Information

Intoxxication
Legacy Name: Intoxxication

The

Bloodred Kumos
Owner:

~~Deja_Vu~~

Age: 17 years, 7 months, 4 weeks

Born: September 21st, 2006

Adopted: 12 years, 11 months, 3 weeks ago

Adopted: May 24th, 2011

Nominate Pet for Spotlight

Statistics

Level: 4
Strength: 18
Defense: 12
Speed: 11
Health: 17
HP: 17/17
Intelligence: 0
Books Read: 0
Food Eaten: 0
Job: Unemployed

Profile and Overlay by

~~Deja_Vu~~Story by

Death

Intoxxication had kept his eye on that one guy at the end all night. The kind of guy who was apt to start a fight, those types always had a certain look to them. Sometime it was obvious; they'd stomp in, plant their ass on the seat, and angrily demand a shot of whiskey, served straight-up. Other times it was more subtle; they'd be all fine and dandy until they started drinking, then the alcohol would send them over the edge, make them angry when previously they'd been fine. And, other times, it was something totally different, but there always seemed to be something.

The one at the end, he looked to be the 'drown-your-sorrows-then-get-angry' type. That night, Intoxxication had been quietly watching the man out of the corner of his eye as he tended the bar, pouring drinks for other customers here and wiping glasses there. At the start of the hour, the man had come in droopy and downtrodden, probably the pitiful result of a breakup with some girl, or maybe heartbroken by a prostitute, and by its end the guy was gripping his umpteenth glass of whiskey so tight his knuckles were white and his face was as red as the bar's own crimson-colored counter.

Something was going to go down, Intoxxication could just feel it. The guy was going to snap sooner or later. And when he did…Oh boy.

Intoxxication huffed quietly to himself and fiddled with the cross charm dangling from his black spiked collar. He was a gangster and sure, he wasn't afraid of thugs and fights, but this was his bar, and it was still a business. He liked to keep the music fresh, the booze good, and the atmosphere dark, albeit not repellant. Intoxxication didn't like fights in his bar – broken jaws and trashed furniture were never good when one actually wanted to bring in a profit. Besides, it brought the authorities sniffing around and asking questions.

Intoxxication just finished filling a glass from the tap for a woman who thanked him with merely a smile and a wry wink when he saw the night's unfortunate victim. It was a girl who'd had a little too much to drink and who was swaying to the music far more than she should have in her tipsy state. She caught the heel of one pump on the edge of the maroon rug that ended a few inches away from the bar-stools, pitched forward, and spilled her drink right into the lap of the angry drunk seated at the end.

The man bolted upright, toppling his own drink onto the bar with a thunk, and whirled around, his body stiff with anger. “Watch it!”

The girl babbled out something drunkenly unintelligible, though to Intoxxication's ears it sounded vaguely like an apology.

The man, however, would not have for it. He grabbed the girl by the collar of her silky pink shirt and, with anger-fueled strength, hoisted her off the ground. She kicked and struggled against his grip, but he held tight. The man lifted his arm, his hand balled into a right fist ready to slug the girl's pretty face that more than likely than not reminded him of whatever girl had pissed him off to begin with.

Intoxxication set the glass he was cleaning on the counter and slipped out from behind the bar. His hand darted into the pocket of his black denim jeans to retrieve his switch knife. He was not about to let this shit go down on his watch. Especially to someone who no way to defend themselves, and who didn’t deserve the attack anyhow.

Before the man's fist could descend, Intoxxication yanked him backwards, causing the man to lose his grip on the girl, and pinned him against the wall. Intoxxication whipped his knife out with a flash and held it against the man's neck. He let his gaze burn into the drunkard's eyes, the pupils small as pin-dots.

There was a clack as a pool player in the corner took a final shot, and then the room fell into silence. Most of the regulars knew of Intoxxication's activities outside of bar-tending and, as a result, they knew he never entertained such violence during working hours, unless an incident absolutely called for it. The regulars watched because it was surprising, and the rest just wanted to sate their twisted kind of curiosity by not missing a moment. Either way, everyone was silent. Everyone was watching, holding their breaths.

The scar, darkened with age, running over Intoxxication's right eye puckered as he grinned and pushed the knife harder into the man's throat. Its tip dug in and drew a tiny drop of blood that dribbled down the man's neck, over the swell of his Adam’s apple, and into the collar of his shirt. Just enough of a wound to remind the stranger who was boss.

This fight took Intoxxication back to that one time...

---

The cold artificial light of the city blotted out the stars, but it could never outshine the moon. That night she hung over them at her fullest, watching like some great, spectating eye. The two gangs met together in a ratty vacant lot. Cracks ran across the pavement like a latticework of veins, and from them sprung a wiry fuzz of stunted grasses. Everything was quiet but for the normal white drone of city noise. A member from each gang strode forward, a knife in hand. It was time to settle the score.
Knife fights aren't like how they're portrayed in the movies. Not even close. Nobody ever wastes time doing all kinds of 'cool moves'; flips, kicks, jumps, and all that junk as they whip their blade through the air. That sort of crap leaves for too many openings, and openings are almost always fatal. Real fights come down to two things: do or die.
alive. Reaching down, he took the hand gun and dice roller from his defeated opponent – his trophies.
And his name was Intoxxication.
A pen and stained notebook held together with dull barbed wire were pulled from his pocket and he marked down his prizes. This notebook was his life, containing his story and his real name. A name that only he knew, but belonged to a past self that had died when his gang self had been born. Of course they were one and the same being, but Intoxxication was a fighter not to be thought lightly of, not to mention that he also owned the bar that his gang met in.

---

“Are you starting fights in my bar?” Intoxxication asked the man, narrowing his eyes as his mind yanked itself to the present. When the drunk didn't answer, Intoxxication pushed the knife harder, the blade slowly edging deeper into the man’s flesh. “Answer me!”

The partially glazed over eyes widened when he noticed the scar. “N-No.”

“Really?” At the sound of the man's lie, Intoxxication eyes narrowed. “That certainly looked like the start of a fight to me.”

“Okay, okay. I'm sorry.” The man’s words were a garbled mess, but Intoxxication could mentally translate them well enough.

“Good.” Intoxxication let the man drop to the ground in a heap. He returned his knife to his pocket and walked away, the corners of his mouth curled upwards in a sly grin. “That's what I like to hear.”

It was time to get back to business. He pulled a pen and a blood stained notebook from his pocket and marked in it.