Monday Night Fight is Back!
Roleplaying Log: Monday Night Fight is Back!
Participants
IC Details
Synopsis:

The Showman is here to make sure that everyone who attends his secret fight club has a wonderful time! …well, maybe not everyone.

Other Characters Referenced:
IC Date: July 01, 2019
IC Location: The Basement of the Punchline, Gotham
OOC Notes & Details
Posted On: 03 Jul 2019 05:05
Rating & Warnings: PG (Violence)
NPC & GM Credits: NPCs by the Joker
Associated Plots

It's a little bit like a bad dream. The air crackles and tumbles as you enter the club. They know why you're here. You're pushed, shoved, thrown into a room with an ill-fitting, comical outfit, where you have only the barest indications of privacy. You are ushered here, ushered there. You are taken deeper and darker than you thought Gotham could go. And then you hear it. The pulse pounding beat of electric calliope music, crashed together idiosyncratically with EDM. The surge of a slavering crowd of maniacs. And above it all, an equally electric, unmistakable voice.

But here, they just call him the Showman.

"I'd like to thank you all for joining my little game, the only game in town where the greatest hero loses his mind the fastest. With today's experiment, we're going to engage in a little pastime I like to call Ride Of Your Life."

The room underneath the Punchline is massive, by a few factors than any other underground fighting room any self-respecting ne'er-do-well has had the pleasure of patronizing. The entire room is only a few shades of grey smaller than a circus tent, and people are clamoring against the cages at the edges, already hooting and howling for blood.

"Today's battle joins two of my favorite things. Fighting, and stacking pancakes. HEH! In the middle, you're going to see a little something we cooked up late friday night. It's nothing special, and I'm sure the mall we took it from won't miss it. Of course, I'd be lying if I didn't say we made a few … modifications."

The room is currently dominated by a huge double-decker carousel, which looks like it was busted into several pieces and shipped into the room and spit-glued back together with copious amounts of duct-tape. Mirrors on the core of the carousel are cracked and in some cases broken. Porcelain horses are fully missing heads. Lamps have been replaced with psychedelic color bulbs in every fashion of the rainbow.

"Of course, remember the rules. We choose the outfits, the weapons, the people. But of course, you break it, you buy it. Tonight's a special night, after all. We have a packed house… and a very, very special guest. But it wouldn't fit to let that surprise go too early, no?"

The entire carousel looks like it's been wired with way more electricity than it's supposed to have, with exposed cables strung up and off of the carousel's second deck like the web of a cellar spider. This does not interfere with the carousel's rotation, since one drum turns independently of the other. The flare of electricity can be visibly seen, cordoning off two sections of the makeshit arena — the upper and the lower. The upper deck is where the upper contestants have been stationed, with a much smaller area to battle in compared to the lower deck, where the lower contestants are still being ushered in. For the lower contestants, the arena surrounding the carousel is open ground, all hard concrete. This is a luxury the upper contestants do not have, with sparse catwalks and lighting rigs being the only non-carousel-based terrain to traverse. Of course, with the electric lines everywhere, a single misstep, or even the whim of the electric voice crackling overhead could turn a metal strut or rigging live in a heartbeat, ending yours.

"And I would be remiss not to mention our lovely sponsors. Tonight's little adieu is brought to you by Kill'em'All Cola, GET REFRESHED IN THE FACE!"

At this point, someone throws a cup into the arena. When it smashes, the ground smolders where it spills.

A rousing hoot breaks over the din, stretching the electronic amp to its limit and filling the hall with an eerie echo. "A tough crowd tonight!! Better not disappoint. Let's meet our contestants."


Her memory is still a little hazy. She had been on a rooftop overlooking a strip of the neighborhood just outside Red Hook. And then there had been — something. What was it? She just has flashes of red as her usually sharp and picture perfect memory fumbles and scrambles the events that lead her to this moment, where she's being ushered out into lower level of the contestants. She still has her helmet and mask in place over her features — but someone has taken glitter to it. Like, a lot of glitter and so it glints iridescent black. Her red hair has been poofed and curled and peppered with glitter until she looks like some eighties wrestler. Her body suit of the Cirque du Soleil quality with glittering sequins done in purple and gold. Where her more customary scalloped cape fell off her shoulders is instead a crimped cleopatra cape of black and yellow. It's Batgirl meets outrageous and a lot of glittering shiny.

Once she's in view, she realizes how crowded it is down here in the deepest reaches of Gotham. She has to squint a bit at the bright luminosity of the carousel, and her jaw sets then. She may not remember how she got here, but she's sure that being here isn't solely for fun and games — or at least where she's concerned. She tries to track the voice doing the MC-ing while also trying to find any indication of where she is.


'This is fucking stupid', Dinah whispers to herself.

Fortunately, who's gonna know it's her? Dinah's dressed like Mad Max meets Burning Man. Leather shorts brief enough to almost be indecent, chaps, cross-slung bandoliers that serve no purpose except mounting spikes. She's ripped off her right shoulder pad, leaving her with just the sinister-side protection as a dueling guard. Heavy, tooth-busting leather gloves with an impact shell guard her knuckles. Behind the toothy goblin mask, she gnaws on her mouthguard and looks around the arena. She's short and stacked, the outfit exposing her gymnast's build and a couple scars on her bare stomach and lower back. But there's definitely some hard-won muscle there, enough that she doesn't look like a bumbling moll kidnapped from a Mob dinner.

Her hair's tucked up under a red wig, by sheer coincidence from a distant time in the past when she and Barbara were playing 'costume-swap'.

"Well, at least Babs isn't here to scold me," Dinah says, sotto voce, and kicks experimentally at a loose bolt on the ground of what might be the riskiest, dumbest gamble of her professional life.


There are few things Joanna Cargill would not do for Pietro and Wanda Maximoff, but tonight ….

Tonight pushes it to an edge that surely, Joanna has never felt before.

And it's all over a costume.

What sort of costume one might ask?

WELL, one that is likely familiar to those who live in Gotham City.

There's a fitted red shirt, a snazzy little sparkled yellow cap, a black domino mask and some really awesome GREEN BOOTY SHORTS.

Tonight really deserves a few rounds of drinks, it truly does. A pity Joanna is sober.

Be that as it may, Frenzy finds herself in the upper echelon of the carousel. She stands upon one of the rickety catwalks, her expression completely closed off, but that doesn't stop her gaze from taking everything that can be seen in. The wires, the electricity, the people all around and most importantly the people below. A look of calculation drops to the lower levels and she shifts slightly to get a better view of the lower levels. When she moves that sequined yellow cape of hers flares outward. It's enough for Joanna to catch it in her peripheral vision and it takes everything in the woman not to drop several bombs of the f-variety.


Things have been pretty slow for one Mr. Marko recently. It's tough being the biggest and best muscle one can buy isn't it? Amiright??

At least, that's how he sees it. His last job, that of working for Weapon H to lay hands on The Savage Hulk, fell through when Hulk dropped off his radar and there just haven't been any bank vaults to crack open or evil geniuses to be the muscle for. It's almost enough to make a guy reform! Almost.

For right now, he uses this opportunity to find some semblance of entertainment. It's not often he makes his way through Gotham but word of the fight club reached him and curiosity related to the last time he was in one has brought him forth where he lurks in th crowd like some monster kaiju trying to blend in with regular farm animals. His size, resting scowl and a table full of half finished drinks does much for keeping a table open and all to himself and he watches the proceedings curiously from that vantage point. His ice blue eyes squint at sight of the carousel and the words of The Showman. A slow grin makes its way across his features eventually and he rumbles to himself, "This?is about to become a downright mess, aint it.."


Is it a sad thing when your first thought is that you've been to worse places? And then you get a better look at what you had to dress in and begin to have second thoughts.

The fact that someone's separated him from his beloved artillery just makes him cranky, and being dressed in a riot of primary colors really doesn't help. It's a one-piece, polka-dotted affair without sleeves and belted around the waist with a blindingly yellow lame‘ belt. The once ruffled puff of a collar that had been around his neck is more ragged and wilting, its handsewn sequins having fallen off in some places. He’d nearly knocked out a dwarf clown with the oversized red shoes he'd flung off in a mild fit. There was no way he was going to be wearing those. The dwarf clowns? Part of his apparent posse that he's been given for this show, all armed with bazookas taller than they are. He's already made a mental note to make a grab for those when possible, although judging by the looks they've been giving him, despite an obvious language barrier it doesn't take Rocket any translator to figure that they plan much the same.

The raccoonoid studies the venue, the rickety arena they've been thrown into, the dangerous overload of electricity. He himself stands atop a mini car painted in a raucous rainbow of glitzy colors, another prop for their group, apparently.

"Someone. Is going to die."

His proclamation probably can't be heard above the shouts and jeering from the surrounding crowds, but if looks could kill… Well, it isn't a very happy look, brown-red eyes shooting death glares at anyone who meets them.


Domino had been through the fight scene down here once before. Been a participant, even! Thus, when word got through to her end that there was another match going on tonight she was expecting another run of the mill cage fight with a twist. Not ..whatever is going on around here! This here is a massive and completely unexpected setup, someone had definitely put time and money into this project.

This might be a -bit- more devious than she tends to go for as far as entertainment goes, but considering she has a good evening with a sharp knife and someone to interrogate this isn't a super huge stretch as far as her morals go.

"Hot damn these guys have really outdone themselves tonight," is said to no one in particular. It's a good thing she hadn't signed up to be one of the fighters this time around, dodged THAT bullet like a pro. All that's left is to find a seat within the spectator bin and, as luck would have it, she finds herself a primo spot to plant her tuchus.

The first contestant comes out and Neena barks out a laugh! Nice parody of one of the Batfemmes! Next is some lady rocking the black leather and spikes all apocalyptic-like, which earns something of a grin. Dom had ended up with a Mad Max themed look the last time. Maybe it's popular around here?

Number three is out and the albino's head drops backward with another hearty laugh. Yes, so VERY glad she didn't sign up tonight. The costumes alone would have had her throwing herself right onto those exposed wires!

There's also a really tiny guy. That's ..huh. Wait. Is..is that -Rocket?- "Jeezus, I am so never fighting in this scene again," Dom mutters.


The people who have come to spectate the fight cram themselves to see. Of course, their surge forward means that the back of the cavernous basement is far less occupied now. It makes it the perfect place to be for one LENA ZELLE, who is still not in any way HARLEY QUINN, as she sips from a flute of champagne that bubbles happily up the edges of the glass and around two raspberries that sit on the bottom of her glass. Tonight, she's dressed in a pair of black oil-slick pants so tight they look to be painted on, a towering pair of shiny leather platform heels, a sheer black shirt that only has one fluttering sleeve to drape over a strapless black bra, and a pair of huge gold drape earrings. Her dark and wavy hair has been swept up into a half-bun, held in place by two hair sticks with little glittering starts dangling from them.

As the scene unfolds, her amethyst-painted lips curl upwards into a tiny smile and she takes a sip from her glass before allowing her keen pale eyes, wrapped in smoky cosmetics, to take in the crowd of spectators through the dim lighting.


Famous last words, Dinah. Batgirl blinks up when she hears a familiar voice, ands he turns slowly toward its source — almost in dread. She looks at the fake redhead and it takes her just a heartbeat before — "D-Dinah!" She steps forward immediately, advancing toward the fellow Bird. "Where are we? Did you get grabbed, too?" Because surely Dinah wouldn't volunteer for this. She starts to look around as if to see if Huntress is here, too.

Then she's looking back over at the fighting cage and upwards to the level above where she might be able to spot the other contestants.


Dinah turns and almost— almost— kicks Barbara's teeth in. She checks the motion at the last moment. In fairness, some Insane Clown Posse looking groupie is rushing at her, yelling her name and making grabby hands. It could happen to anyone!

Her eyes go wide behind the mask. "B- Ba—" Neither name is a good one right now. "Delphi!" she says, finally. Only Barbara would get that reference. She grabs her friend's hands impulsively.

Then a second later she clobbers Barbara in the cheek with a right cross that carries absolutely zero weight or force behind it. A stage punch.

"Fuck off'a me!" she says in a heavy accent common to the Gotham Docks district. "Dumb bint, get over near me and I'll punch ya head off!"

She flips Barbara off while her free hand's fingers wiggle frantically. A shorthand of ASL that very, very few people know. 'stinks like Joker' 'thunderdome' (yes there is a shorthand sign for thunderdome) 'besties'.

Dinah flickers a wink at Barbara and walks a few paces away, waving her arms up and down at the crowd to get them pumped up.


The Birdseye view is pretty nice for Frenzy, even with the zips and lots of electricity nearby.

And while Frenzy I isn't a fan of electricity, she doesn't allow any of what she's really feeling (beyond pissed off) show upon her features.

Her attention drags away from the ground when she hears the words 'someone is going to die'. Agreement flashes across her features and while she still whole-heartedly agrees with Rocket's sentiment, Frenzy can't quite stop the surprise that flares briefly in her eyes at the sight of the costumed raccoon?

Really, she has to think hard on whether she's been in such an interesting situation before?

Dangerous situations, yes. Deadly, oh hell yeah. No-win-situations, yup! But this sort of situation? Still thinking on it.

Eventually though, Frenz moves. In her mind only those ready to die stay in one place and she's definitely not that. Her first steps fall heavily, but at the shakiness of the catwalk the woman lightens her steps as much as she can. She can only do so much thanks to her size and weight, but she at least she's on the move.

And while she's way up here a noise catches the edge of her senses - a laugh. Was it a laugh? There was a familiar cadence to the edge of that noise, but noooo, it couldn't be a familiar laugh. It's definitely not anyone she knows. Nope, not at all.


The chaos boiling through his veins demands more.

"Let's see some violence." Declares Cain Marko, followed by a rumbling *BOOM* as his massive palm 'lightly' pounds the table infront of him in anticipation and impatience. The influence of Cyttorak demands violence and as that primordial beings 'representative' ..whether he likes it or not?Cain feelings are in synch. He probably does like it.

The sight of the racoon does give him pause though and he rears back slightly in his seat and then forward again as if trying to figure out if he's seeing a midget in a furry costume or what. He then simply blinks and shakes his head after taking a moment to lift up the last drink he was consuming and to eye it suspiciously. He then simply shrugs and sets it down again. He's seen weirder.


Thankfully Rocket can't make out much of any details for those in the crowd, not when they're the center of attention here on this carousel of death. He sees the flash of red from a point much closer, here on the second level of the crazy-go-round, but it's what he's standing on that shifts before he gets a chance to himself.

One of the mini clowns inside the tiny car punches the gas or whatever the thing runs on, and the vehicle speeds forward erratically across the uneven deck. Rocket grabs the edge of the thing, clinging against the rainbow car. "HEY! Who let you drive?!" he growls into the open window.

Out the passenger side another dwarf clown squeezes out his head and takes aim (after some work) with his spike bazooka at the Frenzy Wonder!


There might be a slight hesitation with the bottom two fighters at first but soon an attack is thrown then followed by some colorful wording. That helps! Though something about it seems a little ..off? Domino happens to know a thing or two about punching people in the face and she's just not feeling that strike.

Not that it matters. She's here to enjoy a fight, not a murder.

It also occurs to her that three of the four fighters are women and the fourth is (NOT) a raccoon. Truly the estrogen is strong in this fight.

"C'MON KICK HER ASS!"

With a strong showing amongst the spectators, as well.

Up top the yellow caped gal seems to be carrying some considerable weight. Should be an interesting show once the action starts heating up. Neena's intent watching is only interrupted by the sudden crash of Marko's palm across one of the tables, immediately drawing the albino's attention in what is destined to be a proper double-take. Holy freaking HELL that boy is HUGE!

..Why isn't he up in the ring..?

Oh wait—there's more dwarfs up in the ..whaaaaaaa?


"And here they are! Today, for the delight of our live audience, we have a double-dealing delve of dangerous dual delights, a dastardly death drinking diorama for our delectible debutantes for the day! Watch, and be amazed as in the UPPER DECKER we have the lovely and o-so-shapely MISS ROBIN O'HAUTE facing off against cheeky MILO and the OTIS TEAM! They'll be fighting for your eyes only suspended TENS of feet in the air as they struggle for dominance, rying to avoid becoming little more than a fried tater after my own hungry heart!!"

The electronic voice booms — despite the rickety and glitching soundsystem, which sounds for all the world like it's being piped in through a succession of progressively larger period record players, placing the exact source or location of the owner of that voice is something of a mystery. The voice of the Showman is something crazy, something bigger than life. Shrill and smooth all at once, the bombast only grows as he continues onwards.

"But that's not all we have for you today, folks. Tonight, we've got a slinky little duo straight from the Gotham gutters. So while Milo tries to defeat the Boot's Blunder, all of this is going to happen right on top of tonight's main event! In the BLUE corner, bringing everything she's got to the table in the sort of cutting wisdom we've all come to expect, we have HELL'S BELLE!! And in the red corner — wait, where's the red corner?" He asks, suddenly. A pause. If you look, there actually is a blue painted X randomly on the concrete, mixed in with a patina of graffiti and god knows what else. Nobody told anybody about an X. The red X, however.. "URGH— " the voice hisses over the PA. "I thought I told you to— " a gunshot rings out over the system, harsh and crackling, but surprisingly muted, considering. "The red corner," the voice continues, "will arrive in three to five business days. Good help is so hard to find," the Showman laments. "Well, well. Until that time, OCCUPYING WHATEVER CORNER SHE DAMN WELL WANTS, IT'S MISSUS POKE MAN!!"

For all of his ranting and raving, the crowd sure does want to see some mayhem, since there are a lot of unwashed masses causing a lot of unwashed mass smells in the crowd. Not everyone can be a winner, eh? It only gets worse as the Joker explains. "Now, I'll make tonight's house rule quick. A lot of you have been telling me. 'Showman, how do I get people to really draw some blood? How do I get them to really bring it out here?' I'll tell you. Through BONUS ROUNDS. Now as always, the choice is going to be yours as to what to do with your defeated after the fight. Kiss them, kill them —actually kissing them might bring in solid ratings, give that a whirl — but in either case, I don't care! But what to do after is yours. What's going on during, is mine. Here's the funny part: For every thirty seconds that passes where I don't see some good old fashioned serious injuries, I'm going to release one of Gotham's finest into the arena. What do I mean by that? You'll see. Because I've already started the first run."
At that point, a hissing series of clacks pops through, and from above, a man is just — thrown bodily into the arena from above. He narrowly misses all manner of electrical lines to hit the ground and — well, almost break his leg on the concrete floor below. But then he laughs. And laughs. And laughs. And picks up the knife they gave him. Then he laughs some more. And you can see the barbed wire on the bat. And now he's swinging wildly, stumbling towards the first person he sees. It happens to be the redhead in the spikes and the Mad Max getup. He doesn't seem quite sane, right now.

And the crowd will go wild. "Remember," the Showman reminds. "If you don't give them what they want, then I will."
The problem is, Domino might be one of the few not in the ring tonight who don't want to see a murder.


Two friends make brief eye contact, and Batgirl looked both bewildered and stymied by Black Canary's reaction. Then she's getting punched at, and she isn't even sure that it's a fake punch until it's too late. Her hand comes up, ready to catch and extend Dinah's elbow in an Aikido grapple. But then she clues in a takes a quick breath staggers back as she does, trying to make it look like Dinah connected. She takes several steps back, and when she looks up, she's holding her cheek to hide the slight nod for Dinah. She gets it. Alright. So, Dinah volunteered for this.

Dinah Lance!

She then regards the cage walls again, trying to figure out its construction, trying to find a weakness. Beyond it, she sights the crowds that cluster and fill the space. She can hear it start to reach fever pitch while she rubs at her fake punched cheek. She's looking at Dinah again, and this time — that voice booms through the PA system, and she turns slowly toward it. There's something familiar — an itch in her memory that she tries to tug at, but can't quite grab. A slithery little rope of thinking that escapes her grasp. She's so occupied trying to figure out the face that goes with that voice that she misses her stage name. So, she blinks, looking up and around toward Dinah. "Hell's Bell?" She touches her chest, only to realize that those sequins are razor sharp, and she flinches away from them. She's making an assumption, considering Dinah looks like she has plenty of poke.

There's a good chance that Babs was seriously considering faking her way through this whole fight, but then there's the BONUS ROUND rules, and she's turning her head toward the speakers again. "You wouldn't," she starts. But the Showman does. The body falls through onto their floor of the cage, and he has a knife. She's barreling forward then, running full-steam toward the pair.

As a twist? The glittering Batgirl grabs onto a support pole that runs through the cage to help keep the caged upper level secure, and swings around it to slam both feet hard into Dinah to send her stumbling out of range of the knife-wielder while also, well, delivering some pain. Sorrysorrysorrysorrysorry.


As the fight really gets into full swing, Lena finishes her glass of champagne. It's a sad state of affairs that, so she turns to remedy the problem.

Once she has a refill of champagne and a few new raspberries besides, she turns to a man beside her and leans up to whisper something.

Soon after, Domino will feel a tap on her shoulder, and he'll murmur something to her just before lifting his head and jerking his thumb over his shoulder in Lena's direction in the back of the room.


Dinah takes a hit to the shoulderblades that sends her legitimately stumbling away, and she converts it into a forward roll to soak up the momentum. She was all set to lay out that knife-wielding perp, and Babs just… kicked his teeth in!

"I toldja, you dumb cooze!" Dinah screams. "I'll kick your ass for touchin' me! Ya dead, ya hear?" She comes unglued and rushes at Hell's Belle, clearly intent on kicking her teeth square in.

A biker boot whips around and instead she misses by a country mile, aiming that steel-toed boot right for the underside of the maniac's jawline. Hell of a bad kick there, Larry, let's hope she can recover and still come in under par.


The Dwarf Clown hanging out the window of the little car gives Frenzy a second of pause, but only just that.

Then her eyes narrow and her mouth twists into a scowl.

That scowl only gets darker as the Showman finally announces all of their ring names.

Miss Robin O'Haute

It's not a name she would have ever chosen for herself. Ever.

Still, that doesn't stop her from finally reacting to the bazooka pointed in her direction. She kicks off the shaky catwalk and literally jumps toward the little car and its zig-zag of direction. Frenzy aims to either land in front of the car and act as a road block to it, or if a zig or a zag causes her to land atop it, well, then she's going to land right on top of it.

For Frenzy, she has very little fear of actual physical damage, so why not take what others would see as risks. Especially when the announcer asks for it so 'politely'.

Well Domino isn't the only one to be fair. Cain Marko isn't adverse to killing or seeing death happen and he's made his share of death threats and maybe..you know?.well shoot, his fists hit like a speeding semi truck and that's when he's holding back, what do you expect?

But still it's not something he's out to see. He just wants to see some old fashioned bashing and smashing ..but this getting way, way to complicated and insane.

"Whoa, now.. what the hell?" he rumbles as he leans forward, peering down into the stage with all the interst of someone watching a train wreck in progress. - or perhaps the latest reunion of Real Housewives of Atlanta. Probably about to get as violent as that as well.

"Sheesh, what've I walked into? This is why I can't stand Gotham. Damn."


Note to self: utterly destroy this place later.

Rocket is too busy hanging on to the little car to make any snide comments as the Showman goes on with things. He doesn't want to accidentally bite his tongue off, not with the shaky progress this thing is making. He doesn't get to see what's flung into the arena below, but he decides not to worry about it, not with enough up here going on.

The spike-launcher goes off but misses its target as Frenzy moves. The dwarf clown tugs on the trigger again in vain, despite knowing there's only one shot that had been loaded into it. Inside the car, the other clowns scream as the crazy woman is suddenly launching herself towards them, swerving as much as they can along the catwalk.

Rocket sees her too, eyes widening as the red, green and yellow O'Haute closes in. He lets go of the car to avoid being landed, hand snagging the bazooka of the clown out the window who as it is barely manages to keep himself within. The addition of another body just pulls him out with almost a *pop*, and he goes falling between catwalks and wiring.

The brightly dressed raccoonoid nearly joins him, but he uses the empty bazooka to snag the catwalk so he can swing himself back up onto… Well, calling it sturdy ground is a bit generous.


Did you ever get that impression that perhaps you miiight have misread the invitation at some point? Because Domino is kiiinda starting to get there… Sure, everything about this arena is sketchy as hell but she could give a pass for most of it. Maybe all of it! Then the Showman is all over the shoddy sounding PA and it all seems like part of the act.

Then there's a distorted gunshot, which..could still be part of the act..?

And then there's an open invitation to -kill the fighters after the match.- And the crazy guy being dropped in from above. And…

Dom still has her gun, right? Yeah. That part's still all right with the world.

"This got dark fast," she mutters while leaning forward in her seat. Passing on the drinks is starting to seem like a really good idea.

Everything ramps up into one heck of a solid distraction. In the dim atmosphere of the spectator area surrounded by so much noise she doesn't catch the individual approaching her until contact is made, prompting an immediate pale eyed stare. Then a glance back to the doorway in question. Suspicion is running high but being somewhere other than within a ravenous bloodlusting crowd may be a smart move.

The nod is given, then the albino rises from her seat and steps toward the back room.


"You're getting into character," Batgirl mutters just as she ducks out of the kick, dropping low to instead watch the boot connect with the so-called Gotham's finest. In that brief moment, she recognize the look glazing his eyes, and her eyes widen. "Shit." Someone's been hanging around Frank Castle too much. That's definitely not rated Ages 12+. "They're drugged"

Her eyes dart up to the level above before she looks back to Dinah. Her blue eyes are steady, serious, and her chin juts out slightly. She charges at Dinah, and the fake redhead might recognize that she's going full-out — like the times she's rage sparring. She throws a punch at Canary, flashing her teeth as she does. Whether or not it hits, Batgirl is pivoting to line up another strike.


It's really unfortunate when friends fight, but at least Batgirl and Black Canary know each other enough to make it look good. Dinah takes the punch, but only to close the space between Barbara to haul her off her feet, and the two go rattling to the ground. See two ladies hit the ground together, and that gets the crowd going. Babs takes a returned punch.

Oh look, there's blood. Everyone's happy now, right?


As Domino nears the back, the dark-tressed Lena in her staggeringly tall heels lifts high her champagne flute in salute. And then her lips turn upwards into a puckish smile as her finger curls to beckon the woman towards a small out of the way corner where they won't be seen or overheard.


The car goes crunch. Right against Frenzy.

It's almost comical, if it weren't for the fact that people were inside it, but at this point Jo doesn't seem to care.

At least Rocket got out before it went smoosh.

Bits and pieces of the car rain downward toward the lower levels, and Frenzy simply plows right on through the remains of the car. And the people within.

The only thing that Frenzy didn't possibly anticipate, or attempted to and it failed, is the wobbliness of the catwalk. It unbalances her just enough to push her towards the edge and with one more wobble over the side she goes.

And while she could survive a fall to the ground, she doesn't quite make it to the lower level. Instead the woman slams into another catwalk only this catwalk isn't the safe kind. It's the kind that has a lovely electrical current running through it.

That current slams into the woman's form and from the force of it, Frenzy goes flying. Like across the whole carousel and beyond.

It's a sure bet that when Frenzy awakens she is going to be in a super sour mood. Especially when she comes to STILL wearing 'her' costume.


Moving his head like a tank turret, Cain tracks the flight of Frenzy across the expanse of the caged combat zone. He purses his lips and shakes his head in disappointment. "Man.. She was looking like she was gonna be my favorite.."

His hands grasp absently for a pile of nearby chips while his gaze remains fixated on the spectacle taking place. This has quickly turned into more then he could have imagined?and he actually does have an imagination, okay?

Still, a nagging sense of making sure he's keeping an eye on just how nuts things are getting is on him. While he's not concerned for personal harm and safety, not getting caught up in some sort of police raid or worse is ideal.. along with not getting caught up if someone has some sort of outlandish plans for the crowds which..considering just how much this is escalating and getting dark isn't out of the question. An exit, sooner rather then later, might very well be in the cards.


Rocket almost feels sorry for the mini-clowns as they go flying along with the remnants of the car. Almost. He sees something spiraling towards him and grins maliciously, leaping up to snatch it out of the air. Okay, so it's only got one shot, but it's still a bazooka. He feels a lot better with some kind of firearm in hand.

And then he sees Frenzy falling, or flying, as she does shortly after hitting the electric cables. That makes him wince. Still, if she'd smashed a car with her own body, he doubts she'd be down and out for long from a… Well, how many volts is running through this double-decker deathtrap?

The little Guardian runs along the catwalk, slinging the bazooka over his back as he leaps up to climb along the lighting rigs, taking care to avoid those exposed cables where he can.

Maybe he'll luck out and the attention will all be on the fighters below. He just needs time to see if he can find a way to short this crappy circus out.


Miss Poke Man is drawing her fist back for another punch, but that's when Hell's Bell grabs the arm, twists and sends the other redhead into a painful roll off her. Batgirl is getting quick to her feet in a low, balanced squat. Her bloodied nose is trickling rivers of red down her lips in little dripping dribbles onto the floor of the cage.

Friends make decisions together, and somewhere in that tussle, the two make eye contact. Dinah flashes her teeth at Barbara just as bloody-nosed Barbara mouths the word, "Sorry." Then she charges forward again, this time to get her arm around Dinah's neck. This is all about keeping it real, and while the crowd sees the glittered and sequined redhead choking out the Mad Max wannabe, Babs is making sure to just get Dinah at the edge of unconsciousness so her friend can collapse. "Sorry," she says softly into Dinah's hair. Then she's getting up.

"Guess I'm done!" She calls this to the crowd, throwing out her shoulders into a dramatic shrug. She has no idea if she's supposed to go up, or maybe she's even being a little bratty about it, too.

Sorry, Rocket. The attention isn't going to last for long.


"And then the Otis boys go flying into the saucy red bird with everything! HAH! Look at those feathers fly, someone get the ranch dressing because we just had a barbecue!!" the disembodied voice booms. "The winner of the up top beat drop—OTIS! With their MILO attache! But watch out, there could be trouble in paradise!! Looks like Milo's trying to make a break for it. Will the Otises let their best friend go? What kind of a show do you take this for?!"

Sure enough, a few of the clowns look like they survived the catastrophic crash, and are now climbing after their little raccoon friend as he tries to find a way out. Clearly they want to kidnap him and keep him for their family's use as a pet. One of them must have watched ALF one too many times. Hey wait. Is that one down there unpinning a grenade? Where did he get that!!

Of course, then there's the second fight, the main event down below, which ends over the course of a few well placed kicks and haymakers. At least, for the moment. "…Hmnh." The voice crackling overhead is mild, and though the fine crafted veneer of knowing showmanship is everpresent, there lacks a distinctive shade of verve, a missing octave of gusto to chill the so-called lemonade, as it were.

"Well well well. What have we here?" the Showman asks, finally appearing in the form of a silhouette cast on the far wall. Not much can be made out from behind the backing of a spotlight except for the shadow of a very, very long and well dressed ringmaster, whose shadow's edges are distorted by the colorful lights and cast in a much more interesting light when his voice is backed by the lilt of a calliope. "What do you think, kids? Should I award a perfect victory with honors to this vixen of the cirque, this punishing pixie of pugilistic pride?" He asks, the silhouette steepling its fingers. "I'd say we need to put it up to a vote."

"1-900-4RIGGED. Call now, operators are standing by," he remarks, sweetly.

Then, more men are thrown down from the upper annals of the arena. They're just about as armed and as friendly as the others. Except, you know, there's really only one target left for them. Maybe two, if one of them gets lucky and lands near the mini fighter up above.

And you know, that's about when the real fun starts.


Behind the mask, Batgirl's eyes narrow at the Showman. Her teeth flash, and their ivory surfaces are red from the flow of her bloodied nose. Her head whips around as more men are thrown down to her level — and perhaps even Rocket's. So, she looks up toward the not-a-raccoon raccoon and calls out, "You sign up for this?"

She would wait around for his answer, but she's now being surrounded by drugged up mooks who may or may not have also signed up for this. Alright, Babs. You don't have any batarangs, bollas, no eskrima sticks. What do you got, what do you got. Her brain works overtime, and that picture-perfect memory builds a map of the lower floor. She's got a lot of space. So, she uses it.

The first wave comes in, and she drops a sweep kick to send him to his back, stumbling into a man behind him. The next she's throwing up an elbow as she pivots back up to her feet. She looks up at the ceiling above her just once before she literally uses the fallen guy to launch off his back to grab hold of it, swinging out to get on the other side of the crowding mooks, managing to not get electrified during her journey. This time.


"What?!" Rocket jerks his head up, ears perking as he hears the Showman giving the play-by-play. He looks down and around for the clowns, glaring as he seems them moving after him. "Oh come on!" Well, he didn't think it would be that easy.

He hears a shout come from below and glances down between the catwalks. From what the crazy commentator said, sounds like there's only one person left below as well. "Not for this!" he shouts back, scampering along the narrow rails with ease as he catches sight of the clowns out of the corner of an eye.

And then one pulls out a grenade, a cause for instant grenade envy.

Swinging himself to grab onto another rig, he positions himself closer towards the carousel core. "Awww, that for me? You shouldn't have! Bet you can't throw worth sh— uh-oh."

Whoever did this slaphazard job of patching this thing together could have spent a little more time screwing this lighting rig in! There's a metallic ping as a bolt comes loose and the end swings downward. Rocket yelps and quickly moves to climb up towards its yet attached end.


"Hold on, hold on. Wait a minute," the voice suggests, picking up a phone just out of frame for the light. The light itself changes colors slowly, settling from bright white to a nice shade of purple. It winks out just as a blood red spotlight tracks in from the left, causing the silhouette painted across the wall to shift and flicker. "I'm being told some in the audience are of the opinion that they didn't get the chance to vote. Well, I'll tell you right now, the vote works like this. Every vote you make, I add one more contestant. Maybe that clears things up. No? Oh, what the hell—-!!" He laughs harshly, a barking sound that cascades into vicious breathlessness. "You know what fixes that? More cowbell!!"

People are knocked out and bounced across as the lone contestant below bounds across and through the raining psychopaths like a sprite dances across the surface of the water. However, she will notice that some of them are not laughing. Some of them are flipping through the air and throwing off the other maniacs with ease. SOME of them, in fact, have swords. Some of them, mask-wearing as they are, might not in fact be drugged lunatics. Some of them are obviously regular lunatics. She will notice that it's hard not to draw blood in her outfit—when every sequin is a knife, it probably wouldn't be too hard to kick someone's head off. One person, laughing breathlessly, is shoved towards the ostensible winner, just before the one who shoved him, a guy in a light-up Lincoln outfit wielding a katana, whirls around the off-balance man in an attempt to cut into her before she can take off flying again. After all, there's only so much budget for mooks.

The lighting rig swings chaotically, casting a jumbled light across the affair, and it's actually highly likely that the rig was at least one of the ones responsible for the lightshow and the silhouette of the Showman as the raccoon-cum-acrobat swings off of it. That said, the faithful Otis team (there's only two now, for the record) remain relatively undaunted. Well, aside from the one with the grenade. He fell when the rig hit him, and then probably blew up somewhere over the anonymous Batgirl's head. Fortunately, there are plenty more guys being dropped in from above. Like that one giant guy who just fell in. Laboring and threatening to knock the catwalk down from its perch through sheer weight alone, the guy who is dressed like a giant snowman grabs the Otis from the scaffolds, wads him up with a big meaty handful of pink coconut flakes to make a makeshift snowball, and lobs him at top-speed at Rocket. There is a stovepipe hat on the snowman's head.

It reads 'BEAT ME UP.'


"I didn't either," Batgirl gasps through sharp breaths. She glances up to Rocket. She watches briefly as the raccoon goes flying to intercept the grenade. She misses the collapse of the light fixture in favor of being bum-rushed by three mooks. She staggers back two steps, three, and then she's grabbing one by his forearm, yanking him in to shove the knife away. Then she changes her mind, snagging the hilt. This gives her a weapon, and she's using it in a way that would make Frank and his ka-bar proud. She swipes up, wounding the second across his forearm, and then barreling her knee into his gut. Or at least, that was the plan. When she goes to knee him, she's given an unexpected surprise in the form of that third guy — the one she wasn't tracking — grabs her by that glorious, glittery, bad Farrah Fawcett hairdo. She's flung backwards, and she has to do some artful falling to not run into the electrified walls of the cage. Her hair gets singed though, and a scent of burning hair, hairspray, and toasted glitter tickles her nose. Her eyes narrow.

Now a line has been crossed.

She kips up just in time for more lunatics come falling from the skies. There's masks and swords, and she's noticing that each time one grabs at her, they come away with cuts. She narrows her eyes slightly, and decides to put this to use. When she slams an elbow and forearm at one, she takes his jaw and up to his ear, severing half of it from his head. Then she's hooking her razor-sharp knee around another, pulling hard enough to take him to the ground with half a dozen nicks and cuts. She manages to avoid a sword as it rattles into the electrified cage. That takes that one out with a sizzle and crackle.

She flips her singed hair back behind her as she calls up to the raccoon, "How are you doing up there?" After all, a grenade just went off over her head, and she had to duck down to avoid a blast of sparks and metal bits.


"What is this freak show?!"

Rocket clings to the lighting with only the slightest cringe as the explosive goes off somewhere below. He makes a slight face; what a lame grenade! If it were one of his there would have been a decent crater at least!

With people raining into the makeshift arena from above, he hasn't long to lament over the abysmal quality of Terran weapons. Especially with someone as big as that!

"They grow 'em big down here…" He's trying to decide if it's worthwhile to see if the bazooka he still carries can pack enough of a wallop but quickly aborts the thought as the giant snowman (???) chucks one of the unfortunate clowns with the ease of a pro pitcher. "Flark—"

Rocket looks towards another catwalk as the rig swings him around again, and he releases his grasp to tumble onto the rickety thing, but more importantly, out of the path of the snowballed clown. "Oh I dunno, dodging clowns, dressed like a clown, with a flarkin' giant joining the party? Just great!" he shouts in response to Batgirl.

Eyes narrow as he looks across the way at the big guy, and then he swings the spike-bazooka from his back and over his shoulder, taking aim at the framework holding the electric cables above. It's kind of disturbing how natural he handles a firearm way bigger than him. And then he pulls the trigger.


Up in the network above, little old Micro Milo is doing his best attempt at a David v Goliath situation, staying clear of the big palooka snowman (Judging by his fragrance, he might actually be caked entirely in coconut flakes for his snowman outfit. Long story short here, he smells delicious. As long as you like coconut.) who is trying to brain him with a undersized clown bomb, which slams into the more stable rig with a deep bass crack as Rocket swings from one to the other. The coconut sprays in a fresh bathing of faux snow, gently wafting onto the ground below. The snowman, clearly enraged by Rocket, bellows loudly.

In the other run, a perfectly glorious stylist job gets totalled by poor choreography. In the meantime, the blood is starting to mount around the young performer, splotches of it dripping along the ground as people push and shove to get to their very, very shiny target. Her heels flash as the sequins reflect the light, and the feet of others leave the ground as quickly as they hit it as she drops low, throwing them into the ground in equal time to see branches of electricity brace off of more shoes, taking out potentially hidden assassins in decent clip through sheer tenacity alone.

Above, the rig slams into the behemoth Frosty, sparks cascading across him and his coconut lining, setting at least a layer or two of his cocosuit ablaze before he angrily grips onto the rig with equally angry mittens, throwing it aside to snap cables in either direction. Unfortunately, Rocket's crack aim is probably too crack, and the shift in weight has caused even the platform that the behemoth is on to crumple, forcing the behemoth to topple down onto the carousel's lower levels as the catwalk sags into the lower area. The impact alone causes the calliope music to warp unstably, and the behemoth disappears behind the carousel as it rotates.

It's exactly a second's respite. Before Rocket can notice that the sole surviving Otis' impact was cushioned by coconut. And then Otis jumps on him, shouting something in a wheedling language while trying to rob him the hell blind, and potentially beat him up with tiny limb punches, likely right while Rocket is trying to aim, or really do anything important at all.

Barbara has exactly three seconds to watch this transpire before a raging behemoth tramples performers left and right, flaming furiously.


Batgirl had given up on the heeled boots after The Blacksmith's goons trashed her last suit. She's been kind of enjoying the combat boots. But to be skidding around in heels again is a clear reminder that she actually does know how to do this. It's a skill. Though the soles of these shoes are not meant to be sliding across blood, and twice her feet slip out from under her. She growls to herself, wondering if bare feet was worth the risk. She decides to keep on the stupid heels.

She pivots low, again taking out another two with a sweep kick that sends them staggering to the ground with their buddies. She flashes a glance behind her just in time to shove another razor-sharp elbow into another poor mook's face. That's going to leave scars.

Then she hears the crash, and she turns sharply with a sweep of that pleated cape and her eyes widen at the sight of the Frosty crashing into the carousel. She takes two breaths before she is looking up. She spots the words on the hat, and she shakes her head just once before she's sprinting forward, pausing just once to scoop up a fallen sword. She is pretty sure that some of the blood on her costume is her own, and she feels new pains, but her adrenaline is pumping. She leaps onto the remains of the carousel as it continues to turn, and then she's climbing rapidly across all manners of horses to get to the monstrosity.

"If it isn't cramping your style, maybe you could get down here?" She's usually patient. Usually. "Or maybe you want to continue to make friends with your fellow clowns?"


That worked out even better than he'd intended, if only because it managed to drop the guy if not fry him. Rocket can't gloat for very long as he senses something behind him. He hardly has time to reply to Batgirl, much less turn completely before he's leapt upon by the coconut clown. "DAH! No you idiot—!" he growls, right before he feels his foot slip off the catwalk.

Batgirl's about to get her wish one way or another, it seems.

Rocket isn't going down alone, however. He snarls back at the gibberish-spewing clown, clawing at his face and swinging the bazooka at his head. Granted he feels the little creepazoid's grip slip, he'll snap a sharp kick to his little coconut-flavored gut to try punting the clown away.

Don't worry, he'll probably be reminded that he's still falling, rather abruptly.


"And now we're starting to see some REAL ACTION!" the Showman cackles, the staccato, chaotic lighting and spraying jets of escaping steam pressure cutting across his long silhouette as he fistpumps in the midst of the battle. The crowd gibbers from a hundred angles, hundreds of mouths howling with anticipation. Streamers and debris scatter into the arena with almost the same chaos in rapture as the falling debris and strutwork from above. Judging by the silhouette, which angles sharply to fall across the arena floor, he spins a cane and does a saber kick, absently shadow-puppet kicking a man who was just barely managing to stay balanced on the cage off. Of course, he's nowhere near the axe-wielding freak, it's just very slippery down there. And the Showman has such an exquisite sense of timing.

It really is all about the timing…

As the chattering maniac beats on the raccoon ineffectually, he clings to him like a coconut-scented turd on a shoe, and is just about as annoying. At least Rocket can eventually get him kicked away in the air, leaving the guy to fall and take out one or two goons who looked like they might be considering a resurgence. At least, as the brutal giant of a man comes storming in, most of even the most drug-adled of the leering maniacs know to stay away. Or so you'd imagine, right up until he has to throw one aside like an old used napkin, as Batgirl clambers over the horses to get to him. He isn't a tenth as graceful, and crushes and snaps poles like tindersticks to close the distance, an angry snowman finally just snapping a horse from its mooring, wielding the broken thing dangerously as he bears down on the costumed contestant.

Rocket is of course, welcome to join right before calamity hits. And also, he might notice someone threw their underwear into the arena.

Hopefully, he is not cursed with knowledge enough of Earth fashion to realize that they do not belong to a girl.


The cackles from the Showman are noted as background noise as she's too busy basically climbing over what had once been beautifully carved horses toward the monstrosity that is dressed like Frosty the Snowman. In July. As she's moving, she's violating her costume by unhooking the cape from fingers and throat and then twists it until she has a whip of crimped silk. She times her leap carefully as she bounces onto a saddle, holding onto the twisted bronze pole.

The moment he shows her a flash of his back, she bounces through her feet, leaping toward him in hopes of landing on his back with scrapes of razor sequins. She tries to unseat the hat to clear a better path to get the rope of silk thrown around the giant's throat, but first — the hat has to go.


The ground's coming up fast, and unfortunately there's a lot of stuff just about everywhere if it's not being thrown around. Rocket is thankfully small and flexible, twisting around as he falls to grab onto a piece of broken scaffolding here, a merry-go-round pole there as one comes swinging around rather violently in the wake of the flaking giant.

His landing could be a little better, but when you've got random bodies of knocked out thugs and psychopaths it makes it hard to stick, but at least it's softer than smacking into the ground. The Guardian tumbles and finds himself staring up at porcelain horse hooves. Suddenly the horse just isn't there any more and he's left wide-eyed before hurls himself into a roll and onto his feet before gravity brings down whatever the coconutty behemoth's flung around.

Dashing between whatever's left of moorings and broken up floor on all fours, Rocket nearly goes colliding right into a fallen horse as he finds himself suddenly blinded by a pair of someone's underwear. There's a good few seconds of incoherent, muffled screaming before he tears the thing off his face and flings it in the direction of Not-so-Frosty.


The massive porcelain equine bludgeon is put to good use as the costumed snowman pummeler crumples barriers out of the way with no more visible impediment than a man is stopped by the waves, no more impediment than a bulldozer is stopped by grass. Sending a shattered candy-cane pole twirling with such speed that it almost murders Rocket as an afterthought were it not for the procyonoid's agility in the face of adversity, the behemoth frosty rebounds off of the wall. His weight is such that even casual impact shatters what's left of a mirror, pulling loose a set of circus brights as a line of bulbs scatter before him. They flicker lightly for seconds only to be smashed beneath a faux-snow-shoe, part of a comical tennis racket cartoon-style fixture smashing lit glass into sparks and colorful shards.

Now wielding a seal-on-a-stick much like an ancient warhammer, the man swings after Batgirl, as the performer leaves a scintillating fascination of blades in her wake, whipping through and slicing past him as the overswing from his hammerblow cuts hard, only inches over Rocket's head. Just as she mounts onto his back, he glares at the comparitively diminutive raccoon, towering overhead just at about the time he might get the underwear free.

In the meantime, the acrobatic finalist with some effort and potentially with all of the necessities of a tree climber, reaches Buffhemoth the Snowman's hat. Dislodging it is a job, mostly because he has no hair, and potentially where the top layer of his head is, there's a glass dome encasing a replica of the maniac's brain, nestled in a thick wad of faux snowcake. At least, one hopes it's a replica, because otherwise it means someone literally pulled the man's brain out of his head, and put it in — no word or lie — a snowglobe. There's even a cartoon Santa parked somewhere over the left hemispherical parietal lobe, throwing faux presents into a faux chimney stack. Like, for real. That's a lot of effort to go through.

There's not a whole lot of time to dwell on it, though, because as the hat lands on the ground (it is, for the record, larger than Rocket), the behemoth rears up and tries to plant Rocket into the ground up to the hip, trying to hammer him through the ground like a tent peg.


"Eeeuuhh," is all Batgirl manages when she spots the brain — she hopes it isn't a real brain. Please, don't let it be a real brain. Some part of her is starting to think it's a real brain. She puffs out her cheeks a bit before she glances back behind her toward Rocket, and then back to the brain in the jar. With Santa. "Christmas isn't for another six months," she hisses. "Did you get it discounted for off-season?"

The hat thumps to the ground, and now Batgirl tightens her grip as best she can on the behemoth before she whips her roped-up cape over the guy's hairless, snowglobe head to hook it around his throat. She makes quick work twisting and tightening, and she uses it to get a solid grip on the so-called snowman while also taking serious consideration of the brain in the jar. She wonders if this guy is even breathing, does he have a windpipe? She tightens the cape to find out.


Rocket gasps as he finds the snowman-themed giant a huge shadow over him and ducks as though such would save him from another swipe or a hammerblow of a fluffy hamfist.

All the dodging and keeping on the constant move through a rotating deathtrap is definitely taking its toll, leaving him panting hard as he forces himself to keep moving. With Batgirl distracting the massive figure in timely fashion, he leaps away from immediate range, although nearly gets caught beneath the large hat when he stands upright once again. That certainly keeps him from making any smart comments about the brain in a jar.

He's falling backwards from a sloppy but effective dodge of the large hat, but seeing a fist coming down on him again, Rocket tucks his feet and tail up and over his head in a tumble. It saves him a literal pounding, but splintering boards at this proximity still carry enough momentum to be troublesome, if not painful. A chunk smacks him right upside the head just as he comes out of his roll, sending him sprawling sideways and up against one of the carousel's stationary sleighs.


"Well well well! Looks like it's two on one. That's not fair! Or is it more like two on two. Three on two? Three on one? Ho-ho. Wouldn't that be a hoot? Maybe it was three. Seven? How many bullets did I shoot? Oh well. All's fair in the name of a good show! Let's see how the little acrobat and the littlest clown find their way out of this one!! As my dear old Granpappy Showman used to say, go climb that tree and take a coupla whacks! Then I guess he was killed by a falling tamarack, but I'd always thought it was just a matter of God making him cut his last switch… ha ha ha.. HA…"

It's to this meandering backdrop that the Behemoth is slowly being choked out, as the silk knots itself up and sinks deep into the killer coconut coating, cinching itself somewhere underneath his jawline. Well, such is the hope, because it's not entirely sure that it really has any effect on him at all, as the Behemoth rages in the middle of the whirling arena, swinging his makeshift hammer around, fully fighting off a bee with a broomhandle as it seems to be for these situations. He's clearly being aggressed, but from an unknown assailant in an unknown direction.

Side note. As you climb, it's very sticky. You are going to be picking coconut flakes out of everywhere for a very long while. Think about it as climbing a Hostess cupcake. It's pretty much like that, but with more muscle and rage. Also, as Batgirl hauls hard against the length of silk, she can also see the water of the man's head-mounted snowglobe bubble visibly, disrupting the Santa's presents, and causing them to float free in the water, along with a flurry of snow inside the globe. This just seems to be making him angrier.

The titanous confection contestant roars audibly as Batgirl rides him, the raging beast of a man swinging his sealhammer to and fro, smashing into bits of exposed racking and rigging as he careens through the scenery, chasing after the unconscious raccoon. He absently kicks even other thugs and costumed entertainers aside, the unconscious bodies flying this way and that as he makes his way after the raccoon, thoroughly convinced he's the one who is pestering him currently. As if to prove the point, he grips onto the sleigh as it whirls, roaring audibly as hands the size of hams lock onto the footholds beneath the sleigh, laboring as bolts shear and fiberglass casting cracks. Batgirl can feel his spine stand, even through layers of coconut snow, straining as if his spine were to snap free from his back like a breaking cable. The sleigh slowly begins to unmoor as the Buffhemoth rips it free, slowly coming into the air….!!!

….and then the snowman shoots sparks from his mouth in the midst of a wordless rage, finally shorting out enough that he falls, like the world's most muscled tree just as described, crashing through the carousel and crumpling against the ground, the entire carousel lower deck tilting dangerously as he sags over it, his torso freely dangling from it.

The railing goes 'bonk. bonk. bonk. bonk.' as his snowglobe head bounces off of each rung.

The entire arena goes to an excited hush, leaving only the laboring motor of the carousel and the warbling calliope music to fill the big top. It lasts exactly ten seconds. Then: "It looks like we HAVE A WINNER!!" The Showman declares, sending sprays of pyrotechnic sparks across the arena like an AK-47 fire and a 21 gun salute all in sync. "What a show tonight! What a show!!! Let's get a round of applause for our contestants!!"


"I'm really starting to hate the Showman," Batgirl mutters more or less to herself — well, and to Frosty, because his ear isn't too far from her mouth. She tightens her grip on the silk as the behemoth continues to rampage. Her fingers keep its grip just so. Her eyes narrow on the sight of the snowglobe as it bubbles and froths. But it's really the feel of the spine that makes her start to make assumptions about what she's dealing with here.

She twists her hands up twice more in the silk, redoubling her efforts to keep hold and tighten harder on that creature's throat. She isn't sure what she expected, but what happens almost has her losing her grip. The behemoth starts to tumble, and her with it! She launches off the back before she gets crushed underneath the monstrosity. She somersaults twice, and stickiness from the coconut gathering grime and blood; her razor-sharp sequins cut into her skin with the tumble, and she's landing inelegantly in a crouch. Her head whips around to watch the snowglobe bounce, bounce, bounce, and then she's looking up slowly toward where the Showman declares the winner. Her eyes narrow as the call for applause goes out, and she flashes her set teeth.

——

Slowly, the carousel grinds to a stop, putting an end to the prop comedy. At least, right up until there's an audible pop, a sag, a hiss, copious smoke, and then the entire carousel breaks down, lurching dangerously to one side. A second later, a fiberglass flamingo drops from the upper deck, bouncing with a deep bassy bwong-style sound off in a random direction. This neatly frames the rest of the lighting, or rather what's left of it after the upper decker shenanigans, lights shining on the sole remaining standee of the group.

"Well, that's all for our show tonight, folks. What a contest, what a spicy show! And all of it without a single broken neck! We're stunned! We're shocked! We're a bunch of other adjectives that start with S! That mad lad! But is it over yet? Now that she has the right to fight for the party, will she stick to her guns, or will she pick up some guns!?"

Of course, judging from the booing and thrown snacks mixed with wild cheers, the crowd seems to be of a mixed mind about all this. As a visible exit gate opens on the far side of the arena, presenting a clear exit, it's hard to tell exactly whether the crowd wants more blood, wants more justice, or really just wants more in general. Even so, the Showman seems to have a masterful control over the affair, leashing and tempering the criminal tragedy of a comparative lack of a bloody ending with soothing words all the same. "Ohhh… ohh, not to worry, though, there's always more in store, at the Showman's emporium of aggression! I'd like to take a minute again to thank our sponsors. And, as always, this event is supported by, heh heh, deviants like you…"

:)

"We'll see you very, very soon….hahahahahaha… hee hee hee… ho ho ho…"


Now that she's not facing death, or worse, Batgirl lets out a slow breath that sinks her shoulders a bit. Her eyes flicker aside toward the carnage tonight has left, and then back up to the stands and where she knows she can just barely see the silhouette of The Showman. Her eyes narrow, and then she is stepping back away from the slumped over body of the Frosty.

She glances down to Rocket. "Best get moving before he changes his mind." The redhead starts for the exit, but not before she makes sure to grab Dinah, who is just starting to come to. She loops her arm around her, mindful of the blades, and then hauls her friend out. She will worry about her own pains and wounds once they are in the clear.

"See you soon," she says up to the Showman's box in a low voice. Her eyes narrow behind her mask just before she exits with Dinah, the raccoon and whoever else is still walking.

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