Old-School (CLOSED) Jan 30, 2019 7:15:10 GMT -6
Post by Misuji Mishima on Jan 30, 2019 7:15:10 GMT -6
PL: 14 000
The stout, Spartan structure was crafted from liberal amounts of cement, lime and sand, looking less like a lived-in space that was occasionally inhabited and frequently surveyed, and more like a concrete fortress. Its utilitarian unaesthetic design bore little resemblance to its elegantly crafted, finely constructed counterparts that were scattered across South City's commercial and business center. The insides of those buildings contained all the cutting-edge amenities that made living on modern day Earth so appealing in the first place, and their exteriors were no less enticing to even the most untrained of eyes. The brutally built property offered no such comfort, inside or out. It was, for all intents and purposes, a Brobdingnagian boulder dropped on top of the fringes of a continually prosperous financial district. This made it an odd sight. With only rusting, iron railings strewn about its concrete walls as its singular means of support, it stood out as a hulking, haunting presence. In spite of its the mere two tiers grafted onto its name, there was something fundamentally terrifying about the venue, at least in one self-proclaimed Mini Mastiff's opinion.
It felt huge, not simply because of its purely physical presence, but also because of the spirit and character that it had slowly absorbed over the past several hundred years of continued existence in a world that continued to march along past it. It was functional and cheap, but had survived the combined ravaging of time, nature, and the changing economy. It was a reminder of the poverty that had once marred the area. The grim past had all but been swept away. Misuji Mishima longed to grow up as toughened and as hardened as the scrappy folk that had perished long before his time. The Yazi Building, a relic in its own right, was perfect for this purpose.
A single, steel hatch served as the damned, dust-ridden edifice's entryway, sitting at the center of its bottom-floor. The door was unpainted and unpolished, and its sole decoration was a grey ringer that screeched softly on a regular basis. The rickety board's hinges looked loose at first glance, but seemed to literally be burned into the walls upon closer inspection, metal melting malleably into what was otherwise crafted from cracked cement. In place of windows were small slits along the concrete, with fragmented shards of acid etched glass stuck to the rusty, red iron gratings along the windowsills. Only the slightest rays of sunlight managed to reach through towards the dark corridors within.
Empty electrical sockets adorned the limestone ceilings, indicating that once upon a time, less natural light was used to supplement the faded sunshine. Cardboard boxes, wrapped in layers upon layers of decades-old packaging tape, lay atop the termite-ridden, wooden furniture that was scattered messily across the ground floor. To add to the unruliness, the unpainted walls were stained with ancient graffiti, not too dissimilar from the cave paintings of mankind's even older ancestors. The scent of grime and soot spoiled the already stale air, as the only other scent in the room was paper and plastic. A flight of steel steps bore into a hole in the wall, and beside it was a surprisingly clean counter. Atop that, fresh pens crowded inside of fine china, as a mug carried all the essential stationery needed to run the barely functional facility. If there was any technology more advanced than paperclips and envelopes available, then it was expertly hidden inside of the mishmash.
The 'puppy mill' on the succeeding level was a great deal more habitable. The Dog Farm Gym (recently rebranded from their former, less appealing name of the Dog Farm Body Improvement Center) was fairly respectable for what it was, in its own artless, grotty way. It was very, very close to reaching the standards of a legally admissible venture, though it was wrought from the same raw material, and consequently: the same smut and slime that permeated the first floor. Still, it wasn't as empty as the solitary room by the entrance might have lead one to believe.
A box stacked with kettle-bells, dumbbells and barbells lay in one corner, while a multitude of beaten, canvas punching bags marked another. There were even stations for lifting weights of all sorts for those inclined to pumping iron, while exercise machines reliant on electricity were hooked up to sockets that were apparently capable of providing power. The thick, rubbery carpet below all of these squelched and stretched, as though threatening to tear itself apart at any moment. It didn't give way just yet, but that was a cold comfort, given the lingering smell of must, mold, and general decay, all of which mixed with the perspiration of the previous batch of gym-rats to utilize the area. While there wasn't much to behold, there was actual equipment on display. It was enough to make it more than appealing to the old-school gym-goer with an iron stomach.
It didn't exactly hurt that the entire facility was cheap either, but that was a hush-hush matter that was rarely discussed with the elderly owner, who seemingly wasn't around for the time being.
A trolley sat not too far from the stairway, steel seats folded and heaped tidily atop the large, wobbly wheelbarrow. Ahead of all of the gym equipment was a sight not too odd for the venue: a large fighting ring. It was cleanly swept, an almost absurd notion, given how the area was otherwise gritty and grimy. Four thick protective pads were wired up to each corner, covering the metal turnbuckles. The squared circle's floor was also elevated by just the tiniest bit, to further cement its status as a feature of the gym that was used often to be worth maintaining, to the great relief of the young man that stood in the center of it all. Misuji Mishima had made this wretched wreck of a wrestling ring his home so many months prior. Even when his progress had stalled, he had pushed his stubby body to keep competing. While the more lucrative (read: paid) bookings were in far classier, less dusty venues, the Dog Farm Gym was where the lad ran the ropes, hit the weights, and over-all busted his butt while in pursuit of truer strength. Perhaps it was more than the Brutalism that encouraged him to occupy the Yazi Building.
In any case, the chubby lad did not make this visit for regular exercise. Instead, he was here for something far more valuable. He was here to recover his fighting form, and to practice against all-comers. Whether they came in regularly or merely barged in for the challenge, Misuji would would not allow his smash-mouth strong style to wither and die like his resolve had months prior. The boy stood, his bleached hair dripping with sweat from his heavy stretching and warm-up exercises, a piece of paper in his hands. It read as such:
MINI MASTIFF 340 CONTINUE TO TAKE ALL-COMERS. SAME MINI PLACE. SAME MASTIFF TIME. TALK SNIP, GET NIPPED.
*come to Dog Farm Gym in Yazi Building for free training session with real professional wrestler 340
The lad sighed as he stared down at the sheet before him. This was oddly nostalgic. Even the controlled urge to tear apart the poster made him weirdly happy. Was that strange? It more than likely was, but that mattered little to the boy, as he waited for an opponent to find him today. Hopefully, one would.