|Scene Title||Sewer Gator!|
|Synopsis||Three drunken hero plus one angry gator equals fun for all|
// One enters the Blue Diamond down a half level below the sidewalk, and will typically be barraged by the sounds of a typical urban watering-hole: the clicking of poolballs, the roar of football on the TV, and the twang of the jukebox, which as often as not, will be playing something by the Eagles or some equally guitar-driven-though-not-too-in-your-face band of the 70s. It's a neighborhood bar in a raw and simple way—which means don't ask for one of those imported beers, or a bearded heavy-lifter from the neighborhood may cut you down to size with witty repartee (unless he decides to drop you where you stand with a pool cue). On some weekends there are poetry readings in the second floor dining area.//
It's been about an hour since the incident with the skeletons at the natural history museum, giving Tybalt plenty of time to get changed, get cleaned up, and find his way to his favorite piece of shit bar, the Blue Diamond Saloon. It's not that he likes to slum, he just -is- a little Honky-Tonk with a great deal of money and power. None the less, he sits at the bar, idly downing what looks to be his third beer of the evening.
The door opens and a tall, heavy young man enters, ducking his head down as if he's ashamed of his height. He looks around for a place to sit, then goes to an empty stool next to Tybalt.
A match is struck in a booth in the corner, and the young man there lights his cigarette. A beer sits before him, and he sips idly as he smokes, casually listening to the conversations of the barflys around.
A single dark brow is raised as the large man makes his entrance. Ty's been drinking at a bar since he's been old enough to buy himself a damn good fake id, and as such, he's been drinking long enough to read people pretty well. He taps the bar twice and indicates to the barman that he would like a beer to be placed before the very large man. The bartender of course passes one to him. "Rough night, buddy?" he asks as he pushes back his cowboy hat.
"Thanks. Yeah. I ran into a crazy lady in Chinatown."
The youth with the cigarette cocks his head to the right and slides to the outer edge of his seat.
There is a soft snork of sound as Tybalt almost chokes on his beer as he sucks in a breath to laugh. "*hem*" He pounds his chest for a moment and with watery eyes offers. "Yeah…well. Get used to it…*cough* lots of those runnin' round." He swallows another gulp and puts the glass back empty. "Ty." he offers his hand.
Smith says, "Smith… um." The mini-giant replies and downs his beer. He turns to the bartender and shrugs. Smith taps the bar next to Ty and the bartneder brings two more."
"AIIIEEEEEEEE!" There is a shrill scream from outside before a very thin, very cheaply…or is it popularly dressed girl comes bursting in the door, makeup running down her cheeks, making very visible black tears on her over tanned skin. "MY DOG! My dog! Somethin' got him!" She holds up a leash that looks like it has been cut….or perhaps bitten completely. "Oh my god! Help my doggie!"
Smith turns around so quickly that he falls off of his barstool.
The young man slides fully off his bench, stumbling and burning his hand on his cigarette. "Dammit all!" he curses under his breath. He stands and regards the girl with the leash, swigging on his beer as he does.
Tybalt notes the fall of the large one and the curse of the Cajun in a relatively awkward moment. You know the one, the one before action. The one where everyone stops to pay attention to the smoking hot bimbo who is missing her dog, and the guy in the back burns himself on his cigarette. Everyone looks to the chick, then the curse then the chick again. Tybalt grins a little and shakes his head, putting a 100 down on the bar before sliding smoooooothly off the barstool. He's a little drunk, so things take on that added element of the dramatic in making himself look cool. He's that guy.
Smoking hot dumb chick weeps like it is the end of the world…and well…she wouldn't be too far off. She points down the street and blubbers something about it being big and green.
Smith stumbles to his feet, clutching the overturned barstool. "I'll help. I can help." he mutters quickly, "Which way is it? Uh - your dog. Or the thing that… I'm Smith." He extends his hand, still holding the barstool to his chest.
Smith bolts out the door.
Rene picks up the backpack that was in the seat next to him and finishes off his beer. Stalking towards the door, he turns back to the moneybags by the bar. "Sounds like the lady needs some help, my friend. You comin'?" He smirks.
Tybalt of course was walking towards the door, but in his own slow sort of way. Way he is seeing it, the doggie is gone as gone can get. However, the eagerness of the other two causes him to pick up his pace. "Yeah…" He offers mirroring with his own smirk. "I think I'll come along…." And out the door he goes.
Hearing the door open, Smith swings around and heads back towards the duo. "Are you guys coming, too?" Smith asks eagerly. "Good! I didn't really want too do this by myself…"
The street is relatively empty. Cars are parked in the seedier part of town and it's late so there aren't really anyone to speak of other than drunk homeless guy that is currently huddled in a corner passed out. The trio make their way out. Smith and Tybalt instantly see a scrap of red fabric that is the same red fabric that say might be a piece of a leash. Rene for his part heres something. Wet splashing sounds and a sort of hiss….
Smith readies his warhammer and approaches the fabric, looking up and around, spinning with mouth wide open and eyebrows raised.
Rene pulls a flask from his belt and takes a swig. "Now, my friends, I don't know 'bout you, but I seem to hear the rumble of one mad Momma gator around here somewhere. You see them a lot in New York, do ya?" Capping his flask, he leans over and pulls a long knife from his right boot.
Tybalt makes his way to the manhole, tilting his head and looking down into it. Rene speaks and it's about that time the hiss becomes audible to all in the immediate area. There is a gutteral sucking sound followed by a very serious hiss of something from down below. It's about that time that Tybalt dances away from the Manhole, looking back at it as he trots towards a bike parked near by and digs under it for a moment before pulling forth a very large golden sword that glows with an amber light. "Damn….Uhm. There is the urban legend…Could be a Fostri." He offers, as if the two of you might know what the hell he is talking about.
Smith's eyes are golf-balls as he stumbles back away from the manhole. "What the hell is a Fostri?"
Rene looks to Tybalt for clarification, eyebrows raised due to both mention of the Fostri (whatever that is) and at the appearance of huge flippin' weapons for everyone.
Tybalt walks back over after grabbing a jacket. "Fostri. Nemian Aligator, Leviathon, Paleo-whatsit-gater thing….big. Big version of animals, but in Norse Mythos large Alligators are called Fostri." He pulls a small red tube from his backpack and breaks it open, dropping it down the hole, lighting it as it goes. "Biggest legend in NYC is alligators in the sewers, right?"
Smith is somewhat comforted by the knowledge Tyblat seems to possess and the coolness with which he displays it. "I wonder where it is?…" Smith mumbles as he raises his foot, then gives the ground a deliberate stomp.
Smith says, "It's right underneath the entrance. Still eating poochie, it's 15 feet long."
Rene stands still for a moment or two, then slides the knife back into his boot. He reaches around to his bag and pulls out a pump-action shotgun. "This may call for Plan B."
Tybalt grunts a little and looks between the two of you and rolls his eyes a bit, slinging the sword into a place at his hip before turning and dropping into the hole. There is a very very very loud roar and suddenly Tybalt shoots out of the manhole as if being ejected from a cannon. He arches through the air and lands on a near by lamp post. "Bad idea, oh fuck!" A moment later there is a flash of green and brown rage as the ground splits open and out crawls a very…..VERY big gator.
Tybalt notes the gator, then the others with gun and hammer and tilts his head to the side. "Judging by the fact you aren't running away screaming, I take it you are commrades in this parental drama." He raises his sword high in the air and offers a single pledge with a grin. "For our parents." He then points to the gator.
The gator rushes forward, still half stuck in the manhole cover from his portion of pooch. It angrily snaps his jaws at Smith, very happy to get a little bit of the man for desert.
Smith leaps back just in time to avoid the snapping gator's jaws, stumbling over his stiff leg. "For our parents!!!" he cries, charging the gator. With a primal roar, he swings the Gaurdian Warhammer 360 degrees in a shimmering arc that perfectly mirrors the etchings inlaid into the head, aiming for the gator's jaw in a baseball swing.
Tybalt grunts a bit as he notes the war hammer and the skill in which it is used. He grins a little bit nodding his head in approval at the wet crunch sound that comes from metal hitting flesh. The gator is rather tough and as such, sort of shakes off the attack with little more than a bruise. Meanwhile Ty draws his sword and seeing Smith go up, he goes under. He slides on the ground from the sewer water brought up when the gator erupted from the ground. He slides, shredding the back of his jeans a bit as he draws his sword to cut along the side of the gator.
The gator is a very very lithe creature and rolls it's body out of the way of the attack, not even phased by it.
Rene shakes his head. Patting the his flask, he yells, "For Mama & Papa!" He then runs several steps to the left, hollering at the croc, "Hey, you big ol' bitch, pick on someone your own size!" He pumps the shotgun, firing at the gator's head.
*BANG* *SPLAT* There is a chunk taken out of the gators neck. It's bleeding a sickly colored blood and seeing that gun and the man firing it. Fostri streaks forward, snapping angrily at the man. Rar!
Rene leaps from the jaws of the gator straight back. "Like hell!" he shouts as he lands safely away from the chomping teeth.
Smith spys the gator moving towards Rene and moves to intercept. "Nice shot guy!" he shouts, then plants off of a bench and into the air, holding the hammer high above his head, and brings it down into the gator's eye.
The hammer sinks into the gators right eye and it thrashes around, swinging Smith by the handle. Eventually he flies out as the gator lets loose a wounded cry.
There is a very sick crunch as the hammer hits and leaves a rather gross red dent of meat where the eye chamber once was. The large gator hisses and roars as it blindly starts back towards the manhole cover. Tybalt for his part, chases after akwardly. "Uhn-uh now. Don't come out here chompin' if you don't want to bite." He says quickly bringing his sword up in an attempt to put it through the back of the creature.
Rene yells, "Amen, brother!" as he leaps into the air over the retreating gator. "We're finishing this, Big Momma!" The gun pumps again, and Rene fires from midair directly over the gator's head.
The Gator shudders and bleeds, moving much slower now, it's maybe about 5 yards from it's hole and back to the sewers. However as it moves, it quickly whips it's tail up into the air and back down again.
Smith rushes towards Tybalt, leaps onto his shoulders, plants, and springs up into the air, both fists closed tight on the far end of the handle. As he falls towards the gator, one hand slips back into the position to chop wood. Smith lands on its back as he brings the hammer down with his full might on its head.
The hammer is stuck in its head, the handle tilts up at a nice 45 degrees.
Tybalt is drunkenly mumbling about not drinking on the job as he slides his sword away. "…oh…." he offers noting the hammer and what used to be a cranium of a nemian gator. "That's…uhm…." He looks at Smith and pats him on the shoulder. "nice….good…..good."
Rene shoves the shotgun back into his bag, then wanders up to the gator corpse and pats the head. He pulls open the mouth as he draws the knife from his boot again, looking for a small tooth to cut out. "Gentlemen, I hate to ask this, but…anyone seen any sign of the dog?"
Tybalt steps over to idly look into the open mouth from a vantage point well behind Rene. "There's a piece of it…" He tilts his head to the other way and grins. "Jaw I think…."
"Does anyone know how to skin this thing?" Smith asks. "I bet I could make something out of this!"
Any additional notes fall to the bottom.