Post by Matt Oliveira on Sept 8, 2007 20:53:40 GMT -5
JP: "Can you believe this? Nine careers have been damn-near decimated tonight, in this match alone! TC's been taken out from burns and a horrifying fall, in which Bomber comes to the occasion to take his place! Lrey and Carter have fallen a sum of near 200 feet altogether, Rorouni and Gnarff have cut more holes in each other than swiss cheese, Matt's probably added to his list scars and concussions to himself -if he can still do basic math-"
Ray: "-AND Wreckingball and Skull are going for the exit!"
With that note, the attention focuses on two very exhausted competitors on the cage-end of the bridge, just after climbing the cage wall, fighting gravity and a streak of bodily harm near intangible now. HW is in the lead, most likely 3 feet ahead of Skull at his side. The prince of aerialists, dawning his macabre hockey mask, grabs a hold of HW's shoulder, trying to gain some length in the sluggish race to a now nirvana of endings. The cold, draining cage brushes over their bodies as they pull themselves in a Marine-like crawl. HW looks over as Skull ties up with him, seeing the beaten mask and cold eyes behind it, the blood of the Prince only visible where the mask does not cover. The two trade a glare, and continue on crawling, hoping to edge the other out and score the first point for their respective team. The crowd begins to rise, chanting "G-H-Dub!/S-Dubya-F!", alternating back and forth, bleeding their favorite companies colours one last time. "G-H-DUB! - S-DUBYA-F!" Skull presses on, gaining half a body length on his foe. HW squints through the blood running down his forehead and raises his arm, bringing a club over Skull's shoulder blades. Skull's head drops to the cage from the hit, forcing himself to try and keep going for the sake of something three-letters and a heart string long...or at least the highest bidder. Wreckingball slowly performs a push-up, staggering to his hands and knees. Much to the GHW fans excitement, he moves forward, just a bit faster. Skull looks to his front, just in time to reach out and grab HW's boot. Wreckingball stops and wheels around, granting the wish of another confrontation. Noticing this, Skull pressures himself to his knees as HW leans back to his own. They stare at one another again, through blood -and goalie mask. HW lifts his arm, and whips it across Skull's head with a slugger of a punch. Skull's cranium whips to the side, and slowly centers, his temple stinging the more. He returns with a haymaker of his own, glancing over the center of HW's forehead, aggravating the blood and smearing over his knuckles. HW keels backward slightly, leaning on his feet and ankles for stability. He raises his arm overhead, lurching forward with an elbow over Skull's brow. This causes the mask to crack, a sliver chipping off from the eye socket to the hairline -wedge-shaped. Skull falls forward, catching himself with his right arm before he would hit the fencing. He looks up, and jolts toward HW, head-butting him in the collarbone. HW's torso flicks sideways, his hand moving up to feel the wound. With that, he brings the brunt of his skull over the back of Skull's supporting shoulder, his elbow buckling. In desperation, Skull connects skulls (sorry) with the GHW rival again before both men slowly fade to the flooring. Dazed, concussed, and drained, no tell of a real winner in this situation.
JP: "...and to think, GHW could've taken Skull's offer an he would've been on OUR team! I know everybody's got a price, but only a select few have morals."
Oliveira picks himself up in the corner, blood and bruising over his head, the status quo now. His flicks his head back, feeling the pain of some brain damage as a flicker of pain surges over his frontal lobe (forehead part of brain, controls personality, morals, right/wrong...basically the one that hurts from chair shots). He brings a hand to his head, lifting it off to see a painting of crimson on his palm, noticing he's got his own blood on his hands. Shockingly, he cackles, this is what he talked about weeks prior. He's not here to hurt other people, but in a backwards way, hurt himself. He looks before him, Bomber, picking himself up off the mat. Matt goes to step forward, CLINK!. His eyes shoot open and look to his feet, realizing the tattered not-so-much-thumbtack chair lay there. He picks it up, holding it overhead with one arm. He grabs the other legs with his free hand, tapping the tip of the chair to the mat like a player-at-bat. Then, he swings up, copying Bomber's torso as it raises. He stumbles forward, noticing the bad leg, he whips the chair forward, whipping down over Bomber's skull. His head connects not with the seat, but with the back support, the smaller stiffer piece of the chair. A large pop sounds, the back brace popping out from the chair's frame from the contact. It flies out and flips to the mat, leaving the chair hanging around Bomber's neck. Matt raises his arms to his side in a stutterous crucifix before his leg gives way and his tumbles into the ropes and falls to the mat, his blood soaking into the canvas where his head lay. Barnes drops to his knees, the chair falling off his down-tilted head under it's own power. His body falls to it's side, his eyes flickering, unopened.
JP: "Dropping like flies! These are men for god's sake! Not household pests!"
Ray: "Oh yes, they are men...men indeed."
(OOC: Sorry I didn't RP most of you, wanted to keep the line clear in-case anyone else had the chance to post. I just want to say I'm glad to have worked with you guys, great match )
TBC?
Ray: "-AND Wreckingball and Skull are going for the exit!"
With that note, the attention focuses on two very exhausted competitors on the cage-end of the bridge, just after climbing the cage wall, fighting gravity and a streak of bodily harm near intangible now. HW is in the lead, most likely 3 feet ahead of Skull at his side. The prince of aerialists, dawning his macabre hockey mask, grabs a hold of HW's shoulder, trying to gain some length in the sluggish race to a now nirvana of endings. The cold, draining cage brushes over their bodies as they pull themselves in a Marine-like crawl. HW looks over as Skull ties up with him, seeing the beaten mask and cold eyes behind it, the blood of the Prince only visible where the mask does not cover. The two trade a glare, and continue on crawling, hoping to edge the other out and score the first point for their respective team. The crowd begins to rise, chanting "G-H-Dub!/S-Dubya-F!", alternating back and forth, bleeding their favorite companies colours one last time. "G-H-DUB! - S-DUBYA-F!" Skull presses on, gaining half a body length on his foe. HW squints through the blood running down his forehead and raises his arm, bringing a club over Skull's shoulder blades. Skull's head drops to the cage from the hit, forcing himself to try and keep going for the sake of something three-letters and a heart string long...or at least the highest bidder. Wreckingball slowly performs a push-up, staggering to his hands and knees. Much to the GHW fans excitement, he moves forward, just a bit faster. Skull looks to his front, just in time to reach out and grab HW's boot. Wreckingball stops and wheels around, granting the wish of another confrontation. Noticing this, Skull pressures himself to his knees as HW leans back to his own. They stare at one another again, through blood -and goalie mask. HW lifts his arm, and whips it across Skull's head with a slugger of a punch. Skull's cranium whips to the side, and slowly centers, his temple stinging the more. He returns with a haymaker of his own, glancing over the center of HW's forehead, aggravating the blood and smearing over his knuckles. HW keels backward slightly, leaning on his feet and ankles for stability. He raises his arm overhead, lurching forward with an elbow over Skull's brow. This causes the mask to crack, a sliver chipping off from the eye socket to the hairline -wedge-shaped. Skull falls forward, catching himself with his right arm before he would hit the fencing. He looks up, and jolts toward HW, head-butting him in the collarbone. HW's torso flicks sideways, his hand moving up to feel the wound. With that, he brings the brunt of his skull over the back of Skull's supporting shoulder, his elbow buckling. In desperation, Skull connects skulls (sorry) with the GHW rival again before both men slowly fade to the flooring. Dazed, concussed, and drained, no tell of a real winner in this situation.
JP: "...and to think, GHW could've taken Skull's offer an he would've been on OUR team! I know everybody's got a price, but only a select few have morals."
Oliveira picks himself up in the corner, blood and bruising over his head, the status quo now. His flicks his head back, feeling the pain of some brain damage as a flicker of pain surges over his frontal lobe (forehead part of brain, controls personality, morals, right/wrong...basically the one that hurts from chair shots). He brings a hand to his head, lifting it off to see a painting of crimson on his palm, noticing he's got his own blood on his hands. Shockingly, he cackles, this is what he talked about weeks prior. He's not here to hurt other people, but in a backwards way, hurt himself. He looks before him, Bomber, picking himself up off the mat. Matt goes to step forward, CLINK!. His eyes shoot open and look to his feet, realizing the tattered not-so-much-thumbtack chair lay there. He picks it up, holding it overhead with one arm. He grabs the other legs with his free hand, tapping the tip of the chair to the mat like a player-at-bat. Then, he swings up, copying Bomber's torso as it raises. He stumbles forward, noticing the bad leg, he whips the chair forward, whipping down over Bomber's skull. His head connects not with the seat, but with the back support, the smaller stiffer piece of the chair. A large pop sounds, the back brace popping out from the chair's frame from the contact. It flies out and flips to the mat, leaving the chair hanging around Bomber's neck. Matt raises his arms to his side in a stutterous crucifix before his leg gives way and his tumbles into the ropes and falls to the mat, his blood soaking into the canvas where his head lay. Barnes drops to his knees, the chair falling off his down-tilted head under it's own power. His body falls to it's side, his eyes flickering, unopened.
JP: "Dropping like flies! These are men for god's sake! Not household pests!"
Ray: "Oh yes, they are men...men indeed."
(OOC: Sorry I didn't RP most of you, wanted to keep the line clear in-case anyone else had the chance to post. I just want to say I'm glad to have worked with you guys, great match )
TBC?