Michael "Mustle" Westing
It was an alleyway running between the crowded, cramped stores, a pizza parlor and convenience store to be exact. To the average eye, it was nothing but your regular path connecting street to street on a crowded area of Toronto. Nothing special. Nothing seedy. Cars passed by it, people walked by, sun shined on it, rain splattered on it. It was like any other alley in any corner of the world, from Toronto to Tokyo, Calgary to Calcutta. Except for one thing.
And that thing was the Gore.
The Gore, as hilariously named as they were, had actually been responsible for some gore. Mostly minor gang fights, firing off a few guns, stealing some stuff and being dicks. Like most gangs. But they were getting a little bigger and a little more violent. Some assault, some stabbing was happening. It was getting bad. And guess who had caught wind of it and decided to sort the whole mess out, since the police seemed basically incapable of doing so, the inept idiots they were? Why, your friendly neighborhood Muscle, of course! If...you live in East York, that is.
Muscle was currently hiding. Where does a guy as big and bulky and handsome as him hide? In plain sight, of course. He simply leaned against a car, hoodie obscuring his face. It looked as if he was waiting for something while he smoked a single cigarette down to the last puffs. The black smoke drifted in the air, illuminated by the various street lights dotting the road. There were lights all around him, but he stayed immobile, unblinking. He was waiting, waiting for the dicks known as the Gore to show up at their favorite place, sandwiched between a crowded store and a crappy parlor. Didn't even have good pizza, believe him, he had tried. It was the perfect place to hide. Still, he had eaten the whole pizza, and a box of wings. He needed the calories for what was coming up. Not only that, he was pretty damn hungry.
Eventually, his patience payed off. Soon, the sounds of rustling and low voices reached Muscle's ears. Small movements, a glimmer off a shiny bald head, a hand dragged across the brick wall. It was the Gore, in all of their goriness and lack of glory or luster to speak of. It was time. Time for them to meet some true muscle.
Instantly, his armor formed around him. His armor was decently thick and strong, could definitely resist fists and knives, and it would take quite a few bullets to pierce. He wasn't sure how long it would last, but long enough to take them out with some fat left to spare. Shouldering his pack, moving as silently as possible, armor only making small clunks as he moved towards them. It was time to duel.
"Heeeeelllooo, booooyyyys!" he said cheerfully as the small group of maybe a dozen people, about ten men and two women, all clustered in the tight alley. "And girls!" he said, winking underneath his armor. They all turned towards him, guns pointed to him, yells and cries escaping their mouths, growly and low from years of smoking and drugs, a loose bullet emitting. It stuck in his armor, but didn't pierce. "Hey, hey, heeey, don't shoot, you'll ruin the good vibes!" he continued, cheerfully putting his hands up. "Listen, man, the police are coming for me, man, you know they don't like boys like me. Soooo...let's say we crack a deal. I get you some goods. Some weapons, some coke, some
shit." he said, moving slightly closer to them, close enough to backhand at least two of them.
"C'mon man, I've got power. I've got muscle. You want that, don't you? Someone like that to help your rise up, right?" he said moving even closer. Some of them were now lowering their guards, as he moved closer and closer. They were all in one clump, perfect for quick elimination. "Aaaand, the deal...starts right now." he reached into his pack, as if pulling out a firearm.
It wasn't really. It was a crowbar.
As fast as he could with his armor on, he yanked the crowbar out of the pack, and smashed across the guy directly in front of him's face. It let out a resounding, dull, crack as it slammed into his face, slamming into his temple. His eyes rolled up into his head, whites showing, as crimson liquid spilled out of the cracks in his skin and bone, and fell with a resounding thud. The 11 remaining had almost all already holstered their guns, and the few that hadn't were in the process of dropping them before the sudden crowbar homerun. With a sudden charge forward, he jumped and tackled the next two in front of him, causing them to get sent a great distance back, at least a dozen feet, also knocking over the whole clump of gangs, sending guns spilling to the ground, in a storm of loose bullets. Kneeling down on the ground where the rest were on their knees or fallen, he picked up two, one man and one young woman by the scruffs of their necks, like kittens, and flung them both behind him, before roundhousing another one that was groggily getting to his feet, sending both his head and body spinning.
He then gave a hard elbow to the jaw to a girl fumbling for her gun, before kneeing her in the stomach and flinging her into the brick wall, another loud thud ringing out. There were five left, and all were getting up with their guns, and mayhem was ensuing. Gunshots were ringing through the air, loud cracks filling the echoing walls of the brick alley, ringing into the night. So loud, so loud.
Muscle smirked as he felt gunshots enter his armor. Again, they stuck hard, embedding themselves, but they didn't break through. Most just flashed by him, missing. "Tsk, tsk, boys," he said in an overly Prince-ish tone, "you gotta get the job done
right." Crowbar still in his metallic hands, or gauntlets, or whatever, he let out on a charge, diving to avoid the weaponry rain above. Skidding to the ground, he then swung his crowbar up, slamming one in the chin and knocking his head back hard, enough to make him feel some serious pain in the morning, and knock him out for now. He then reached up and grabbed two others, before slamming their heads together, a la Three Stooges, feeling them go limp in his arms before tossing them aside.
It looked like the last three decided to make a break for it. With yells and panicked cries, they ran out of the alley and onto the street, sprinting across the asphalt for their bikes, parked in a cheap public lot. Cursing, he picked up a pistol off the ground and charged after them, into the street to gasps and oohs and awes of the few that were out walking. If he was a sight before, he was even more so now, with his gray armor and hulking form, steps shaking the pavement. They had a good lead on him, but his long strides allowed him to catch up. He was running out of time though, his armor becoming weaker and strength slowly depleting, the slight gnawing of hunger beginning to chew through his stomach. He had to act
now. They were all in the lot by now, trying to hop on their motorcycles, engines sputtering and roaring like the little steel and diesel beasts they were.
Muscle lifted his pistol and let off three rounds aimed directly at the slowest of the three, just now beginning to hop on the leather seat. The first missed by a hair, but the second and third made contact with him. He had been aiming for his shoulder and arm, and while the second shot had hit it in a burst of blood and pain, the final had been...a little too high. Blood spurting out of his neck, he toppled sideways off the bike, blood staining the clean metal. Dropping the gun, he surmounted his final dash, final sprint. He was starting to pant, his breath coming in gasps, his heart pumping hard. Hunger continued to gnaw away, his armor feeling looser. This was it. Do or die.
Flying into the lot, he charged towards one of the two, engine still revving. He didn't have the energy left to toss the bike, so he instead flipped it over, upending it like a house of cards, pinning the man underneath, much to his ear-splitting protest. It was on his legs, so he wouldn't die, but it would be hard to wiggle free. He then heard the sound of the motor gunning to life, the sounds of screeching tires on asphalt, that sound...one was escaping! "Not so fast, baby." he crooned in a bad Sinatra impression, before running forward and tackling the man off his bike, letting it roll down the lot before running up a curb and toppling to its side on the dry grass. "Nighty night." he whispered, holding the man in a tight bearhug, before slamming the butt of the pistol in the back of his head, knocking him out cold.
Then, reality warped back. People's cries, stomping feet as they fled the scene. And...what sounded like cars coming.
"Crap," he thought angrily to himself.
"What have I done?". Desperately searching for an exit, almost like a man in a burning building, he dived into some trees near the lot. It was mostly scrub and wooded area behind the lot, making the perfect cover. He
had to move before anyone saw him.
A Couple Hours Later...A man in a dark hoodie walked out of an alleyway, between a convenience store and a carpet store. Two doors down as a pizza parlor. The police were already milling around, sirens flashing blue and red with their whooping noises. Honestly, they were extremely irritating, but it wouldn't exactly look intelligent to jump on a car and smash the siren. And it would hurt. The police were busy with their walkie-talkies and examinations, so busy they didn't notice the man walk out to his car, and drive away, ACDC booming behind him. Once inside the warm metal shell of his car, staring at the rearview mirror, that man smiled to himself, because he had just had the thrill of his life. And who was he?
Michael "Muscle" Westing.