[fragdemon]

((OOC: Now that Sin City’s out, I can name an inspiration that won’t be obscure. The character of Marv in that film is the general inspiration for the guy (well, the comic version of Marv, but the comic and the movie are practically the same… except they don’t deal with Marv’s slightly below average intelligence in the film)… it’s just the simple idea of a brutish hulk who’s good for nothing except fighting… the actual characterization of the character is different, though))


Las Vegas is like...

He writes quickly and sloppily. He's naked. Almost. Without his shirt, he shows off his rippling muscles to anyone who looks into the room... with them he also shows his scars and disgusting body hair, and in the end his strength doesn't make him attractive at all.

To a passerby, he'd be brutish, crude, and stupid. He himself would probably agree.

But in the uneducated head was a calculating mind, only dimly aware of its own capabilities.

He looks outside his window at Vegas. Not the skyline, not the strip. He looks outside at shitty hotels, the drunks, and the prostitutes.

The prostitutes...

Las Vegas is like a prostitute. She's beautiful at first. If you simply wish to enjoy her, she's perfect. But the morning after, you'll see the scars and the fading bruises. The morning after, you'll just feel guilty for having her at all because you realize that one of those bruises came from you. Soon, all you want to do is just leave her because she makes you hate yourself.

Pretty good. Like Mark Twain or something.

Proud of himself, he gets up and takes a drink, pausing only to check the typed slip of paper next to him.

1: Describe the town you live in. How do you feel about it?
2: Describe yourself. What do you see as your flaws and strengths?
3: Tell, in detail, one time you felt happy and one time you felt sad or angry.

His flaws and strengths were obvious to her. He didn't need to tell her about them at all. Hell, she knew them better than he did. Why did she want him writing it down?

Must be a form letter or something.

He sits for a moment, realizing that there were too many moments he spent being sad, and too few being happy.

One time I was happy was during the Tournament of Arms...
____________

"So this is it?"

It was a funny sight. The passenger was a giant hulk of a man, the cabby a short and scrawny one. Both were smoking. Both didn't let the other's size affect their judgment.

"Yep."

"How much?" He looked for an ash tray to shove his cigarette in. It was jammed shut.

"Thirty bucks."

"Screw that. You didn't drive me that far."

"Fifteen bucks is a mandatory tip for stinking up my car you dirty piece of=."

"What did you call me?"

"You heard. Pay up."

With a sigh, the giant took his cigarette in his hand and simply crushed it in his fist, a sizzling sound could be heard as flame slowly crept from between his fingertips, consuming his entire hand.

"Are we going to have to do this the hard way?" It was the token bad ass sentence.

With a gulp, the cabby shook his head.

"How much do I owe you?"

"Twelve eighty."

"Good."

The flame disappeared and the beast checked his wallet.

"How about ten, I'm short on cash?"

Without hesitation the cabby hammered out a "That's okay."

He left a quarter as a tip.
____________

It was a cool idea. It was just a couple of guys fighting without weapons. As much as I love my gun, I’ve killed a bunch of people with my bare hands. You can see the reports, I think I had as many unarmed kills as kills with a gun. Not many people are really that effective with their bare hands. Of course, very few people have talents like mine.
____________

“Welcome to the Tournament of Arms, Mr. Mitchell.”

He expected something bigger. He didn’t expect the Madison Square Garden, but he did hope that the place would be bigger and better than some high school soccer field.

He would deal. He was Dirty Harry. Dirty Harry wouldn’t care about some spectacle. Dirty Harry would simply kick ass and leave.

“Let’s go.”
____________

I waited for at least an hour from my arrival to the arrival of my opponent. We just watched other folks fight. They were pretty badass. Scared the hell out of me.

But it felt kind of cool to know that I might die to one of them. I suppose that’s your problem. I don’t think you can fix it though. The idea of dying in a fight’s pretty damn appealing to my type.

Of course, the way the fight went, you have to be crazy not to love it.

He smiles, reminiscing.