Its time for my GRAND ADVENTURE! [open] Oct 31, 2016 0:32:41 GMT -5
Post by viruswithshoes on Oct 31, 2016 0:32:41 GMT -5
If there was a book dedicated to the subject of breaking a man's neck with one's feet Dagon hadn't read it but wished he had. Karl "The Tumbler" Locke had easily squirmed out of the precarious lock the blonde mohawk sporting asexual had put him in though it took scraping his bald head against his enemy's leg, further agitating the missing chunk of scalp.
With both arms bound it was difficult not to lament that a lifetime interest in martial arts had not yielded even one ranged attack for the first of the Basqiat children. That was another thing to be rectified should life extend beyond that night. At the time there was an airborne bald man to vex him, one whose crotch was out of kicking range.
Rather than make the same mistake Warden Karl Locke used his opportunity to toss another bolo at Dagon's feet, in hope of binding them together and ridding the escaped pseudo-criminal of every limb. A blow to Dagon's shoulder made it seem like it would break but it merely dislocated. The bound man thrashed around as best he could. The only attacks available to the vexed fighter was a jump and thrusting both of his legs at his bald opponent. Considering the wires holding his arms it seemed like the most telegraphed attack ever...yet it still worked, the bolo was evaded and Dagon felt something give from his awkward kick. Whether through luck, previous damage to the joint-locking warden or some sort of benevolent deity Dagon neither knew nor cared.
Locke collapsed to the ground holding his chest and struggling to breathe. While he did so Dagon struggled to to free himself from his bindings by pulling and jumping in order to put enough pressure on either what bound him or the flesh that was bound. What broke wasn't the steel wire that held Dagon's left wrist but his thumb and pinky fingers as he pulled with all his might. Making a fist he could wield against the wheezing warden took a great deal of effort and that fist was an awkward collection of broken and unbroken digits curled into a hideous ball of bone and flesh uselessly flailing with a dislocated shoulder. That wad of fractured bone and flesh hammered against the handcuffs binding it's brother on the right but to little avail.
Both fighters seemed to be at their limit, both panting and trying not to pass out from the pain that had been inflicted upon them, in Dagon's case, some of that pain was self-inflicted.
It was painful and awkward squeezing his right hand with his partially broken left while pulling at the loose handcuffs. Worse yet it wasn't achieving any results. A panicked Dagon began kicking at the pipe he was cuffed to in hope that he would break easier than the cuffs and that no more fingers would be lost.
When Warden Locke found himself able to support himself despite his broken ribs Dagon found himself with gloriously wet pants. He dangled the broken water pipe from the cuffs connected to his right wrist. While he wasn't free from the cuffs Dagon was glad to be mobile once again.
Both men were experienced enough fighters to know that this had turned into a stamina contest. Neither could take any more damage. Given the state of the fighters one solid punch would become a coup de grace ending the misery of the fight.
"Just walk away, Locke. Killed by a soaking wet okama won't be something you'll want on your tombstone."