Wasteland Oasis (Clyde's Base)

[Mitsuki Park]

Her signature, other than the unmistakable 'M' and 'P' for her first and last initial, looked like cool scribbles. But that was the point, right? Making a semi-unique signature so that it's difficult for others to copy?

But otherwise, she had no questions. She had expectations- like, she expected him to not scratch her baby up, nor tear him apart...standard.

...if this was the end, then she would take her leave. But, she was a little reluctant to part with her machine.

[Abram Dabra]

He looked over her signature and nodded before giving her ass a firm but quick slap.

"Alright sweet cheeks. You come on back in about nine days and I promise you will not be disappointed with my work."

No matter what one might think of him on a personal level he was a professional and he took the jobs he had as very serious matters. Once her name was signed and she was a client his word was as good as gold. At least that's how he saw things. Shitty mercs that don't do their jobs don't get hired after all.

((OOC: Will be ready after GMed thread to collect some parts for the modifications.))

[John]

John would wander up on this random gas station. His full leather chest guard on over his long sleeve black shirt. A large silver hammer strapped to his back. Black cargo pants, black combat boots, and a ballistics mask that looked much like a fox face, tied to his Dragon belt. And white slim cans of unknown soft drink due to the fact it had no labels.

[Abram Dabra]

"God fucking dammit you worthless piece of shit!"

The Punk yelled as he beat his truck hood with a wrench. The fucking thing was stuck again and he was pissed off. Each blow was enough to give the hood a small dent and scrap some of the paint off of the old beater, and after a minute he seemed to hit the sweet spot and the latch popped open.

Crawling up on to the truck he leaned under the hood and reached down between some of the parts to grab the thin magazine that had fallen between them. One of his most precious treasures. A playboy magazine from the month before the bombings! It was only slightly sticky too!

[John]

John would reach down and untie the mask from his belt and slide it over his head covering his face. Walking over he'd wait for a minute.

"Hey, you need help?"

[Abram Dabra]

"Ahahahahaha!"

He giggled manically as he clutched the Magazine tightly to his chest. Shimmying backwards out of the engine compartment until he fell down from the truck to the ground with a thud right on his ass.

"Ow." He leaned to the side to rub his ass, looking up at the guy that was talking to him. Frowning under his mask. A tall guy, probably thought he was better than Clyde because he was short. No he didn't need your help, being short was an advantage in a lot of ways. Maybe if people were not so quick to assume the world would be a better place.

This guy was a jerk. Obviously. Wearing a mask and hiding his face. What did he have to hide? Probably ugly. Yeah that was it, the guy was an uggo.

"What do you want Chump?"

Elegant as always.

[John]

"Nothin, on my way to the Junk Yard, saw you gettin pissed at the truck. You don't need help, fine. What are you doing out here?"

Yeah, John was being patient, mostly cause he figured the threat level around here was low. And Asiv hadn't given any assassination orders in weeks.

[Abram Dabra]

He scrambled to his feet and tried to look imposing. Which was sometimes hard when you were three inches or more shorter than the person you are trying to intimidate. But he was gonna try it anyways because the junkyard was his livelihood! Well other than any odd jobs he picks up.

"Hey, the Junk Yard is mine and off limits."

He jabbed a finger into the larger man's chest hoping to make him step back. He found most people were eager to avoid conflict and would back down if they were stepping in someone else land. Sometimes old habits died hard.

[John]

John would look down at the finger being jabbed into his chest plate. Then back up at the guy. The area would seem to get warmer.

"Says who?"

John would simply say, waiting.

Current Temperature: 78 (According to the current weather report in L.A. its 68 Dagrees.)

[Abram Dabra]

He could feel it was a bit hotter than it should be. But he was from Arizona. So 78 degrees wasn't exactly a killer for him. But he did note the change in temperature. He didn't know if this guy was one of those freaks or what. And he didn't care. This was his home.

"Says me. The Demon of the Wasteland."

He jabbed him in the chest again. His eyes scanning the area around. The truck was there. The gas pumps, only one had gas though. The roof over the gas pumps, the building, various pieces of junk and scrap metal, and the remote control throne that he had found not to long ago. He could probably make this work if he needed.

"Why don't you mosey on out of my home before you get yourself hurt."

[John]

"Is this happening? Please tell me this is totally happening right now. I really need this."

John would reach back with his right hand and put it on the hammer, waiting for the kid to make a move.

"I build things, where and how I want. I am Hapheastus, God of the Forge. Blackmsith of the Gods."

Current Temperature: 88

[Abram Dabra]

The punk shoved his hands into his pockets. One hand gripping the remote. He had a plan, totally had a plan. Oh God this was gonna be good. He wasn't even paying attention as the guy said who he was. Like it fucking mattered. This was his home.

"Whatever. I ain't arguing with a bipedal bitch."

Pressing the forward button on the remote to send the throne shooting toward him and the masked man The Punk would shoot the winch on his back up to grab the top of the roof where the gas pumps were to get out of the way right before the throne would be due to slam into John from behind!

[John]

John would get slammed by the chair cupped into the seat hard. Swinging around the hammer to slam into the ground with the pointy end to cause drag before pulling himself off with the hammer, looking around now for the guy who called himself 'Demon of the Wasteland'. What a pretentious dick, going by some title instead of his real name.

"Pretty tough talk from a bipedal.... Slug."

Current Temperature: 98

[Abram Dabra]

That guy call him a slug? What a fucking asshole! The punk was going to give him a bad day. That was for sure! Using the remote he would whip the chair around to try and slam into him again. Though this time it was more of a distraction to keep him from finding The Punk who would leap from the top of the building he was on. Using the winch to lower himself onto the truck slow enough to not cause a large clang sound.

Until the truck would start up, with the punk on top of it and climbing in through the window. Thank God for small sizes! Gunning it he would race for John. Kill him, scare him, horribly injure him. Didn't matter, this was his turf and he would protect it with all the tools at his disposal.

In this case that was ramming him with an old truck.

[John]

John saw the throne coming this time, and realized it was his fucking throne! That sonova bitch! John would roll to one side avoiding the throne before looking up at a truck starting. Pulling the hammer straight up into the air he'd look directly at the punk.

"YOU!.... SHALL NOT!... PASS!"

And as the truck came at him right before it would reach he would slam it against the ground causing a huge wave of fire and super hot air rushing straight up to throw the truck up on two wheels on its side to knock it over.

Current Temperature: 108

Str: 55 +5
Dex: 38 +5
Con: 33
Int: 46
Wis: 52
Cha: 39 -4

Used Hammer Special Move: Erupting Schism - [+5 Strength, +5 Dexterity, +Fire Splash Damage Per Use. Does Not Stack. -4 Charisma Per Use. Requires Hephaestus Assistants' Hammer] When Swinging Either Side Of The Hammer's Head In A Downward Manner, With Intent To Hit The Ground, The User Can Activate This Special Move. It is up to them if they wish to shout it out or not, but if they choose to shout it out, their whole body will briefly erupt with flames, though it does nothing except look cool. .