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Bad: nothing left to do but what Falstaff does best--piss people off.
He turns around, bare-ass naked, and bends over, giving the ogre a front row seat to the corn-hole show. Meanwhile he yells three words to Crowley in High Speech, so hopefully the ogre won't understand: Leave. Close door.
Stamina: 2 suxx (!)
Crowley hears.
But he is already committed. Anger and humiliation burst free and wash over him as, at last, there is light. And in that light an enemy.
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Bad Guy (1B) - Falstaff (5L2B) - Crowley (3B)
Usually, when one said that one was going to beat someone's ass to death with a baseball bat, it wasn't literally the ass one was beating. The head? Sure. The body? Yep. But as Falstaff rendered an ocular assault via the brown eye against his opponent, the burly fella with the baseball bat went yada on it even after taking a glancing blow to the chin from Crowley's punch. The Libertine had succeeded in doing something, all right - drawing plenty of attention to himself.
The pitch is thrown!
The batter swings with all his might!
Teddy fucking Ballgame knocks it out of the park, and the bat slams across his lower cheeks in a bloody, bone-breaking spanking!
The bad guy is obviously overbalanced and has used All Out Attack. He's got no defense this round.
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Down goes the clown, somehow still awake, but barely. He tells his legs to stand, but they don't listen. They'd buckled beneath him, broken maybe, and twitch about on their own.
He looks for the punchline, but can't find it over his screaming nerves and the throbbing in his ears. And then it occurs to him. The next swing will be a killer; Falstaff will loose his bowels. The Consilium will never be able to say he never gave a shit.
He rolls onto his back, looks up at the ogre, and with weak slurred speech, performs what must certainly be his final line: "Fucked . . . The . . . Mistress." A smile--it's for the thought of Crowley escaping to tell the tale. Falstaff would have the ogre's attention, at least, for a few moments more.
Crowley grunts something unintelligible. Frustration, rage, and an uearthly urge to feel the impact of flesh and bone, to give and receive pain, pour through his fists as he continues his assault. The Acanthus tries to batter down his foe.
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The Acanthus does a good job of it, too, landing a solid blow to the enemy's stomach as he recklessly tees up again on Falstaff, swinging for the fences and clonking the jester upside the head. He seems crazed, like the insult to his Mistress was mortal.
Barring any reflexive moves to stop it, Falstaff will be at 7L and bleeding out.
That is it...
The dam breaks. The Acanthus hurls himself upon his enemy. Consequences be damned! Fists sing with the impact of flesh on flesh. And Crowley's eyes... Eyes wide open.
There are times in a man's life when he must do or die. When everything he is and everything he has ever meant to be must come together in one defining moment. There are other times when a man must do, or someone else will die.
When a punch must land to save a life.
And as Crowley's fist hit nothing but air, he felt the absolute finality. Falstaff. Naked on the floor in a puddle of his own blood, mouth agape from his final taunt. The man with the baseball bat, who was going berserk.
The open door, and Crowley's opportunity to escape.
A final roar of anger, and the bat came down again and again, smashing the Jester's head to little more than bone shards and bloody paste. He seems almost lost in his rage, paying the Herald of the Consilium almost no mind. He was going to make damn sure this witch didn't wake up again.
The guard has used All-Out Attack and a Killing Blow on the defenseless Falstaff. Falstaff is dead.
Falstaff was dead. Battered to a pulp before his very eyes... And Crowley had achieved nothing. Sure, he had tried; his plan was sound - that is what the inner voice said. But the Acanthus didn't see it that way. He hadn't been able to get his comrade out of the chains. He hadn't been able to whisk them away like a half decent student of Space should have done. He hadn't even beat the bully with his baseball bat senseless - and Crowley had been in his fair few scrapes and brawls.
Disgust and shame washed over him. A sick anger, made worse the rationale part of his mind screamed for him to run. Someone had to warn the others - they were being hunted. Yeah, thats a convenient excuse, isn't it? So he ran...
With the guard distracted, bashing the last lingering vestige of life from the Fool's corpse, Crowley slipped out of the cell. Contempt and disgusted anger covered his mourning face, lent him strength as he yanked the door shut behind him. Let the bastard linger in the dark as they had.
Crowley had to get out!
Crowley intends to escape. He will shut the door on the cell as he leaves, hopefully locking the guard inside
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