Dirk's pub. 

What a prize. A slight sneer was barely concealed by the blonde bombshell who entered the clean, but quaint locale down town. She quickly drew the eyes of a few of the vest-clad biker clientele, but a few dismissive looks later and she'd given then impression to all but the most thick that she wasn't interested. Besides, a pay-per-view MMA fight was on, and this one was a big deal!

Her name was Viola, by the way, and she was a new favorite face for him. T-Swifts jaw, j-law's eyes, and Scar-jo's form. Couple that with K-knights cheeks, blend it all, and she looked like she definitely didn't belong in a place like this. That was the point, though. This lady wanted to stand out. She was looking for someone.

This particular someone would stand out as well.

Well enough that the last three bars she'd been to knew where he tended to frequent on fight nights. 

She clutched her one accessory, a pink purse, to her side tightly as she strode in confidently, and stepped right up to the bar, taking a seat, and ordering a drink. She didn't look around. This was the last place on the list. If he wasn't here, this was where she planned to spend the rest of the night anyways. Maybe... pick someone who looked like an idiot, and #wastehistime for a few hours.

A man at the bar next to her turned and tried to introduce himself. She looked him up and down, and politely told him he wasn't her type. He looked disgruntled, and turned to leave, opening up a seat next to her. 

She finally took a moment to glance around the bar.

The punching bag rocked back and forth under the constant force of his punches. He worked off a quick series of punches leading into a kick, then stopped, holding the bag to slow its rocking. He'd been at it for a quarter of an hour, and sweat stained his white tank top.

Kineta stared at him, arms crossed. "Getting tired already?" The woman teased. She had brown hair, cut short around her face, and wore a black tank top and jeans.

"It's fight night." Elliott explained. The clock they'd set up on the wall of the warehouse told him so. They really needed to purchase the sisters a legitimate gym. Maybe next paycheck. "I wanna grab a brewski and watch the fightski."

"Fightski. Right." Kineta rolled her eyes. Even if she was training the guy sometimes she wondered about him. "Hit the showers then, Gretzky."

"Wrong sport." Elliott laughed. "And the only showers in this warehouse district would be if I jumped in the bay. And I'm already green enough kay thank you."

More eye rolling. Men.

---

He went to dirks, smelly. He'd changed out of the tank, into a black band tee and his leather jacket. The shirt had a robotic-looking giraffe on it. He liked it. It had been a gift.

Elliott sat down in an open spot next to some lady, and ordered a whiskey on the rocks. He'd had to blow off some steam. It had been a long day. But now the fights were on and things were looking up.

Timing was a funny thing. As the pretty lady turned to look around the bar, a green man took the seat next to her, and she completely missed it. Nowhere to be found tonight, huh? Oh well. She could settle for an excess of alcohol and ruining someone else's night for now.

She reached up to tuck some hair behind her ear, and looked down at the rather fruity looking drink in front of her. Might as well watch the fight. 

"Minskey is going to get slaughtered. Hot hands or not, his ground defense is terrible, and he doesn't know how to sprawl. Can't believe they thought he was ready for this match up." She was vaguely aware that someone was sitting next to her, again. The game plan was as follows. Watch Minskey get slaughtered, and then while everyone was feeling disappointed by the short fight, swoop in an find someone's hopes to shatter.

After she got them to buy all of her drinks, that was. Viola took a big gulp of her sex on the beach, funneling it down a fake throat and into an awaiting beak. She wished she liked how it tasted, but nothing really tasted like much these days. She was probably better off with a scotch on the rocks, but people didn't figure that was lady-like enough. Hooray for patriarchal societies run by strange taboos and silly norms.

Elliott scoffed. "His opponent is no Curcio. He's worse." That fight 4 years ago had been pretty stacked in Minskey's favor. He'd won. That was 4 years ago, but his opponent in this fight gave off 'Curcio' vibes. Minskey had a good offense, and good defense. His jabs could create distance. "The man has got to get past Minskey's guard if he wants to close and grapple. Minskey's a brawler. His opponent wants to take him down fast, and finish. That eagerness is gonna cost him."

The woman had a good eye. It was true, Minskey had crap ground game and didn't know how to sprawl. Points to her for knowing the language. But he felt like arguing about something, even if he had his hopes dashed painfully to the floor. He was here for the follow-up bout. He didn't really care much about these guys.

She was attractive, whoever she was. Almost to the degree of being fake. A doll. Made from the best parts of leading ladies. Or maybe he just saw some pretty features that reminded him of some pretty features, and didn't think one woman would have won the genetic lottery on every single point. Plastic surgery, maybe. Or alien clone. Her body reminded him of Scarlet Johanssen's, but he couldn't be certain. Her posterior might be inferior. Only scientific inquiry could provide conclusive evidence. And from the looks of the men in the bar, many inexperienced scientists wanted to do some rigorous scientific experimentation to put their theories to the test. Not him, though. He drank his drink and watched the fight. He knew the look of a black widow in wait. Too much trouble lay there.

On the screen, the two men fought, and like he said, Minskey wasn't letting the man get near him, while he, himself, scored some hits.

"The man has got to get past Minskey's guard if he wants to close and grapple. Minskey's a brawler. His opponent wants to take him down fast, and finish. That eagerness is gonna cost him."

She stirred her drink absently as she listened to the rando's response, watching as they started and touched gloves. His words provoked an inelegant snort, and she replied in a cranky, dismissive tone. "If I had a dollar every time someone tried to tell me the kick boxer was going to beat the BJJ expert i'd be a @#$%ing milliona- oh..." Yup, she looked to her side, finally, and realized who was sitting next to her.

Sh$%. He was going to think this was a reaction to his appearance. 

"Hi. Sorry, It's been a long night." Her attention was pulled from the fight as she thought about the right approach, here. Minskey got some good hits in. 

"Ahem... Sure, he's not Curcio... But he's also not Minskey from four years ago. The second Bowler starts working with levels he'll be a like a toddler without his training wheels." Sure enough, as she said it, the shorter man faked for a take down, making the brawler try to sprawl right into a punch that made him stumble a bit. He recovered, but Viola tilted her head toward the screen as if to say 'told ya so'. 

"Let's make a bet, then. If he lasts past the second round, I buy you a drink. If not, you pay for my tab tonight." She sipped her drink. "I've got nothing better to do tonight."

Her witty retort filled with expletives died on her lips as she caught sight of him. My, what a wonderful feeling it is to be so green you shut women up without saying a word~

Elliott smirked.

She apologized. Weird. This was usually the part where the lady told him to get his ugly green ass away from her before she called the cookie monster so he could come over here and eat kermit the frog. It never made sense. They must have exchanged 'stupid notes', because they always said it. Maybe it was a movie reference he'd just missed?

Then she talked about bets?

Elliott laughed out loud. "Naw. I'm good. I actually don't care about this fight at all. It's the one after it I'm here for. I was just seeing what you'd say." He stared at the television, sighing languorously. "I hear ya', though. It has been a long day. I just came here to blow off some steam." Pick some fights over fights. Relax. Imbibe copious amounts of liquor. Fun stuff, basically.

Her expression soured a bit when he turned down her wager. Booooring. She went back to her drink, sipping down the rest of it, and motioning to the incredibly attentive bartender that she wanted another. 

He wasn't even here to watch the title fight. She couldn't even recall who was fighting next.

Well, she'd hope to spend the night wooing him and getting him more and more intoxicated until every little detail about Ragnarok seeped out. She changed her mind about that in an instant, as she as often bound to do.

"I hear ya', though. It has been a long day. I just came here to blow off some steam."

She got a new drink, and started mixing it with her straw as she spoke. "I'm actually here on a bit of a mission. I'm looking for Ragnarok." She spoke nonchalantly, sipping her drink, and looking straight ahead.

Bowler finally took Minskey to the ground, and submitted him via rear naked choke in the last seconds of the first round. The fighter refused to tap, and instead opted to lay there limply. What a moron. The same result came about, but his pride demanded he lay there like a rag doll slowly returning to reality.

Masculinity was a crime. A messy, hot crime, but one nonetheless. 

She seemed disappointed when he turned her down. Well, sugar, Elliott thought. Some people simply don't play by your rules. Can't sway the whole world with a pretty face if the sway of your hips. She was no Mary Tyler Moore.

As she mixed her drink, Elliott took a slow drink of his. Someone settled into the seat next to him, and one thing lead to another, and the man bumped his arm fight as he was about to swallow. The resulting physics combined with the question and the moment to force Elliott into a drink-spitting, heavy-coughing spittake that put whatever the green man had been drinking all over the unfortunate pretty woman's face.

"Oh, sorry about that." The 300 lb biker in biker leathers and neck beard frowned. The frown looked sincere. "Hard to fit sometimes. M'lady," he tipped his leather fedora at the drink-spattered facial menagerie. He seemed kind, like he wasn't a product of his milleu. She was drenched, so he called for a barkeep to fetch a towel as Elliott recovered.

Elliott's first act was to turn and apologize to the Goliath biker for spreading himself out so much and of course it was no problem. His fault, really. Then, he spun on the stool back to face the woman. "Uh. Sorry. I don't usually make a habit of spitting in women's faces. I'll buy you a drink to make up for it." More to make up for it to the biker, who was shooting him disapproving looks, more than anything. In the resulting confusion of spitting half his drink into Pretty Woman's pretty face, he hadn't really heard what she'd been asking. Or he'd mentally blocked it so it didn't click.

The bartender proffered her a white towel, and asked what she'd be having, politely, only warmly smiling at her a little bit. These things did happen and really, it hadn't been his fault.

Oh, it was ABSOLUTELY his fault. Everything bad that ever happened was his fault! Like some ridiculous cartoon character the green man, at the slightest provocation of the bump of some fat #$%& biker, spit his drink ALL OVER HER FACE. Who did that? Who had the shame to even exist anymore after doing something so... so thoughtless! So callous! And after all of that, a small apology? A polite smile?

@#$^ this boy! She didn't want his drink! Okay, she did want his drink, but she also wanted his sweet, sweet bloooooood!

Viola's make-up didn't run immediately, surprisingly enough, but she covered it quickly, reaching out blindly to get the rag from the bartender. One face wipe later, and she shifted her face coloration juuust a tad to make her eye makeup just smeared enough to still be pretty. All the while, her mind raced about, no longer worrying about Ragnarok just this moment. No. That wasn't important. 

Sweet revenge was the name of the game now. 

She looked at him for a moment, her doll eyes looking wet with potential tears. "But... I thought you liked me... Is this because I stopped you from trying to grope me under the counter after you whispered those terrible things?" The cloth went to her eyes, wiping away tears that weren't there.

Aaand, just like that, suddenly everyone was a lot more interested in the conversation. The fight became a little less important, especially to the big bumper of a man who had already been giving the green boy a nasty look.

She kept that innocent, hurt look on his face as the man chimed in. "Is this freak bothering you, lady?"

She broke down, climbing from her stool as some of the other patrons, many of which had been secretly glancing at her fairly scantly clad frame throughout the night, took the chance to play the hero. It was all she could do to nod and 'cry' into her drink-soaked cloth.

But, but what? He wasn't following this crazy train into crazy town at all. She was crying and her makeup was awful and when had he groped...? She was getting revenge. He could tell. He'd lived on the street. He'd seen things. Including criminals who like to backstab each other over the tiniest things. And he had spat drink in her face. Men had killed for less. That told him one thing. It was time to go.

"Yeah, no." He said, slapping some bills down on the bar countertop. "I didn't do anything to you and I don't know you. I don't know any of you and if anyone so much as breathes in my direction, they'll wind up with a broken nose." He raised one hand and pushed the craziness of the situation away, away, pushed the craziness away. Elliott stood, and stepped away from the bar counter. And people stepped in his way.

Well okay then. Elliott kneed the first guy in the groin, swept the feet out from under the second man, and turned to stop a side kick inches from the big biker's face. "She's fake." He said. "A liar. I didn't bother her other than accidentally spitting my drink in her face. And she's getting revenge over it. I'm going to leave now."

And with that, he dropped his foot and stepped around the big man who liked like he was about to wet his pants.