So the clowns were suppressed. Most kept their heads down, and as such, intact. The need to not get shot by a big, powerful round meant that the clowns were unable to form up and make a concerted assault on the Buitres while Q kept laying down suppressing fire.<br/><br/>The answer came to Amanuel. Not as clearly as machined perfection, but nevertheless he Knew. The clowns with molotovs were the worst enemies. Fire was anathema to flesh; flesh could not contain the roaring heat of fire the way that mighty steel could. And the tall grass all about was so dry: a single molotov and the current favourable breeze would bring fan the flames towards Amanuel's position, and threaten to consume him and the stricken trucks he aimed to salvage.<br/><br/>The single clown probably would have wasted one Buitres if he had been unloading that entire clip on a single target. That was a lot of lead. As it stood, though, the spray spread across all of the attackers inflicted flesh wounds and cosmetic damage at best. The clown met his end screaming.<br/><br/>The work of the rest of the Buitres see five more clowns spill out from the back of the truck. They were armed but unnerved and shaken. A few managed to raise their weapons but it availed them nothing: rifle rounds struck them and took them from their feet, or else the Buitres bore them down with the weight of numbers. There is a frenzy of blood-letting and flesh-mangling: the Buitres strike with the butts of their weapons or more cruel melee weapons, and the shrieks and cries of agony that come from their victims please the bikers deeply and sets their wild hearts aflutter with the perverse joy of blood-letting. Many of the clowns are dismembered in moments, and the Buitres are daubed and anointed in slick crimson.<br/><br/>The killing is over, far too quickly, but the bikers have had a taste of blood and it is not enough. They turn towards the other two trucks, howling their war cries, making to take off against the two trucks that got away. The driver for one of them simply stood watching, having gotten out to take in the carnage that the chopper gang had inflicted. There was a darkness around the man's crotch and inner legs that communicated an involuntary voiding of the bladder, and the shell-shocked stillness further aroused the biker gang's killer instincts. The heat from the gang's murder boners rivaled the heat of their hogs' engines.<br/><br/><div class="spoiler_container"><div class="spoiler_header" onclick="hideSecond (this);" role="button">OOC</div><div class="spoiler_body">@CarnivalOfTheGoat: I'm not going to call for you to make the Harm move for Rez or her gang, since they both have 2-armour against a 2-harm weapon. Even if it's got Area and all, I figure that the fire is dispersed enough that knocking it down to 0-harm enough that nobody got hurt. There's probably some chipped paint and chrome on the bikes, and a few scratches that don't amount to much, but nothing that amounts to actual harm.<br/><br/>We're at 10:00 on the battle clock.</div></div>