"Hey Luca! Wanna see where I got my tattoo?"

Grabbing Luca by his shirt and pulling him backwards towards her, Renee lifts her shirt up a bit, showing a tattoo of a glowing fist on the right side of her stomach. Consequently showing another tattoo, one Luca's seen before...

"Hey, were you-"

"Wait a minute! Those two are friends of that one asshole who's been picking fights with our guys! Get 'em!"

Two numbskulled bikers in matching leather jackets exiting the bar see Luca and Renee and charge after them. Opting to get away this time instead of fighting, Luca takes Renee's hand and begins to sprint. The bikers, faster than their portly appearance would suggest, catch up as Luca slows down to make sure the intoxicated woman whose hand he's holding doesn't fall flat on her face.

As the bikers draw nearer, one pulls out a baseball bat. Aluminum. He swings it at the stopped man, but Luca dives and pulls Renee into a conveniently placed alleyway, causing the bat to hit at a corner of a brick wall, bending as a reaction to the impact.

Cursing, the obviously frustrated biker charges into the alleyway. Big mistake. Walking forward into the confined space, biker number one receives a punch to the stomach from Luca, and surprisingly a kick to the throat from a now sober Renee. The biker clutches at his Adam's Apple and stumbles back, gasping for air. Climbing up to her feet, the woman pulls back her arm and punches the retreating biker once more in the throat, dropping him like a ton of bricks, striking the hard ground with a sick thud.

"Hey bikers! You must really suck to get the shit kicked out of you by a chick!"

Stepping out of the alleyway, Renee and Luca turn in a mock threatening stance to face the second biker, who runs off with his tail between his legs.

"We still heading home?"

"Yeah, I hate this part of the city."



"I still have some more I wish to say to Chris Macbeth, before his sentencing for being proven guilty of attempted murder of entertainment. However, I'd like to phrase in a way that would make the only reason Macbeth is popular, his last name, proud.

Give me a second, I haven't had to speak in Iambic Pentameter in quite a while.

O, for thee down on their luck lost again
Forgive them not, their final amendment.
Not but a chance to catch their needed breath
I order the death of one Chris Macbeth.

Not the best, I admit. It is however a lot more substantial than anything you've managed to regurgitate from statements of others without the slightest hint of impact. So go ahead Macbeth, prove me wrong.

Beat me.

Challenge John Madison.

Attempt regicide.

For even if you were to win in any of those accounts despite the statistical and probable impossibility of such an occurrence, you'd only become the Macbeth who's relevant.

Dead and gone, by circumstances brought on by yourself.

You see, winning this title has more negative ramifications for you than me losing it does for myself.

Why?

Because you've already lost the war, the battles are useless.

Does anyone besides NAZI remember Germany's conquering of Yugoslavia, Greece, North Africa, among other countries?

No.

Because history is written by the victor, and when I beat you I'll only write that you were but another victim, indistinguishable from the last. Unremarkable in all ways.

Just like your beloved program Warfare.

See you in the octagon, Chris. Let's hope you're too busy chasing whores to come get your ass kicked, you self proclaimed rock star.

More like dumb as a bag of rocks..."