blow after blocked blow rained down on his arms, almost overwhelming his ability to defend. Now somewhat numbed from blunt trauma, the experienced fighter knew he had to withdraw from the situation or be taken down.

He ducked away from the near pile-on, snapping a quick attack at the zombie he had damaged just earlier. Cumulative damage finally took down the stumbling pile of meat and bad smells, and its absence as an attacker gave him the hole he needed to remove himself from his disadvantaged position.

Keystone’s sudden disappearance from the center of the Bukkake of Death saved him from the aggressive attack of the remaining zombies. Rolling around to the side of one of them, he blocks a straight attack and counters with a glancing blow to its temple. To his surprise, his bracers issue a sudden crackle of energy, arcing into the eyes and brain of his target. The zombie seizes, twitches, and falls to the ground, sulphurous smoke whisping from its mouth. Keystone grinned despite the situation, really enjoying his new toy.

Two remaining. He had to end this quickly, before more abominations entered the vicinity and made escape impossible. Two couldn’t swarm, especially considering one was missing an arm. Less of a threat than the other – Erepar.

He felt sorry for the wizard, he seemed like an ok guy. Dropping him was mercy. Ceasing his dancing, he straightened his stance and aimed purely to split open skulls with speed and power. As if noting his hesitation, Erepar’s corpse swung on Keystone, forcing him to raise an arm to block. The gap in his defense is exploited by Stumpy, ripping slashes open across his chest. Keystone growled and opened himself to his building rage.

Hit after hit landed on the two zombies, his fists landing with expert precision and clarity brought about by anger and necessity. Erepar took the brunt of these, his head concaving under the relentless assault of the skilled man. Keystone turned his attention to the one armed corpse. Stumpy grabbed at the large man, who easily pivoted away from the off-balance shambler. Keystone caught its arm with one hand, twisting it up and away in the same motion. He kicked its legs out from under it, and finished it off in a utilitarian fashion, dropping his heel onto its cranium. It split like a ripe melon.

Keystone gave himself a second, to look down at the very recently re-dead Erepar. He permitted a simple farewell before dashing for Glith’s sword, laying on the ground.

“I’m sorry, wizard. I hoped we could have talked more.”

And run.

Titans of Gotham [Spots Available!]

@Mr_pink
She looks truly outrageous. Truly, truly, truly outrageous.



I think I just carbon-dated myself...

Titans of Gotham [Spots Available!]

I'm just waiting for Major Glory and The Infraggable Krunk to make an appearance. That'd be a party.

Titans of Gotham [Spots Available!]

Ladies and Gentlemen, making his first public appearance, I give you the testosterone-based, masked fury of ...El Sasquatcho!

El Sasquatcho

Secret ID: Hector Delacruz

Alias: El Sasquatcho

Age: 19

Home Location: Gotham

Powers: Heightened Strength, Heightened Durability, Probability Manipulation

Power Descriptions

Strength – Human maximum and somewhat beyond, he is capable of lifting and moving up to 400 lbs without difficulty. Past this point, effort is required. If straining, to the exclusion of all other activity, he can full body press approximately one ton. His strength allows him to flip over a car by himself, but not throw it.

Durability – El Sasquatcho is physically very durable, due in no small part to his dense body mass. This gives him naturally occurring protection similar to that of a standard flak jacket. It is not accurate to say that he is bulletproof, but he is damage resistant. This does not affect his physical stamina, that while impressive, falls within normal human range.

Probability Manpiulation – Simultaneously his greatest and least reliable power, he is uncannily lucky. If he needs a few bucks to tide him over until payday, he will find a twenty on the ground. While bending over to pick up the money, he will unwittingly dodge a stray bullet from a clash across the park. The stray bullet will warn him of a charging (but strangely silent) rhinoceros demon, who will then slip on a stray banana peel before reaching him. El Sasquatcho is not reliably able to consciously use this power – it appears to manifest during times of stress. Or time of need. Or randomly. Or whenever the GM says it does. Eventually, he may be able to use this power at will, but that is a long way off. Until then, he is just considered to be a lucky, lucky bastard.

Weaknesses: Honorbound - Luchador code demands certain actions and limitations from him, described below.

Equipment: Naught but his rippling biceps and spandexed thighs of justice.

Appearance: El Sasquatcho is a masked Luchador. He is tall, broad, and overly possessed of very masculine body hair, hence his superhero identity. Now prior to his affiliation with the Titans, he is garbed in big black boots, rough carpenter’s jeans, and a closefitting t-shirt (usually black, sometimes a band shirt). Cooler days see him in a leather composite leather jacket. When heroing, he wears his one quality possession: A custom Lucha mask, brown and black, with intricate styling that makes it resemble a dark colored sugar skull. The mask does not impede his ability to breathe nor perceive the world around him, and is like a second skin.

Uniform:

His “working gear”, as it were, is similar in form to Batman’s. It is an ergonomically articulated combat armor, designed for maximum protection and flexibility. Color is matte black with brown accents. Trauma plates protect vital areas, and can also be found in his mask, tactical boots, and gloves. These plates give him an extra bit of oomph when attacking with his extremities. Armor does not cover his arms, mostly because he thinks it looks cooler this way. Coupled with his Heightened Durability, he's quite the agile tank.

He will, as needed, wear a standard cloth long coat over his armor. It can be torn away for dramatic effect, or merely blow about heroically in the wind.

El Sasquatcho’s headgear is an exact duplicate of his Luchador mask, with audio comm options and a voice scrambler/augmenter (for anonymity and making very impressive entrances)

His tactical boots contain compartments for the storage of small items, and more impressively, infrasound generators able to broadcast a wide range of pulses too low for humans to hear. The practical effect is a heightened sense of anxiety in those around him; the impractical effect being that every Bigfoot, Sasquatch, or Timber Ape within a 10 mile radius will be summoned to his position. Unless they’re not real. Then no dice.

Wait, don’t whales use infrasound?

Personality: Hector is a well-meaning, decent kid, whose unfortunate downfall is his arrogance. Raw physical strength (superior to an unmodified human) coupled with his uncanny luck (subconscious probability manipulation) have made him somewhat reckless and overconfident. Hopefully his new mentor can beat some common sense and humility into him.

The relationship Hector has with his persona as is a little complicated. He thinks of himself more as El Sasquatcho than Hector Delacruz, considering his legal name and legal life the half that he only pretends to be when necessary. He respects his family name, giving honor to his ancestors, but does not speak of them much. He is El Sasquatcho, Blood of El Santo, which he will discuss with any who will listen at great length.

Password: Gnarkk

BRIEF Bio: Originally part of a touring Lucha Libre troupe, El Sasquatcho grew up steeped in the culture and traveling lifestyle. This life ended years ago during a tour in Gotham, when an unaffiliated masked Luchador interrupted the performance, he and his group killing many. A young teenager at the time, the shock of the events caused his abilities to express, narrowly allowing his survival. As his entire family was dead or missing, Hector was placed into Gotham City foster care services.

He was a B student in the Gotham public school system, but was unable to finalize his Luchador training proper. What he had learned so far, however, brought him a long way with the wrestling and gymnastics teams, where he quickly became the star performer for both groups. He even had a dalliance as one of the Gotham High Mascots for home games. Go Wildcats.

While trying to keep his skills sharp and his grades up, he never lost his original goal. Hector remains watchful for an opportunity to avenge the deaths of his family and fellow Luchadores. As soon as he became a legal adult, he adopted his persona and became a vigilante, hoping one day to run into the masked stranger that destroyed his world. He has a challenge to issue.

Notes:

Constantly refers to himself in the third person, as his hero identity.

El Sasquatcho constructed and maintains his Lucha mask – he’s actually quite good at the craft.

Almost stereotypically, drives a rebuilt El Camino. It’s in good shape; factory standard vehicle.

Speaks Spanish, English, and an odd dialect of Transient Gypsy Spanglish barely recognizable to those who speak either Spanish or English.

El Sasquatcho bowls overhanded.

He sings. He can’t; he shouldn’t. Yet sadly, he does. Mariachi Opera or Mexican Folk Metal, anyone?

Unless stealth is absolutely required, El Sasquatcho insists on screaming challenges or battle cries before engaging in melee. This can be as simple as “LUCHA!!!” or can be much more elaborate.

Luchador Code:

Honor above all other things.

Perform no act that would be seen as dishonorable to your mask, family, or title.

Taking from the weaker is forbidden.

Do not kill without first issuing a challenge.

Killing in cold blood is forbidden.

Sample Post:

The street toughs approached from the shadows around him, obviously thinking him an easy mark. The young man, moderately under the influence of the illegally obtained bottle of Mescal in his left hand, seemed an easy target. Slurring his words slightly, he addressed his would-be attackers.

"No, no. El Sasquatcho does not have time for this; he is needed elsewhere. Run away before El Sasquatcho renders you incapable of doing so voluntarily, sirs."

The advice lay unheeded, tossed to the ground by the collective chuckles of the thugs. They rushed him; two head on and one moving to flank. The intoxicated youth sighed. He really did have somewhere to be, and he didn't want to risk ripping his new Pollo Negro band shirt on the teeth of some prick from the neighborhood.

Shaking his head, he tossed his bottle high into the air, and braced for the oncoming attack.

The attacker coming from the side got to him first, grabbing him by his shoulder and neck. It was a particularly inept choke hold attempt, one easily countered by the stronger, more experienced youth. Manipulating his attacker into an impressive airplane spin, El Sasquatcho hurled him into one of the very surprised assailants at his fore. Body connected solidly with body, a hollow smacking sound issuing from the sudden meeting of torso to torso, briefly interrupting the Mexican opera inexpertly spilling from the hurler.

The alcohol has taken its toll, however, allowing the inertia of the spin and throw to pitch him forward. He slipped and fell into a puddle of dirty water (God he hoped it was water), coincidentally moving him out of the path of a thrown knife from his third adversary. El Sasquatcho rolled to his back, just in time to see the knife-thrower standing above him, another weapon at the ready. He taunted the prone hero, "Got anything else to say, dead bitch?"

El Sasquatcho smiled. "Yeah. Waste of good booze."

"What?" issued the confused reply.

The bottle of Mescal, now almost done with the earthward half of its short journey, turned and tumbled closer to the cranium of the standing street thug, picking up velocity with each twirling nanosecond. The explosion of glass and stinging spirits from their inevitable attempt to share the same space at the same time (directly in opposition to the generally accepted laws pf physics) was quite impressive. Kind of pretty, from El Sasquatcho's perspective on the wet ground.

Threat handled, the young hero turned to one side, giggled profusely, and emptied the contents of his stomach; retching into the apathetic night.

Sample Post II

Bad night. Very bad night.

The name of El Sasquatcho was not yet spoken of in hushed whispers among the seedy underworld of Gotham City, and yet already he was receiving fan mail.

No, wait. This was better. An invitation from one of the greats: Robin, associate of Senor Batman himself! And he wanted to meet the soon-to-be-famous El Sasquatcho! All of his hard work and street patrols were about to pay off, bigtime.

That was the plan, at least. Bad night.

...the first gunshots rang out long before he could get to the docks. His saving grace, ironically a mundane issue, was traffic. He was delayed by a matter of two minutes - otherwise those shots might have been meant for him. El Sasquatcho managed to arrive just in time to see the broken body of one of his personal heroes drop to the ground, his head rebounding lifelessly and clunking back down again. The poor bastard was only identifiable as Robin because of his uniform; facial features were lost in a jumble of blood and damaged bone.

Something broke inside of El Sasquatcho, a feeling of fear and rage and hopelessness he had only felt once before, years ago. He broke into a run, intent on beating his assailants into so much warm salsa with his bare hands. He bounded into the fight, caring not who saw nor heard him, paying little attention to the others in the fray. Nearing the first person he percieved as an enemy, his voice boomed forth in righteous indignation.

"Sangre de El Santo!"

His fist connected solidly, striking the neck of a man wearing a lightly glowing bodysuit. The man stumbled forward, but kept his footing and looked back at El Sasquatcho.

This could not be. A full hit at that point of impact would have laid out any normal person. He must be dealing with a Meta, like himself. He had not the time to process, as he was very rapidly grabbed from behind by another man, seemingly wearing the same glowing bodysuit as the one in front of him. El Sasquatcho was able to begin the counter relatively easily, until his dance partner forced his full strength upon him.

He was strong, possibly stronger than himself. El Sasquatcho had not expected this. Stupidly, he rushed in, relying on emotion and raw luck to see him to victory. He underestimated his opponents, even after seeing the Boy Wonder go down like a drunken prom date.

Grappling though he was, he caught snatches of sight at his surroundings. Others were there, too, held back by more copies of the man now attacking him. In the center of the dock, another man (different this time) took to abusing the unconscious or dead Robin at his leisure. Making him watch. Making all of them watch.

He was finally able to break free from his attacker's grasp, and picked him high above his head, intending to bring him down upon his knee. The blow failed as yet another copy plowed into his side with truck-stopping force, knocking El Sasquatcho to the ground and driving the air from his lungs. The man in the center paused his savage act for just a moment, looking over to the newcomer and the trouble he caused. The moment froze.

The next thing El Sasquatcho knew, he was semi-conscious and being hurled into the sea. He skipped like a stone twice before nailing a buoy, an arm getting caught in the metal framework. Had it not, he likely would have slipped beneath the waves and drowned before he had a chance to recover.

...Unsure how long he had been out, he made his way back to the dock from where he was thrown. Things were quiet now, except for the wordless sobbing of those present. They stood in a circle around the fallen Hero. El Sasquatcho added his tears to the rest, undramatically slumping to his knees and bowing his head. The grief and shame of those present was palpable.

"Dama Muerte, he is deserving of you..."

It was then the scene darkened, overshadowed by the silhouette of a familiar cape and cowl.