A slight grimace crossed the man's face as the scene unfolded before him.

And here I was hoping this was none of our business...
Seeing no obvious firearms he opened the side door of the ice cream truck and stepped out, before any of the others could.

"Well gentlemen..." he says, speaking to the gang members before him. "I would be leaving if I were you. We wouldn't want to have to remove any of those gaudy gold teeth I see."

(Assuming the black men laugh at him...)

"Alright, but if you can talk later, don't say I didn't warn you." He turns to those still inside the truck. "Hey Downhouser, Virago... how about we show these thugs how to do this sort of thing properly."

Stepping aside from the truck to allow the others to easily get out, he pulls his 9mm from the holster hidden beneath his leather coat, aims at the boom box and fires a single shot.(hopefully lining up so that the boom box explodes in the guys hand, and the bullet goes through to hit a second guy in the chest... take an awesome point as needed.)

The ride between the rapidly devolving buildings was one Gerald had made before, on more than one occasion. He was conscious of the fact that he went where crime was, but he couldn’t get a grip on exactly how it worked. He figured it was a nature thing, like monkeys following the migration of banana flocks.

Or like broccoli… that was nature too, right?

He sat hunched in one of the seats of the ice cream truck as the conversations went on around him. He tried to keep up, but only caught pieces of it.

The guy who drove the ice cream truck was named God. No, it became Percy. Gerald liked that better. He had been through some tough encounters with religious fanatics in the past. It had been during his time as a personal bodyguard. He remembered a guy they called Priest, or Reverent; something in that style. That man hadn’t been associated with any kind of church at all, but had claimed to be. It turned out he had been a drug pusher and a child molester, with an eye on the niece of Gerald’s employer.

She had been only 7 years old when she was kidnapped by Priest Reverend.

Gerald had traced him, in his nature-thingy way, and had emptied Big Gun #2 into the man’s rectum.

The kid had been unharmed, luckily.

The big man absently rubbed the ear-piece that had become a part of his body. He looked around the truck. People were still making introductions. He thought a flash back like he had just had would’ve helped skip most of their conversation, but he had been wrong. One of them was looking at him. Somewhere it dawned on Gerald that the kid’s name was Vigaro, and he had just asked him something. Unsure of what to answer, the supercop just did what he did in most situations. He looked at the man with a mean stare that most people interpreted as variations on the ‘I’m on to you’ theme.

The kid continued:
"Now you say: 'To crush your enemies, see them driven before you... and to hear the lamentation of their women!' Trust me it will be HILARIOUS."
"Oh and drugs aren't bad by definition, beings they are inanimate objects and incapable of moral reasoning. Besides antibiotics are drugs, and so are vitamins. So I challenge that statement. Drugs are neither good nor bad, but simply tools in the hands of someone who knows what they are doing."

Gerald appeared impressed. He nodded softly with approvingly pursed lips.

“If you say so. I’m sure you are right. Just as long as you remember that drugs are bad for you. That’s all I’m saying.”

He looked into the street ahead. They had arrived at the West Side of town. Soon they would get into trouble. He could feel it.

He returned his gaze to Vigaro.
“Hey kid, why don’t you tell me about the street light now.”

Moments later the van stopped, and from the ruins of the city came a fat bass that penetrated the eerie jangle of the ice cream tunes. Gerald was on edge immediately.
He sniffed rap.

He stood up, bumped his head into the roof of the van hard, and returned to his seat. He grunted lowly, not from physical pain but from annoyance at the limitations vehicles always seemed to push on him.

Outside the van things were evolving quickly. The gang members had already thrown their first Molotov cocktail, and there was now no longer any question to what the purpose of this encounter was. There were some bones to snap.

Danyael was first out the van, and struck up a rather slick conversation with the thugs, than took aim at the boom box.

The reservations that Gerald had built up towards the man, after his initial behaviour aimed at Katie, disappeared in a heartbeat. Here was a man who knew his priorities.

Gerald pushed himself out of the van, his torso nearly sticking in the doorway. Straightening his leather jacket he took in the scene. The ring of fire was reflected in his dark shades, and amidst the flames he targeted the group of thugs. A smile spread across lips.

Those boys had nowhere to run!

(OOC: Gerald will walk with a calm pace towards the guy who did the talking. Meanwhile he’ll draw Big Gun #1 and aim it at the leader’s forehead. He’s sacrificing one awesome point to make the guy’s brain explode with the grey (white in this case from too much coke?) matter splattering into the other homies’ eyes. This will not only blind them but also make them absorb the drugs in his system rapidly so they become stoned as apes).

“The ice cream goes in the body parts… or maybe the ice cream is how I get the body parts… Never been on an ice cream truck before, have you?”

Virago sported a look that can only be described as sheer confusion before stepping away slowly from the cooler. No fingersicles would be ingested today, at least not by this guy. At least they were moving now, and Percy's eyes were focused on something other than him.

Turkey in the Straw blared through the city in a very stealthy manner, causing Virago to crack a smile at what he imagined was a perfect sight to see. The slums of Fantastico, fallen buildings, and cheerful tings of a once-noble sales profession that had become the cover of pedophiles and drug dealers.

Halfway through the trip it became apparent Gerald didn't exactly have the mental capacity to keep pace with their conversation. Twas a shame. He had high hopes for this one. Then, as if right on cue to redeem this whole situation... Conan spoke those glorious words Virago had been waiting to hear for what felt like days now:

" Hey kid, why don’t you tell me about the street light now."

Maybe there is hope for you afterall big guy... Sadly before he could even find where to begin the epic story of fire and taxis the ice cream truck pulled to a halt.

"Hey Downhouser, Virago... how about we show these thugs how to do this sort of thing properly."

Surely he's not being serious? Vir replied loudly so the thugs could hear. "Properly? Why would we want to do that? We have guns... they have... nothing really. The guy with the fire might have a chance. Everyone else will be dead before they reach us. This isn't the time to be proper. It's time to shoot. Actually, you shoot. I hate guns. Just don't shoot me"

Virago grabbed his street light and charged forward, mentally scanning for the first epic movie battle cry he could come up with.

"FOR NARNIA!!!!" He belted out at the top of his lungs, suddenly realizing he didn't exactly think that one through. F*** it, we'll do it live.

(Charging full speed right at the thugs, and performing a flying leap past/over/through as few of them as possible. Ultimate goal here is to not get shot. Secondary goal is to get to the victim and see if he's still alive, beating back thugs as needed. Tertiary goal is to get the victim to relative safety, which might involve a leap through the ring of fire assuming it's thin/short enough. He can always be put out on the other side.)

She neatly wrapped her clean stick in the empty wrapper as the truck lumbered into Westside. A frown spread across her face as they passed under the painted sign. By her calculations, they should be meeting that field agent about now. Instead a group of miscreants were huddled together around a prone figure.

Katie reached underneath her coat and unhooked her shot gun from her back as the Ice Cream truck rolled to a stop next to the group of thugs. No harm in being prepared. She set it in her lap, checked that it was loaded, and clicked the safety off. The thugs didn’t seem to notice them right away. They were too focused on beating the person on the ground, bringing him closer to death. A string of racial slurs and curses emitted from the little knot of people. Turkey in the Straw continued to crank out its tinny notes, and faces began to turn towards Percy’s vehicle.

”Looks like someun's brought us some frozen treats, boyz” the one in front said as he brought out a switchblade. ”Must not be from 'round these parts.” A few snickered, and weapons began to appear in their hands.

“A couple of tire irons, a switch blade, a molotov cocktail,” she ticked off mentally,“and their swinging cods. Okay then.”
”Why don't we show'em a lil' Westside hospitality, cuz?”, the one holding the molotov called out to the truck.

Her green eyes followed the trajectory of the cocktail. Thankfully it missed the truck. It soared through the air and bounced into the row of cars, catching the gasoline ablaze. Lady Luck has smiled once again. The warm glow of the fire surrounding the thugs lit the features of her face, which showed a mischievous look.

Katie smirked as she rolled down her window and leveled her shotgun at the nearest thug.
"Amateurs." she murmured before pulling the trigger. The Ice Cream truck rocked softly on its suspension from the concussion.

Katie ejected her empty shells. They clinked together as they were dropped onto the floor.

“FOR NARNIA!” Virago belted out, causing Katie to look up from reloading her gun. The man seemed to be flying through the air towards the middle of the group. She snapped the gun shut, and raised it again.

It took a little getting used to… all of the living people in the truck and the weird sensation that, even though he was probably still cooped up in his offices at Fantastico HQ, Mr Fantasti V was looking directly into his head… but, as he ferried the group along the beginnings of his new route into Westside, Percy managed not to let it get under his skin too much. There was the road to pay attention to, after all… had to watch for kids and customers and sinners and the like, didn’t he? And you couldn’t just drive over the other cars and people who weren’t customers, could you?

Well, you could, I guess, he grinned to himself as the truck rolled under the “WESTS!D3” arch, but that just seems too easy, doesn’t it? And a little indiscriminate… He slowed the truck when he caught sight of the faded words painted on the arch and, breaking away from his soft humming along with the music, read the words aloud; “Ur in the wrong neighborhood muthaf***as!”

“Huh,” he shrugged, grinning vaguely in Kate’s direction as he eased down on the accelerator, again, “I wonder how they know what neighborhood we’re going to? The guy at Fantastico did say Westside, didn’t he?”

“Wut the f*** you doing in Westside, beotch?”
Percy blinked and found his eyes drawn to a group of large black males huddled about something in the middle of the street. The music blaring from the boom box that one of them carried sent a visible shudder through the ice cream man and he reached over to turn up the volume on Turkey in the Straw in hopes of drowning it out…

“Ya, we ain't seen yer sorry white ass up in here before, homie.”
“Maybe they meant that guy is in the wrong neighborhood,” Percy noted, suddenly realizing what exactly he was looking at… Gang-beating is a sin, isn’t it?… and he eased the truck to a stop as he counted the new customers who had just taken notice of their arrival…

“Looks like someun's brought us some frozen treats, boyz” one said, reaching into a pocket and producing out a switchblade, “Must not be from 'round these parts.”
…Percy’s grin wriggled over his lips, then, and he put the truck in “Park” and unbuckled his seatbelt. He thought he heard one of the new customers say something about hospitality just before a Molotov was lobbed at the truck but, thankfully, missed – if any of his ice cream had melted because the thing landed home, Percy might have gotten a little upset – and erupted into a blaze behind them…

“How is that hospitality,” Percy wondered aloud as he climbed from his seat and turned for the back of the truck… Romeo slid past him, then, and Percy felt the truck rock faintly as the men stepped out into the street… “If gang-beating isn’t a sin,” Percy continued, mostly to himself, “trying to melt ice cream on purpose certainly is…”

"Hey Downhouser, Virago,” Romeo’s voice called from outside, “how about we show these thugs how to do this sort of thing properly?"

Giant Gerald and Vociferous Virago were already moving that way, of course, and it didn’t take Percy long to reach the cooler he was looking for. He whistled happily along with Turkey in the Straw as he pulled a couple of grenade shaped popsicles in homemade wrappers labeled “BOMB Pop” from the cooler and stuffed them in one pocket of his apron… Continued whistling as he produced a scalpel and an ice cream scoop from a drawer and relegated those to the other pocket… and gleefully sang the refrain as he filled a waffle cone with a generous serving of ‘napalm twist’ from the Xtreme Ice Cream Machine… “Hats on! Boots on! Yeeehaw! Sing a little song ‘bout a turkey in the straw!”

“Amateurs,” he heard Katie say just before a blast from her shotgun punctuated the statement…

…He waited for the truck to rock back before he ambled back to the front and reached across to the dashboard to change the song from Turkey in the Straw to The Entertainer…

“FOR NARNIA!!!”

He chuckled as, through the windshield, he watched Virago throw himself at the gang-beating, ice-cream melting crowd of sinners. Then, almost bouncing along with the new tune that had started to play, Percy smiled at Katie… “Mind the window for a minute will you? There’s a price list taped to the counter back there if you need it…” Then, with an ice cream scoop in one hand and a ‘napalm twist’ wafflecone in the other, Percy stepped off the truck and smiled at the sinners.

“Hello, sinners,” he grinned just before lobbing the waffle cone at the guy who’d try to melt his ice cream with a molotov, “who’d like a free sample?”

((OOC: Good enough place to stop for now, I suppose… Percy will stay close to the truck, at first, and will lob the other two “bomb pops” if he can stay at range long enough… If someone gets too close, though, he’ll resort to scoop and scalpel…))

"Hey Downhouser, Virago... how about we show these thugs how to do this sort of thing properly."
The words brought a sneer to the leader’s face as he stepped towards Danyael. That sneer immediately turned to a look of shock as the towering Downhouse and stocky Virago stepped out behind him. The truck actively shook on its suspension as they debarked, and the motion disguised Percy’s form as he stepped out the other side of the truck. He wasted no time in drawing attention to himself though.

”Hello, sinners...”, he hurled a waffle cone at the thug who was just now withdrawing a second mysteriously lit molotov from his jacket, ”who’d like a free sample?”
The molotov struck the thug in the chest, and he immediately burst into flames, the molotov in his hand and whatever others he carried erupting on his body. He ran screaming in circles for a brief moment before catapulting himself into the wall of fire surrounding the gang. For a moment no one moved, watching him writh and scream before finally going silent.

Gerald took this opportunity to make his shot. Quickly drawing Big Gun #1 and aiming straight at the lead thug, it seemed for a moment that time slowed down, and the gang’s slow-motion advance gave the giant ample time to line up a killshot. The round left the gun and seemed to leave a visible gash through the air as it reached the leader’s forehead, kicking the thug’s head back and for a second suspending him in mid-air as his legs shot out from under him. Shortly afterward, and still in slow-motion mind you, the round exited the rear of his skull, blowing brain matter everywhere, temporarily concealing the violent gang in a greyish-white cloud of what could best be described as “brain flakes”.

Time resumed its regular speed, and from all throughout the cloud, violent coughing could be heard, along with the occasional shout of ” I got Tyrell in ma’ fukin’ eyes!”. Seeing his opportunity, Virago dashed forward with a loud shout of ”FOR NARNIA”, and using his streetlight as a pole vault attempt to leap the distracted gang. The blinded gang members posed little active resistance as he soared overhead, and he soon found himself soaring toward the pile of rags that had previously been their target.

Back at the ice cream truck, Danyael attempted to line up a shot on the boombox carrying thug, though the “brain flake cloud” somewhat obstructed his shot. His shot went slightly wide, missing the main body of the boombox and striking the “next track” button as it soared past. Immediately, the hardcore gangsta rap was replaced by the soothing opening of Celine Dion’s My Heart Will Go On, much to the confusion of everyone involved.

Danyael started a line up a second shot when Katheryn leaned out the window right above him, her sawed-off shotgun in her hand. She emptied both barrels directly into the closest thug carrying a tire iron, sending him hurling backwards into the thug now staring perplexed at the boombox he carried. The pair of them rocketted backwards through the hair, passing the still mysteriously airborn Virago, and clear through the wall of flame, removing them from the equation entirely. Katheryn shot Danyael a smug grin before grabbing another pair of shells and slapping them into the breach.

Only half the thugs that had started the encounter remained at this point, and as they finished wiping the remains of their dead homie from their eyes, they mounted their attempt at a counterattack. The remaining armed thug made a rush towards , swinging his tire iron in a vicious slice that Danyael easily sidestepped. Another pair made an attempt at assaulting the giant hunk of meat known as Downhauser, though his combat training allowed him to easily brush off their blows. The last eyed Percy, though couldn’t find his way to him through the mess of bodies and fire.

He’d regret making eye contact with the deranged ice cream man, as Percy quickly reached into his pocket, unwrapping a pair of grenade shaped popsicles. He hurled one directly at the thug’s feet, and he looked down with a look of panic, painfully aware of what the frozen treats had already done to his friend. There was a small moment of pause as everyone (including the still airborne Virago...somehow) braced for an explosion, though none came. The thug turned his gaze back to Percy, only to immediately be struck in the face by a second BOMB Pop, causing it to shatter into a collection of razer sharp, delicious shrapnel. As the thug fell to the ground, Percy giggled maniacly, shouting a sudden ”BOOM” at the now lifeless corpse.

The thugs that had taken a swing at Downhouser hardly faired better. Their untrained punches left the supercop plenty of opportunity for an open counter, and his technique was damn near unbeatable. Easily ducking a looping hook, the enormous man bodily lifted the thug off the ground, folding him over into a tight ball in the process before hurling him at his comrade, who only just managed to duck in time.

For the second time in what felt like seconds, Virago watched as another person soared passed him in the air. Seeing a relatively un-brain splattered spot of asphalt to make a landing, he finally touched down mere inches away from the rag bundled man. Scooping the man up into his arms, Virago leapt through the thin wall of flames onto the other side. He placed the man on the group gently, rolling him over to check for signs of life. Though the man had certainly never been “handsome”, the beating hadn’t help his looks. One of his eyes appeared to be swollen shut, and as his other eye opened slowly he coughed, spitting up a tooth onto his chest.

Back in the melee, Danyael ducked another slice from a tire iron from the thug in front of him before firing a couple of 9mm rounds point blank into the thug’s chest. The man crumpled to his knees, and Danyael needed only a gentle push to but the man on the ground for good. He turned to face the last thug, sandwiching the man between himself and the massive Downhouser. The thug looked over his shoulder at Danyael, and in the process realised he was the last man standing from his side. His surprised look barely had time to cross his face as Katheryn’s second volley from the ice cream truck window flattened him quickly. The red headed woman stepped out of the truck as the fires, seemingly only flaring for the purposes of dramatic combat, died down just as suddenly as they’d erupted.

The man rescued from the thugs seemed to be regaining conciousness slowly, and with Virago’s help got himself sat up. As he did, a small ID badge fell out of his rags, landing upside down on the ground in front of him. Virago’s eyes shifted to it as it fell, catching a glimpse of the name as it fell.

Special Agent Roberto Stanislav
Fantastico Security Forces
It looked as if the group had found their field agent.

“BOOOM!!!” Percy tittered hysterically when the second bomb-pop ‘exploded’ on impact with the thug’s face and the icy shrapnel carved ribbons of flesh from bone.

“Weren’t expecting that, were you,” the maniacal ice cream man giggled, strolling almost casually towards the still quivering corpse of his second victim of the day, “No you weren’t…” As he advanced, half-giggling and half-humming along with The Entertainer, Percy seemed oblivious to the combat that still raged around him – one body, crumpled into a neat little ball by Giant Gerald, sailed past and slammed with devastating effect into another, yet another body, riddled with buckshot, flopped to the pavement beside him and he scarcely gave either a glance.

“…Nope,” Percy smiled a giant, rubber-lipped smile as he drew to a stop at the feet of the last sinner he had dropped, “You were expecting the flames of hell like your friend and all you got was Ice, Ice, Baby!” He laughed again, doing a creepy, rhythmless-white-guy version of the ‘cabbage patch’ along with those last words, and, then, reached down to retrieve what remained of the ‘unexploded’ but quickly melting bomb-pop. He examined the popsicle for a moment, flicking a speck of asphalt away from where it clung to one side and what looked like a fingernail from the other… then, with a shrug, he popped the treat into his mouth… Mmmmmm… bloody, brainy, and just a hint of lime…
Percy crouched beside the dead guy, then, and started rifling through the corpse’s pockets… “So, that was two bomb pops at $1.75… that’s $3.50… and, since your buddy’s money probably burnt to a cinder along with the rest of him, you’re going to need to come up with the thirty-three bucks for that Napalm Twist… What’s that? $36.50?”

((OOC: Up to the GM if Percy finds the money that he’s “owed,” of course… if shred-face has no $$$, Percy will “take it out in trade” by taking anything of any sort of worth he might find in the guy’s pockets… and, if there’s nothing of worth in those pockets, he’ll settle for an ear… or a finger… or a spleen…*shrug*))

Once the ice cream man had been properly paid for the treats he had passed out, he offered a cherry “thank you, have a nice day” to his customer, stuffed the payment into an apron pocket, and headed back toward the truck. “Not a bad start for a brand new route,” he grinned, coming to a stop next to Virago, and casting a curious albeit brief glance the bloody and beaten form of the man he’d rescued, “it usually takes more than one stop to make $40… I like Westside…” He crouched down next to The Boston Crazy and Beaten-to-a-pulp-boy and, having finished what remained of the bomb pop, pulled the stick from his mouth and pointed it at the barely-conscious man, “…but ur in da wrong neighborhood, muthaf***a. Didn’t you read the sign?”

He giggled again and turned his gaze towards Virago. “This guys doesn’t look so good,” he observed unnecessarily, “maybe we should put him in the cooler. Ice might take some of that swelling down, you think?”

He took aim at the boom box and smiled confidently. He pulled the trigger sure of his aim as the bullet left the gun. So he was completely surprised when his shot resulted not in the explosion and silencing of the annoying rap music as he had intended, but in a change of tune... to one of most overplayed songs in the history of music. It brought back memories... Many a woman had lost her resolve to him due to the romanticism associated with this song. After a glance at Katie he decided that this particular tune probably wouldn't work for her... so he simply looked at her, smiled and shrugged.

When time slowed down, he first thought it strange. On a sudden impulse he took a few moments to fix his hair, which he was sure had been messed up by the ride in that nasty ice cream truck. By the time things were flowing at a normal pace again he looked his usual pristine best.

This was a good thing since he had to make his next few shots look cool, so the others thought he was at least somewhat useful in a fight. Thankfully, one of the dumb gangbangers came forward to let him do just that. He ducked the swinging tire iron and came up fast, flashing the thug a quick smile before unloading into his chest.

By then everything seemed to be coming to a close. Most of their enemies were down, and Danyael's ears were ringing from the shotgun blasts that went off a little too close to his head. He saw the ice cream dude rifling through the pockets of one of the dead men.

"Hmm... not a bad idea. It's not like their going to need it." he said to himself. So he started doing the same thing himself, with every unattended body on the site.

After a minute of looting he walked up to where Virago had set the rag-clad man.

"He does look pretty beat up. I don't suppose anyone happens to know first aid hmm? And as much as I hate to say it, Percy is right. We should get him in the truck. If nothing else, he'll be a bit safer should anyone else decide to come by. And given the amount of noise we just made, I wouldn't think it would be too long before someone else, perhaps someone armed with more than a tire iron, comes to see what happened. I don't think they would look to kindly on our prompt defeat of these gang guys in this neighborhood."

The second set of shells dropped to the floor and Katie immediately prepared for the third volley. A resounding clank of a tire iron dropping to asphalt echoed around the empty street as the fire began to die as quickly as it had come. Katie stepped out of the Ice Cream truck with her shotgun nestled on her shoulder. The small amount of carnage around the truck was beginning to smell of burnt flesh. Canned carnival music continued to play, and was combining with the old pop song that blared out of the boom box still clutched in a dead man’s hands. The effect was like taking two cats, lighting them on fire, and throwing them in a small room full of angry weasels. She walked over to the boom box and slammed the heel of her boot into the top of it. Bits of plastic flew out the ends as it let out a statisfying crunch.

“Good god, I hate that song. Any casualties?” Her green eyes searched around at the assembled group milling about, finally landing on Virago, Percy and the man who had been the focus of the thugs’ initial assault. He was sitting up, at least, which meant that they could get information out of him. She squatted down in front of him, taking in his puffy face and blood that still dribbled down his chin. With her free hand she fingered the plastic badge that sat beside the guy.

Special Agent Roberto Stanislav
Fantastico Security Forces
“This guys doesn’t look so good,” Percy stated blandly, “maybe we should put him in the cooler. Ice might take some of that swelling down, you think?”

“It would,” Katie agreed. Her expression softened as she reached out and gently touched Roberto’s face where his eye had swollen shut, “especially for this. If you have plastic bags, Percy, that would help, but I guess we could slap a fudgesicle on it in a pinch.”

Danyael swaggered over, and appeared to be stuffing something into his pockets. Katie narrowed her eyes as he looked down at the battered man.

"He does look pretty beat up. I don't suppose anyone happens to know first aid hmm? And as much as I hate to say it, Percy is right. We should get him in the truck. If nothing else, he'll be a bit safer should anyone else decide to come by. And given the amount of noise we just made, I wouldn't think it would be too long before someone else, perhaps someone armed with more than a tire iron, comes to see what happened. I don't think they would look to kindly on our prompt defeat of these gang guys in this neighborhood."

“Holy sh**, Danyael, that was quite the statement. I’m surprised you didn’t pass out. I didn’t realize your smooth nature involved being a windbag.” She stood up at these words and extended her hand towards the agent. Her face suddenly turned hard and her voice took up an assertive quality,

“How ‘bout it, soldier? Can you stand?”

“Holy sh**, Danyael, that was quite the statement. I’m surprised you didn’t pass out. I didn’t realize your smooth nature involved being a windbag.”
"I appreciate you noticing me Fire Eyes. And my smooth nature involves quite a number of things. I'd be glad to demonstate for you sometime later if you would like. I'm not a big fan of doing so in front of present company."

That being said he also reaches down to give the injured man a hand to his feet (and support if it is needed) to help him over to the truck.

Well that was a fine dandy little skirmish. Too bad they had to go and shoot everyone. Kind of made it boring... Virago was busy trying to save the half dead man they were supposed to meet to really pay any attention to the fire fight (zing!) going on around him. He was busy playing medic.

"A little from column a... and a little from column b... and a little from column c... or not. I don't think I have a column c. Oh well, maybe some dirt will make it work."
Virago ran over to the fire ring and scooped up some gravel, dust, blood, grass, rat feces, whatever was close and began stuffing it into the syringe he was using to mix up some chemicals. Then he held it over the embers of the now dying fire to warm it up.

"Perfect! I should have stayed in medical school. Nah... too boring."

Seemingly with total disregard for any collateral damage, he jammed the needle straight into Secret Agent Man's eyeball, shooting it full of whatever mess of painkillers and narcotics and stimulants (Virago thought it was ecstasy, but he wasn't really sure which one he put into which). It was a nice nasty green color but deep down he knew it would do the trick. This guy would be well again in no time!

After that Virago set out to make up some trauma dressings and try and control the inevitable bleeding that would probably come from all the open (and likely internal) wounds. Worst case scenario he grabs the knife and goes in for some minor surgery. That's what first aid kits were made for right? Field surgery?

Putting him in the cooler isn't a terrible idea... "Ice helps swelling! To the cooler! Preferably one without any blood in it. Don't want to get an infection! I worked hard to keep this guy sterile!"

(OOC: Using an Awesome Point to uh, not kill him.)

Percy fell backward and blinked, dumbfounded, as the flurry of Virago's actions culminated in a syringe full of God-only-knew-what being jammed into the agent's eyes...

Well... that's not quite right is it, his mind determined, picking the thoughts from a midst of cluttered memories in which Percy (or, rather, the man Percy used to be) stood dutifully over his patients and assured them, right before the anesthesia took effect, that when they woke up, they'd be good as new. There was care and precision needed for the proper treatment of patients, wasn't there?

What the Boston Crazy had just done wasn't careful or precise, was it?

No... it wasn't... In fact, Percy was fairly certain that it bordered on malpractice...Or was he remembering that from someone else's perspective?

Malpractice or not... It's definitely a sin, isn't it?
"To the cooler..."

Percy's too-large eyes gave one, final blink as they turned to regard Virago... The Ice Cream Man smiled, then, and got slowly to his feet, never taking his eyes off of Virago...

"Yeah," he grinned, already strolling to the truck, "to the cooler..." He paused for a moment as he climbed the step up through the driver’s door, one hand grasping the steering wheel and the other finding the handle of the ice cream scoop in his pocket, and glanced back…

"…Um... Virago? Mind if I talk to you in the back for a minute... alone?"


((Widdle-bitty fluff post? Just kind of what i imagine Percy's reaction might be in this case... ))

The gangsters fell like pins in the way of Gerald’s bowling ball of justice. He never knew bowling could be a team sport, but the others seemed as keen on getting these thugs erased from the city as he was. Perhaps Mr Fantasi V was as brilliant as his father after all, in assembling this team? Gerald had heard the speculations and never thought much of it. The man was a Fantasti. Somewhere in there should be some of his father’s genes.

Gerald Downhouser wasn’t the brightest duck in the pond, but he knew about genes. He watched TV and heard conversations about newborns and their likeness to parents, and had realized something. Genes determine what you are. If your father’s hairy, fat chance the child is hairy. If the mother’s a blonde, so will the child. Naturally, if any of the parents are criminal, so will the offspring.

In most cases. And so Gerald had made a habit of visiting the parents of every drug dealer, pimp, crime lord or Chinese gambling addict he ever busted. He had gone through some very rough negotiations on those visits, questioning their parental skills, asking if they were involved in criminal activities themselves, or even going so far as to force a drug test on them if he felt it was necessary.

He almost always felt it was necessary.

So he had learned that a big portion of the aggression harboured in the guilty was also present in their parents.

Now, looking at the bodies of the thugs, he made a mental note to figure our their parents’ address for a future visit.

Then he made his way over to where their contact was being crowded by his team members.

It appeared that Vigaro was aiding the man with some medical skills. Gerald joined them all too late to see what exactly happened, but caught part of the last phrase the young man had uttered:
“To the cooler! Preferably one without any blood in it. Don't want to get an infection! I worked hard to keep this guy sterile!”

Obliging immediately Gerald picked up their contact with his two massive arms and cradled him close to his chest.

“Don’t worry mister,” he said as he walked over to the van, “You’re in good hands now.”

After putting the man in one of the coolers, he went outside again to take a look at the fire, which was still blazing all around him. After a moment of brain-silence he instinctively picked up two of the dead thugs. With one in each hand he began to swing them overhead, much like he had seen done by firedancers in one of the fancy clubs he once cleaned up. Standing close to the fire, he was hoping to fan out the flames.

(OOC: If that doesn’t work, he’ll simply stack the bodies in row on the flames. It will most likely take a little while before they start burning, and it will create a nice little window for Percy to exit the ring of fire. I’m sure the Ice Creep Man won’t mind ramping over a bunch of dead people. )

While the last gang member stopped twitching, the group branched out about the area. Kathryn headed over to the still blasting boombox, smashing it before going straight for Virago and the man they'd rescued, while Percy and Danyael took a brief moment to search the dead. The search was largely fruitless, turning up a few scant dollars and rolling papers, not even enough to satisfy the bill Percy's frozen treats had mandated. Disappointed, the pair stood up to head over towards Virago, only to be nearly struck in the head by the lumbering behemoth that was Downhouser, who was now circling the area, swinging a body like some enormous fan blade, causing the last of the flames to dissipate. His elaborate fire dance continued until he realised he was no longer holding a body, but rather the lower half of a leg, and a quick scan of the horizon reveal the remnant of the body sailing skyward, torn clear off by the enormous force of having the giant swing it around like a yo-yo.

As he made his way over to the rest of the group, suggestions were already being thrown about, while Virago seemed to be scooping up asphalt for some reason.

“This guys doesn’t look so good,” Percy mused, “maybe we should put him in the cooler. Ice might take some of that swelling down, you think?”
Danyael chimed in, “As much as I hate to say it, Percy is right. We should get him in the truck. If nothing else, he'll be a bit safer should anyone else decide to come by. And given the amount of noise we just made, I wouldn't think it would be too long before someone else, perhaps someone armed with more than a tire iron, comes to see what happened. I don't think they would look to kindly on our prompt defeat of these gang guys in this neighborhood."
While the rest of the group voiced their agreement with the plan to dump a wounded man in the blood stained freezer of an obviously deranged ice cream salesman who had just murdered two men with frozen treats, Virago had apparently stuffed a collection of trash and illegal stimulants into a large syringe, which had by now taken on an ominous green colour. Pushing his way back into the middle of the group and straddling the man who was stirring slightly. The man's eyes opening slightly only to see the sharp point of a needle being thrust directly into his face, swung downwards double-handed by Virago as if it were some sort of killing blow. The man convulsed violently, before lying still, and for a brief moment it looked as if he'd had a rather traumatic death, but soon the effects of Virago's off-beat medical training were evident. The man's swollen face was hurriedly resuming its original size and shape, and some of the bleeding was already slowing. While the rest of the group stood stunned a moment, trying to comprehend exactly what they'd just seen, Virago wrapped the rest of the wounds with gauze from his first aid kit.

"Perfect! I should have stayed in medical school.” Virago said, looking up at the still slightly shook group, ”Nah... too boring."
With the group still giving him odd stares, Virago gestured vigorously towards the ice cream truck.

"Ice helps swelling! To the cooler! Preferably one without any blood in it. Don't want to get an infection! I worked hard to keep this guy sterile!"
Obliging immediately Gerald picked up their contact with his two massive arms and cradled him close to his chest.

“Don’t worry mister,” he said as he walked over to the van, “You’re in good hands now.”
The rest of the group followed the massive man back towards the ice cream truck, loading aboard while Downhouser gently placed their new friend in the cooler like a normal person would a baby in a crib. Percy put the truck into drive and continued a little further into the area, seeking to put a little distance between themselves and the ruckus they'd caused, which would inevitably draw the attention of more undesirables. The truck bumped and rocked as it drove over the mess of bodies that littered the street, and just as they were heading out of sight, Danyael spotted a pair of new gangstas reaching the scene of the fight. They paused a moment, looking around before the remnants of the corpse Downhouser had been swinging about earlier (slightly charred from having re-entered the atmosphere) landed in their midst with an audible spliick. The two man let out a terrified yell before running off back into the surrounding alleys.

The team had been driving through the streets seemingly at random, just attempting to stay mobile while their contact recovered in the back of Percy's truck. It was barely an hour before they heard a couple of confused thumps from the inside of the freezer, followed by a series of screams. Downhouser opened the lid and reached in, drawing the mass of rags that they now knew as Roberto Stanislav from the cooler. The wounds and swelling had all but disappeared, much to Virago's delight, with only the gauze wraps giving any indication that he had been in any sort of poorer state. It took him a second to properly regain his bearings, and he turned to look at the group in front of him. He put on a nervous grin, nodded slowly and immediately spun about only to smash bodily into Downhouser's chest. He got himself up slowly, dusting himself off and looking from person to person, before he finally spoke.

”Who are...where am...what ees...” The man spoke with a thick Russian accent.

Kathryn cut the man off, flicking the ID badge she'd picked up at him. He caught it out of the air.

”So then...you are...”, he paused again, seemingly unable to finish a sentence for the purpose of padding this part of the update out, and looked at the group again, noticing the large collection of firearms (and a goddamned streetlight) they carried. ”You are Fantasti-team?”
The group nodded in unison, and an enormous smile spread across Roberto's face.

”Thanks god you are here, ees like always say; screen door on submarine is most like a tree and leaves.
While the group stood trying to contemplate the sheer absurdity of the aforementioned metaphor, Roberto tore off the rags he'd been wearing, revealing a surprising pristine tuxedo that Virago was positive hadn't been there when he'd dressed the man's wounds.

”Specialist Agent Roberto Stanislav, Master of the Disguisings, at your services”, the man took a deep bow, causing Downhouser to step back slightly to avoid a potentially awkward situation arising. ”Am field agent for Mr. Fantasti, and am here to relay order for doing in the Westsides.
He stared at the team expectantly, meeting only their blank stares in return. The truck shook violently and there was a loud ”Yarp! as Percy realised he'd not kept his eyes on the road, and quickly resumed taking care of driving the truck while the rest of the team began to question Roberto.

”Well?” Kathryn tilted her head, “...can we have this order for doing now?
Roberto looked confused for a moment, before the proverbial lightbulb lit.

“Of course babushka,” he said with a smile, drawing a slightly aggravated look from Kathryn, ”Am having all the information you are needing here.
With that, Roberto withdrew a small PDA from his pocket, plugged a few buttons and tossed it over to Kathryn.

”You are to be seeking and killing the man there detailed on that.” he said, gesturing to the image of a large black man in an impeccably fine suit that was displayed on the PDA screen ”We are reporting he ees leading gang drug operations in the Westsides, and his influence 'as greatly destabilised region, and is thorn in Mr. Fantasti's side. Ees important you remove from equation.”
Kathryn clicked the image on the PDA screen, a large bio ran across the screen. Emblazoned across the top was the name Darius Garnet. (OOC: Complete character biography is located on first page of Q&A thread, under the statistics post.)

”Weeell be hard to find target straight away...” Roberto drew the group's attention away from the screen, a good thing too, as Percy barely managed to swerve the truck around a large trash bin. ”...ees very well protected, ees powerful man. We 'ave een though, man can help you get to target”
He took the PDA from Kathryn, pressed a few more keys and an address came up on the screen. 4 LeCavalier Drive. The old Fantastico Wildfires hockey arena.

”We are not knowing real name of contact,” Roberto explained, ”contacted us few days ago, said was tired of Garnet's agenda. Calls himself, The Canadian. Eef you are head to arena, and identify yourselfs, should be expecting you. Now if you are pleasing to stop at this corner, I weeell be letting you on your way.”
Percy pulled up at the curb, and the team watched as Roberto stepped out onto the street, and in a single deft motion tore his tuxedo off, revealing a form fitting wet suit and large scuba tank underneath that was inexplicably protruding in a way the team certainly couldn't have missed earlier. Roberto stepped into the street and removed a manhole cover from a sewer opening. He gave a small wave before dropping into the hole with the manhole over his head, leaving no sign of his presence as it spun shut perfectly as he disappeared. The group heard a distant splash, and then silence, before Percy started the truck and headed down another alley toward the old hockey arena.

The arena have definitely seen better days, and in the years since the initial riots the exterior had clearly not been maintained. The large “Fantastico Arena” sign was no missing a couple letters, leaving Fan as co r n written oddly spaced in large red letters across the mass of boarded up windows and shattered plexiglass plating that at one point would clearly have been a sight to see back in its heyday.

As the group pulled up in front, they disembarked and headed to the large front doors, passing a number of scattered metal barricades and overturned concession stands that littered the entryway. Only one of the doors seemed functional, and the foyer inside was just as destitute as the outside walk had been. Some frayed banners hung from the ceiling, listing notable players that had been team members before everything went to hell, and the floor was covered in torn team merchandise and empty beer cups.

Percy noticed an old ice cream dispenser behind one of the dust covered concession stands and took a step towards it, only to bump one of the empty cups off the counter, and as it fell to the ground a loud air horn suddenly began blaring. Before the group could react, large metal slides slid over the doors behind them, and bright red lights began flashing on all the walls. A hustling noise could be heard and soon the large arena doors in front of the group burst open. Several men, all dressed in complete Fantastico Wildfire uniforms and each decked out in a complete set of a hockey gear rushed into the room, quickly surrounding the bewildered team. They leered menacingly at the five, some holding hockey sticks that looked like they'd been sharpened to the point where there'd be a very real risk of someone losing a limb were they hooked with it.

For a moment, it looks as if a fight was on the verge of occurring, when a boisterous voice emerged from slightly further into the shadows of the arena.

”Boys, boys settle 'er down eh?”
A man stepped out into the foyer, dressed unlike the others that had emerged. His large frame was wearing a red and black flannel jacket, his feet decked out in large steel-toed work boots. His face was hidden behind a large, bushy brown beard and atop his head sat an almost comically undersized red and blue tuque. He stepped towards the group, and the circle of angry hockey players parted, letting up address the team.

”Alright then you lot,” he gestured towards the group, ”what's all this aboot then, eh?”

The slick guy in the leather jacket steps forward. Leveling his gaze at all of the hockey wannabees.

"Well, when I was told we'd be expected, Ihave to admit I didn't plan on THIS sort of greeting. How about you put those blades away boys. We're here on business, and we'd prefer it if it didn't include a violent introduction."

After pausing a moment he looks to the flannel jacket.

"We were told you might have some information for us. And that we could perhaps lend you a helping hand with the... situation you've grown so tired of. But if you don't want our help, I'm sure we can find other paths to our goal."

He looks again to the angry faces surrounding him.

"And judging by the greeting, it seems like you have all the help you need eh Canadian? Or perhaps you need someone a bit smarter, a bit smoother, or a bit more... shall we say... awesome to get the job done. Hmm?"

Danyael raises an eyebrow questioningly and waits for a response, appearing absolutely confident in both himself and his team.