#shitjoints

[pixyire]

Wargh i do not understand how im supposed to live laugh love when my joints click like a childrens music class when the teacher lets the students have the fucking

Wooden

Clam

Bitches

[fmylifequotes]

Today, I found out that no matter how friendly a coworker is to you, never vent to them about how the job "is a total shitjoint but pays good” and that the manager “sounds like Cyndi Lauper on crack.” Apparently a listening ear is also a running mouth. I was fired. FML

[rotttnapple]

Short fic, original OC Dusty I haven’t written in a few years. Slightly unfinished? Yeehaw. Trigger warnings: Violence, blood, severe injury, death.

Dusty sat smoking a cigarette in the almost-dark, the greasy light that filtered in through the barred window illuminating a few scarred surfaces and forgetting the rest. He could see the hulking shape of a dresser missing most of its drawers next to a chair with a broken in seat, the peeling and stained wallpaper and dirty, ragged carpeting was blessedly hidden from view. He was almost certain the bed he was sitting on, his good leg cocked up and his metal one stretched out, also had fleas, but he didn’t trust the chair and the dresser wouldn’t hold his weight. Not to mention the sound of something rather large skittering along the baseboards.

Above him, the muffled shouts and screams had climaxed into a resounding thud that shook the ceiling and sent down a shift of plaster dust. This didn’t perturb him, he only wondered if one of the room’s occupants had taken it upon themselves to kill the other. It was entertaining how quick to anger the slum people were, how savage and murderous they could be at even the smallest perceived slight. It was a wonder that any of them managed to live long enough to reproduce, they seemed so intent on getting at someone else’s throat. Dusty glanced up again as the silence resolved into the rhythmic squeaking of bedsprings. A sneer that no one else could see curled his lip. Animals. Rutting, senseless, pitiful animals.

Dusty took a final drag off his cigarette before extinguishing the tip between his thumb and forefinger. He flicked the remains into some shadowy corner of the room. If he didn’t think the place would go up like a drought-parched field of wheat he would have tossed it over there alight, let it smolder, and then leave before the rathole went completely up in flames. No one here would be missed. Cheap little shitjoints like this one burned down or blew up all the time, if it wasn’t someone being careless with a cigarette it was a drug addict trying to manufacture a stronger high.

There were cleaner, fancier places, mostly marketed towards middle class people from other places who had trouble getting inside the wall, but they were also more expensive and they don’t offer the per-hour rates of the shitholes whose main clientele paid for their drugs by laying on their backs. Maybe he would still burn this place to the ground - there should be plenty of time to do so.

A small digital watch sat on his left wrist and he used the thumb of the opposite hand to wake it up. It glowed a bright blue in the gloom of the room. Nearly a quarter to six. He had to get going if he wanted to to be ‘on time’. The fights ran as long as necessary, until one of the fighters was dead, mortally wounded, or gave up like a coward. It was not wise to give up so it was better to just win. Regardless he liked to establish his presence before a fight and scout who decided to show up for a night of near-death experiences.

Once he had seen a boy - no older than sixteen perhaps - with a face swollen and bruised. Dressed for the pits in a pair of ragged shorts and the fighting bandages still wrapped around his hands, spotted with a little blood but not much. It was clear he had taken the brunt of the hits felled in the match. Around him spectators were gathering silently, mostly men, enclosing him in a hellish ring. Dusty had stepped out for a smoke but then found himself decidedly not in need of one. He heard the high, girlish scream before he had even turned around, and then the soft grunts of effort and the blunted noise of boots and fists connecting with flesh and bone.

He was not a coward, perhaps if it had been some Authority bringing to the boy what he had tried to run from after entering the ring he would have stayed to watch, or even to help. But he didn’t trust the groveling vermin of the outer wall to lower their ire even for a champion of their pit.

Regardless. It was time to leave. Maybe he would burn this place down later, if it didn’t burn in his absence. He swung his legs out over the edge of the mattress, planted his booted feet and stood. There was nothing to grab on the way out because he hadn’t brought anything more than his mechanical kicker and the clothes on his back. His winnings - of course he would win - would be transferred directly into a bank account he kept casually hidden from his family. They would call it dirty money, blood money, and then it would quietly disappear into The Greater Good, whatever politician his father felt needed a little polish or a push. Lund Senior thought of the great political ladder as a living thing, a great root for the delicate cluster of flowers at the top. To keep that root from dying it must be watered and fed, it’s leaves encouraged to grow and the weak and withered plucked off and discarded. It also must be protected. Dusty thought of The Wall and grinned.

The battered, gloomy hallways that wound down to the streets were mostly empty, save the lumps of flesh shoved into corners or against walls where they wouldn’t infringe on the progress of others. He paid these no mind unless they moved, and then he would not hesitate to plant his foot in the creature’s face and ensure it never moved again. The body would eventually be found and sent off to wherever. Someplace he had never been and never intended to visit, not even dead. Even out here among the squalor and the vermin he still carried his air superiority like a cloak.

----- shit I will transition this later because SOMEBODY won’t stop talking about KILLING THINGS

It was pleasantly cool in the this pit, one of the better ones built on the blood money of some slavery driven trade or another. Dusty allowed himself a moment to admire the sturdiness of the smooth wooden walls that raised up beyond what any man could jump, ending in a high tensile and probably electrified fencing to keep the unwashed and stinking masses from tearing it down and spilling onto the fighter’s below. They were already screaming, standing in their seats, money clenched in fists as the bidding sharks circulated, snatching crumpled bills away from desperate owners and giving betting tickets back in return. These were held on with feverish intensity - there was no such thing as refunds on tickets claimed lost or stolen.

He tuned the shouts out, for now at least while he observed more important things. Under the upper rim of the pit was a pane of smooth glass, black to those looking in. People with money resided in there, enjoying dainty snacks circulated by exotic creatures far from home, the overindulgence of those who didn’t understand what power really was - because their business resided outside of the wall, among the rats and roaches. Dusty doubted any of the fussy socialites he rubbed shoulders with as Einar would ever dare come to a place like this. There was fresh sand spread on the floor of this pit and now his attention turned to it, scrunching his bare toes into it and digging shallow furrows. It had a good grip, the hardpack was not far below. He would still slip and fall or miss crucial timing if he wasn’t careful, especially with his bionic leg. Crucial to lead with his organic one, then.

His opponent standing opposite of him was shivering and fidgeting, and had been doing such since they both had stepped into this ring not a moment prior. The carroty haired creature was also sweating profusely despite the pleasantness of the air. His hands started snapping open and shut, tongue darting out to lick parched lips and eyes that seemed to be going in several directions at once. He jumped when the booming voice began announcing names and odds and winning stats. Dusty was pleased to hear that this pitiful rodent had won a few prior matches, probably because he was swimming in an ocean of high-octane drugs. He undoubtedly got lucky at his first fight and became addicted shortly thereafter, now riding that train right off the end of the tracks. Dusty liked them like this, they were harder to kill. He smiled. His new companion just twitched.

The loudspeaker voice fell silent and with it a silence descended in the stands, cloaking the ring with its oppressiveness from above as the spectators all but held their breath. A bell chimed, almost straining in its clarity. Dusty couldn’t help but admire it, and then his air was gone in a forced exhale and he was doubled over. The ginger rodent was fast and had not let his opponent's distraction pass idly, choosing to take a punch that would land in the relaxed muscles of the stomach  - but it was a bad place to hit, down near the belly button and not up on the solar plexus where breathing could be paralyzed to the point of death. Yes, the rodent was fast but Dusty was fast too, and maybe just a little smarter. As the ginger came to grab his head and drive a knee into his face he dropped his shoulder and pushed off with his natural leg and launched. A few more steps and he could crush the man against the wall of the pit, perhaps breaking his spine or causing internal organs to explode but instead he pushed up and simply tossed the man over his shoulder. The rodent landed on his back but rolled to his front, wanting to keep an eye on the man who was going to kill him.

Dusty’s smile returned, this time bigger. If he had tried to grab that sweaty skin it would have slipped through his fingers like oiled soap. Sand afforded so much more traction.

Ginger began to circle in a half crouch, wired up with muscles jumping and twitching under his fishbelly skin. He had been thrown off his game, he had not planned ahead. Dusty turned with him, in comparison he was as relaxed as a man on a picnic. Five seconds had passed since the bell rang.

There are no rules in the pit, but there are rules all the same set by the crowd. Seven seconds had passed and the Ginger gained a fraction of a pace and made his move. His fist was raised and driven by immortal drugs and fear, he intended to smash it into the side of the one-legged man’s head and force him off balance. If he could get the machine-man to the ground he could win, he was sure of it. He had one a fight before like this. He got his opponent to the ground and he had ravaged him until he was dead. There was lots of blood and the crowd had gone wild. Drugs, money, and girls followed like a tidal wave. He drowned in it for a while until it coughed him out on shore in rags, desperate and hungry.

If he could get the machine-man on the ground, he would win. He was sure of it. His fist would land, just like it had done before.

The spoiled-milk smell of fear coming off this creature was not something Dusty enjoyed. He considered ending it if only to get away from him, but he was keeping count in his head and it was too early to just pounce and forcibly wrench that pathetic head from those twitchy shoulders. Fighters who finished too quickly were often not invited back, and he very much preferred to be invited back although the desire was beginning to dwindle already. While a brief scuttle and a blunt death was fun for noone, especially not the people who had bet money on the loser, he had hoped to be matched with someone exhibiting at least some level of skill. Boredom began to gnaw at the edges of his subconscious. He could see the intention to brutishly clobber him over the head for what felt like ages before the sandy rat actually moved, coming at him on his right side. It was easy enough to turn and duck to avoid, again using his shoulder to throw Ginger back into the sand with the force of his own momentum. Dusty continued his own turn, his metal leg cocked and ready for impact with mechanic toes curled in. The foot connected neatly with whatever was left of Ginger’s genitals with enough force that he could hear the snap and shatter of the man’s pelvis all but exploding over the thunderous roar of the crowd. The rodent was flung against the wall and crumbled at it’s base. Eight seconds.

Dusty regarded the man that thought he could kill him. His eyes were open with pinprick pupils. Above the waist he shook and jittered, The region that used to be his waist had a mushy look to it that was rapidly inflating. His legs hung useless below it. The Ginger began to drool and make a high pitched sound in his throat, the sound of a brain short circuiting. Nine seconds.

He couldn’t help but to be disappointed, having desired a challenge that would have made him sweat and curse under his breath and question if he was going to make it out of this one alive, or if it would be him carted out on a blood-stained cart this time.He could have carried on the match, yes, for a minute, two, or five, even carry on teasing the drug-addled bastard for a full half an hour but it was boring. There was no challenge to be had here, only easy avoidance. The Ginger Rodent thought too much about what he wanted to do. Dusty had hoped for something closer to a feral, mindless savage. It was a fight a first grader could have won. Dusty looked up at the dark pane of glass, his smile was gone, replaced by vague irritation if not outright annoyance. They would know who he was, outer wall or not. They had pitted him against vermin from the gutter. He raised a hand, stuck out a thumb, and turned it down. Ten seconds.

It was but a few measured steps to the living corpse that lay against the wall, unchanged from when he had looked at it last. He raised his mechanical leg and rested it on it’s head. Eleven seconds. He began to press down.

He liked to use the metal limb for spectacular finishes, crushing, decapitation, kicks so forceful that bone is pulverized and organs explode with such gusto that they come shooting out of the nearest orifice. Fight with the skill of his body and wrap it up with a big ribbon. Now he could feel the resistance of the skull - which had initially given in slightly - he pressed down harder and the pressure built. Twelve seconds. He looked at the crowd, the screaming faces some so infused with blood it was a wonder the owner didn’t drop dead right then and there. Thirteen seconds. He looked at the glass again and applied that last pound of force.

Ginger’s head popped like an engorged tick. Pinkish grey brain matter mixed with richly colored blood squirted out from all sides His eyeballs ejected forcefully from their sockets. His jawbone snapped in half, sending loose splinters of teeth out onto the sand. His face took an overall flattened look. Dusty raised his foot and stepped away. Fourteen seconds and he was the victor.

He took a bow as they raised the gate behind him and left to collect his winnings.