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Wombo Combo; That ain't Falco. Day 5.
Topic Started: Feb 13 2017, 03:56 AM (805 Views)
MK Kilmarnock
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((Jerry Fury continued from The Scarlet Garden))

Finally, he could stop running.

The docks were less than ideal a hiding place, Jerry decided. He was briefly thinking about stowing away in what looked to be some sort of supply building underneath the helipad, but there was some sort of ruckus going on in there and he wasn't having any of that shit. The goal was to avoid Trav, but he'd rather not end up in front of Alvaro or anybody else like that, any real big name. Trav hadn't actually killed anybody, yet.

Of course, that was all set to change the moment he got his hands on Jerry, but hey. That was for the Jerry of tomorrow to worry about. Right now, Trav was probably past the creepy old chapel-looking building and back towards the asylum, where there were lots of hiding spaces to look for poor ol' Jerry Fury.

Jerry chuckled to himself, kicking some pebbles across the rocks. Smooth sailing from here on out, eh?

...

Yeah, this was too easy.
Edited by MK Kilmarnock, Feb 13 2017, 03:58 AM.
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MK Kilmarnock
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While he had plenty of time to think 'gee, this certainly is going to suck,' that probably just made things worse. The freight train that was Trav barreled into Jerry before his body could figure out if it wanted to fake to the left and then jump to the right or vice versa. He managed to fake in either direction but never actually MOVED either way, unless you count backwards and into the ocean.

"Fuuuuuaaablugblugblug!" Jerry managed to scream out before the waves crossed over his face, cutting him off. The stinging saltwater washed up his nose and in his mouth. He hacked and he sputtered to force the water from his throat, hoarse groans of pain and exertion as he struggled with the larger boy atop him. He shouted half-choked obscenities and flailed from his inferior position, soaked sneakers digging through wet sand by the heel. Even if he had to push himself deeper into the ocean, that was still a direction and, as Jerry was sure of, movement in any direction was better than staying under Trav.

Pressing his elbows into the beach, the loamy mass of sand gave way enough for a palm of one hand, the knuckles of the other to get under Trav. Jerry still couldn't push him straight off, but maybe if he strained with both feet and his hips to turn his body, it was possible to turn Trav to the side. He already knew Trav was excellent at pulling off a ground-n'-pound. They were already at the ground. Jerry REALLY didn't want to feel that second part without being able to properly cover his face.
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Full-blown panic mode had set in. The ocean spray made it hard to open his eyes, even without something striking him sharply in the gut over and over and over again. Jerry exhaled and lost the ability to breathe in again, gasping for air through a closed throat and a mouth that was locked open. His face alternately pressed itself into the soggy beach sand and lifted away in short jerks in a vain effort to keep the various holes in his face free of water.

This was nothing like how he felt Trav before. It was a dreadful feeling, to feel that during their last altercation in the gym, that Trav possibly wasn't giving it his all. To think that the guy who had driven him face-first into the mat with a kick that powerful wasn't even taking the fight seriously...

No. No, that wasn't it.

Trav wouldn't let him up. He was abusing the element of surprise, that was hardly a fair start. Trav was cheating. Everybody was cheating except Jerry.

Well, fine. Fuck it. If Jerry had to cheat to win, to win to live, then he was gonna do just that. He thrashed his head to get the best angle he could and sunk his teeth into the flesh underneath Trav's arm, just under his ulna.
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He had let go, so the desired effect had been achieved. Jerry lifted his head to get it free from the flowing tide... and earned a punch to the temple for his troubles, sending the back of his skull snapping back down to the sand where it bounced, smooshing more dirt into the curls of his hair.

He scrambled on the backs of his elbows, kicking in order to create space and drive himself back, though a spare panicked shot at Trav's shins wouldn't hurt. He curled upward, trying to get his legs back under him. Apparently, Trav wasn't having any of that either, because another shot caught Jerry dangerously close to the temple.

He let out a pained whimper. He couldn't scream anymore -- his trip across the island screaming the whole way pushed his throat to its limit. The struggle and the waves had stolen more air from him than he would care to admit. He couldn't breathe properly anymore. That's why his chances of beating Trav were next to nothing, because he had to go and start a fight over Noodle's stupid mistake. Noodle was wrong. She attacked him! Trav attacked him! He wasn't the one at fault!

"Stop, stop," Jerry babbled, trying to crawl on his hands and knees. He stood up and turned. Too slow to raise his hand.

Trav's elbow crashed flatly into Jerry's nose. There was a pop, a cold sting, and that plugged sensation that let him know the faucets would soon be rushing. He lurched to his feet as if on a delay, stumbling back with flailing arms before his feet could no longer keep up, flopping him across the shore like a soccer player in the world series. He couldn't beat Travis. As far as this being a fight, everything was over. If he didn't do something fast, NOW, he was dead.

Jerry felt the heavy weight in his left pocket and knew what he had to do.

Trav was already bearing down on him when the boy desperately clawed the handle of the gun from his pocket. Something had caught on the interior fabric of his pocket and there was no time to dislodge it, so he simply tugged as hard as he could to rip it wide and free his savior. The sight of the gun caused Trav to hesitate in his approach, but each of them knew that the pause was only temporary. Further delay, and Trav got shot. Further delay on Jerry's end, and he could have the gun wrestled away from him. Then it truly would be all over. Jerry opened one blurry eye and pulled the trigger.

It wouldn't budge.

The safety. The safety! Titballs, the safety!

"Waitwaitwait!" Jerry yelled, smashing two fingertips against the side of the gun. Trav wasn't too keen on waiting.

The trigger pulled twice. Each of those times, the gun did its job.
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Click. Click. Click.

Three dry pulls of the trigger and Jerry finally realized that there were no longer any bullets in the chamber. His wrist felt numb from the sudden kick of the weapon, but that couldn't have been right. It had felt nothing like he thought, like a cannon going off in his hand, something maybe more accurately represented by a .44 or some other crazy handcannon. But, all the same, it was a solid enough pop that it scared him into pulling the trigger again and again.

Until Trav finally fell with only two holes in him. Jerry shivered, stared, shook and pondered if maybe, just maybe, he should nudge Trav's body with his foot to make sure he was dead. Just to be sure.

He hadn't the energy nor the bravery to attempt it. If Trav snapped to life, like something straight out of a horror movie, Jerry's heart would have burst out of his chest then and there and exploded, as if the kidnappers had implanted a bomb deep down inside his guts rather than haphazardly strapped one to his neck. His face was a wreck and poured blood down his lips. His temples weren't faring much better. His head was pounding, his ears ringing from both injury and gunshots.

Jerry collapsed onto his back on the beach and, for a while, all he could do was pant.

"I won... I won..." he breathed. He could breathe easier, now. There was a start.
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"S... Sup, bro."

Jerry looked up at Matt through one reddened eye. He groaned and pulled his spine up off the ground, but remained sitting there, soaked and dirty on the shore. The wind cut right through his shirt now.

"Why do we have to get out of here?"
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"Well, looks like it's a little late for that."

Jerry sat with his knees tucked half of the way to his chest, with his forearms resting just before the knee on each leg with his hands loosely bent inward. 'Pleased' was not one word to describe how he felt about Cass having caught up to be a spectator. Having said that, it was a pleasant relief to see that Cass's reaction to the big battle on the beach was less 'Brooklyn Rage' and more 'Seattle Melancholy'.

"Shit, man. This is just what I need." His nose was blocked up chock full of blood and snot and sand and seawater, and Jerry had the idea of looking tough by pressing his nose against the side of it while blowing. Upon approaching step one of this grandiose gesture that would make Steven Segal say 'woah buddy we got a badass up in here,' the center of Jerry's face erupted into several ripples of pain, like a white-hot finish nail had been driven through his septum. He pulled his hand away quicker than one could summarize Jerry's offense in the struggle prior to pulling his gun and vaulted to his feet.

He grunted before saying anything, wiping at his nose and upper lip with his wrist a few times. "Gun's all yours now, Matt," Jerry said bitingly. "It's out of bullets."

Perhaps it was the throbbing in his temples, but Jerry remained acutely aware of the threats his surrounding posed and, right now, Cass was number one on that list. The pistol he bamboozled Ass-ka out of had blown its load, but he still had his trusty switchblade. Something with longer reach would be a little helpful, but if Cass had something on 'em, Jerry would have to be careful in squeezing it out of them.

Unfortunately, Trav forced him to tip his hand there. Crapbaskets.
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"Oh, cut it out," Jerry said bitterly, rummaging through his pack and producing the tin of crackers from it. The lid came off quite easily, and he tossed it into the back before jostling it back behind his shoulder. He dipped his finger into the tin and pulled out two crackers together, jamming the treats in his mouth. Chewing somewhat loudly, he didn't bother waiting to swallow all of the food in his mouth before talking, spitting out some crumbs as he did. "I'm ti-uhd of people puh-tendin' that I'm da bad guy."

Ugh, that even grossed him out. Jerry swallowed before continuing, but he had the next cracker ready between his thumb and forefinger.

"Trav would've killed me!" Jerry wiped his upper lip with his forearm again but that was already slimy, so he tucked his chin in close to his shoulder to use the top part of his sleeve. He kept an eye on Cass, just to make sure they didn't do anything too drastic. "Would you be pussing out like this if he killed me? Nah. Of course not. You don't give a shit."

Jerry munched on the cracker in his hand but didn't bother pulling out another. He just held the tin by its open top with his left hand, looking at Cass's feet. Looked like running away was probably a thing that was going to be happening soon but, unlike at the radio tower, it wasn't going to be him. "But Jerry, you might say to yourself!" Jerry still spat some crumb remnants tucked between his lips and teeth, but at least he had waited to swallow this time, a task that was a little easier when eating crackers one at a time. "You killed Toby! That's why he attacked you! You're the bad guy! You're an evil, bad bad evil guy!"

He dipped his hand into his pocket and started making motions towards Cass.

"I'm done waiting to be attacked! Leave the bags, or I'm fucking stabbing you! Don't think you can outrun me!"
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"Oh so we're doing this, then!?" Jerry had shouted, retrieving the switchblade from his pocket as Cass made a bold approach. "Come and get some you cu-WAAAAAAAAAAUUUGH!"

Cass's fist crunching into Jerry's pre-broken nose (instant pain - just add fist!) sent the boy howling into an absolute fit. The switchblade caught something of Cass's but by whatever powers that be, it just wasn't enough of a trade to make it worth it. Screaming into the hand that cupped around his nose and mouth, Jerry fell to his knees and plunged the switchblade's end into the sand over and over.

After thoroughly killing the beach with his knife and screaming muffled obscenities into his blood-soaked fist for a solid twenty seconds, the boy finally had the wherewithal to rouse himself from the pangs of agony shooting up his nose directly into his brain, enough to throw his daypack open and scatter the contents onto the reddened sand. While one hand, white at the knuckles, squeezed the handle of the switchblade like it held off the weight of the world, he swatted at his pants with the other before opening the first aid kit.

The cotton balls were his target, and one had been ripped in half and shoved up each of his nostrils as fast as possible. "Where were you on that one, asshole!?" Jerry screamed, ostensibly at Matt but not really directed anywhere in his direction. "Fuck... do you know how to reset a nose? I do but..."

Man, he didn't want to have to do that. That shit hurt. It hurt like HELL.
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"Just fuckin'- just DO it, dude!" Jerry screamed, face as red as a cherry tomato. His hands instinctively wormed around Matt's, trying to keep them away from the sore area and thus make his assigned task difficult, but after enough poking and prodding they had been brought to the wayside and Matt was able to do his job. In a service good enough for gub'ment work, Jerry's nose was straightened with a mighty crack.

Jerry, true to form, screamed like a little bitch.

"I'm gonna wear her skin as a goddamn coat, I swear!" the boy howled, stomping circles in the sand around Trav's body, jumping up and down to shake off the shock of the pain. "Stomp a hole in her ass until she's a slipper and then I'm gonna kick a field goal with her head! I'm gonna..."

Jerry wobbled.

"Fuck, dude. Let's find somewhere to lay down. I'm tired.

((Jerry Fury, continued elsewhere))
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