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Sir, I'm going to have to insist you apolo--

A person named Maximos.

It spilled all over the bandages covering his right arm, and filling his nostrils with a sweet pungent scent. He hated ginger.

Now Maximos did not play the slots, he had come here following a particular man who had said something a floor below he simply couldnt not let go. Now the man had problem engaged in just enough drink that he may not remember what he said. But to Maximos it was utterly unforgivable.

--I see...You are determined to handle this situation via fisticuffs...inebriated or not, you'd best be prepared to defend yourself.

We're a little beyond that.

Maximos wore a two piece black suit meant for such sem-formal, yet none traditional occasions such as this. Both sleeves had long slits to about half way to the elbows. His jacket was open, revealing the white shirt, with black horizontal stripes beneath it. His pants were black, as were his boots, as were his gloves. Everything was perfectly pressed and spotless....save for the ginger stain on his sleeve.

In his mind that was the first attack. This unnamed man grabbing a weapon was a confirmation of what was about to happen.

Have at you!

He shouted, stomping across the short distance, his hand scooping up one of the small stools in front of a slot machine, and swinging by its midsection straight down, aiming to catch and divert the "walking stick" with the stoods legs to the ground, while still leaving the fluffy seat facing upwards.

The first stool slammed loudly into the empty ground as Maximos' unknown target took several steps back. Fluidly as Maximos' left hand smacked on the flat cushioned surface, and he leap frogged clean over the first. Both hands reaching forward and catching the second stool, bringing it to, to the ground in the same smooth motion as Maximos sat on it, folding his legs....and stealing a drink from a nearby, and recently vacated slot machine that had just begun spewing out coins by the gallon.

The top of the stool swiveled around, in squeaky loop as he ran a hand through his hair, adjusting a few stray strands that tickled his forehead.

I see. So its going to be like that, is it?

Heh...

Maximos said with a grin. Ahh, a sword. He loved swords. Blades. Knives. Sharp, unhealthy things. He took a long, hard sip, finishing off the drink with a satisfied...

Ahh...lets do this!

He fell back, tossing the empty plastic cup away. He leaned forward, flipping the stool around. Four legs pointed forward, as he broke at his opponent and thrust the chair hard forward at his chest. The staff new better than to get involved, and had already started pulling chairs and tables out of the way, making a makeshift ring of sorts.

He smacked it alright.

But that was part of the plan. Stools had pointed legs, nothing clean and flat to simply smack and break from. Maximos turned the chair at a slight angle toward the oncoming sheath. The sheath was thrust forward, so it came in through the bottom and out over one of the foot rests. And then he twisted it counter clockwise, switching his hands, right over left, spinning the spoke-like legs of the stood like a top.

The effect was to basically twist the caught sheath right out of his hand, at point he would immediately slam the stool forward, aiming to crash into the man's chest, again.

I said...!

-Hrmph!-

He slammed the chair forward. A stern look on his face. Maximos was never really one for shouts and display of teeth in combat. Each combat was a stylistic venture, a dance, an art. Every fight was a new thrill. He played the perfect gentleman, sure, but he lived for this kind of thing.

The stool kissed Joe's chest, just a moment, just a second. Just long enough for Maximos to push forward with his right hand, while his left grabbed the freed sheath and pulled it, from its prison, like Arthur pulling Excalibur from the stone.

Just as armed himself, his legs were blown out from beneath him. It was so calm, so simple, so totally unexpected. It was less like this man created wind, and more like the Casino AC became suddenly very vicious, and its aim suddenly went entirely too low.

His feet were blown to right and fluidly he adapted and moved with them. Mr. Smith had moved backwards, giving Maximos all the room he needed to dig the fingers of his right hand into the cushion of the stool and slam it down, using it as a base. A stepping stone, in the middle of the vicious water, if you will.

Ha ha!

He rolled hoped and rolled in mid air, pushing off his right arm, turning so that his left hip landed on the stool, and his right leg extended out to rest on the flat bin of a nearby slot machine.

....its too late for that!

In a single move, he kicked off the slot machine, shoving off the stool in air, and bringing the sheath straight down, like a samurai, wielding a wooden katana. A strike to the head was the aim.

A full on blade vs. a wooden sheath.

That was not an even match.

Part of being a swordsman is knowing the strength and weakness of your weapon. You have to respect your sword if it is to respect you.

Of course there was only one problem....

Maximos wasnt going to leap to extreme heights, while touching the ceiling may have made for a nice flare to the show. It would have also left him wide open. He had only jumped a few feet off the ground, enough to keep the audience' focus on one location. There was an audience after all, a couple dozen. Bets were being passed, people were cheering for fighters who's names they didnt even know.

And this snazzy dressed shadow had a chair rammed into his gut. He let out a dry heavy, gasping for air. His eyes seemed to well up for a moment as his breath was caught and strained his lungs.

Ooomphf!

And he was carried up, and over the round chair. His swing was paused, as he leaned forward, performing a quick front flip in the air just above Joe's range. He exited the flip swinging.

He did not swing against, or beside the oncoming blade. With both hands on the end of the sheath giving him maximum control, he swung it straight for the blade.

...this wasnt his sword.

The length of wood didnt stand a chance, it might crack in protest, but he would impale it on the sword, bisecting the sheath clean down the middle before finally jamming half way down.

He would land, and immediately swing the sheath like a construction worker swinging a large wrench. Because with the blade trapped in the sheath, all he needed to do was twist hard enough, and he should be able to wrench the sword out of Joe's hands as well!

Ha ha!

Hands on hips, leg stepping on a slight raised rock, head up in the clouds. That was Maximos in his own mind as the weapon was "wrenched" free from Joe's hands. Blame the bit of drink, or the heat of the moment, but he hadnt notice how unbelievably easy that was to do.

If he did, he might have kept the "arms", he had just acquired. But he didnt. In the same motion as he pulled the sword free, he swung his arm out, and tossed it aside. No bystander in the crowd dared touch it.

He was here to teach a lesson.

You cant learn anything if your dead...

And no sooner than his hands were free, was he being...tackled?!

He wasnt at all prepared for something like that, and found himself entirely slave to it. Joe bounced forward, and impacted. Maximos winced as his sore chest too the impact, but kept his focus. Needless to say, he was infact stunned!