Things Can Always Get Worse - Traverse Town [COMPLETE]
He seemed to be having quite the misadventures here in Traverse Town. The exploding house, lacking money for food, the waterway collapsing, reminisces about Seifer, catching a god damned cold… He wasn’t bitter, he wasn’t. Or so he told himself
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Woah. Morbid thought. Keep it together, man.
Was this guy ADD or what? First it was, "Get Reno a drink" and next it was, "My tie deserves more attention than you." Well. That was a great way to get things out of people. From the way things seemed he acted like this quite often, as though he owned the god-damned universe or something. And quite frankly it made him want to punch they guy in the face. The urge just grew when the redhead turned back to him and yet was still not paying attention.
He rolled his eyes at the demand. He was really not in the mood for this shit. The other man's face was beginning to look something akin to a target now. But, over the years, he had learned some restraint to his anger, so he kept the in-genuine grin plastered firmly to his face.
"If you want it that badly, get it yourself," He said simply. Because really, who would want to use the paper when they had nice red fire hydrant right here in front of them?
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No, no. This little one wasn’t taking his paper-training well at all. These were the kind that had to be kept on little leashes until they did what he wanted. All the little SeeD bitches he had dealt with had the same exact problem. They couldn’t go on the papers, they had to piss him off. Instead of seeming miffed about the order to get the drink himself, Reno put both hands behind his head. He relaxed, tilted his chair back, and even spoke rather calmly. “But you’re so convenient.” Being more blunt Reno gave a small shrug. “That’s all SeeD’s had ever done anyway: go-fer errands.” He tired of tapping the table. Hopefully the empty table wouldn’t be empty soon. This was all getting tiresome.
Tip for service? Ha. No.
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Apparently it wasn't to evident to the other man that he should just leave the dog alone; it was one investment not worth the price. The itch to punch him in the face was getting stronger. Sooner or later, he'd have to give in and scratch it. Dogs never did seem to listen to goldbricks anyway. They were much more likely bite them instead. All those little Turk fuckers never seemed to understand that. But then, why would the lazy bastards do something simple when they could push it on to someone else?
He jumped up at Reno's comment, chair falling to the ground with a thud. Oh, how he wanted to punch the little bitch, but he'd show some self-restraint. For now.
"Errands, huh? That's more than the Turks were good for. All they ever did was get sloshed," he said through clenched teeth.
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The unpleasant sound of the chair crashing to the floor caused only the slightest shift of attention as Reno took a small look at the object. Well, well. Wasn’t someone starting to throw a bit of a tantrum. “Don’t get your panties in a knot, kid.” Though it was obvious he was getting under Zell’s skin [however that had happened] his tone was kept cool, calm, collected, and most importantly: authoritive.
That was his comeback? That all the Turks did was get sloshed? Well. DUH. “Exactly!” Reno agreed pointing a finger in the air. Now he was getting the hang of it. He was damned right all they ever did was get completely wasted. They had the brains to pull off a job where they could be lazy and do nothing but completely wasted. THAT. Took. Brains. To pull off. Like to see any one of those SeeD actually get away with doing absolute shit and get paid for it. “We both gotta do what we’re good at. I gotta get sloshed, and you have to wait on me hand and foot. So hurry up.”
It was sort of a shame he meant every word of that.
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Sadly, there was only so much he could take. Granted, it was far more then could be accounted for in previous years, but he simply did not take well with arrogant, smirking, little wanna-be gangsters who thought they owned the universe. Well then. He'd have to show the little bitch (with the hair that looked something akin to a dead animal) that this was simply not the case.
So, with one swift, fluid motion, he connected his fist with the man's face.
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Of coarse, the impact forced his head to jerk to the side with quite a force. Well what had spawned that little outburst? It may have caused him to break form a little, in the fact he had to slam his chair on all fours to keep from going flat on the floor. He sat for a couple seconds, eventually bringing a hand to his cheek and rubbing down to his chin. Instead of immediate backlash at the man, Reno yawned.
Yes, he yawned.
“You know, hot dog kid.” He stood up and stretched like he had just gotten up from a long nap, “I saw this girl on the gummi ship I was on. She had a really nice set, if you get my drift.” He paused, getting a nice smirk on his face while he nodded, “When you see wonders of nature like that, you just gotta touch them. We ll, anyway, she hit me, too,” Reno raised his tone, “Harder than THAT.” Since this was making him more sober by the second it was getting rather tiresome. No. No one liked a really “sober” Reno. Because sober Reno was a violent batshit crazy bastard-well, not really. But he didn’t have anything against outright tackling blonde little bitch SeeD’s to the floor of a tavern. Which was exactly what he did [or attempted to do.]
This kid was gonna pay.
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Now. Considering the situation, Reno was without a doubt full of shit. Granted, he hadn't hit too hard, but he had years of experience in martial arts, and it only took a grand total of three pounds of pressure to break a nose. Luckily for the little punk, he hadn't aimed for that area. Otherwise his face would be smashed in. Further, if the punch was so god damned weak, he wouldn't be bothered to tackle him. So the comment was disregarded completely.
Now, what he should do in this situation was obvious. He should have faced the attack at a fourty-five degree angle, fists raised, elbows close to his body, chin tucked in, and feet shoulder-width apart. That way, he could minimize the impact, and organs and soft tissue areas would be protected. With his feet planted firmly and soulder-width apart and his kness slightly bent, he was much more likely to retain his balance, and in the case he was knocked over, he would land on the large muscles groups of his upper body (such as the back) to minimize the impact of the blow, and his limbs would be curled in as not to injure them. He could then use the force of the blow to shoulder roll forward into a standing position to knock the man over. He'd then have the upper hand, and could commence pummeling the shit out of him.
However, his mind came up with a much more brilliant plan, and it sounded a little something like screw that.
The little punk thought he was going to tackle him, huh? Well then. He wasn't going to loose the ball. As Reno launched himself, Zell launched himself also, and they ended up in a heap of limbs right on top of the coffee table, which promptly gave way to their weight. He delivered a good few punches, and by that time, the owner had come running out to see what the commotion was.
"Both of you, stop it!" he shouted angrily, but his comments went ignored.
He could by all means suffer any consequences involved with touching two men preoccupied with beating the living shit out of each other.
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Reno’s methods often included a simple concept called: tit for tat. For example, if some platinum haired bitched attacked him and forced him to break, say, Rude’s glasses somehow and slightly overpower him, then he would get back equally. By.. Exploding the street they were driving on with a couple packs of dynamite for example. This same concept was kept when punks clocked him in the face and wouldn’t give him a goddamned drink. It was only just.
Going and breaking a table by mere dog-pile wasn’t a very fun thing [though it did involve breaking things..]. Reno responded with an off, and many flailing appendages, grabbing, punching, pulling, whatever happened to belong to the brat hotdog kid.“You god damned pile of blonde-“ She managed to wriggle away from the in-pieces table and kid.
...But as the owner was called out, he glared that guy a good one. With a snappy wave of his hand he disregarded anything some old fogie had to say, “Stay out of something that’s not your business, pops.” Not having a weapon sucked a vast amount of ass. So Reno did what Reno did best-improvised in the way that would get him kicked out! His green eyes darted about, and picked up something that seemed like it would work as a weapon-one of the wooden chairs. Reno also excelled in not fighting very fairly.
This was rather fun.
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He struggled with the redhead, punching, kicking, doing whatever was necessary. Anything that had semblance to methods learned in his combat training refused to manifest in his head, all rational thought being burned to pieces by the flames of anger. That in itself was something of an accomplishment, as in any other situation like this such methods came automatically, perhaps even subconsciously.
But now, a new set of rules were pulling at his instincts, and they were by far more unorthodox. So he was about to get his head smashed in by a chair? Well, that wasn't cool. So he quickly procured another chair and threw at the one Reno held, as hard as he could. He then grabbed a leg from what had once been a table.
It was hammer time.
He moved forward to strike with the weapon of opportunity, but before he could, the general area was suddenly very wet.
Wait. Was that... vodka?!
He turned to find the owner glaring at them. "Don't make me get the matches!" the old man threatened. "You're both. Banned. For. Life." There was a hissing quality to it as it escaped his clenched teeth.
Well, whatever. This little escapade had gone way out of hand anyway. He dropped the makeshift club, and without even bothering to check if Reno was still going to fight or not, he up and left.
His room sounded pretty nice about now.
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It was so NOT hammer time.
The chair that the brat had threw caused for the Turk to make a face, and duck just in case the brat had a good aim for some unexpected good quality. Alas, no, as the chair went right over his head and slammed into the bar counter opposite of him accompanied by the sweet sound of glass breaking. “That idiot.” He grumbled-suspecting that glass was not a good sound to be heard breaking if he were hear to get a drink. It wasn’t very long after that he got as draped with that sweet nectar of life as the other kid. “HEY.” No open mouth trying to get some good while it was being poured on him [didn’t he have a dream like this once? No. Uh.]
MATCH. Tch. If Reno had a list, that bartender dude would have just made it. The former Turk present wet vodka smelling redhead was very very pissed off. Soon as he turned back ready to take it all out on that blonde-Reno noticed a certain lack of a certain blonde. “That little bitch,.” He spouted, completely and utterly miffed. One look at the stool he still had, shrugged, and threw it over his shoulder since it was useless now. “HEY!” Running to the gate, Reno peered around the corner to see where that puny SeeD ran off.
Okay. Then. If he was going to be a complete asshole and not finish fighting, then it was time for a few signature Turk strategies: primarily, follow him to wherever he went, wait until he wasn’t there, trash the place or steal what he could, and sign his work with a business card. It was less than dynamite, but work with what he had, eh?
"...But first." Since Reno was now banned for life, He worked his way to the counter, swiped a bottle of whatever he saw first, in this case gin, Held the bottle up high right to where the owner could see it, and walked out.
Banned. Psh.
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