DAY 2, MORNING
Preparations for the elimination bout were perfunctory at best. Pierre finished registering with the Russian and was directed over toward the ring. It looked like they would be the first up when the matches started. Pierre found a spot by the ring corner to lay his guitar case aside, glaring at an attendant who thought to move it away, and declined the offer to turn over his jacket. Rather than engaging in meaningless pleasantries with his opponents he took the chance to scan around the "arena" and out into the crowds and lines.
It was a noisy and chaotic environment and the Guido continued to interrupt him with pre-combat verbal jabs that Pierre allowed to wash over him. He did note the man was wearing a gold chain with a medallion of a sort he had seen on a lot of Roanapuris. Pierre assumed it was some kind of religious symbol from the context, but the Thais were Buddhist and weren't Buddhists supposed to be pacifists? But he shrugged it off as largely irrelevant.
The annoyance did bite into his concentration, though, and meant he had a lot more difficulty focusing on his visual scan of the audience. Even so, a few things stood out. The mass of natives seemed to be divided up into different factions, the most prominent of which were the same Reds and Golds that his other two opponents were evidently representing. The Golden Lions had proved obnoxious but they weren't the real power players in Roanapur, so Pierre largely glossed over the natives.
There was a whole section of better seating that was filling with Caucasians and even a handful of blacks. Nothing individually stood out in that quadrant, but he assumed those were fellow freelancers. The Mafiosi were mostly dressed in suits, but that section had such an eclectic collection of fashion it could only be filled with individualists. And yet they as foreigners commanded enough respect to be accorded the seating. Clearly they were more important than the natives without being directly beholden to Hotel Moscow or the other crime syndicates.
And speaking of Hotel Moscow, there was a definite paucity of dangerous looking Slavs out in the audience. They were crawling around as security, to be sure. But they definitely weren't flocking to watch the show. Their competitors were more in evidence, as the Triads stood out as Asian men in dark suits with luxury bling, and the Colombians and Sicilians were quite noticeable from Pierre's long experience. Curious, though, while the Triad audience was strung out in penny-pockets among the better seating, the Colombians and Sicilians were sitting together in a block. It was quite a contrast to what Pierre had seen of their behavior yesterday when they were purposefully avoiding each other.
Before Pierre could puzzle over the matter Guido turned his attention back to him. "Let's get one thing clear here," Guido began before Pierre tuned him out.
As he started to scan the crowd again, though, he heard the ringing of a bell and turned his head back toward the entrance. The line for tickets had petered out, and two very scantily clad ladies were making their way toward the ring. One of them had the bell and the other was knocking it with a hammer. Behind them trailed a black man with a ridiculous Afro and a sickeningly green leisure suit, who reminded Pierre of nothing so much as a low-class Marseilles pimp. He also had a microphone in hand, and addressed the crowd in English.
"We're about to git busy with the qualifications rounds, and I, your not-so-humble host Rowan Pigeon, will be providing commentary. So let's hear some noise up in the arena!" He paused and cupped a hand to his ear in a theatric gesture. As he waited for the response he continued to make his way toward the ring. It was the freelancers and the Mafiosi who finally responded, giving him some scattered applause and howling. The natives remained mostly silent.
Rowan walked up the stairs and slipped under the rope around the ring before shaking his head and continuing. "Alright, maybe we need a little excitement to git all fired up. So let's bring out our first card, assisted with these lovely ladies Desyre and Cristal, who will be available between five and ten at my fine establishment."
The lady with the bell had set it down on a table by the side of the ring and sidled up to Pierre. "Hi, I'm Cristal," she said, in a sultry voice that was only slightly ruined by the obvious effort she was putting into it. "And I'll be cheering you on, handsome. What's your name?"
"Pierre," he responded stonily, though he let her slip her arm in his as she escorted him up to the ring. Guido was similarly aided by the lady he assumed to be Desyre. Once in the ring Rowan stopped by to shake their hands.
"And the first contender in the qualification bout of this grand tournament, sponsored for the entertainment and edification of the city o' Roanapur by our good friends at the Bougainvillea Trade Company, is this fine young gentleman, Pierre from Corisca," the pimp announced. He then turned to Guido and swung an arm to point out toward him. "And we all know Salvatore Signorella, a longtime resident here, and a fine customer and well-known problem solver."
Meanwhile the ladies had escorted the other two gangsters up, and Rowan directed Pierre and Sal to their respective corners. Pierre barely bothered listening to their names, and from what Rowan had to say they weren't exactly important. Instead he looked over at Sal, trying to size his opponent up again. The man was aging, but from the look in his eyes Pierre realized he had killed people before. It wasn't intimidating, exactly, but he had to take the man seriously.
The bell rang out again. Rowan had already slipped outside the ring as he announced the start of the battle. "The last person standing is the winner! Now let the fight begin!"
He was finally met with a roar, including a lot of shouts from the natives. Actually they seemed to be shouting at each other, he realized, before he had to shift his attention to the ring.
As expected the two native gangsters went right for each other, ignoring him and Salvatore. That let Pierre slip into mid-ring with his footwork ready for attack and prepared to strike. As the natives wailed on each other with little skill or subtlety he decided they could wait. Sal evidently had other ideas, though.
The older man moved surprisingly fast, starting from what was clearly some kind of Eastern martial arts stance. It wasn't as fast as Pierre could have moved, but it still spoke of some real skill. He slipped into the melee between the gangsters and before they could respond, had grabbed their heads and slammed them into each other. There was an audible crack as the two natives slipped to the ground, and turned a four man elimination tournament into a two man duel.
This was evidently not to the liking of the natives in the crowd, whose chants turned to silence and then booing. But even to Pierre it was clear the tournament wasn't for their sakes.
Sal assumed a defensive stance in front of him. "You can still back out now. Walk out of the ring on your own two feet. Because if we do this, you won't."
Pierre ignored the threat, instead shifting his guard into an attack. Sal intercepted the feint with the back of his hand. That was a classic karate parry. Pierre tested him again, and noted how fluid his arm movements were despite the rootedness of his stance. For his part Pierre was moving constantly, seeking out new angles of attack while dodging the few chops that Sal sent his way. They were still feeling each other out, and from what Pierre could see, his enemy had once been pretty formidable. He still was worthy of some respect, but even at his best years ago Sal wouldn't have been a true match.
Finally Pierre felt he had enough, and exploded into action. He thrust himself forward, through Sal's guard, with a fist aimed directly at the man's face. Rather than parry Sal leaned in and reached out for his arm. Pierre understood, it was a throw, and rather than fight he went into it. He tumbled through the air, but it was a trick; he was on his feet when he landed, turning right around as Sal followed through with a heavy Knifehand chop directed at his neck. It was done with utter confidence and commitment and Pierre had no doubt it had won many fights for the other man.
But not this one.
Pierre was too fast, stepping out of the way. Sal was good enough his momentum didn't actually carry him forward but Pierre wasn't retaliating with a punch. Instead he brought his palm out in a powerful slap right into Sal's cheek. The other man simply wasn't ready when Pierre followed up with a fist right into his gut, which left him doubling over and a perfect target for a roundhouse kick. The crack as Pierre's foot hit was sickening, but he wasn't through. He grabbed the golden chain around Sal's neck, wrenching the man's head forward into his rising knee.
Sal collapsed backward, unconscious, as Pierre stood victorious.
[+2xp]
[ ] Stay and watch the fights. Try to scope out the competition.
[ ] You've got better things to do.
--[ ] Head to the Yellowflag. Maybe it's not too late to pick up some morning contracts.
--[ ] Something Else? (Write In)
