RPG Challenge to Charles!

[Brasil]

Charles gladly accepted the challenge and stepped out onto the battlefield. He wore no flashy armor, nor carried any flashy weapons. This was a duel of fists. Swords, knives and other stabbing weapons were not allowed, and it was mutually decided that projectile weapons made it no fun.

Thunder boomed in the distance as dark storm clouds rolled in from the East.

Charles tightened his cat bandanna and felt his black coat flutter in the wind. He saw a figure in the distance. It was his opponent.

Alex neared the combat zone that was their designated arena. He wore a bright yellow jumpsuit, paying homage to the nameless henchmen in Moonraker, we suppose. He wasn?t as fit as need be for a battle, especially a battle with Charles. He stood 5-foot-10. Charles towered at 6?3?.

As he set foot in the Thunderdome Arena, Charles wondered why he looked so haggard. Alex had been partying very hard over the weekend and had missed much sleep because of his video gaming tendencies. But this was no matter. The challenge had been accepted and harsh penalties would be enforced if Alex were to withdraw from the approaching battle.

They both walked to the center, stopping at the designated markers.

A strange face appeared on the video screen.

It said, ?Welcome, combatants. You have entered Thunderdome. The rules are simple. There will be three rounds, best of three wins. Weapons are not allowed, but you have already agreed upon this parameter. This is hand-to-hand combat. There are no rules concerning what methods of physical violence are used. Hitting below the belt is allowed, as we find it funny when gonads are crushed. The first round is over when one of you screams ?uncle.? If the fighting continues beyond that point, you both shall be zapped by Bobo. He is there.?

Charles and Alex turned to see a chimpanzee with an industrial strength cattle prod.

The face continued, ?Do you understand the rules that I have given you??

The fighters nodded.

?Very well. Fight!?

A loud gong was sounded and Charles and Alex sprung into fighting forms. Charles chose Catstance, an ancient Indian art based on the movements of the cat spider, while Alex took a decidedly different approach, using the more abstract and hyper style of Skittle.

The first seconds were silent, then the combatants exploded into a hyperkinetic slugfest.

Alex jumped at Charles, feet extended and eager to connect with Charles? goateed chin. Charles quickly sidestepped and brought his palm to Alex?s temple, knocking Alex to the ground. This was not detrimental to Alex, however, as he had been thoroughly trained in recovery by the great masters of Skittle and landed in a crouch.

Using great speed, he swept his foot out, tripping the giant, then putting a few meters of distance between him and his foe with a series of hectic acrobatic maneuvers.

Charles did not expect such a move and hit the ground with an earth-shaking thud. He growled and was back up with a handspring.

They began anew, this time in a graceful aerial ballet of death. Each leap found a punch connected. Each aerial kick found a prime rib to shatter. Charles and Alex continued this exchange of hits for minutes at a time. They had mastered their individual fighting styles to the point of negating the very laws of physics. Time stood still as these brutal competitors hovered defiantly in the face of gravity.

It seemed this transaction of violence would not cease. But then, Charles overextended his strike and felt an intense twinge of pain racing through his arm. He tried to move it, but twas no use. It had become paralyzed. It flopped back down to his side like an aging organ, near death.

Alex saw this and made sure to take advantage of this now beneficial turn. He kicked Charles? legs clockwise, sending Charles into a spin. But then he stopped this spinning and Charles grew unsure of what was coming.

Alex pulled back his arm, concentrating totally on this next action. Fire appeared in his eyes and his mouth became evil. Demons raced from his tongue as his arm flew and his punch connected with Charles? abdomen.

Charles fell down onto the ground, sending up waves of dust. Alex came down and stepped on Charles? body.

Though Charles did not utter the word, ?uncle,? Alex did not further the attack.

Round 1 thus came to a close and neither was truly the victor.

[Charles]

It's a veritable death match in this godforsaken arena. The parking lot is occupied to its maximum capacity on such a disastrous night as this. The marquee reads only "THE MAIN EVENT: CHARLES" because the darn promotional crew had "forgotten" to include Alex's name. Charles, per Alex's instructions had delivered a scrap of notebook paper with both names printed clearly on it. Perhaps Charles' thumb had smeared the print slightly. Or was it when he intensely scribbled over it with red pen? Who knows.

Nevertheless, Charles' name was enough to attract quite a crowd. Several hobos have even prepared for the special occasion by stationing themselves at the threshold of various crucial entrances and exits. They're fully equipped with newspapers, Styrofoam cups filled to the brim with rain water, and dish soap. So, this blood bath is a good night for the economy on all fronts, really. Wonderful indeed!

Despite the fact that the camera is from Cinnaminson High School and is loosely constructed with duct tape and cardboard, it works rather well. The view pans around the arena scanning the painted faces of every obese testosterone-driven fanatic in attendance. _ They're straight out of BraveHeart, almost. They eat their overpriced food with one eye open and unselfishly share their best flatulence with their neighbors. Together they chant and cry hearty battle cries. All is good.

Prior to the battle, over a game of paper, rocks, scissors, Alex and Charles decided that the post round entertainment would consist of a rather large bear balancing on a tiny red-striped ball. They considered hiring traditional large-breasted women to display their finest--introductory pre-round signs. But both combatants, being the video game dweebs that they are, agreed that forcing animals into performing acrobatic stunts would be better entertainment. They did, however, hire Duffman for the occasion complete with a sexy cheerleader outfit. And it was good. Anyone looks pleasing through the eyes of a drunken sports fan. Duff is smooth and satisfying! It makes everything beautiful! Oh yeah!

Whilst the jumbo-TRON displayed highlights of the first round and airline flight films such as [i]Hardball[/i], Charles rubs the tender flesh on his swollen cheek. It hurts! He's already making various conjectures about the outcome of the next round. Alex had always been a troublemaker--rebellious, consumed with pride. He normally wouldn't take a dive--but perhaps, and this is a big perhaps---[i]perhaps[/i] if he threatened to delete the literature forum--then--well, the possibilities could certainly be in his favor.

The wind continues to blow, ever so violently, as if to compliment the devious thinking of the OtakuBoards administrator. He stands alone, in the face of the vertically challenged Alex and overwhelms the laws by which humanity abides. For, having been educated in the ways of OtakuBoards sparring--he has mastered techniques his opponent could only dream of--he'd even acquired the skill of Super Saiya-jin 5, a skill usually unique to newbies in the DragonBallZ forum. The enthusiastic onlookers pause, taking a break from their masculine rituals. Their hot-dogs and flatulence can wait.

He is above them, above them all, and is beyond them in so many ways. As the wind continues to ravage his hair and jacket, his evil grin slowly dissipates, and he begins to dethrone himself from the top of the world, as he begins to descend from the top of the mountain (his stool).

Light has now completely lost its futile battle with the coming of night, and the monstrosity known as Charles smiles. For even rolling black clouds are not as intimidating as his presence.

A hellish figure indeed. The dark brown hair, hiding a face that would scare the very wits out of any mortal man. The blood-red lips, the icy-white teeth, the crimson gums--all forming the most diabolically evil smirk you have ever witnessed, either in reality or the movies. The massive, raw presence of the figure in itself, a hulking beast in his own, standing well over six feet tall, looming large as a beast among the dwarfed onlookers around him. He is imposing. He is vengeful. He is a cackling embodiment of all that humanity strives not to be. He IS, in every possible application of the word, the human embodiment of evil?

"Let's rock, baby," he says. He says, "I want to make this quick. Smallville comes on soon--and I [i]just[/i] can't miss my reruns of Buffy! I would, like, die!"

"Help, Doc!" Alex says to his manager, a portly African American man.

"Join the Nintendo Fan Club, today Alex!" he says.

The massive figure known as Charles regains his feet, showing his true imposing stature.

It's almost like a Sonic Boom when the two combatants finally collide. They rush at one another like two bulls in a rose garden. Their respective benches crumble into splinters behind them. The crowd roars to life like an engine. The fighters come together and are thrown apart from the sheer velocity of their attacks, tossed against the moving ground, they tumble, bouncing about wildly until they finally come to a rest.

Alex awakens, still laying in the same place he'd be forced to endure Charles' presence, and although he's seemingly alone, he'd feel better off getting the hell out of there just as soon as he could. But, suddenly, Alex's body cinches up, his eyes widen beyond their usual limits.

Looking upon his oblivious body, Charles smirks to himself again, before slowly, methodically reaching down and clenching his massive right paw on Alex's throat. He lifts the boy into the air and tilts his head to the right, as if to admire the deep gashes and crimson tears decorating the film student's face.

"I wipe my *ss with Epicity," Charles says.

The small hairs plotting the back of Alex's neck seem to stand up with a life of their own. Suddenly fists are flying like it's 1975. Their regal posture has been abandoned. Thunder crackles with each connecting blow. Sweat and blood explode, filling the night air with mortal condensation. Amidst the razor-sharp flurry of limbs, Alex finds an opening and sends his foot into Charles' rubbery nose, causing him to reel backwards.

Before the crowd can recover from the action at hand, Alex is barreling down on Charles with retro karate chops and sickly sounding slaps. Grasping for relief, Charles rolls away from his opponent, as Alex screeches in anger and slams his fists into the ground. It's a battle, and a tough battle at that, indeed!

Alex charges Charles, screaming in primal fury. But, as he is about to connect, Charles turns the tables on him, using his own momentum to carry him into the air and slam him down with seismic force. The Earth seems to ripple underneath Alex causing a massive sinkhole. A mushroom cloud of dust rises--enveloping the entire arena.

The beast finishes, and looks down, reinstating his evil grin, as the wind blows about, pieces of the arena crumble and break away, falling to a crushing death below. But he stands tall and unmoving in the face of all adversity. Strength has returned, and this time, it's cloaked in [i]evil[/i].

[Brasil]

The challenger, Alex, lays there silently, facedown, embedded in the sod and earth. His hair is matted wet with red, his yellow jumpsuit now stained crimson. He makes not a sound, and no sound is heard from the audience as they sit there, their mouths half agape, their hot dogs half-chewed for all to see. In the heavy canvas of silence, a baby cries, its screams slicing open the air and its tears running as if they poured from the fresh and open wounds that cover Alex's body. This is a day to remember, as a once great and promising youth has been cut down in twain by this giant, this Goliath known as Charles.

Charles muses upon this, and it pleases him greatly. His cheek still throbs, but the pain is dulled by the tingle of power that now courses through his veins. Charles no longer tastes blood in his mouth, and no longer smells the grime and filth of Thunderdome. To him, the blood is his wine, and the grime smells like Victory. His lips part, and the arena shakes with his laughter.

His laugh is that of a beast, of a Predator, unmatched in combat. It reaches into the pit of the human existence, stirring a primal fear that can only be the first sign of the end. Charles knows what pitiful creatures the humans are, and it is with this knowledge that he takes such a delicious pleasure in destroying yet another brave but misguided young man. Charles looks to the lifeless corpse, buried three-foot into the ground.

"His essence is lost," Charles sneers, "He is no more; I have extinguished his flame." He turns to the audience. "Let this miserable insect set an example to all those who dare oppose the likes such as I," he says, "Let it be known, that should you mortals dare challenge me, in arena or otherwise, I shall smite ye. I shall cut ye in half, and bury you like I have done this day, to this...boy!"

"Look!" a man shouts. The audience gasps. The man continues, "It is Alex! He still lives!"

Charles whips around and rushes to the grave, but turns back to speak. "You fool! He does not move! Your eyes deceive you! You are a weak and pitiful worm and I shall show thee that this boy has not life in him!"

He approaches the grave. Nothing stirs. Under his breath, he says, "Give respect to the departed. Bah. You are departed, but I give you no respect. You must learn your place, and if ye cannot learn, then you must be taught. I am the instructor; I am the guide; I...am your teacher--"

Charles' gurgle is met with a scream from the audience as a bloodied hand snaps out of the earthen soil and latches hold onto Charles' neck, its fingers digging deeper into his flesh, crushing the bones and cartilage, guiding Charles into the Spirit World.