Badass Dragons of the Wasteland - Round Nine Results

You guys would be surprised at the behind-the-scenes back-and-forth work that’s been going on today, even on the weekend.

Major, your paint still looks lovely.


Wha’ happened? Did I died? Did I died???

Breathing hard with the exertion and the endorphin rush of blood-soaked victory, Channing Hunter turned immediately to find Toecutter. “You,” she breathed. “You owe a tremendous debt. To me, to my friends, to the world at large. And I am the Collections Department.”

The '88 Toyota lunged toward the '47 Dodge and the Dodge lazily pivoted to the side. Channing screamed as she throttled up her chainsaw… but with a bang and a grind and a metallic flapping sound, the chain broke. The guide bar bounced harmlessly off the Dodge’s flank as the old truck sped by, and Channing barely remembered to duck and accelerate out of the way as Toecutter took a shot at her. She chucked the useless chainsaw aside and lit up her Mk2 Phaser, which barely missed the Dodge’s left front wheel. Toecutter circled around the Hilux and brought the stern flamethrowers to bear. Channing swore and tried to back out of the way, but without the front propeller shaft, the rear tires spun helplessly on the greasy steel cage, and the Hilux sustained 11HP of damage before finally scooting out of range. She hit the Phaser again, even though its power was running low, and finally connected with Toecutter’s truck for 9HP of damage, crumpling the bed and blowing out the remaining window glass, and bringing the Dodge down to a paltry 6HP remaining, but Toecutter wasn’t about to break off without one more shot.

The would-be tyrant of the wasteland scored a direct hit, punching through the radiator core and cracking the timing cover for 9HP damage to the Hilux. Channing cursed under her breath as she swerved away from the Dodge and fumbled in the glove box for a jar of Bar’s Leaks.

“Goddamned lying robot sonofabitch. Made off with all my LPs for a broke-ass chainsaw. I’m gonna tear his thievin’ head off and mount it just below my SHITGO throne.”

Fourth round results:
Channing Hunter: 45HP remaining
Toecutter: 6HP remaining

Desmond Balthar had never been one to count on his luck, but had somehow enjoyed a lengthy streak of it these past few weeks. Painfully aware of the fact that one is only the Flavor Of The Month for a month, he was constantly looking out for the first indication that his lucky streak was about to end. He regarded Wez with sour suspicion. He’d heard the mohawked asshat owed LPs all over the wasteland due to gambling debts gone bad, so maybe his shit luck with the dice would translate to shit luck in the Dome, but the cocky motherfucker was still belted into one of the burliest road machines ever built, with nearly three times the HP and twice the FP of his own Cobra. Still, Balthar had plenty of speed and maneuverability, and it was time to see if that Village People crack had unsettled the feathered freak.

Balthar deployed his Mk1 Phasers and fired at the Caddy, but missed. Big as it was, the high-torque Cadillac engine (mildly warmed over by Fleetwood’s best MacChanics) generated a respectable 973 foot-pounds of twist to the rear axle, and though the top speed wasn’t anything to write home about, Wez could duck that Caddy out of the way of all but the fastest shots. A grenade fired from the Caddy’s hood-mounted mortar, but sailed over the low-slung Cobra’s hood and detonated alarmingly near where the Kid sat suspended in Marion, causing the portashitter to swing and spin from its suspending cable. Balthar wanted no more of that, and bolted around the Caddy to draw fire away from the Kid and the Gen V swaying helplessly in the air. He saw an opening and took it: the phasers blew the roof off the Caddy’s upper compartment, causing 10HP damage. Wez howled for revenge, wiping the blood out of his eyes, and simultaneously spun the wheel toward the Cobra and floored the gas. The Caddy’s ass end lurched toward the Cobra, tires spinning like wide steel-belted buzzsaws, and Balthar lunged away… but didn’t quite make it. The Caddy’s enormous right rear tire snagged the Cobra’s bumper and climbed right up and over the boot lid. Never one to panic, Balthar did know, however, when the time had come to make a run for it. He flipped a switch to engage his dilithium crystals and the Cobra tore out from under the Caddy’s wheel, leaving a trunk lid and bumper behind for 9HP damage to the Cobra.

Balthar reached for the bag of hammers he’d acquired from Desert Stretch and hefted them. They felt heavy enough. He whirled them over his head and flung them through the Caddy’s window, directly into the side of Wez’s head.

But the mohawked freak barely flinched… just laughed and dumped the bag out the window onto the Cobra’s hood. The bag contained nothing but twenty pounds of wet laundry. “Fred, you double-dealing misanthropic crookbot! Wait till I get a screwdriver into you…”

Balthar flipped the phasers around and took a parting shot that mowed flat Wez’s mohawk and finally silenced the Caddy’s All Funk All The Time satellite radio for another 5HP damage. Wez was outraged and hurled the busted radio chassis at the rapidly departing Cobra, but didn’t even come close.

Balthar pressed his lips together. Luck seemed to be holding out. Barely.

Fourth round results:
Desmond Balthar: 7HP remaining
Wez: 32 HP remaining

With Hugh Mungous’ record-setting streak now permanently stopped at fifteen appearances and fourteen victories in the Thunderdome (and the comelier sections of his face now stuck to the front of Channing’s grille), Sir Gonville De’Ath and Major Joseph Talleyrand-LaRoche now turned their attention to the opponent nearest them: the traitor Bruce Washington. A shared glance and a subtle nod and the two gentlemen-at-arms stared menacingly at the scrawny chap in the borrowed Mazda. He gulped.

“Hey hey, lads. Hey. Now, let’s not be hasty ‘ere. We go back a ways, we do. I don’t think there needs to be any… bad feelin’ between us, eh? Can we not talk this over?”

De’Ath and the Major raised their weapons simultaneously, but as Bruce cowered, De’Ath courteously signaled for the Major to take the first shot. “Much obliged,” said the Major as he shouldered his rifle, sighted down the barrel, and rested his elbows on Perky’s windscreen support. A dollop of Desert Stretch’s protective axle grease had accumulated there, and as his rifle sight settled over Bruce’s head, the Major’s left elbow slid a bit. He corrected his stance before firing, but as he did a part of his mind noticed the relatively high level of grit in the grease. Grit… in the grease! This wasn’t the +25AR protective grease Stretch advertised! This was common axle grease, and recycled and tainted with desert sand to boot! The Major grimaced and squeezed the trigger angrily… much less calmly than his training and experience would otherwise allow. The gun fired. The bullet began to travel toward Bruce.

The bullet missed.

Dumbfounded, De’Ath hesitated for a split second. Bruce did not. He knew he had time to fire at one target and one target alone, and he knew both his opponents severely outgunned him and were apt to take him out nearly immediately, so he chose the target he was most likely to eliminate with one shot.

“Take this, ye great pommy bastard!” yelled Bruce. He fired at the Major. And he did not miss. The explosive crossbow bolt pierced Perky’s SHITGO interface and blew out her transmission. The Lister was immobilized, and the Major leaped free of the SHITGO before it could melt down with his arse still plugging the top. Only 8HP of damage, but it was enough. The Major’s ride was stuck and catching fire, with only 1HP remaining.

“No!” bellowed De’Ath, and his denial was echoed by many within the Thunderdome, and one in particular suspended inside it.

Bruce dropped back down into the Miata and gunned the little engine. De’ath rammed his Iso Grifo directly into the Mazda, expecting his new jousting spikes to eviscerate the tiny Japanese roadster. But the spikes flattened into tinfoil, adding no damage bonus at all to the 5HP of ramming damage he’d caused. Bruce shot through the Iso’s missing door and stapled De’Ath’s leg to the seat cushion for 9HP of damage. The lucky sonofabitch seemingly couldn’t miss.

The Major blearily sat up from the footwell where he’d landed. He shouldered his rifle. He took most careful aim. He squeezed the trigger.

And the lanky Aussie bastard’s luck prevailed again, as the rifle misfired.

Not wanting to take the time to reload his crossbows, Bruce spun the wheel and drove like the hounds of hell were behind him with a taste for a Mazda-and-Vegemite sandwich. He roughly sideswiped the Lister Knobbly on the way past, tearing off all the driver’s side sheetmetal and stilling the venerable Jaguar straight-six for good.

De’Ath’s Iso Grifo screamed off in pursuit, firing shot after shot. Bruce juked and shimmied, but to no avail, for De’Ath was on his tail as surely as if he were nailed there. Sir Gonville landed a hit to the Mazda’s gas tank for 6HP damage, but though the fuel poured out freely, it somehow did not ignite. Bruce threw his last grenade blindly behind him, but his luck was such that it landed directly in front of the Iso’s grille, blowing off both headlights and bonnet and causing another 9HP of damage. But De’Ath comes swiftest behind a Chevrolet big-block, and Sir Gonville opened up the four butterfly valves all the way and then some, shoving the hapless Miata into the smoldering wreckage of Hugh Mungous’ dune buggy, clobbering nine more HP of damage from the Mazda and decisively ending Bruce Washington’s run of freakish luck.

Fourth round results:
Sir Gonville De’Ath: 21HP remaining
Major Joseph Talleyrand-LaRoche: -8HP WRECKED
Bruce Washington: -4HP DEAD


I have the strongest of opinions that Desert Sanford isn’t going to make that rocket ship seat he was promised…


8 cars enter, one Hilux leaves.

You can’t kill a Hilux.


One or two minor scores to settle, eh chaps?


Her MPG is going to be terrible though with all that stuff she keeps strapping to the front…


But how else am I supposed to get extra HP? I ziptie on crazy people masks to my grille. #gamelogic


Hey, Wez - looks like your Caddy is overheating - you need to let off some steam. Here, let me help you!



And now I’ve fallen into a rabbit hole…

This is the best song about okra I’ve ever heard.


(( OOC:
Have you ever tried to do that finger tap thing backwards?

That is, lifting the index finger first and tapping the fingers from distal to proximal?

Weird how much harder it is.


Wait - that’s the way I normally do it.

Me too. Though I can do it both ways without much effort.

Oh. I should get back to my results here.

Sorry, guys, I’d left my laptop’s power cord at home today, so I’ve been AFK since my battery died shortly after lunchtime. Was weird to see how much paid work I could still do for my job without a computer. Maybe that’s why I didn’t get home until 11:00 PM. Felt like 1996 all over again.


I rather felt this was a fitting listen.


Your Knobbly just needs some Listerine.

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First Rule of the Wasteland: You do not mess with a gentleman’s coif.

Desmond Balthar, in possession of a mere 7HP after his exchange with Wez, didn’t feel “the better part of valor” would permit him to continue the engagement, so he sped off in search of another spot where his Thunderdome talents might be an asset that mightn’t be thrown away against a foe with a 25HP advantage. But Wez didn’t feel inclined to let Balthar get away quite so easily. He’d been cultivating that mohawk for months and Wez really wasn’t looking forward to the razzing he could expect in the locker room after the final bell. The Caddy was much slower than the Cobra, but he pursued Balthar with grim determination… and Balthar failed to notice.

The Cobra rolled down to the bottom of the sphere, where Channing Hunter could be found hastily dumping a jug of Bar’s Leaks into her Toyota’s radiator. “You good, Channing?” barked Balthar.

“Never better,” she replied, “But maybe a bit thirsty.”

“Where’s Toecutter?”

“Think he’s over there, pulling the bed off his Dodge.” Sure enough, the would-be tyrant was employing a Sawzall to cut most of the flattened bed off the old truck before the jagged metal cut a tire or something.

“Need a hand?”

"Balthar, behind you!!!"

having mopped and emptied the bucket, we now continue where we left off

"Balthar, behind you!!!"

Fleetwood’s Caddy bore down upon the Cobra’s rear at full throttle. Channing had no time to aim properly, but swiveled her RPG and let fly at a target that was, more or less fortunately, large and increasingly close. Ka-BOOM!! The armored front grille of the Caddy exploded in flame and shrapnel, leaving Wez 10HP lighter than before. Wez snarled and returned the favor, carving up the Hilux with the Caddy’s hi-mount chainguns for 9HP damage. Balthar floored it and muscled the battered Cobra in a tight circle, bringing his phasers to bear on the huge Caddy. Holes bloomed throughout the doublestacked Fisher bodywork, resulting in 8HP damage as the Caddy’s left rear upper quarterpanel fell completely off and lay smoking on the floor of the cage. Channing took her time lining up her next shot with the RPG, aiming for the enormous 502 big-block engine. The blast landed square on top of the intake manifold, exploding the carb, obliterating the distributor cap and both valve covers, and spraying a shower of flaming oil over both windscreens, both immobilizing and blinding the Caddy for another 10HP of damage. Knowing Fleetwood’s ride was finished, Wez climbed out and stood on its roof, tearing off the one remaining chaingun and swinging it over to Balthar, determined to make him pay for the loss of his precious mohawk. Bullets flew toward the Cobra, and enough of them found their mark to tear another 5HP away, leaving Balthar gasping with only 2HP remaining. As Channing dropped her now-empty RPG launcher and grabbed for whatever weaponry she hadn’t yet exhausted, Balthar kicked in the phasers one last time,

melting the Caddy’s roof out from under Wez’s feet, igniting the fuel tanks, and in the resultant explosion, ripping loose another 5HP… bringing the Caddy down to -1.

Desmond caught his breath, exhausted, watching the flames lick at the steel cage, Cadillac parts strewn everywhere.

When what should suddenly appear at the leading edge of the Cobra’s hood to a deafening sting of shock-music?

Channing muttered, “Die, you cheatin’ sonofabitch,” then swung her busted chainsaw as hard as she could at the singed mohawk.

That turned out to be very hard indeed.

“Christ,” said Balthar. “What a mess.”

“I hate sore losers,” Channing replied.

Fifth round results:
Channing Hunter: 26HP remaining
Desmond Balthar: 2HP remaining


Hey, where’d everybody go?

Everyone’s lost but me!

Hang on, coming!

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