Post by KEVIN SLAME on Aug 10, 2011 13:38:21 GMT -6
[atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=cellPadding,0,true][atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style,padding:0; margin: 0; background-image:url(http://i1029.photobucket.com/albums/y353/shockwavesyndrome/thisiswar.png);background-repeat:repeat-y;width: 450px;height:600px;] The blood flew, misting the air around the four sweaty bodies that stood menacingly in the open field. A whimper from the ground protested the blows reigning down on its owner’s body, but there would be no reprieve in the near future. The grunts of those delivering the blows, the dull slap of shoes and hands against pliant flesh, the low, keening cries of the soon-to-be-bruised; it was all background noise to him, after ten years of living in the bowels of New York City, with the real animals. It was almost like a song, if one were to tilt their head and listen close enough. Hear the knuckles splitting as they hit the cheekbone? That was the clash of the drums. And the groan of pain as the toe of a boot found that innocent left kidney? The beautiful strum of the bass. “Jesus CHRIST, Slame! Are you trying to kill me, or something?” Curled up around his probably unhappy left kidney, the skinny guy on the ground glared up at him. “That HURT!” Damn, there went his music. Like some sort of wash out paint job, all that familiar music died away, leaving him staring at Al Derchonov; the camp’s walking pipe cleaner. Unlike most of the guys living in their small community, ‘ol Al was more used to instructing his students on how history was more important than recess…aka, he couldn’t fight his way out of a paper sack. And after watching his new ‘friend’ Slame take care of a few Crotes out on the road, it was a no brainer about who would be the cleaner’s hand-to-hand teacher. Too bad for Al that, as a teacher, he really sucked ass. He wasn’t one for easing his ‘students’ into anything, because…hell, man, did life ever ease anyone into anything? He didn’t think so! So there would be no coddling, no holding his hand; just all out fighting. You block like this, because I just hit you in the nuts and you weren’t looking. You strike like that, ‘cause the way you do it looks like you’re throwing a limp noodle at someone. Easy as pie. Except Al didn’t really think so. Jesus, was he actually whining? “You sound like a dying squirrel, you pansy,” Came the irritated, gruff reply. Standing over the downed man with his arms crossed over his chest, Kevin Slame resisted the urge to land another kick for ha-ha’s. “How the hell you’re not dead yet is fuckin’ beyond me.” And he meant every word, unfortunately for the other man. While Al continued to whimper and whine, he looked out at the rest of the training grounds, watching various other groups spar and talk. He was itching for a fight; itching to get the hell out of the compound and back into the city beyond. Staying cooped up in one place had become something of a phobia for him, after the world had ended. His gut promised him some kind of pain if he kept still for too long and the week he’d spent in the ‘safe zone’ was probably the longest he’d stuck around so far. So, it might have had something to do with the very willing bedmate he’d found, but…the itch was back, and it was back with a vengeance. “Okay…okay, I’m ready to go again!” Slame had to bite back a groan as Al picked himself up off the ground and faced him. His stance was so flimsy, so obviously weak, that he was tempted to sock him straight in the face and send him flying back down to the ground again. But, he had to hand it to the guy; he had some balls. Kicking at a clod of dirty under his booted foot, the ex-cop rubbed at his temples and sighed. This was going to be a long, long day. enough | open! | sorry about the length; i tend to babble. XD |
