Continued from last thread. >>649367
You cash out, but before you can leave, the dealer - a crooked leaning man in a cone cap, leans over you and says "Hey, this guy wants a chance to win his money back. You box?"
You don't remember winning any money from anyone but the dealer, but orcs have three thousand metaphors for fighting, so you accept the challenge.
The center stage is cleared to form an octagon. The rules are simple, as explained by the dealer, you box, you don't fall off the stage, or you lose. The goblin girls kiss your cheeks for luck as you ascend the stage feeling like you don't need it. "Let's hear it for Bel-Samu!" Yells the dealer. Fuck. He just called you Samu, your baby name from when you were a ruk. You can see the orc female laughing. The goblin girls clap and cheer your name as the other patrons remain silent in their drinks.
The opponent enters. "And our reigning champion, PULLLLVVEEEEEERRRRIIIIIZZZZEEEEERRRR!" The Pulverizer is a wiry, tall fellow with curly hair, and enters to the applause of most of the hookers. You laugh. Your skinned cock weakens you immensely, but this is going to be easy. The gong is struck.
You charge your opponent using the length of your left arm to smack away his defenses and land crushing blows with your right. But this guy... His fists are like cinderblocks and his skin obsidian. Suddenly you see it in his eyes. Flecks of gray. He is half troll. Troll on the maternal side more specifically, the strength is in the mitochondria.
The Pulverizer counters methodically, striking your elbow, hitting the nerve by the inner bicep, he pushes you back. You respond to the new threat angrily, temporarily raising your strength. You launch a flurry of blows, most of which are deflected, but one right cross cracks the half-troll square in the right shoulder. His arm hangs limp. Now is your chance! You rush in for the kill, only to be greeted by a furious counter, one, two, and the right - apparently fine- blows through the gap in your defense and cracks you on the floating rib. You taste blood. The next blow knocks the wind out of you, but you grasp your opponent by the arm and drag him back with you, off the stage.
"A tie! Wonderful. Most of the time people die before falling off, it makes it harder to collect. Speaking of which, if you lost I was going to make you pay the three hundred cash you owe for drinks and services. But since you tied, you can go ahead and tell Mu-Basa to add it to his debt. Compared to that this is small change. Tell him the interest accrues. And payment will be due by the next moon."
Mu-Basa was apparently in debt to this guy. But he's dead. Ha! Put it on a dead man's tab. You hastily make your exit, double checking all your pockets for their contents as you leave. You fumble drunkenly in the dark, find yourself in an alleyway, find yourself pissing in an alleyway, find yourself passed out in an alleyway with your dick out.
By the next morning your pockets are empty, your rings are gone, and you are down to the rags on your back. (maybe you shouldn't have carried your loot to the club) You instinctively feel your ballsack. At least your ancestral beads are still wrapped around it. Your head is pounding too much to think. Suddenly the voices in your head tell you what to do and where to go.
What do the voices say?
>free form
You done fucked up now you ignant ass greenback. Let's head home, get ready to hunt for our junk.
OI YOU STUPID GREEN FUCK TIME TO WAKE UP! YOU'VE BEEN MUGGED!
>>653229
This.
Junkhuntiiiiing
(Do we have the acquaintance of a bloodhound?)