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Post by Jimmy King on Sept 13, 2024 15:45:10 GMT
The deadlines for this show are:
Sunday 22nd September at 23:59, Pacific. Monday 23rd September at 03:00, Eastern. Monday 23rd September at 08:00, UK. Monday 23rd September at 17:00, Melbourne.
No extensions.
GLHF!
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huh
FWA Wrestler
Posts: 11
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Post by huh on Sept 15, 2024 2:16:14 GMT
October 9th, 2021 - Arena Internacional, Ciudad Juárez, Mexico 1...
2....
3!!!!!!
The bell rings as both contestants separate from the jumbled scrum they were entwined in and lay prone on the mat, breathing heavily.Commentator 1: “He got him!!! What a match, and what a near-shock this crowd tonight has witnessed in the King of Juarez tournament!! The Pan-American Wrestling Intercontinental Champion, pushed to nearly 30 minutes by this unknown luchador, this man who everyone thought was a joke entrant!”
Commentator 2: “You saw the true grit, the true heart of a champion on display tonight! Because though he had to resort to a rollup to finally win, Pacorro got the job done and advances on to the next round!! My word though, wouldn’t it have been a real shocker if after all the ballyhoo about his entry, the PAW Intercontinental Champion had fallen at the first hurdle of King of Juarez 21!!”Pacorro gets up on his knees and then slowly stands up and lets the referee raise his arm. As his defeated opponent rolls out of the ring and starts beelining up the ramp of the arena, Pacorro quickly steps away from the referee and demands a microphone. The ring announcer hustles to comply with the request. Pacorro: “HOLD ON JUST ONE SECOND!! WAIT!!”His opponent stops right before exiting the ramp area, as the yelling crowd loudly informs him that Pacorro is speaking to him.
“You… you…”The opponent turns around and looks at Pacorro, who is pointing at him from the ring while stopping to catch his breath. “You are one crazy motherfucker, you know that??”The crowd cheers on Pacorro’s acknowledgement of his opponent. “You come in here, dressed like that, name like that… Pacorro didn’t fly all the way from Chile to Mexico to win by a rollup, no!! Pacorro came to SEEK AND DESTROY!!! Yet even though the ref raised my hand, even though I advance to tomorrow night, I don’t feel like a winner…”Pacorro’s opponent waves him off and applauds him in the ring, as if to assure Pacorro that he indeed was the winner tonight. “What are you hiding behind that silly name? Who’s hiding under that mask?? You can’t fool me, you’re no novice, you’re not just some indy guy!! No beginners luck leads to someone chain wrestling with Pacorro like this!! Tell you what, why don’t we have a rematch at PAW?? I am formally inviting you right now, after I win the King of Juarez tournament, you can challenge me in Santiago, you can challenge me in Bogata, hell, maybe we can do it in Arena Mexico!!!”The crowd cheers at the premise of a rematch happening in Arena Mexico. “No matter what, me and you… me and you, this is not over!! And when we meet again, I won’t be underestimating you again, I will have you taste the full force of the GUATEMOC, and we will settle this once and for like MEN!!! What do you say, my funny friend?? I am inviting you right now, to PAW!! What’s say you??”The crowd cheers both the mention of Pacorro’s finishing maneuver which they did not witness successfully executed and that Pacorro threatening this luchador must mean that he respects the opponent. El Hijo De La Quesadilla stops for a moment to catch his own breath before yelling “Until next time!” up the ramp to Pacorro in the ring. As the crowd cheers the somewhat ambiguous answer, Pacorro shakes his head. Someone hands him his PAW Intercontinental Championship belt, and he raises the belt high above his head as El Hijo De La Quesadilla finally disappears through the curtain backstage amidst the round of applause.
-------------------------------------------------------
El Hijo De La Quesadilla stumbles into one of the small locker rooms of Arena Internacional. He immediately collapses down on an old wooden bench next to a row of lockers.
Hah… a rollup… he got me…. motherfucker got me… with a rollup!!! Really??
He gropes around for his bag amongst a row of bags and finds it. He quickly takes a swig of water from his bottle.
He got me…. Never saw it coming….
El Hijo De La Quesadilla gets up and stumbles towards the showers. He had time for a quick rinse, and then designs to immediately head towards the airport. Kacey’s bout is tomorrow, hope theres no delay in the flight back… might as well grab the check and bounce now then… man, a rollup? I hope this thing was being recorded… I have to watch that sequence back….
Just before he gets to the showers though, the door of the locker room bursts open. Four brawny men who El Hijo De La Quesadilla did not recognize walk into the room. They stare at El Hijo De La Quesadilla.
El Hijo De La Quesadilla stares back at them. I wondered what I would do if something like this happened….El Hijo De La Quesadilla puts his arms up in front of himself. EHDLQ: “Ehhh....Hola, amigos! Uh…. no quiero…problemas! Mr. Gael… no, um… pagar dinero???”The men look at one another. M1: “Es él?”
The man closest to El Hijo De La Quesadilla takes a look and nods. M2: “Eso parece.”Welp.
The four men rush El Hijo De La Quesadilla, who is able to parry the first man sideways while smashing the second man in the face with an uppercut elbow strike. However-
*smack*
The third man lands a punch onto El Hijo De La Quesadilla’s torso.
Brass knuckles…
El Hijo De La Quesadilla crumples to the floor of the locker room as the men beat him down. The trauma to his ribs makes it impossible to breathe. The fourth man takes out a lead pipe and smashes it against El Hijo De La Quesadilla’s back. “Wh.. why?? Mr. Gael…”The man El Hijo De La Quesadilla had elbowed grabs El Hijo De La Quesadilla by his starting-to-tear mask and speaks in English. M2: “We no work Mr. Gael, chino.”The man then picks El Hijo De La Quesadilla up and hurls him into the lockers head-first.
So… this isn’t about tonight's paycheck?
One of the men grabs El Hijo De La Quesadilla as he slumps down on the benches and tosses him into the shower area.
Then why?
One man collars El Hijo De La Quesadilla and forces him upwards while the other lands more brass-knuckle-aided punches to the gut.
Why…M2: “Finish, quick, before someone comes. Break his arms. I will photograph as proof.”Why does it always end like this for me…El Hijo De La Quesadilla is too weakened to resist as the men seize and straighten out his right arm, before…
*crack*
El Hijo De La Quesadilla falls to the ground again, released as a scream sounds from back at the locker area.
M2: “Who the fuck-”El Hijo De La Quesadilla watches motionlessly as another man has entered the locker room and taken out one of the attackers. The man then launches himself forward and smashes a flying knee square into M2’s face. M2 falls backward as the remaining two men charge the new entrant. One man takes a wide swing with the pipe and immediately eats a headbutt. The last man with the brass knuckles tries to get in a body shot, but the new entrant spears him down beforehand. The knuckles fly free, and the new entrant into the room catches them and uses them to brutal effect, ground and pounding the original attacker into a pulp. As one of the other men stirs, the new entrant hops up, sizes up his prey, and charges forward, punting him in the head, shin fully contacted. El Hijo De La Quesadilla tries to pull himself up, but is still too paralyzed by the pain. He feels himself almost flitting in and out of consciousness as the new entrant walks up to him, bloodied brass knuckles still in his right hand. “.......what are…. What are you doing here…”
“Shhh, don’t speak. Hold on, brother.”
The new entrant crouches down and quickly takes the torn and ripped mask off of El Hijo De La Quesadilla’s head. “Jesus, why’d they do this to you?? Was Gael trying to stiff you???”
“Don’t.. Know…”
El Hijo De La Quesadilla grips onto the new entrant, who tries to drag El Hijo De La Quesadilla up, but he cannot as El Hijo De La Quesadilla’s legs give out. The two of them slump back down on the floor, in a quasi-hug.
“Don’t fall asleep on me just yet bud, we gotta get out of here, this is enemy territory, apparently…”
“Why… you even here… Danny?”Danny Toner gives the man an exasperated look as he grunts and tries to drag him up a second time, this time successfully. Danny Toner: “Aw come on, it almost sounds like you’re not happy to see your old pal Danny, your old friend who's been looking for you ever since the Warehouse! Alright now, let's go.”
“… just… surprised…”Danny drags El Hijo De La Quesadilla up towards the doorway. “Which bag is yours? I’ll get it, just stay awake. Is your passport in there?”Danny holds up El Hijo De La Quesadilla as the luchador stumbles again, coughing and wheezing for breath.
“Easy now, you’re fine, you’re fine! No worries, one step at a time, we’ll make it out of here, just take it easy. Your boy Danny’s got you, I got this. I’m here for you, okay?”
“.....thank you, Danny….”
------------------------------------------------------- “Guys… this is a huge issue…”
September 14th, 2024 - The NTR Lair, Ashburn, VA
“Just use control+F. Even I know that.”“I’ve done that already for like 10 different pages, and I still can’t find anything!! What is the Gimmick Infringement Office?? I’ve never even seen that office anywhere on the FWA org charts in the sharepoint!!!”Traffic Cone #2 throws his hand-mitts up in the air and pouts at his computer screen. “Did you find anything on proboards?”
TC2: “Nothing!!! Nada!!! Nil!!!” Owen scratches his head and looks over TC2’s shoulder at the computer screen. Jhunha sits sideways on the old NTR Lair coach, his large frame taking up most of the couch by himself. Owen: “What about on smarks?”“Fuck that, not going on that site again.”“Fair enough… you know TC, we could just ask the administrators for more information about the Gimmick Infringement Office and Joe-"
“And expose the fact that I’m washed and out of touch and haven’t always kept up with the LORE the last few years?? NEVER!!! ARGHGHHGG!!!!!!!!!!!”TC2 shakes his plastic folding Costo desk in frustration. “Chill bud, let me drive for a little bit, maybe I can search up something…”TC2 acquiesces and stands up so that Owen can sit in the computer chair. “What am I gona do, Jhunha?? I can’t find any information on Joe Burr!!! How am I supposed to promo against this, this enigma??? No sign ups anywhere, not a peep on proboards, no nothing!!” Jhunha shrugs.Jhunha: “Promo? Who cares? Just punch him in the face at the Anniversary Show. Easy”“Oh Big J, I wish I was as colossal as you and could just do that!! I can’t though, it's not that simple!! I have to adhere to the “99 Lessons on How To Get Over” that Danny and Professor Rondo taught me, or else I’ll NEVER get over!! And Lesson #2 makes it super clear that I have to SHOOT on Joe Burr!!!”Jhunha stretches his legs and stands up, his head nearly accidentally hitting the basement ceiling.
“Well, I’m going to go upstairs and check on how far along Kenny and Quinn have gotten. TC, your anxiety is kind of killing my buzz.”
“WELL I CAN’T HELP IT!!! LEVERAGING ANXIETY AND INNER TURMOIL IS LESSON #18!!!”As Jhunha trudges up the stairs and out of the basement, TC2 dramatically heaves himself on the now-vacant couch. “Better than a pickle being in me I guess, but right now I'm in a pickle, Owen!!! How do I SHOOT on a ghost?? A phantom???”Owen swivels the chair over and motions towards TC2. “TC, I might have found something.”“REALLY????? LEMME SEE!!!!”TC2 hops up and waddles over to the computer as Owen clicks around some more. “So I scraped this page of a webpage archive, but this is what I found on Mr. Joe Burr…”Owen clicks a few more times and then gets off of the computer chair. TC2 jumps into the drivers seat and clicks around on the mouse some more. “Wow… this is actually kinda extensive, great find Owen!!”
“Is it now? I didn’t look it over yet, I just found the page, what does it say?”“I think I got it!! I think I got it!!!! Do you have the camera ready, Owen? I’m gona start SHOOTING on Joe Burr!!! This is PERFECT!!!!!”
Owen looks around and sees that none of the recording equipment that they might be able to use is ready.“.... I’m just gona record it on my phone, that cool?”
“Yeah, totally!!!”TC2 hops off of the computer chair and grabs a whiteboard marker from the NTR Lair whiteboard wall. After drawing two angry eyebrows over his eyes, he waddles back to the computer and plays his theme song mp3 on VLC Player. ♪I’VE SEEN INSIDE MY HEAAAAAAAAD A VISION, NEVER THE OUTCOME YOU’LLLL BE WISHING FORRRR!!!!!♪“Okay Owen, I’m ready, you ready??”Owen lifts his phone up and gives TC2 a visual cue. “Ready bud, 3….2…1…. Action!”“JOE BURR, YOU LISTEN HERE AND YOU LISTEN GOOD, YOU LITTLE STUFFED SLUT!!! YOU WANNA WALK AROUND HERE, YOU WANNA WALK AROUND FWA WITH YOUR BUTTERY SKIN TONE, YOUR PERKY BREASTS, YOUR PEACHY ASS IN THAT ITTY BITTY RED LACE G-STRING????? WELL NEWS FLASH FOR YOU, NTR AND TC2, WE DON’T. PLAY. THAT. SHIT, YA HEARD??? I’M A TRAFFIC CONE, I ONLY NEED THE APPROVAL OF DANNY, NOVA, AND RYAN TO STAY RIGID AND ERECT!!! BUT I’M ALSO ALL ABOUT SAFETY, SO I KNOW BETTER THAN TO EVER GET IN THE RING WITH A BACK DOOR HUSSY LIKE YOU WITHOUT PROTECTION!!! YOU SEE, SINCE I’M A CONE, I’M ALLLLLLLL ABOUT THAT RUBBER!!! SO NO, YOUR COCKTEASING WAYS AIN’T GONA WORK ON ME!! JOE BURR, YOU OUGHT TO BE ASHAMED OF YOURSELF, LETTING ALL THOSE MEN FUCK YOU AND ANNIVERSA-PEE ON YOU, COATING YOU WITH GOD KNOWS WHAT, UM, SUCKING AND FUCKING YOUR WAY ACROSS FWA AND STUFF…”TC2 tries to side-eye the computer screen and remember the available material.
“YOU…ALWAYS WALKING AROUND IN THAT SLINKY, SLUTTY LITTLE DRESS THAT SHOWS OFF YOUR WHITE G-STRING, JOE BURR, ALWAYS TAKING DICKS LEFT AND RIGHT AND LIKE IN EVERY ORIFICE AND…. Wait, sorry, can we cut?”
Owen presses “stop recording” on his phone. TC2 turns around and pauses his music on the computer. “Maybe I need to double check, but this sounds a lot like the final third of that Baxter fanfic. Can we double check to see if we didn’t get them mixed up? I would hate to be saying all these duplicitous things about Joe Burr if it wasn’t true.”Owen goes over to the computer and reads the webpage closely as TC2 picks up Owen’s phone and watches back the recording of his first take.
“Screaming at the camera, check…. sexual innuendo, BIG check…. gratuitous pun, check…. too bad, this was a decent take up til then.” “Um, bad news TC, none of that stuff you said was actually about Joe Burr at all, it was about Gabrielle. They teamed together earlier this year.”“REALLY???... well… SHIT!!!!”TC2 flings himself on the couch again. “...so he doesn’t have perky breasts?”“According to this page…. Not enough information to confirm or deny. Guess we’ll find out at the Anniversary Show.”“Does it say anything actually about Joe Burr there then?? ANYTHING????”Owen scans the page some more with his eyes. “Lemme see here... well, it says he was bullied in school…”“That wouldn't be cool for us to bring up, thats sad! Everyone should be entitled to a safe and happy childhood, free of bullying and unnecessary risk from vehicles and on the sidewalk and on the road. I don’t wanna shoot on any of that, I wanna ask if everythings okay!!”“... okay, moving on then, says here his crush was a bully and was mean to him too, tricked him into thinking she was interested and led him on…”“What a bitch!! I wanna shoot on her instead!!!”“Says also he is…short?”
“Whaaaat?? We’re both short kings too???”
“Says he was also on Ground Zero?”
“I actually do prefer that to Pepsi…”
“I said Ground Zero, not Coke Zero.”“Zero coke!!!!! JUST SAY NO TO DRUGS, CHILDREN, ITS NOT SAFE!!!!”
Owen stops clicking and leans back in the computer chair. “I don’t see anything else. I think I heard Nova say once before that he thinks Joe Burr is funny. But aside from that… thats it.”TC2 buries his cone face into his white mitten-hands and rubs the angry eyebrows off of himself. “What am I gona do, Owen?? At this rate, I’m going to start LIKING Joe Burr, let alone having ground ZERO material to SHOOT on him!!”Owen looks over at TC2. “I mean… okay, I know its wasn’t in the lessons, but maybe you just… wrestle him clean at the Anniversary Show? Like correct me if I’m wrong, but does Mr. Toner or Nova or Ryan expect you to even win? Do they even care that much??”TC2 sits up on the couch and thinks about what Danny told him. “Danny told me he wants me to make a statement at the Anniversary Show. He said… ‘make it a show, make it spicy, make it a big bang, show the people what being a NTR Young Boy is all about’... Win or lose, its happening. Clean, dirty, I don’t care. I’m sure Danny wants me to win, and he wants me to SHOOT while doing so.”“Speaking of that, we’ve never really gotten into it TC…. how come you’re so wound up about Mr. Toner? Like I get it, Mr. Toner is scary and all, especially when he has a plan, but, you know, sometimes I wonder… you seem to really be cool with going the extra mile for Mr. Toner, like when he told you to stop Alyster for as long as possible…”
TC2 stares straight ahead.
“Or when he told you to chain yourself to the production truck door, like you just went and did it without any hesitation…”A moment of silence hangs over the lair. “Owen… has Danny ever told you what the full plan is?”
“.... no. Has he... told you?”
“.....me neither.”
Another moment of silence passes. “But let me tell you something that's 100% a shoot, Owen…”TC2 stands up off the couch and looks over at Owen. “When I found out that the last blood relative I had on this earth was gone…. you know who ended up being there for me? Danny Toner."Owen nods slowly. “When I was discarded by my employer, kicked out of my original dojo, and thrown aside like a piece of garbage, you know who picked me up off the ground metaphorically? Danny Toner.”
TC2 walks over to Owen and gives Owen back his phone. “When I was getting my ass beat within an inch of my life in foreign lands, not wrestling, not in a match, just perhaps mere moments from having it all taken away from me… you know who was there for me, Owen? Do you know, of all the people on God’s green earth, who was there for me at that moment, who picked me up off the ground literally, in my time of extreme need?”Owen looks up at TC2.
“Was it… Mr. Toner?”
“You’re damn right it was Danny.”TC2 looks Owen in the eyes. “I trust Danny Toner. I trust NTR. You… Danny… Nova, Ryan…Big J, Little K… all of us trueborns and the ones yet to reveal themselves…. I trust the plan. So when Danny Toner says to me, ‘TC2, take this booking against Joe Burr at the Anniversary Show and spice things up, make it a show, make it a big bang’.... Owen, you bet I am going to give Joe Burr all the heat he can handle, I am going to make it a spectacle, and I will do so willingly, gladly, I will do so loudly and proudly, I will do so without regard for my own conesenal wellbeing and, dare I say… safety.”Owen nods at TC2.“Lesson #9… I remember.”
“Mighty #9, precisely. So if Danny says its all part of the plan, then I trust him. Joe Burr sounds like he could be a lovely man in all honesty, but if my part to play involves me having to be the bad guy to take down Joe Burr for the greater good of NTR, then I’m going to do it. This is all part of the plan… and I trust the plan.”Owen stares at TC2 as TC2 stands still.
“Wow… okay… um, I’m sure Mr. Toner would be glad to hear that!”TC2 suddenly spasms a little, startling Owen. “Oh oh oh, can I ask you for a favor? Lets go to the dojo floor and you can help me train! It's my first match in quite awhile and I’ve been brainstorming some new moves I might be able to use on Joe Burr!!”TC2 beckons Owen to follow him upstairs and Owen obliges. “Might as well, since we can’t find anything else to shoot on Joe… what new moves are you talking about though?”“I was thinking maybe something like this??”As the two walk upstairs, TC2 gives Owen a two-handed titty twister. Owen swats TC2’s mitten-hands away.
“What the hell, man?? Why would you think that’s an effective move??“.....for if he actually ends up having bangin’ titties. Perky breasts are an attack surface, you know!” |
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bongo
FWA Wrestler
Posts: 37
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Post by bongo on Sept 21, 2024 12:44:37 GMT
We'd now like to present to you-
DUDE MOMENT #1033
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The show? Anarchy in the alleyway, and yes, it's exactly what it sounds like, and what you're picturing in that plump little melon of yours. A long way from the sold-out arenas of FWA, this show took place in an abandoned lot in the shittest part of Detroit; you know, the place that Eminem lived in 8 miles? People who lived in this area thought that was too high class. Surrounded by burned-out cars, fans that clearly haven't seen the inside of an office since their last parole meeting in rusted-over lawn chairs, and an entranceway that can best be described as a dirt path.
In short, this was the environment where DUDE felt the most comfortable.
The scene, the main event of the show, DUDE vs Litt' Crazy Ass (The most appropriately named indy wrestler in the world), after several spots involving knitting needles, irons, and a kitchen sink (Who the hell brings a kitchen sink to a wrestling show?!) DUDE stumbled to his feet, covered in blood kicking shattered pieces of tables out of the way, he had the match won, litt' Crazy ass was Litt' crazy knocked out, and the win was there for the taking...
and then Dude saw it. A rusty old 20-foot ladder leaning against a tree at the back of the lot, looking like it hasnt been touched for years. Dude's eyes go wide as the sight seems to energize him as he staggers over and grabbed the ladder, and drags it into place, and begins climb it outside the ring, he then spots an old washed out trailer parked near the ring, as DUDE climbs the ladder each step wobbling the ladder.
At the top, Dude's eyes darted between the shattered glass below, a downed Litt' crazy ass and the trailer sitting 15 feet away; it's clear what Dude is looking for. He doesn't just want to dive from the ladder, he wants to leap OVER the trailer, over the glass and land on litt' crazy ass with the craziest fucking dive in the history of wrestling.
You probably see where this is going.
DUDE certainly didn't. As he jumped, the ladder wobbled, throwing his jump off instead of jumping over the trailer. His body SMASHED through the flimsy roof with a sickening CRUNCH, sending debris flying everywhere, AS THE TRAILER COLLAPSES WITH DUDE INSIDE. The crowd lose their shit as DUDE vanishes into the wreckage of the trailer.
The ref and the ramshackle crew all rush at the trailer, fearing the worst, before DUDE's hand raises from the destroyed trailer, giving a shaky devil horn salute as he pulls himself through the debris. Blood poured from him...and yet DUDE smiled and shouted, "JUST MISSED HIM-!"
Several cracked ribs and a dislocated shoulder. And countless cuts.
Worth it.
This has been another DUDE moment.
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Click, that sound normally means a high production, high quality, FWA backstage segment, the type of thing you'd expect from the number one wrestling company on the planet, except SWERVE. IT'S NOT HIGH QUALITY AT ALL! IT'S GRAINY AND RAW AS HELL, IT'S LIKE THOSE OLD SCHOOL YOUTUBE VIDEOS FROM 2010 WITH COMMANTS THAT SAY "IT LOOKED LIKE THIS VIDEO WAS FILMED WITH A POTATO. 144 IS MAKING A COMEBACK BABY.
In any case, it is, in fact, seems to be filmed on a hand held camera, I would say a phone but no phone with a camera these days would have such a low quality picture unless of course, the lens are covered in Vaseline. Which considering who this segment is for is within the bounds of imagination.
It's hard to make out not only because of the shitty picture but also because the lights are low, but we can just about make out the wild and unkept shape of the man they call DUDE he stands in front of a graffiti-tagged backdrop, seeing as he's making his first appearance in FWA he has taken the phrases "Dress to impress" and "First impressions are everything" by dressing in a dirty grey white beater top, tattered denim shorts, and wild unkept hair. Stylist. A classy man is the man simply known as DUDE. As if just noticing the camera for the first time, he smirked at it and raised a half-empty beer can as if to toast everyone watching.
"Yo, FWA… DUUUUUUUUUDE is here! JACKKNIFE!!"
DUDE suddenly takes out a pen and brings it down on the side of the beer can, and starts to suck out the rest of the beer from the hole he made before suddenly SMASHING it against his forehead, again and again, trying to crumble it and once he does he throws it behind his back with barely a look to see where it landed, damn you know he's a wild and crazy guy because he DOESN'T RECYCLE. HE'S HARDCORE! HE'S HARDCORE!
"From the backyards to the biggest game in town! DUDE IS HERE TO BE THE DUDE, AND I'M GOING TO DUDE HARDER THAN EVER DUDE HAS DUDED BEFORE"
Ummm. Ok, that's a threat....I think
"Now there's been a lot of talky talky around Dude. A lotta whispers all around "Yo, Dude's a loose cannon" "Yo. DUDE is a small-time player; he can't handle things in the big leagues" "Yo, DUDE is going to flame out before he even gets a week into his FWA career. Hell, don't think I didn't hear what the commentary was saying after I won Ground Zero that the least hardcore guy there."
The energy suddenly leaves, DUDE, as he stares at the ground as if chewing over these words.
"The least hardcore guy there is."
DUDE suddenly spins around and starts ramming his face full force again and again against the brick wall as hard as he possibly can, his face thudding over and over
"YOU THINK DUDE ISN'T HARDCORE?! YOU THINK I CAN'T GO HARDCORE?! MAAAANNNNN-! YOU DON'T KNOW NOTHING ABOUT DUDE!"
Dude seems to calm down as he brushes his hair back and regains his normal "The Dude abides" vibe.
"They're calling this match a "Proving grounds" match, but every match for DUDE is a proving ground! I've been proving people wrong my whole life! I've partied hard, lived harder, and left wreckage behind me wherever I've been. And at Fallout 44, This ain't a proving ground; nah, this is DUDE kicking down the door of FWA, crashing the party, and showing the world that I bring the PARTY-!"
DUDE pauses as he feels his face, already feeling some bruises start to form on his face. He's used to it.
"See Lexi Lemonis. You're looking to do the same. You want to make a name for yourself, but what you don't realize is that you can train, exercise, and watch tapes, but you can't train for DUDE. You can't prep for DUDE. and you can't study a DUDE who doesn't even know what they're doing to do next-! YOU CAN'T FIGURE DUDE OUT-! You think you got me right where you want me and BOOM-!"
DUDE throws his hands up, mimicking a top-rope dive.
"You're knocked out, in la-la land, wondering what the hell just happened. DUDE HAPPENED.
DUDE smashes one hand against his palm, making his somewhat ramblin' point quite clear.
"See, people think I'm just a low-rent piece of trash that makes a living causing mayhem...AND THEY'RE RIGHT! but you gotta realize, I don't do it to look cool, this is a way of life for me! I don't know any other way! I can't slow down even if I wanted to. Because if life ain't a party, it's sure as hell going to be one when I'm done with it. I ain't about winning and losing; if I win, hey, that's cool, but I ain't in FWA for the money, the fame, hell I'm not really all that buzzed about titles if you want the truth. I'm here for moments. I'm here to steal the show. Even if you beat me, Lexi, I can live with it as long as I can do at least one thing to make every person in that building stand up and scream "HOLY SHIT."
DUDE starts pacing back and forward, his hands waving them erratically as he speaks
"So what you need to understand, Lexi, this ain't a match, nah nah nah, this is track one of the most bitching rock album ever made, that the entire wrestling world is gonna be rocking to. DUDE is here; things will never be the same again. Lexi thinks she's ready for DUDE. But she ain't ready for DUDE. You ain't ready for DUDE. No one is ready for what DUDE is bringing BECAUSE I AIN'T HERE TO WRESTLE! I AIN'T HERE TO TRADE HOLDS OR LOCK UP ON A CHIN LOCK; DUDE IS HERE TO BLOW THE DOORS OFF EVERYTHING AND PARTY LIKE THERE'S NO TOMORROW, SO NO MATTER WHAT, WIN, LOSE OR DRAW. IF I HIT A PERFECT DUDESAULT ON LEXI OR I CRASH THROUGH A TABLE, NO MATTER WHAT, EVERYONE WATCHING IS GOING TO HAVE ONE NAME ON THEIR MINDS, ONE NAME THEY'D NEVER EVER FORGET, AND THAT NAME IS-
DUDE-!
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Post by cyrustruth on Sept 21, 2024 21:47:32 GMT
Exile Chronicles (Volume 6)
Chapter 6: Staring Down the Barrel
New York City never sleeps, but the city does end up a bit drowsy as the night grows late and the evening’s festivities and offerings come to a conclusion. While there’s always something that’s going on in the Big Apple, especially in and around its most legendary coliseum, those often are more…subtle than the events that truly bring this city to life.
Back in Business is done and dusted. The yearly clash of titans, the culmination of a year’s worth of troubles, turmoils, and challenges, where legends solidify their legacies, upstarts take the next step towards immortality, and feuds are put to rest…only to begin the march anew the next day.
For Cyrus Truth, tonight should have been a satisfying, if not glorious one. While he was denied the main event for the second year in the row, The Exile does still leave Madison Square Garden a champion once more. The proof of his victory is tightly gripped in his hand as he leans against the wall of the world’s most famous arena outside, the summer night having grown unseasonably cool, but pleasant and comfortable in its own way.
Cyrus Truth has reclaimed the FWA North American Championship. FWA’s second-most valuable prize remains firmly grasped in his hand. His second reign with this particular title in his time in FWA, won once again in a four-way contest. Won after pinning a past rival, but not the champion himself. Had this been the end of the night, The Exile might just reflect on the nature of history repeating itself with mirth and a bottle of cheap whiskey.
But…nothing can ever be simple. Not after the main event.
Truth did as much as he could, as much as his conscience and principles would allow. Did what he could to make sure that Krash had the chance he needed to put the demons to rest and commit Jeremy Best to the flames. But…nothing is ever so idyllic. If it was, then perhaps so many more Back in Businesses would end up with the champion the people chose ending the night with the industry’s top prize in their possession.
Jeremy Best is still the FWA World Champion. And Krash, having suffered so much in FWA, must now bear fresh scars for the sake of trying to set right what has been poisonous to FWA and the sport he loves.
Cyrus Truth is known in professional wrestling and the world of shadow as a man who stands alone, an entity who trusts few and befriends fewer still.
Krash is one of those who Cyrus trusts. One of the few he counts as a friend.
And Truth’s heart aches with sorrow for what has become of his friend. And burns with rage.
As The Exile takes a sip out of flask of what is clearly some strong liquor, trying his best to keep his frustration and anger to a simmer, his brooding is interrupted by the sound of a heavy metal door swinging open, as a figure cursing loudly and angrily emerges from the bowels of the Garden.
Another man angered at the conclusion of tonight’s event, despite having become a champion in the main event of Back in Business’s first night. A man that, even a year ago, Truth would’ve found little to no common ground with, who The Exile had pushed to the brink in pursuit of the championship that Jeremy Best now possesses in what appears to be a much stronger grasp than initially presumed, despite the punishment the twisted friendship-obsessed monster suffered in order to keep it this evening.
But that is the nature of the Long and Winding Road, isn’t it? Yesterday’s sworn enemies become tonight’s…well, maybe not friends, but certainly not an enemy anymore.
Chris Peacock, a simmering cauldron of anger, frustration, and sorrow who has had to endure the tragedy of losing his twin brother, overcoming that to become the FWA Tag Team Champions with Alyster Black, only to see his friend be committed to the flames while a monster gets to walk out as he walked in, seems as if he’s about to boil over until he sees Cyrus, back against the wall to his right, simply looking at him.
The two men, bitter rivals whose ideals and perspectives have led them down the path of mutual destruction, war, and ruination just…look at one another in awkward silence. The night and the world continues to press on as Truth and Peacock seemed locked in a state of stasis, a stalemate that’s finally broken when Truth finally breaks the silence.
“How is he?”
Peacock doesn’t need to ask for clarification. Of course he’d ask about him. Chris’s shoulders, tightened with rage and stress, relax just a bit as he walks over with a heavy sigh. “Not great. The doctors are doing what they can for him, and they say he’s going to recover, but…he’s never going to be the same. Those scars…Aly and Violet are with him, but I just…I couldn’t stay there. I should be, but…fuck.”
Wordlessly, Cyrus holds out the flask towards Peacock. A gesture of understanding, perhaps even a peace offering given their mutual affection towards the White Wolf? Either way, it’s a life line in the sea of misery that both men are traversing, a means to prevent one from drowning. Chris takes the flask and takes a long draught from it.
A year ago, in Mexico City, these two men couldn’t stand to be in the same room with one another. And now, here in the middle of the heart of New York City, Truth and Peacock stand together, outside the site of the battles they’ve fought to become champions again.
The two of them remain silent for another couple of minutes, passing the flask between the two of them back and forth until the last bit is gone. Handing the empty flask back, Peacock finally speaks up again. “Hey, um…I guess, congrats? You won your title…”
“That doesn’t matter right now,” Truth interrupted. Not forcefully, but purposefully. “You know this can’t be allowed to continue, right? Jeremy Best and anybody who’d stick by him after what he did needs to be dealt with.”
Where the Chris Peacock of old might’ve scoffed at Cyrus’s proclamation, this version of the man nods, a grim countenance settling on his face past the sorrow and frustration. “Yeah. Fucker needs to be dealt with. I…heard some rumors from some of Russnow’s toadies that there’s a new tag team tournament that’s going to determine who our top contenders are going to be. I wouldn’t be surprised if that bastard and his big bastard friend are a part of it.”
“And I doubt Baxter’s about to let losing his North American title stop him from trying to get it back. So, we defend. But that still doesn’t solve the biggest problem.” Cyrus takes a deep breath, allowing the cool night air to enter his lungs. “As long as that son of a bitch is the World Champion, he’s going to continue doing this shit. And I’m not sure…”
“It has to be you.”
Cyrus turns his gaze towards Chris, a bit stunned by that interjection. “Neither me nor Aly are in contention for the belt at the moment, and I doubt management’s gonna give either of us another shot right away. You, on the other hand, have a shot at the Golden Opportunity. I can’t say you’d be my first choice, but you’ve proven you can beat him if none of his little fuckboys are around to let him steal the win. And after what we did to them, I’d be shocked if they show their mealy little faces around here anytime soon. I know for a fact that I’ll put them in the ground if they do.”
Chris looks at Cyrus with a serious look. There’s no pleading in his eyes. There wouldn’t be. If circumstances were different, Chris would never even say this to The Exile. “You have to win the Golden Opportunity. Beat the shit out out of those other wannabes and use that fucking briefcase to cave in Jeremy’s head. I hate saying this, you know that right?”
“I do,” Cyrus replies. Were he someone else, there might be an urge to gloat at this change in the relationship between the once-bitter rivals. But The Exile isn’t that kind of man. And the gravity of the situation is not lost on him either.
“Win that fucking match. You’re the best chance we have to make that fucking Friendship Freak pay for what he’s done before he ruins someone else.”
A simple nod, an acknowledgement of the challenge. “Consider it done. I’ll leave that chamber with the briefcase or on a stretcher. And I won’t be the only one who leaves that match needing medical help if I have my way about it.”
Chris Peacock doesn’t smile. He doesn’t crack any jokes, there’s no smarmy confidence that’s become his trademark. No, this night? This night, there’s an understanding.
No friendship, no formal alliance. But an agreement that certain actions should be met with equal and, perhaps, even greater retribution. There would come a time for these men to be at each other's throats, but not here and now.
It won’t be easy. Truth knows this. As does Peacock. But it needed to be said, for both of their sakes.
Without another word, Cyrus and Chris share a final nod as Peacock heads back inside the arena. The Exile, turning in the opposite direction, heads out into the night…
*****
In the world of shadows, dark deeds are standard practices. The denizens that dwell in the dark are as varied and complex as they are in the world of dawn, if not more so. The noble and kind souls who brave the dangers of the shadows often put their counterparts that revel in the light to shame, for what is a better testament of one’s virtue than to be an angel who dances with the devils and maintains their grace?
The same can also be for the other end of that spectrum. The most vile and vicious that humanity and beyond can produce also call the world of shadows home. And in Truth’s position as a player in the greater politics and information brokerage in that world, sometimes? Sometimes you truly do have to descend into the devil’s domain in order to accomplish a goal or make a necessary statement.
In the small city of Kilkenny, Ireland, Truth has found himself in a somewhat compromised position in the basement of an abandoned brewery, a testament to the hardships of years gone by. Under some other circumstances, the Observer in Truth would be interested in learning of this establishment’s history and the exact circumstances that led to its downfall and abandonment. However, curiosity will have to wait.
Handcuffed to a support beam, bruised and a bit bloodied, The Exile is trapped, unable to free his arms and too tightly bound to the pole to reach out with his legs. There’s a single incandescent light bulb that has brought light to this wretched, dank cellar. And in the darkness, a figure emerges.
Bruised and bloodied like his captive, wearing a somewhat torn brown tweed gilet over a ragged white T-shirt, a lopsided flat cap on his head, stands a man with ruddy hair and a large, unhinged smile on his face. He walks up to Truth, without a single ounce of trepidation, and leans in close, close enough for Truth to smell the whiskey on his breath.
“Well, well, boyo,” Truth’s captor croons with that thick Irish brogue somewhat melodically as he takes his hand to The Exile’s chin and turns his head from side-to-side, as if inspecting a prized horse at an auction. “What the devil ya think yer doin’ here, comin’ onto my turf without so much as a ‘how ya do?’ Yer a real melter, Truth, ya know?”
“Spare me the bullshit,” Truth retorts with a fair amount of vitriol. “Everyone knows that dealing with James Boylan always ends with someone getting their teeth kicked in, no matter how much you want to pretend you’re some kind of gregarious soul. We know where you bury the bodies, Jimmy. So why bother pretending this was going to end anyway other than this?”
James makes a noticeable, overt *tsk’ing* sound as he clicks his tongue, as if disappointed. “Never pegged ya for someone to listen to rumors spread by a bunch of feckin’ chancers, but what’s the sayin’? ‘Never meet your heroes,’ aye?”
Truth, despite his position, defiantly chuckles at that. “Am I your hero, James?”
“Maybe at one point, but now? Cannae really say that,” James replies with a shrug. “But that’s neither here nor there. What brings ya to my little corner of paradise?”
“You know why I’m here. Why everybody in the world of shadows is breathing down your neck. You stole something, Jimmy. Something you should’ve never had, something that everybody who’s worth a damn in our little world would rather you not have.”
“And ya think yer the man to take it from me? Ha, ha, ha! Yer a real jammy fella, ain’tcha? Though maybe not so much, seein’ as ya find yerself in this position,” James retorts as he gets even closer, and there’s a moment, a wild look in the eyes of the thug where he looks almost wolfish, as if he desires to just take a bite out of Truth’s face. But, he backs off, arms outstretched to put on the facade of peace. “Nae, boyo. I reckon I’ll be keepin’ it. It’s mine. Mine for me and mine. And I reckon none of ya feckin’ gobshites get to take it from me. But, it’s right craic that yer willin’ to try.”
As if inspired, James holds out a finger. “I got it! How ‘bout a wee game? A bit of fun before the partin’.” With a flourish, James reaches behind him and drags a wheeled utility cart. Resting on it is an old Webley Mark VI revolver and a box of what appears to be .455 caliber ammunition. With a wicked sneer, James waves his hand over the revolver and ammo.
“Yer right. Ye ain’t the sole langer wantin’ what I have. So, let’s play a game! Six rounds. Five blanks, one live bullet. Ya know ‘em, because of course ya do. I bring up one of these…let’s call ‘em ‘hunters’ and ask ya if ya think they can do what yer tryin’ t’ do. If ya say they can, swallow that feckin’ pride of yers, I’ll let ya go. If not, well…”
“Are you sure you want to play this game?” Truth interrupts. His tone is…cold. Oddly serene given what James is proposing. “You’re not going to win, you know. There’s no victory here for you, none that will last at any rate. You see that, right?”
James looks at Truth, an incredulous look on his face, as if Truth said something completely insane. And isn’t it? This game is one that Truth CAN’T win, not in the position he’s in. The only way Truth even survives is by abandoning his pride. After a second, James lets out another chuckle. “What a feckin’ jape! ‘Not winnin’?’ Nae, we’re playin’, boyo.”
There’s a second where Truth’s expression falters…but not out of fear. But…pity? “Suit yourself.”
With an eagerness akin to a toddler playing with a new toy, James grabs the ammo box and shakes it like a rattle, the sound of six bullets clattering inside. After a few seconds of shaking, he opens the box and grasps the revolver. The gun is a top break, so taking it with two hands, James splits it to expose the chamber. Slowly, with his eyes not leaving his “guest,” the thug loads the bullets into the chamber before snapping it back in place. Twirling the Webley like some mockery of a gunslinger, James pulls a stool out and has a seat right in front of Truth, gun pointed at his captive’s chest.
“Right, then. Let’s start with an easy one, eh? Old friend of yers, a right cute hoor that keeps findin’ hisself reachin’ for the same things ye always graspin’ fer. Oh, the big prizes, he’s come closer ‘n most, and I dinnae…might well be his time. He’s even pulled the wool over yer eyes on occasion. What’s sayin’ he can’t accomplish what yer wantin’ to accomplish?”
Truth scoffs at that, spitting up a touch of blood onto the concrete floor. “If that’s what you’re starting with, this isn’t going to end well for you.”
“So, are ya bailin’ out already?” James retorts as he raises the gun to Truth’s head.
“Of course not,” Truth rebukes. Staring into the eyes of his captor, his will and resolve is iron. “The day that one beats me and secures a prize like the one you have is the day I walk away and never return. I don’t disagree that he’s beaten me on occasion in the many times we’ve crossed paths. But not as many times as I’ve beaten him. And in all the times we’ve faced off and I’ve beaten him down? It’s always been when it mattered the most, when the prize was just within grasp. If he was ever going to make a name for himself in this world of ours, he damn well would’ve done it already. He’s not the man he needs to be to walk the same Road I do. And if he doesn’t understand that, he never will be. Supposed prodigious talent, be damned.”
A smirk as the hammer is pulled back on the pistol.
A manic gleam in his eyes as he pulls the trigger.
*CLICK*
Nothing. A dud. James sighs, somewhat disappointed, but his displeasure fades away as he realizes that the game gets to continue. Pulling the hammer back again to the next shot, he leans back, casual as can be. “Aye, all right. Well, there’s another of your old acquaintances that I’ve been hearin’ rumors about. A right ride, that one. A cailin who, even after all this time, is enough to make old Holy Joe commit sin and damn his soul. Not that I care ‘bout that sort of shite m’self, but she be more than ‘er looks, as ye well know.”
“I know. But it seems like you don’t.”
“Hmm?” James reflexively asks, as if he didn’t expect that response. That very response is enough to make Truth laugh.
“You really don’t know, do you? Fucking hell, you’d think with all the heat on you, you’d be a lot smarter and more prepared for when someone’s coming for your head. That one? She’s already got you marked for a different sort of…meeting down the line.”
James’s manic, playful expression drops as he practically growls out, “The hell you know, Truth?”
“More than most, but that particular tidbit of information isn’t part of the game,” Truth mockingly retorts. “Besides, it really doesn’t matter either way. I don’t doubt her abilities, just her conviction. When you’re seeking the greatest prizes in the world of shadow, it’s not just a matter of being in the right place at the right time. It’s not about desire, or whether you’re entitled to it. It’s not about whatever legacy you already have, or how many eyes follow you wherever you go. It’s about resolve, the conviction to devote your heart and soul to the task at hand, to abandon ego and set it aside to ensure that nothing and nobody can weather the storm you bring down upon the heads of your enemies. Sorry, but her? I’m not about to put my faith in someone who’s legend is more a fabrication her and her devotees have nurtured rather than one rooted in reality, a hunter who only hunts when it’s the most opportunistic and there’s no threat of going hungry. No disrespect…but I am Truth, after all. And even harsh Truths are best delivered without a drop of sweetened caramel to make it easier to swallow.”
James stands up and points the Webley at Truth’s head again. There’s an air of feral ferocity, of indignant rage as he pulls the trigger again…
*CLICK*
Another blank. James’s teeth are gritted, frustration at his prisoner’s defiance is starting to show through the cracks of his visage. However, he backs off, the sneer replaced again by that wild look in his eyes and that twisted smile. He sits back down, readying for the next shot.
“Yer a right prideful bastard, Truth. And damn lucky. Got any Irish blood in yer veins?”
Truth shrugs, as much as he can in this compromised position. “Mutts don’t concern themselves with such things. So, who’s next?”
There’s a long, almost uncomfortable pause before James speaks again. “Right, then. How ‘bout this? Someone ye haven’t crossed paths with, least not in any way that matters. Real header, this one. Young, well-connected, more feckin’ money than sense, some would say. A rather recent comer to our lil’ slice of the dark. Know who I’m speakin’ of?”
Truth silently nods as James continues. “Aye, he’s findin’ himself in rarefied company these days. Makin’ all sorts of connections, takin’ all sorts of shots. What ye think? Somethin’ to be said for the young and reckless, I say. ‘Fortune favors the bold,’ some might say.”
“You would say that, because you’re a goddamn idiot,” Truth spits back with an overdose of venom, which James almost gags from as his eyes narrow and sharpen like daggers threatening to open Truth’s throat for his insolence. “You think that someone like him is ready for the dangers that come from chasing and holding prizes like the ones you and I seek? Fearlessness is only admirable when there’s nothing truly to fear. But we know better, don’t we? There’s plenty to be scared of when the sun sets and night falls. Challenges that make whatever meaningless, meager victories that one has faced look like a child’s playtime compared to the battles yet to come. That one thinks himself a hunter. But a raptor’s only a dangerous predator so long as he’s not trapped in a net and his wings aren’t clipped. He’s not the first young upstart that thought he was ready for the shadows only to find them…suffocating.”
Despite Truth’s earlier insult, James can’t help but shrug, as if agreeing with The Exile. Still, that doesn’t stop him from point and firing…
*CLICK*
Yet another blank. Half of the rounds past, only three more to go. James pulls the hammer back yet again, a bit more slowly and with agonizing purpose as he racks the next chamber into position.
“Hell…ye are a cold bastard, ain’tcha? But we’re not quite done, boyo. There’s another, one that’s a bit longer in the tooth that’s recently come back to…”
“Not a fucking chance,” Truth interjects without letting James finish. The force behind Truth’s words hits harder than any bullet as James is stunned yet again. It takes him a second before he regains his composure.
“Christ, Truth! No need to be a rude muppet. Ye haven’t let me finish.”
Truth scoffs and shakes his head. “I don't have to. I know full well who the hell you’re about to talk about, and I’m not interested in hearing you speak any longer than I have to. He’s absolutely nothing and nobody, and the thought that you THINK I’d abandon my pride and give him anything more than my utter indifference is a graver wound than taking the bullet.”
“Yer sure about that, boyo?”
“Positive,” Truth replies, sharpened steel in his voice. “The oceans will dry up and the sun will set in the east before that one ever makes anything of himself that’s more than an idle curiosity at best and a major thorn in the ass of our world at worst. Oh sure, I hear it from everyone whose interests are in the shadows. A lot of hype about that one’s return to the great hunt, for reasons I have yet to understand. What has that one done in comparison to others? Who is he that anybody should care? Whatever delusions of grandeur or desires for glory are wasted on him. A return that went better than it had any right to means little and less. His name’s already been on my dance card recently, and all that he managed to accomplish was to waste my time as I put him down and stepped over his body just to return to the hunt. Besides…if you can’t keep your own house in order, if people who’ve you’ve indebted yourself to keep looking over your shoulder looking to collect, you’ll never truly be free to be something other than someone else’s tool. Tell me, has YOUR partner figured that out yet?”
That gets a rise out of James. He stands up again, presses the gun to Truth’s temple, and pulls the trigger again…
*CLICK*
James’s frustration has started to boil out, the twisted amusement threatening to be overwhelmed by the devil in his soul eager for blood. He pulls the hammer back and looks like he’s about to pull the trigger again immediately…but he stops, as that wicked grin comes across his face again.
“There’s another. Young cailin, but a real firebrand. Bold as brass, that one. No name, no pedigree, none of that shite. But hunger, aye. Plenny of that. Reminds me bit o’ ye, Truth. Not as much of a spide as ye, aye…but a believer in ‘er own righteousness.”
“Yeah, she is,” Truth says, conceding the point. There’s a softening in his expression that James immediately latches onto.
He gets in close, pointing the gun underneath Truth’s chin as he leans in, practically whispering in his prisoner’s ear. “She’s the one, ain’t she? Proud as ye are, ye can’t deny that she’s bold as brass, and has the stones to match ye. Clever like a fox, as well. Not that it’d make a lick ‘a difference, but she’d be the one ye would not acknowledge. So…say it. Say it and save yerself.”
Truth takes a long several seconds, not meeting the gaze of his crazed captor, and for a brief moment? It looks at if James has finally gotten what he wanted out of this twisted game. To see Truth capitulate, to abandon his pride and ego to save himself.
But…James ends up disappointed as Truth looks him dead in the eyes. “Were it any other circumstance, if I wasn’t involved in any other way? She’d be the one I’d bet on. But this isn’t any other circumstance. I am involved. And if I had to bet on her, someone who’s still young herself and has yet to truly be tested in the crucible, or on myself? I bet on myself. Every single time.”
Truth leans forward, the gun barrel still resting under his chin as his forehead rests on James’s, his eyes locked into the maniac’s. “Any other day, any other prize, and against any other obstacle? Sure, I’d give her my faith. I like her a lot. There’s a resolve in her heart that reminds me of my own, back when I was still young and new to the darkness. But your game is predicated on the idea that it’s your prize all of these hunters are after, and you’re the target. I’ll admit…any of those fuckers you brought up? On any given night, they might be able to take you down. But they don’t have the kind of…motivation that I do. The kind of drive that makes a man willing to walk a thousand miles barefoot on a field of glass throught the fires of Hell itself to watch you die just slowly enough to see your precious prize in my hands. No matter how much that one wants it, thinks she NEEDS it? It’s nothing. A whisper on the wind, a fleeting fancy compared to the HUNGER I have for what you stole, the hunger I have to see you bleed out broken on the ground for all the world to see for all the suffering you’ve inflicted just to sate your own delusional little whims. She’s not the one. Not yet. And no matter how much I like that one? If she were to stand in my way, I’ll put her ass in the ground right next to the grave I’ve dug for you just to wrap my hands around your throat.”
James grits his teeth. How? How can such a man, bound and at the mercy of his better, be so goddamn defiant in the face of destruction? He’s won! Truth will either break, or he will DIE. James holds the power of life and death with his trigger finger, and yet…and yet…and YET!
James pulls the trigger again…
*CLICK*
The last blank. The last dead shell. Truth has done it, the son of a bitch. James is fuming…but he starts to laugh. Cackle like a madman diving off the edge of sanity and reason.
“Holy hell! What a feckin’ lucky bastard ye are! Ye feckin’ kill a leprechaun on your way here and steal his gold?”
“Luck has nothing to do with it, Jimmy. You were never in control. Never have been. Just a gazelle trying its best to escape the jaws of the lion,” The Exile simply states.
“Ahahaha!” James laughs maniacally as he points the gun again at Truth, finger hovering over the trigger. “Yer a real gobdaw, but I cannae deny yer banter ain’t amusin’. But…what’s to stop me from blowin’ yer brains out? Five rounds, five blanks. No questionin’ that the last shot’s the real deal. So…what’s stoppin’ me, boyo? What’s stoppin’ me from endin’ ye?”
It’s here, in this moment of desperation, that Truth simply…shakes his head. There’s no anger in his expression. That’s long since gone. The rage and indignation is replaced…by disappointment. Disappointment not in himself or in this situation. Disappointment…and disgust at the man taunting him.
“At what point are you going to open your eyes, Jimmy?,” Truth asks, as James’s expression falters. “How long are you going to keep pretending that you're the one who has any chance of coming out on top of what’s going to happen?
“Jimmy…who the fuck do you think is holding the gun?”
James blinks. Stunned. And when he opens his eyes, the self-absorbed illusion shatters and reveals the Truth.
Truth is not the one handcuffed to the support column in the basement of this derelict brewery. James is far more battered and bloodied than Truth was in his delusion. Truth is the one standing above him, certainly bruised…but certainly no worse for wear. And The Exile is the one looming large, the Webley pointed at James’s head.
There’s a hardness, harder than stone or steel or the world in Truth’s eyes. There’s no pleasure in this, no attempts at trying to reconcile what this is as anything more than the prelude to an execution. As the curtain rises and James returns to reality, the once-arrogant thug thrashes against his bindings like a caged animal, but is quickly reminded that there is no escape.
Truth, eyes never leaving, always focused like a laser, simply stares down his would-be tormenter as James retreats into himself, the mania replaced by the fear of a child about to be punished by a parent, eyes wide and almost pleading for mercy.
Mercy doesn’t appear to be on the agenda for this evening as Cyrus pulls back the hammer of the Webley. “You’re not special, Jimmy. You’re far from the first scumbag to think that, just because they’ve dodged justice for the crimes they’ve committed, that means they’re invincible. That they’re entitled to do as they please, keep what they’ve stolen. That consequences are something they don’t have to worry about. But…that’s not how the world works. Not how MY world works. As long as I draw breath, as long as I can still fight and know what needs to happen when monsters and fools like you prowl the shadows? You will ALWAYS get what’s coming to you.
“It has to be me. Because nobody else needs it more. Wants it more. Wants what you’ve stolen. Needs to see you suffer Hell. And I am more than willing, more than able, and damn well ready to tear through any and all who want to try and get in my way. If God truly exists like my former mentors seem to think? He might well condemn me for my violent ways. But I don’t care. Because this is an opportunity I cannot let slip through my fingers. Because I am Truth. And because…the world deserves to know that actions always have consequences, and we all must answer for our sins in equal measure.”
James looks as if he wants to say something. Defiance or begging for mercy? Hard to say. The thoughts and desires of the delusional and the monstrous are near impossible to discern, even now as the end draws near.
There are many in the world of shadows like Truth. Many who seek to claim or reclaim prizes and power, to ensure that their place in the darkness is ensured or to use them to lord over the weaker. The desires matter not. Only the players in the game and who has the edge.
But no hunter, no seeker, no upstart can ever, EVER hope to match the resolve of a traveler of the Long and Winding Road, who sees the prize right around the final bend…who sees the monster standing in his way.
Against that conviction? What man or woman could ever hope to endure the fury of a righteous man?
*CLICK*
*BANG!* |
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beavie
FWA Wrestler
Posts: 114 
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Post by beavie on Sept 21, 2024 22:20:22 GMT
 Author's Note: After the intro, you may go through the next parts in near any order, ending with the "antidote." |
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bongo
FWA Wrestler
Posts: 37
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Post by bongo on Sept 22, 2024 9:39:21 GMT
It's a Lumberjack segment, so there's only one place we could possibly be- That's right. You guessed it. A Forest! We're surrounded by thick towering trees. The dull thud of heavy boots on grass and leaves, as if those boots are actively trying to cause nature pain, which given who this segment is with that's no surprise. And sure enough the camera pans up to show the massive wall of humanity made up of Dan and Doug Lupone collectively known as The Lumberjacks standing proudly in front of a massive, freshly cut tree stump. Dressed in their traditional attires of flannel shirts and dirty jeans, Over Doug’s shoulder rests his signature big ass, heavy axe, glinting in the sunlight. The summer is leaving us, and for the lumberjacks, that means the Yukon is preparing for the harsh winters, but if it bothers The Lumberjacks, they ain't showing it.
"Chris Peacock"
"Eh?"
"Alyster Black"
"Eh?"
You think we didn’t notice you’ve been licking your wounds?
"Eh?"
"Just because you're medically clear you think you two can stand to us?"
"Eh?"
Do you think just because you put your name on a dotted line and signed some waver that you’re ready to step back into OUR forest?
"Eh?"
"Well, you’re not!"
"Eh!" |
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Jonny
FWA Wrestler
Be not afraid.
Posts: 2
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Post by Jonny on Sept 22, 2024 15:21:41 GMT
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Post by supinesnake on Sept 22, 2024 18:19:43 GMT
October, 1892.  Dear Price, It has been a full day since we disembarked our ship and left the harbour, striking inland into the heart of this vast and unfamiliar continent. I believe they call it the New World and for good reason, for although the landscape is framed in references to that of Europe, it is just as much - indeed, moreso - imbued with its own unique, alien character. One feels like the explorers of old, adventuring towards a frontier, the quarrelsome countries of their youth - across the sea and now firmly behind them - a thing of a distant and barely recognisable past. This blank canvass has, of course, been scribbled upon freely over the previous four centuries. At first by various European colonial interests, and then later by the interests of the revolutionary American dissidents. But still, owing to the sheer size of Columbus' discovery, much of the land here still remains untouched. It is a wilderness that simply doesn't exist back in Europe. We are twenty four hours removed from the harbour, and I have seen nobody besides my dour and glum driver - hired by my father to take me as far as Atlanta - for the last twenty one of them. I wonder if this is what I meant, my dear Price, when I yearned for the adventure that you yourself have sought. Without you here, my heart has called out - albeit timidly - for some semblance of the same drama. How could a man simply remain idle, whilst his friend (reluctant though I am to use that word) is making a name for himself out ‘in the world’? Retired I may be, but I still draw breath! That being said, the adventure that has befallen me is not one that I relish beyond this first day. If all I had to do here was explore, even only as far as Atlanta, I would return to London a happy man. It is the leg after this one that I worry about. I am to be picked up in Atlanta by the client's driver, who will transport me the rest of the way northwards, into the highlands and away - again - from civilization. It is there that Fantsylvania lies. The client has an ill reputation, as does the surrounding land, over which he is said to hold a dominion that goes beyond land ownership or governmental structures. The Wild West still lives in the east, they say, finding its home in Fantsylvania. He is known colloquially as the Count, although many other sobriquets are rumoured to belong to him. He used this formal title when he wrote to Harker & Sons, my father's company, to request a solicitor to help manage his emigration to Europe. Asked for me personally. I must say my curiosity was piqued, although I'm not sure if it is enough to shake me loose from the slumber of retirement. I have come, though. The place's sinister reputation was an allure when an ocean sat between Fantsylvania and I, but now that I am here I find that I am not so bold. My courage escapes me more with each passing mile. I shall write to you frequently, my dear Price, for I fear that - if I am to return to England at all - I will do so a completely changed man. Yours, Jeanathan Harker. |
***  Dear Price, My father’s driver was as good as his word, taking me to Atlanta and not a step further. He’d pushed the horses hard and disappeared to find a stable to house them for the night, his intention being to head back to the safety and (relative) comfort of the coast as soon as they’d rested. He left me to wait patiently on the northern shore of Lake Spivey before disappearing into the descending night. I never saw him again. The Count’s stagecoach arrived at midnight, or as close to it as I could tell with no timepiece. He wore dark purple robes, his face shrouded in the shadows of his low-hanging hood. I sensed a smile lurking in the darkness, but this was a feeling that would remain unconfirmed. He loaded my belongings into the back of the coach and climbed into the driver’s seat, barely waiting for me to hoist myself onto the rickety back bench before the horses guided us forwards. For a while he said little, other than to comment on how big or bright or round the moon was and the intermittent giggle that seemed a nervous habit as much as anything else. No, not a giggle: more of a cackle. I attempted to read through the reams of notes I’d made back in London, collating everything I could find about the Count and Fantsylvania. The thickening darkness and my fatigue conspired against me, and soon I had to abandon my attempts at diligence in favour of staring at the moon and smoking my pipe. The tobacco soothed my mind, hitherto addled by the long night and the weight of the task ahead of me. For the first time since leaving Atlanta, I began to feel relaxed to the point where an attempt at conversation was possible. “Is it much further?” I asked. “Much of the night,” the driver replied, whilst gently willing the horses on. We were beginning to climb. “You’d do well to get some sleep.”“I’m not tired,” I said, dismissively. “Have you worked for the Count long?”“As long as I can remember,” the driver answered. I puffed thoughtfully at my pipe. “And what is he like?” I enquired, my curiosity getting the better of me. “If I am to work for the man, I would like to know a little more about him. From someone that knows him. Someone like you. You hear things, even across the ocean.”This only seemed to amuse the driver. “Kehahahaha,” he cackled. The horses meandered onwards across ever more treacherous terrain. “What have you heard?”“Fantsylvania has a peculiar reputation,” I answered, vaguely. “The Count, too. I’d like to know if it is earned.”“Oh, that is…an interesting question,” the driver coyly replied as the path started to wind through a forest towards a series of hills. “This part of the world is certainly a bit…different from the world you’re used to. I daresay you’ve arrived in stranger times and a stranger place.”“‘Strange’ in what way?” I asked with slight trepidation as the driver took a second to look behind him, hidden eyes piercing through his hood. Another low cackle, one that rattled my bones in a way that made my hairs stand on end, if but for a moment. “There are things that only act when the rest of the world sleeps. When the sun sets and darkness falls. In such a place, in a world where the bizarre truly is more common than the usual drudgery of the day…well, it takes one whose mind is…attuned to the bizarre.”“Are you saying the Count is a madman?”The driver shook his head as the sound of reins cracking like a whip cut through the air. “Madness is a relative thing, friend. We’re all mad in one way or form. The Count’s just the only man who understands what that actually means. Kehahaha…”I was confused and ultimately dissatisfied with his answer, and concluded that a reasonable conversation with him - at least on the topic of the Count - wasn’t possible. I leant back on the coach’s bench and attempted to sleep. The driver continued to talk, but mostly to the horses. I drifted in and out of consciousness as we climbed, occasionally waking to find us traversing a deep ravine, or filing through a forest, or (on one occasion) dangling over the precipice of a high cliff. I immediately clenched the wooden bench beneath me, as if that would save me should we fall over the edge. The driver cackled in response, and drove the horses on faster. We had travelled a night, a day, and the beginning of a second night when I finally saw it in the distance. The castle had been described to me by the Count himself in his letters, and upon seeing it in the distance it became apparent that what I thought were presumed exaggerations were in actual fact modesty. I have traveled extensively within Europe, as you are well aware, but never have I seen such a feat of construction, even in the eastern reaches of our old continent. It looked as though it predates the New World itself, and indeed the old one I left across the sea. I attempted to count the turrets as we approached, but more were constantly revealed to me as we grew closer, or dipped behind a wall of rock and returned to view it at a slightly different angle. Storm clouds gathered above it, framing the abode in a foreboding light, its white walls grimly dulled by the moon’s ghostly reflection. It looked frozen in time, as though it had always been here and always would be. This felt like a contradiction, knowing that the Count intended to leave. Would the castle still stand, if he wasn’t here to dwell in it? Throughout my communications, the Count had remained elusive with regards to his motives for the move to Europe. Now, when confronted with the majesty of his castle, it felt like an affront to my good sense that he should wish to leave it. The driver left me at the open gates. He muttered something about housing the horses and urged me to go inside without him. The Count would greet me personally, he said, with a smile and another thin cackle. I waited inside the expansive reception room and regarded the series of portraits looming above me. They were all of the same man, familiar even though his face was masked by either fabric or shadow in each of them. I had the sense that hidden eyes were watching me and grew wary of the portraits. I focused instead on the thick mass of cobwebs that accrued in every corner. The place had seen better days. “You must be tired, Mr. Harker,” a voice declared, drawing my attention to the man that had joined me in the reception room. He wore a black cloak with an indigo inlay and a high collar, which brushed up against the purple mask that hid his eyes. I recognised him immediately. His voice was unmistakable. The cackle that followed this realisation confirmed it. The driver had housed the horses, changed his clothes, and now stood before me as the Count. “Kehahahaha! Don’t look so surprised. This is a big place, but it’s just me here. I do everything.”I again observed the cobwebs that surrounded us, and wondered if the Count’s responsibilities extended to cleaning. He seemed to understand my meaning quite plainly. “Well, I do as much as I can do,” he said, flippantly. “But there’s only so many hours in the night.”He led the way into the dining room, where a light supper was set up for my arrival. The Count didn’t eat himself, but nursed a glass of deep red wine from a large chalice. I happily gorged on the bread, cheese, and cold meats that he served upon a silver platter. It was good food, but had a sort of old quality, as though it had been preserved for a long time in anticipation of an eventual visit. “I should introduce myself properly,” the host said. “I am aware of my reputation abroad. I was reminded of it on the journey back to the castle, after all.” I shuffled uncomfortably in my seat at this thinly-veiled barb, even if it was delivered with an ironically youthful impudence. “I am recognised by many names, but Count Hao is the one that will appear on the documents that you prepare for me.”“If I decide to take the job,” I interjected, hastily, and with a mouthful of cheese. “That has not been decided, although I am grateful for the supper.”“You’re most welcome,” the Count replied. “To the bread, to your decision, and to the time you take with it. But you are here, and that at least means your curiosity is tickled.”“A shrewd observation,” I allowed. I was relaxed by the food, much needed after the long journey. The wine, however, was not like wine that I had ever tasted. It sat neglected, a few bitter sips enough to quench my thirst. “Though I have questions that I’d like answered before I enter into this arrangement.”“The night is young,” he said. An odd turn of phrase, I thought, given that it was already beyond midnight. The Count was impressively fresh-faced for the hour, especially in contrast to my ragged, road-worn form. “Ask away.”I thought for a moment, before asking the most prevalent question within my mind. It was perhaps blunt and uncomely, but I had travelled far to see him. He had opened his home and his table to me, and so I felt I owed him honesty in return at the very least. “Why do you want to move?”At this, the Count grew silent, his verbosity up to this point suddenly stunted by the question. His smile remained, but the cackle that accompanied it was more thin and fragile than before. “New challenges,” he mumbled. “And old woes.”A period of silence followed, in which I grew unsettled and then anxious. “You are tired,” the Count stated, somewhat obviously. “Perhaps it is best that you rest for a few hours, after you have satisfied your hunger. I will show you to your room, if you have decided to stay?”It didn't seem that I had much of a choice. I set down my knife and fork and nodded my head, meek in my acquiescence. “And, if you are to stay in my home and eat my food, it seems only right that we at least begin the task that you have been brought here for,” he continued, as though this was a perfectly natural conclusion to draw. I narrowed my eyes distrustfully. “You will be amply remunerated for the work you complete, and are under no obligation to stay a moment longer than you wish to.”I realised that there was no question in the utterance. More of an instruction. But something in the confident and assuring manner in which the Count spoke convinced me that he was being entirely reasonable. Accommodating of me, even. “Very well,” I heard myself saying. I followed the Count to my room, which had within it a bed that would have been the correct size for a child. This anomaly didn't seem to register for my host, who looked around the room with a wistful, almost nostalgic expression. “I hope you find it comfortable,” he said, whilst moving towards the door. “I should inform you that I keep irregular sleeping hours, by most people's standards. I don't expect you to shift yours to match. We will have to do our work together in the morning, before dawn. I am eager to begin, and so I will awaken you in four hours. I think we'll start with the inventory.”I nodded my head, suddenly very tired and eager for the Count to leave. “Good night, Mr. Harker.”And he was gone. Alone, I began to ponder the events of the evening and the Count's words. Particularly their effect over me. Only now was the strange nature of the preceding few hours beginning to dawn on me. I fought off sleep to write you this letter, which the Count has assured me he can arrange to send. There is an irony in me writing to you in order to document the danger I'm in and raise the alarm, so to speak, in case of wrongdoing, and then relying on the man who poses that very threat for their delivery. But what other option do I have? There are times, when under the spell of his words, that I begin to doubt he is a man at all. Yours, Jeanathan Harker. |
***  Dear Price, Last night, whilst I attempted to sleep, I was plagued by night terrors of a sort that I'd never experienced. My sleep was restless, haunting sounds from the moors that surrounded the castle depriving me of the peace that I needed. I could not place their source. It started with the howling and wailing of a wild, feral beast, unlike any animal I had ever heard previously. They were met by the clashing of ghostly swords, a great warrior of the past seemingly walking the moors again, unable to breathe but quite happy to swing his sword around instead. Wherever he travelled - and I felt I could hear him doing so, despite the thick walls and leagues of deserted moorland that surround the castle - he was greeted at first by the laughter and mockery of his peers, which soon gave way to their dying screams. I could not see my torturers in the flesh, but visions of them came to me as apparitions during the short, stunted sleep that I managed to steal. The wild beast's flesh was rancid and rotten, and fell from the bone as it lumbered this way and that. The warrior was as ghoulish as I anticipated from the deathly sounds of his fell sword, imbued with a slight transparency, and with a long gash - splitting both the flesh of his body and the steel of his armour - from his throat to his navel. His face was solemn and dour, contrasting the rabid grunting and growling of the wild beast. I dreamed that I was standing on top of the castle, and below me upon the moors I could see the warrior's encampment. He sat outside his tent, sharpening his white sword. The beast prowled, ominous and unrelenting, in a wide circle around the perimeter of my vantage point. If a battle was to ensue, my sleep was too light to allow me to bear witness. Usually, it was my tormentors themselves that kept me up, a particularly sharp howl or a shrill battlecry enough to shake me from light slumber. At others, the sounds came from within the castle. The grinding of heavy machinery and the occasional explosion emanated from the bowels of the building itself, a result - I imagined - of the tinkering machinations of the Count himself. It was he who woke me, only two hours before the dawn. I was, of course, already awake, given that it was quite impossible to remain asleep for longer than a handful of minutes. The Count chose to rouse me by tapping on the door three times with the tip of his fingernail. The slight, subtle sound echoed around the room, the door submitting to the pressure with a high-pitched creak. “Come, Jeanathan,” the Count instructed. “Now we must work.”After a short but filling breakfast of fruit, nuts, and more old (but not stale, more well-preserved) bread, we began work on the inventory of items that the Count wished to take with him across the ocean. I was somewhat perturbed to find that he intended to take everything with him, and only soothed when I reminded myself that it wouldn't be my job to oversee any of that. During my restless night, I had resolved to stay for as long as was polite, before making my apologies and telling the Count that I could recommend another, more suitable, un-retired colleague to take over the affair. I figured such a conversation might be easier if I pulled my socks up in the meantime. But I do mean everything, and to a man like the Count that means a lot more than it would to you or I. We worked for two hours before he wished me goodnight and retired to his quarters, and I estimate that we catalogued less than one per cent of the belongings in his possession (assuming the castle's other levels are as densely populated with miscellanea as this one). It would take months to complete the task with the diligence it demands, unless I was willing to alter my own sleep schedule to match the irregular pattern of the Count. I have seen so little of the place, and yet I've laid eyes on wonders too manifold for me to list here. The idea of the inventory - as you wouldn't know given your lack of interest in detail, my dear Price - is so that I (or rather Harker & Sons, eventually) can begin to compile a list of the permits and permissions that will be needed for them to be taken into the Count’s new land, as well as arrange for their transportation, insurance, and other administrative necessities. Bureaucracy, essentially, and I had assumed a mere formality. I must confess, however, that my expertise does not extend to the items that I have witnessed today, on only day one of this project. Precious metals and gemstones from all over the world (and indeed off it), many of which defy classification. Several sacred texts, some of which are potentially original and - until now - presumed lost, along with six stone tablets inscribed with an unfamiliar script, but ancient-looking. Weapons innumerable, a neat stack of ten thousand gold ingots, barrels of strange fuels used to power the place. Elixirs and potions and perfumes and explosives – lots of explosives, in stockpiles and hidden strategically in walls (next to surplus cash reserves). And that's not to mention the veritable zoo of exotic animals, all of whom had undergone some form of ‘cybernetic enhancement’ - as he termed it - along the way. Throughout the beginnings of our stock take, the Count would frequently tell a story to better illustrate why each of these items was in his possession. Some of these tales dated back hundreds of years, and took place in unrecognised (ostensibly undiscovered) lands. Yet, as he told them, the Count invariably appeared to place himself in the middle of the narrative, as a hero defying both time and space. The stories were good, though, and I allowed myself to be carried away by them. When dawn was beginning to creep up on the world, the Count began to make preparations to finish work for the evening and retire to his quarters. It was then that I chose to broach the subject of my night terrors, realising that I may not have another chance to do so before darkness again fell over the moors. I began with the explosions, which had rumbled beneath me as I slept, seemingly the work of someone inside the castle. “The castle is old,” the Count explained, dismissively. It was a true statement, but I doubted it was a relevant one. “She's prone to going bang in the night. Nothing to worry about.”“You're not concerned about what that will do to the asking price?” I enquired. Later, I wondered why I had been so content to go along with the Count's tall story. I'd seen the explosives for myself now, after all. He'd shown them to me. “I don't intend to sell Fantsylvania, Mr. Harker,” he explained, brightly. “I doubt I would be able to. Civilisation doesn't prosper here.”“Which brings me to the other thing,” I said, hesitantly. I then explained about the wild beast and the ghost warrior, how I'd heard them on the moors and seen them in my dreams. As I described them and my anguish, his smile - visible through a gap in his mask - only grew. “I know the two that you speak of,” the Count began, almost emboldened by my tortured recollections. “It is the right time of year for them. I do not know their names, but I have seen them too. They appear almost pitiful. But that is their greatest weapon. Underestimate them at your peril, even if one is dead and the other is rotting.”“I will not make a point of even meeting them,” I answered. “Nobody ever does,” the Count said, wryly. “But they have a habit of finding you, anyway. And when they do, you shouldn't judge them by their dilapidated appearances. They have a reputation for cunning, and the laughter of their enemies often yields to despair. You heard this for yourself. But still…”Here, the Count fell into silence, as if he was unsure if I should be let into the secret. Or, more probably, to allow my curiosity to heighten further. “But still?” I prompted. “There are other, quieter threats on the moors than these two lost souls,” the Count said, suggestively. “And the deadliest beast strikes in silence.”After this, he would say no more on the matter. With the day's light beginning to creep through the tightly shut curtains, he insisted that it was time for him to retire. “I'm okay to continue with the inventory whilst you sleep?” I asked. This seemed to please the Count, who beamed broadly beneath his mask and hood. “Of course!” he boomed. “You have free reign in the castle. Access all areas. I would expect nothing less than this sort of initiative from my solicitor.”“I'm not your solicitor yet,” I reminded him. “Not yet,” the Count agreed. Continuing with the inventory, as I had intended, was not as easy a task as I had hoped. Despite having free reign over the castle, I found that all of the staircases and most of the doors on this level were heavily locked. Even the ones that I had been inside with the Count earlier on in the day. Those rooms that I could access were filled with artifacts so alien and implacable that inventorying them proved impossible. I would stand for a while with a glass orb or a metallic cylinder in my hands, regarding it carefully as if that might illuminate its identity, before placing it back on its shelf and moving along to the next object. This continued for a while, until I set my notepad down and simply decided to explore instead. It didn't take long before I was standing outside of the door that I knew to be that of the Count's chambers. He had made a point of showing it to me - once after my arrival, a second time during the night's work, and a final time before he retired to bed - in a way that I found slightly peculiar. Not as if he was telling me so that I wouldn't disturb him, but quite the opposite. He knew that I was a curious man. He was banking on it in his pursuit to hire me. I figured that he must have known that I would find myself here in the daylight hours. So, emboldened by this series of assumptions, I let myself in. I was initially surprised to find that it wasn't locked, even if this contradicted the reason I entered in the first place. The curtains were closed firmly and tightly, just like they were in every other room in the castle besides the one that I had been assigned. I had half assumed that the Count's chambers would be the exception to the rule in terms of cleanliness, but in fact the precise opposite was true. Here, the cobwebs and dust lay even more thickly than it did elsewhere, as though such imperfections had been actively encouraged over centuries. The desk was equally as cluttered, mostly with piles of scrolls and tablets, as well as a dozen glass bottles, each filled with a thick, red liquid that - if I didn't know any better - I would have identified as blood. It frightened me to realise that I didn't know any better. Everything I'd heard about the Count - from people other than the Count himself - was sinister, and didn't rule out the fact that he might have twelve bottles of blood on the desk in his bedroom. I shuddered to think where the blood was from, and where it might be going. Most shocking of all, at least to me, was the fact that there was no bed in sight, nor could I see the Count himself. I knew he was there, though. I felt his presence. I knew where he was, too: he was inside the large, wooden coffin that dominated the centre of the room. What sort of place have I come to, my dear Price? Of what exactly does the Count hold rule over, and of whom? I fear, ever increasingly, that I myself will soon count myself amongst his serfs, or perhaps with the lost souls who wander his moors. Yours, at least for today, Jeanathan Harker. |
***  Dear Price, Time has seemingly lost a great deal of meaning in Fantsylvania, and I find myself wondering how long I must remain here in this haunted, unnerving place. The work provides less of a distraction in the days and nights I spend as the Count’s guest, as I still find myself pondering what I had found in the Count’s private chambers and what it means. I’ve become more and more convinced that the world I have entered, this dark and twisted mirror of the world I’ve always known, is as dangerous as I’ve been led to believe, and nightmares roam freely to torment the living. And, perhaps…I have found myself sharing dinners with such a monster. The questions, the mysteries of the Count have weighed heavily, and during another meal with my host, it became obvious that my inner turmoil was plainly written on my face. “Are you unwell, Mr. Harker?” the Count’s voice asked from the other end of the dining table, which broke me out of my own mind. “You have barely touched your stew. If the meal is not agreeable to your palate, I could request something else be prepared for you.”My thoughts, my fears…despite what I had heard and seen in my time at the Count’s domain, I must admit that there was a certain pull in the Count’s voice, in the tone of genuine concern that, even as I write this, I cannot ascertain what malice might lie behind it. “N-no, Count. The soup is fine. But, are you not dining tonight?”The Count shook his head as he simply raised a glass to his lips, eyes peering out from the mask he always wore. “No, I must apologize for my rudeness. However, I have already procured refreshment, and I don’t wish to upset my digestion by overindulging.”In the darkness of the dining room, where the shadows danced on candlelight, I could swear I saw him smile that devilish smile of his. I took a drink of my own wine, the vine providing a modicum of courage to ask a question that I’ve longed to know the answer to since arriving. “These…’lost souls’ that you have mentioned. They seem to be getting louder with each passing night.”The Count took another sip of his wine. Was it wine? Or something thicker, more viscous? “That they are. Troublesome, as they always have been. But, there is little and less that can be done about them. I would not concern yourself with them, Mr. Harker. So long as you remain in my castle and under my protection, you have nothing to fear from their ilk.”“You say that with such confidence, Count,” I replied, taking a spoonful of the soup that had been served as my modest dinner, long past cold at this point. “I’m not too proud to admit that I find the constant clattering and screeches unnerving, but you remain so…calm about it. I hope it’s not too forward of me to ask where this confidence comes from.”“Oh, never too forward. Are we not friends at this point in our relationship, Mr. Harker?” the Count responded with a wide, almost unsettling grin. “But if it will put your curiosity and concerns at ease, then suffice it to say that my…confidence, if that’s the word you wish to use, stems from a very simple fact. These creatures of the night are my children.”I daresay, Price, that I found it hard not to choke on the contents of my last helping of the soup at that proclamation. But, as if to address my incredulous reaction to the Count’s all-too casual declaration, my host raised his hand to maintain control of the dialogue. “I say ‘children’ in a…metaphorical sense, of course,” the masked master of the castle explained, never taking his eyes off me. “I have not exactly hidden my predilection for the aspects of life on the other side of the dawn, after all. You have done an exceptional job of inventorying my possessions, and you surely have arrived at that conclusion after seeing some of the more esoteric items I’ve accumulated over the years. But…some in this world, such as myself, cast a very long shadow that others find comfort and purpose in. A shadow, a wake that allows such creatures to dwell within. These specters…the beast and the warrior, are but a small sampling of the creatures that have followed me to this place, my home, my domain…seeking the sort of refuge and dominion that I’ve created for myself. Such is the curse I bear, my friend. I am damned in a sense. For as long as I exist? Creatures like them will continue to exist as well.”“If that’s the case,” I rebutted with what I can only describe as a well of bravado which I did not know of nor willingly drank from, “then I must admit…I’m perplexed.”“How so?”“You have said that these creatures are a direct result of your presence. Your existence has allowed them to be made manifest to haunt the places you reside. I can understand now why you would wish to leave this place, to leave such creatures behind to start anew. However, you said it yourself, did you not, Count? These creatures, if I am to understand, are a direct result of your…presence, in all its various definitions.”“Indeed. What of it?”“Then, would it not be reasonable to assume that these hauntings won’t just…follow you? They infest your home here, but what is to stop them from migrating wherever you go? Or others like them emerging from your ‘shadow’ as you call it?” I remember feeling a swelling of indignation, though I cannot say for certain where it came from either. Regardless, it seemed as if my words were received with great interest as the Count leaned forward in his chair, forgoing the wine glass. “Hmm. I suppose you have a point, Mr. Harker. But if you are suggesting that I not simply try and outrun these creatures, what then? What is your suggestion?”“You fight back!” I respond, with a fury that I did not know I possessed. At least not anymore. “This is your home, your domicile. This is the place you’ve made into your own. Surely, someone of your reputation and presence is capable of fending off a pair of monsters. Why, between the two of us, I’m certain we can…”My words froze in my mouth as a cold feeling raced through my mind. I knew what I was about to say, I was all too eager to say it…but why? Regardless, the Count all too quickly picked up on it. “Kehahaha…oh my. Mr. Harker, you are an interesting man, and you continue to surprise me. After all this time, you’ve done a diligent job of managing my possessions without a formal agreement, and now? You leap to my aid, willing to defend my home against such creatures of the night. I knew, when we first met, you were something quite rare in the world. How could I refuse such a passionate offer of assistance?”I opened my mouth to reply but found that no words fell out of it. Confronted with the Count’s encouraging smile, I concluded that it would be quite rude of me to immediately rescind an offer that I'd only made a few moments before. Although the idea of striking out of the castle, weapons shimmering in the pale moonlight and pockets no doubt filled with some of my host's explosives, was both terrifying and invigorating. “Just two of us?” I asked, with a slight stutter. My aim was to temper the Count's expectations by highlighting our lack of fire power. “You mentioned other lost souls on the moors, alongside those that the beast and the warrior call allies. Is two enough?”“I should think two would be enough, depending on the two,” the Count explained, appearing both thoughtful and dismissive. “But even so, it won't be just the two of us. I have other friends, Mr. Harker, who I can call upon, now that our minds are made up.”There didn't seem any point in refutation. As the Count said, he had already reached a decision, and I found it useless to resist the power that he now held over me. “When?” I asked, simply. “Tomorrow night,” he answered. He was quite comfortable with the fact that my plan had become his plan. As was I. “I will send for my friend, without whom I wouldn't embark on such a dangerous mission. It's been a while, Mr. Harker. I will sleep well tonight, and suggest that you do the same.”He retired to his bedroom early that evening, and through the door of his chambers I could hear the frantic scribbling of a quill, along with a series of ever more maniacal cackles that echoed around the old walls. I spent the night sitting in his library, nursing a bottle of Scotch whisky that I'd brought with me, smoking my pipe and wondering what tomorrow would bring. Yours, Jeanathan Harker. |
***  My dearest Van Epsling, The nights have grown darker once again, and I find myself with a renewed vigor. The time for hiding in the shadows as I’ve been wont to do for many moons has come to an end, and the hour of the wolf has approached. It is time to hunt, my friend. I trust that this missive finds you in good health and humors, and that your hunts on these nights have continued to go well. I know that there are few in our world of shadows and nightmares that can truly pose a great risk to you, and it is those skills that will be needed to deal with these ghouls that traipse in my territory. Though, if I can be as honest with you as I always try to be, the impetus for this decision was not mine. That would be the solicitor that had arrived at my castle to take an account of my possessions in preparation for my relocation. How odd that such a man, brought on specifically to make my transition to a new domain, would be the one to convince me to remain and defend what I have claimed, what I have built? I have played host to so many over the years, both those who wander in the light and skulk in the shadows. But rarely do I find myself in the company of individuals who are so…paradoxical. Fascinating in a perplexing way. Mr. Harker is a man for whom convictions and pride bubble within the core of a man who struggles with insecurities he has learned to hide, but not to the discerning eye. A man who could find his place within the shadows as soon as he’s willing to step out of the one that threatens to drown him. I think there is much that Mr. Harker is capable of. And there is much in our world that such a man could accomplish. I do not say that it will be an easy process for Mr. Harker to become what he is capable of becoming, nor do I believe that it will be a journey free of strife and scars. But few things in our world worth having or achieving are done without considerable risk or danger. To find one’s way through the darkness, it requires one to be willing to reach their hand out into the void, knowing full well that something might be beyond the vale with sharpened fangs and claws ready to tear the hand off. Regardless, I would be a poor host if I did not give my newest friend and confidant all the opportunities in the world to succeed, and I will not allow him to stumble through the dark without at least the semblance of guidance and support. Hence why I require your assistance. I have begun preparations to begin the hunt this upcoming night. I trust that you will be here when it begins. As always, your dedication and loyalty to me and our cause continues to be a great source of strength in these long and dangerous nights. I look forward to greeting you and to stand at your side and at Mr. Harker’s against these creatures. Your most ardent friend, Count Hao. |
***  My dear Price, As the count slept, I couldn’t shake the feeling that the present day might be my last. This dreary premonition didn’t particularly depress me, but the idea of going to the grave without at least some resolution to this mystery was altogether too much. Emboldened by this sense of finality, brought about by the evening’s plan, I found myself once more standing outside the Count’s chambers, turning the handle and finding it unlocked. Free reign, indeed. There were less bottles on the desk but still enough to cause alarm, alongside empty ones amongst piles of poorly organised notes. Several books lay open, but none of them were written in a script that I could understand. All of the curtains were closed and fastened shut by heavy ropes, themselves coated by thick cobwebs, as if they hadn’t been disturbed in many long years. All but one: the largest window, the doors of which were thrown apart, the curtains fastened across the opening and struggling against the wind. I found myself drawn to opening them, perhaps by the landscape beyond, the rolling moors surprisingly peaceful in the midday sun, even if the perennial stormcloud that loomed over the castle was still in situ. Leaving the curtains open, I approached the coffin in the centre of the Count’s chambers, the lid shut but unlocked. A heavy padlock, rusty and disused, was amongst the unreadable notes and assortment of bottles on the desk. My heart pounded against my chest, my breathing quickened, the castle unnaturally silent as I approached. I pulled open the lid, my eyes regarding the Count’s pallid, unconscious face within the casket. Or as much of it as I was able to behold. It startled me to learn that he slept in the mask. The sunlight fell upon that ghostly figure, and I felt my breath catch, my heart suddenly cold at the implication of what I was doing. I attempted to grasp the lid of the coffin (perhaps to return it into place, I’m not sure), but fumbled my grip. It fell to the floor with a loud, echoing thud. Enough to wake the Count, whose eyes opened gradually, and only regained their piercing glint when they regarded me. “Mr. Harker?” he said, in a manner which I began to feel was only feigning in its confusion. This bewilderment quickly gave way to a grumpiness that I’d hitherto not observed in his character. “It’s the middle of the day, and I believe you must have grown accustomed to my peculiar sleeping routine by now. I told you that I intended to sleep well today, and here I lie, besieged by your curious visage and that blasted early afternoon sunlight.”The Count sat up in his casket, wincing at the rays that streamed in through the window, and clearly perturbed at the interruption to his schedule. But otherwise, he was fine. I’m not sure what I expected. I stood aghast, my mouth ajar, stunted words struggling to fall out of it. ”This is terrible for my complexion,” he muttered, irritably. “You’re not…” I managed, but I trailed off. I forced my mouth shut and gulped. “I’m not what?” he scolded, as though he wanted to at least make some sense out of the interlude. I formulated the strangest of my conspiracy theories into words, it having lurked namelessly in the background of my mind ever since I arrived at the castle. “You’re not…” I repeated, in little more than a whisper. “... a vampire?”The Count considered me for a moment, his eyes now more piercing than ever,even as they narrowed, his knowing smile fixed upon his face. And then he let out his familiar cackle. “A vampire?” he asked, in part incredulous but, in another sense, a little thrilled by the accusation. “Of course not. But if I was, with these curtains wide open I’d be dead right now, wouldn’t I, Jeanathan? That’s not very kind.”“The blood on your desk?” I asked. “For experimentation into the effects of weaponised malaria,” the Count said, rather candidly I thought. In retrospect, I’m not sure why I didn’t dwell on this response, which in itself was worthy of inspection. “And your sleep pattern?”“To mirror my friends overseas,” the Count explained. I appreciated his patience. “And what about the coffin?!” I asked, as if simply blurting out these words was enough to form a question. “Sensory deprivation is one hell of a therapy,” he said. “It’s quite comforting. You should try it. You’re obviously too large for the bed in your room.”He let out another cackle, which boomed around the walls of his chambers, and then planted a hand on my shoulder. I let out a sigh of relief. “Of course not,” I reassured myself. “Vampires don’t exist.”“Oh, ye small-minded gentleman,” the Count responded. “It’s comforting to me that a man of leisure like yourself can come to this misapprehension. That you would believe this to be true is a proof that they would not be so bold as to leave evidence in the open.”“That’s not quite as reassuring,” I said. “Sleep will reassure you,” he insisted, as he lay back down in his coffin. “The lid, please, Mr. Harker. And the curtains, whilst you’re at it.”This was not the work of a solicitor, but I meekly obliged, quite suddenly rather guilty at disturbing the Count’s slumber in the first place. I then left, both sheepishly and quickly, to return to the sanctuary of the library and the bottle. Another letter to add to the others, probably never sent, probably never read. I write only to the wind, which does not answer me. Tonight is, without doubt, my end, unless the Count has cards up his sleeve that I am unaware of. I am told to wait upon the arrival of his friend, and wonder what kind of a man could be deemed as such by Count Hao. I remember him referring to me as a friend over dinner, a realisation that only disappoints me. I hope for something more from our reinforcements. Something larger. I hope to write to you again, my dear Price, once more before the end. Yours, Jeanathan Harker. |
***  Dear Price, While it seems that this letter might arrive at the same time as my last, the castle has become abuzz with activity now that the sun has set and the Count’s esteemed associate has arrived, and I feel it necessary to put my final thoughts before the hunt begins to paper, should the worst come to pass. I must admit that I was both surprised and not surprised upon seeing the hunter, whose name I learned was Ilon Van Epsling. Despite his face being shrouded constantly with a hood and his garb consisting of a long coat over almost archaic leather armor, as well as his assorted weaponry of knives, stakes, and vials of what have been described as sanctified water and oils, I found much to my embarrassment that I was caught off-guard by his somewhat diminutive statue, as at his full height, he barely reaches the Count’s waist. Although at the same time, I do feel a sense of relief that the mystery of the smaller, almost child-sized bed in the Count’s possession now makes more sense, as if anything about these nights could truly make sense. Regardless, the Count welcomed Van Epsling warmly, showcasing a deep camaraderie that is evident to even a passing observer that has been forged through many years of friendship and strife. The hunter only spoke in a strange tongue I did not understand, but he understood the Count clearly, and he in turn understood him. At the Count’s insistence, we found ourselves once again partaking in a meal in the dining room. However, the Count provided a much more robust offering for our dinner than in nights past, complete with roasted pheasants and a medley of potatoes and carrots. A heartier meal, one that I enjoyed despite the sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach that such a meal might be our last. “Terzerva ek halzoak?” Van Epsling interjected in that strange language of his towards the end of the meal, directing his inquiry to the Count. The Count nodded sagely after swallowing a bite of his pheasant. “Indeed. You should find that most of the equipment has been sequestered away from the items that Mr. Harker has inventoried. I would ask that you inspect it to ensure that it is up to the task at hand, though I would recommend that you do so quickly. We must not delay this hunt for too long, lest our quarry become wise to their imminent destruction and escape.” I know not what came over me, but I found I couldn’t help but speak up. “Count…are you sure about this?”“Sure about what, my friend?”“This… hunt,” I struggled to explain, absentmindedly stirring at the remnants left on my plate. “I know that it was my suggestion that you defend your home from these creatures, but I cannot help but feel that I may not be up to the task. This is…all of this? It is so beyond what I knew before arriving here.”“Of course it is,” the Count simply replied in as matter-of-factly tone as could be. He set down his knife and fork and leaned towards me, elbows resting on the table. “Much has changed for you, I don’t deny that. And much of that is partially because of me. The creatures we hunt…they are, as I have alluded to before, shadows of what I am, mere echoes left in my wake. But even echoes can become a cacophonous rumbling strong enough to shatter stone, and the two we hunt have not been idle specters. Oh no…they have slaughtered their fair share of would-be hunters, who foolishly underestimated them due to their appearance or their mannerisms. Many have lost their lives, their fortunes, and their souls because they refused to look past the frivolous facades they wear long enough to recognize their more…dangerous capabilities.”The Count stood up from his seat at the head of the table and walked over to me, placing a hand on my shoulder. His touch, though cold and grasping, still felt…reassuring. “That being said, I fear them not. My dear Van Epsling and I have long dwelt in the darkness and have seen the same ilk as these two. I know what they are. I know their capabilities, and I know their limitations. And more to the point, I’ve come to know you, Jeanathan. Or, to be more precise…I know that you’re more than what you’ve allowed yourself to be. I have always prided myself on having a discerning eye. I can…see the potential and limitations of many who come into my sphere of influence, my world. And I see much in you, my friend. You are up to this grim task. I would not allow myself to agree to this hunt if I did not believe that to be so.”Shortly afterwards, we each departed to spend an hour in our own company. Van Epsling disappeared into the basement to sharpen his tools. The Count retreated to his chambers to meditate, which I felt certain would involve the inhabitation of his coffin. I returned to the library, to finish my Scotch and to write this letter. I am, of course, worried about not surviving. I would be a madman to enter into this adventure - I am tempted to use the word misadventure - without a healthy degree of fear. I am scared, my dear Price, that I am not ready. I have been idle for a long time, even before my retirement, content with the comforts that a position behind a desk can offer. I have certain experiences, yes, and training, and of course skills, buried beneath the dust though they may be. But that all feels so long ago. I struggle to see the relevance of my accomplishments as a young man, who I barely recognise, and seem as someone other than myself. The world has changed whilst I have slept. I do not know if I have the strength to face what this New World - and specifically Fantsylvania - has become. My pistol, given to me by the Count at this evening’s dinner, sits atop this letter as I write it, acting as a paperweight, a glum reminder of the grim task ahead. Goodbye, my beloved Price, Jeanathan Harker. |
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Post by C.R./P.F./L.E. - Lost_Stoner on Sept 23, 2024 1:39:02 GMT
...TITLE: RIGHTEOUS INDOCTRINATION…
NEW YORK. PRINCE TOWERS AND INDUSTRIES. 1989.
A young blonde child is seen on camera in what looks like a child's playroom, only it was bland and white. More books than toys, but the toys were also bland, very plain and sleek. They lacked detail and or that childlike wonder most toys were made for; all of them were cast in silver, rounded unpleasant edges. A large bed was in the corner of the room perfectly made up with a palette of white and grays. In the center of the room standing on some kind of dome is a blonde haired boy, he's balancing on one leg, and holding in one hand is a very large steel weight.
(V.O.)Thomas Prince: “Daily entry number 15; This boy. This thing we've called our son for nine years is a testament to the very existence of human life, but he is a burden nonetheless…an enduring task.”
The boy is covered and soaked in sweat. His teeth were gritted together and eyes squeezed shut, only his little leg shook.
(V.O.)Thomas Prince: “For an advanced alien race his adoption of human traits has sullied his true potential…reminding myself to implement new housing staff every three weeks; his attachment comes from them, primary subject is Miss Velma but it will be corrected..”
The only door in the room was opened, an elderly man entered wearing wire framed glasses and a lab coat. The boy and man have an indistinguishable conversation.
(V.O.)Thomas Prince: “I've written a manifesto, a righteous indoctrination if you will, that I will instill upon the boy one way or another…my vision of him for our new world will…it must COME…to be. It must. He'll succumb to it by his own willingness or I will BREAK him into it, the choice is of course his. What kind of Father would I be?”
NEW YORK. PRINCE TOWERS AND INDUSTRIES. PRESENT DAY.
Captain Righteous stands stoically behind the large window that overlooked the Big Apple. He is riding the high of his first match which was a win, a big win against the ”supposed TV champion”. Pathetic, the thought reflects upon the man's face. Soon enough though the welp of a man will get a second chance at Righteous, if the man felt like a man he'd come prepared to fight. Or his shiny prestige will be ripped from him.
Ship: ”Captain, Liberty and some people from Entertainment News are approaching.”
Righteous sighs, disgust written across his face.
Captain Righteous: ”Leeches. But it's fine, let them in.”
Righteous turns from the window and takes his place at the head of his large mahogany desk. The large door into the board room opens, Liberty leads in with three other people, two of them carrying equipment.
Lady Liberty: ”Captain Righteous this is Sandra Backland and her crew, they are from Enter-”
Captain Righteous: ”Entertainment news, I know, please have a seat.”
Sandra approaches the table shaking hands with Righteous. The two men just go about setting up their equipment.
Sandra Backland: ”Pleasure to meet you Mister Righteous, I hope this interview isn't taking too much time away from you and well as you've claimed, take time away from protecting America!”
Captain Righteous: ”Oh it isn't a problem at all, stuff your worries in a sack Sandra. The truth is I want the people to know about me, what I've done for them in secret for years. A man wants his accomplishments known, history tells you that and I'll be in those history books.”
Sandra Backland: ”Can I ask why you chose the entertainment of wrestling to be your platform?”
Captain Righteous: ”I have watched wrestling since I was a young boy, it was my attachment to humanity as my Father and Mother made me the hero I was meant to be, that road is…that is a road maybe one day we will explore. Larger than life personalities, that's what they had and the fans either loved them or hated them all that cheering whether good or bad was recognition.”
Sandra Backland: ”Is that all you are here for? The ‘clout’ as the kids say?”
Captain Righteous: ”Primarily yes, all the things I've done should be known! Absolutely all about clout, I have to show to these larger than life egotistical fueled sycophants that it all pales in comparison to ME...”
Sandra Backland: ”That sounds egocentric Righteous, do you consider yourself a God?”
Righteous smirks, by now the cameras were rolling, but he picks at the back of his red glove.
Captain Righteous: ”Absolutely.”
This makes Righteous chuckle, he leans further back in his chair, quite smug.
Captain Righteous: ”I am. I am the real deal Sandra, no strings on me. I was raised that way…”
In his head, as Sandra talks and asks more questions, Righteous remembers that day in his room the conversation between him and his Father.
Vincent was being punished for sneaking and watching wrestling. He had been in his room standing on the steel dome holding the 2 ton weight for hours when his Father entered. Vincent instantly went to crying.
Young Righteous (Vincent): “Dad…I…I can't do this much longer…please..”
The older man didn't speak, he just came to stand in front of his “son”.
Young Righteous: “I won't watch wrestling anymore I swear!”
Thomas Prince: “Why do you watch that filth Vincent? How can that be more important than what you are, what you can do? Our plans…together…”
This got a reaction from Vincent, fresh tears fell from his eyes mixing with the pouring sweat.
Young Righteous: “Together? But..but….I want to be seen Daddy! Why can't the world know about me? About us?”
Thomas drew back and punched the boy in the gut, but the boy didn't fall or drop the weight but all the air left him. Thomas grabbed the boy by the chin, jerking his head to make him look at his Father.
Thomas Prince: “Because you are a freak. Who's going to understand you? You think by hiding in a world where men can pretend to be these ridiculous large personalities that you can…be you? It fucking stupid! You are a weapon of mass destruction, government owned, leased, and bred!”
Young Righteous: “Then why are you needed? Momma?”
Thomas Prince: “We are your silver spoon boy, the richest family in the world! We have the means to provide for you, and honestly your Mother is a tad too sentimental for a human. You were a baby, a baby we couldn't have. Still one I should have denied, but I love your Mother. This is a lesson, commit it to memory, you do not matter. All that matters is what you have.”
Thomas turns and heads toward the door. Vincent let those words seep into the wrinkles of his brain, the words darkened his heart. But still…
Young Righteous: “I love you…”
Thomas stopped in the door.
Thomas Prince: “...I'll see you tomorrow for breakfast.”
Sandra Backland: ”Is everything okay Mister Righteous?”
Righteous snapped his head up, smiling, eyes slightly misted over but nonetheless smiling.
Captain Righteous: ”Sorry, I am telepathically linked to my Ship he runs reports by me of anything intergalactically happening…”
Sandra smirks, but she's doubtful.
Sandra Backland: ”Really? I don't mean to sound doubtful but what is this? Is this a Gimmick? Are you in character right now?”
Righteous laughs and his outward appearance remains friendly.
Captain Righteous: ”I'm as real as they come bitch, don't confuse my profession with my real power…do you want to see it?”
Sandra keeps her cool but she has that sufferable journalist attitude, Righteous seems to change right there in the moment. He can see her mouth moving but all he could hear was the rage of blood in his ears, the smell of a hospital, and then silence. In his head Captain has killed Sandra twenty some times twenty some ways, a lot of spinal cords up ass deaths. Disrespectful hussy.
Sandra Backland: ”...how can you prove to me, prove to the millions of fans worldwide who dump tons of money to come see men and women like you preform ’professional stunts', how do prove that Captain Righteous isn't just another professional stuntman?”
Righteous rises from his seat requesting for Ship to open the windows.
Captain Righteous: ”I can only show you Sandra, care to take a trip? Got your little phone on you?”
Sandra stands up shrugging and produces her phone, Righteous smirks and waves her over as the large panel windows collapse into the thick stone walls.
Captain Righteous: ”Hold tight…”
And in a snap of a simple breath, Righteous is gone with Sandra hugging tightly under his arm.
The hour is late – or early, if you are being literal with the construct of time. Night has been here for quite a while now. The sun set hours ago. The calendar flipped to a new day already. It’s closer to the sun rising but still a ways to go. The only people out at this time are graveyard shift workers, travelers the night on lengthy trips, enjoyers of fun finishing their nights at the clubs, or people attempting to capitalize on the dark of night to mask their unlawful behavior.
As the saying goes, “Nothing good ever happens at 3 a.m.” It’s mostly true.
There are few people in the city of Columbus, Mississippi, who are not in any of those groups. Sure, anomalies exist, but there aren’t many.
XYZ is one.
The self-proclaimed superhero, and reigning FWA Television Champion, is underdressed compared to usual. Specifically, he is missing his superhero cape, the green piece of cloth he wears tied around his neck at pretty much all times.
No need for it now, though. He’s no superhero – or, he doesn’t feel like one. He feels like a failure. He feels like he lost the game. He feels like he has let everyone down, evident by the fact he is all alone.
The Menage left, understandably. Wild Jerry wanted nothing to do with his leadership style. Big Al died. Twice. His mom abandoned him on the side of the road and has not come back since then. At one point he tried to become friends with Jeremy Best, and even Jeremy – who is all about friendship – preferred not.
A complete stranger was seemingly willing to give him the run-around. Kleio de Santos hates him so much she was willing to go to extremes to break his spirit – and succeed.
No one wants him. XYZ feels it. In his gut, he senses it. Feelings aren’t facts. That’s what therapists used to tell him growing up.
But sometimes, feelings should be trusted. XYZ trusts this feeling. Even in this small southern U.S. town – populated by a few tens of thousands of people – he feels like the only inhabitant. He has not spoken to anyone since he arrived via the Magic School Bus after Fallout. That’s eight days of solitude. The bus is parked on Main Street, directly in front of the Commercial Dispatch newspaper building. It’s in the middle of the downtown district frenzy. It’s an eyesore. It cannot be missed. In fact, XYZ knows there is some consternation about the bus’ presence due to the three parking tickets sitting on the windshield.
Yet, no one has come up to him or said hi. Or even asked him to move the bus. No one has knocked on the door. XYZ would let them in! He wishes for someone to knock on the door.
Loneliness is not a good place for XYZ. He has never dealt well with it. Even during the scariest moment of his life – being left on the side of the road and tasked with walking through the night to find any sort of shelter – he had his dog, Big Al.
When Big Al died, that spun XYZ into a deep, dark depression. At age 11. When XYZ was moved to a different foster home at age 16, it was the first time he thought of just giving up. Surprisingly, he never reached that point beforehand.
And at age 18, when he was told to leave the foster home and survive on his own – a daunting task for someone diagnosed through most of their childhood with schizophrenia – he actually tried it. Because he was alone.
During this particular night, XYZ spends the hours sitting on a bench along the sidewalk running parallel to Main Street. The bench is no more than 20 yards from the parked Magic School Bus. And all XYZ can think about are the dozens of buildings around him and whether any of them have stairs.
The thought creeps into his mind. And, contrasting how it happened when XYZ was a teenager, it progresses much faster. Minutes ago it was a concept. It’s becoming a plan.
XYZ has spent the majority of the time on this bench, in this road, alone. No one walking by. No cars driving by. The town is asleep. Dormant. An alien from another planet who didn’t understand human beings’ natural sleep schedule would think the town is otherwise empty.
However, in the moments when XYZ’s concept becomes a plan, he is no longer alone. A figure catches his eyesight. Slowing moving from left to right down the sidewalk across Main Street is a dog. XYZ has seen this dog out and about before. It looks like a black labrador, similar to Big Al, except for the white-tipped tail, white “socks” feet, and a white streak of fur running from the back of the dog’s neck to the top of its head.
And the canine has larger-than-usual ears for a labrador. Floppy ears. Like ones you’d see on a hound or beagle.
But there are striking similarities in appearance to Big Al. XYZ noted them immediately, five days ago when he first saw the pup out and about during the daytime. He has seen the dog at least once every day since – usually with XYZ in the bus looking out the window – and he can swear the dog has looked at the bus every single time.
But XYZ never approached the dog. It was always too busy with people and cars on the sidewalks and street and the pup seemed headed somewhere important.
Now, neither apply. There is no one else, and the dog does not seem in any hurry. If anything, it looks tired. The speed of its walk says as much.
“Dog of Lord?!”
XYZ wonders if this is his long-lost friend, Lord Dog. They reigned as FWA Tag Team Champions for a brief stint. They were friends. XYZ was the enigmatic superhero, and Lord Dog was a talking dog with a crown on its head. It was a snug fit.
And XYZ could certainly use a friend.
The pup stops and looks in XYZ’s direction. However, it simply sits in the middle of the sidewalk and looks at XYZ with its tongue hanging out of its mouth. A very labrador trait, and one XYZ remembers during his childhood of Big Al.
“Dog of Lord?”
The dog again remains sitting and panting softly. The pup does not look like how Lord Dog looked six years ago, but XYZ is grasping for anything. Any friend. Any companion.
Anyone.
And this dog seems like the best bet right now.
Sandra had at some point adjusted herself to clinging to Righteous with her legs wrapped around his waist and arms around his neck. Righteous had been silent during their flight for the most part listening to Ship in his head hum ’Mumbo #5' as Ship ran countless hacking softwares. Traffic cameras, door ring cameras, and those sweet birds that doubled as Big Brother cameras courtesy of Uncle Sam.
Ship: ”Found him! Downtown. Columbus Mississippi!”
Righteous changed his flight pattern just a little and in less than twenty minutes Righteous repositioned himself for landing. Sandra shivered as a small cry escaped seeing the ground below them grow closer and closer, then a bright neon red light cracked across the sky behind them casting a red eerie glow over them all. Righteous in all his glory hovers a few feet from the ground a toothy pearly white grin plastered across his face, he looks down at Sandra.
Captain Righteous: ”Let go, get your little camera ready…”
Sandra slides off of Righteous and falls to the ground, which was not far but she landed on her bottom nonetheless. Her legs still shook so she couldn't stand but pulling out her cell phone she started recording hands shaking briefly, grabbing her wrist she stabilized the cell phone revealing an epic shot of a hovering Righteous in front of a broken XYZ in that red hazy glow.
Captain Righteous: ”Hiya Champ…you look rough pal.”
Righteous chuckles and finally lowers himself to the ground with hands locked behind his back, he was harmless in appearance as he stood now inches away from XYZ.
Captain Righteous: ”I figured as your partner I'd formally introduce myself, get a proper look at the…man...that'll be having my back soon in glorious combat”
Righteous looked the little squirt over with a very disgusted smirk on his face and sighs heavily.
Captain Righteous: ”And I'm still not fucking impressed! No cape or anything? Are you feeling sad for yourself little man? Huh?”
Righteous mocks XYZ with fake streaming tears running down his face.
Captain Righteous: ”Little lonely man…pathetic.”
XYZ is unfazed by the condescending tone and statements. If anything, he agrees. If Captain Righteous was looking for a verbal spat, he came to the wrong place.
XYZ: “At least … you are someone. A voice. A talking. I'll take sinister colors over the loneliness of the black night. And I see there is a third. Who are you?”
Sandra continues filming, shaking in her statue position, and cannot even muster a vocal response.
XYZ: “I'd ask if you need help, but I think you have come in front of the wrong person for that. I am a shell. A watering hole all dried up.”
XYZ then points up to the sky where Captain Righteous once hovered above him. Then lowers his finger point to the man standing before him.
XYZ: “You have a superhero here. He can even fly. Did his mom abandon him? Likely not. What is his story? Is he chiseled perfection from the rings of flame and stone? Is he the combination of eagle souls and mountain snow? Is his bravery mastered from the memories of the Greek harmonics? I surely bet. And who am I? Just an off of cast. No one wants a hero who isn't super.”
X pauses and looks down at the FWA Television Championship belt around his waist.
XYZ: “A champion not made … for television.”
Righteous let the man talk and all the sad made Righteous feel icky, it made him roll his eyes.
Captain Righteous: ”Not with that attitude you certainly are not, Jesus it makes me want to push you down in the mud to keep this sad story going..I simply can't accept this as your partner pal, I won't.”
Righteous begins to move, slow soft steps circling Sandra. The woman does her best to watch Righteous, recording his every move. Righteous figure eights around Xyz and Sandra eventually, hands still clasped behind his back.
Captain Righteous: ”Before we get to the real why's and how's, X this is Sandra Backland a bloodsucker journalist and she doesn't believe I'm the man I say I am…the hero…the super guy. I've come to prove her wrong and show her a REAL not super guy, do you believe me yet Sandra?”
Sandra goes to speak but Righteous quickly grabs her by the front of her fancy women's business suit launching her into the air so fast her scream barely registered as a sound. Righteous and XYZ were all alone now.
Captain Righteous: ”Okay with one doubter gone, let's talk man to shell X, you are reallllly stinking up things with this whole lonely bit, you aren't lonely pal you got a whole cast of weird ass friends up in that big broken skull don't you? You really aren't ever alone, and what's a fan if it isn't yourself X? You have to start accepting those little voices, soon too. The shit you pulled at our match, gone. Get rid of it pal or do us a favor and cross the street…*Righteous winked*...take the fucking plunge or grab that empty sack between your legs and man up!”
Righteous was still pacing around X.
Captain Righteous: ”Having parents isn't all it's cracked up to be X, restrictions come with them. Rules. Zero support for your dreams, and they 100% of the time create piles of shit like you…do you really want to be like this when we fight Raven and Tommy?...*Righteous shudders at the name*...fucking someone named TOMMY! Am I carrying you here X?! AGAIN?! Is the same cum stain I then have to face for the TV championship? Where is your cape?! Your sense of fucking pride?!”
XYZ: “Where is your friend?”
XYZ’s question in response to Captain Righteous’ question is not what Righteous wanted, but it is legitimate.
XYZ: “Where did she go? You threw her into the air? Where is Sandra? What is Sandra? Why is Sandra? How is Sandra?”
XYZ pauses.
XYZ: “Also, why do you care? You’re not my friend. You name-call. You call-name. Why are you trying to inspire me if I have what you want? My pride is locked in the vault of one-thousand cloudless moons. If you want the key, you’ll need to speak with the octopus of the southern arctic volcano quadrant.”
Righteous finally rubs the bridge of his nose.
Ship: ”Is he? What the hell did he say?”
Captain Righteous: ”Sandra…Sandra is…*Righteous looks up*...Is probably getting familiar with her faith, much like I'm trying with you X. Not in God, or Odin, Shiva, not those clowns…faith in me friend.”
Righteous comes to a stop standing tall over XYZ.
Captain Righteous: ”I want the challenge! You are a self-proclaimed superhero and it's really eating my ass that you are so fucking crazy, self loathing, and Jesus….Just look at you…Where is your cape X?”
Righteous squats down so he can be face to face with the broken man. Bright blue eyes staring holes through XYZ.
Captain Righteous: ”Where….is…your…cape?”
Righteous would reach out and grab XYZ by the shirt.
Captain Righteous: ”...I could wreck you here and now, ya know? I want to too. Smear your sad little existence all over Mississippi, go to Fallout and destroy Tom and Rav by myself, and then wait for your no show…but that's meaningless to me. No, what I want X is a classic showdown. Two rivals. Two real-life super fucking heroes duking it out until one of us can't go no more…but to get there WE have to show up and show out against our opponents first, I won't have a weak sucky baby of a partner pal.”
XYZ: “My cape is in the bus. I'll see you at Fallout. Oh … can I please try to save Sandra?”
Captain Righteous nods and XYZ looks up to the sky. He prepares to jump and fly up there, but Captain Righteous puts his hand up.
Captain Righteous: ”You got to earn the right to save people, X. But save yourself first…”
Righteous leaned closer and whispered in the man's ear.
Captain Righteous: ”...sure at some point we've gotta face each other, classic superhero battle, but this doesn't mean we have to be enemies X. Why shouldn't we be…cleaning fucking house, putting things right. With me X, you won't be alone anymore….”
Righteous took a step back, the classic oversold smile.
Captain Righteous: ”Or hell this could all be in your head bud. See ya soon partner…”
A swoosh later and the red light glow was gone.
They disappear, making XYZ believe the early morning night hours and lack of sleep have him in a delirious state of hallucination.
Then he remembers the dog sitting across the street on the sidewalk. Yet, when XYZ looks that way, nothing is there. The dog is gone as well.
And maybe was never there to begin with.
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Post by Jimmy King on Sept 23, 2024 1:51:08 GMT
The Undisputed Alliance in... We were on a break!
“What was I thinking?”
That was all Jackson Fenix could keep muttering as he sat alone in the locker room.
“What was I thinking?”
Jackson Fenix had cost his team the match against Trick or Trash, and most importantly he had cost them getting one step closer to becoming tag team champions again. Jackson checks his phone and sees a missed call and voicemail from his Dad.
“Hey, son, I just saw the match, and I like that you showed some killer instinct out there, but maybe lean more into it. Don’t hesitate and go all in on it. I know you were worried about people’s feelings and have gone all soft thanks to your Mom, but maybe just let that go and do what you have to do in order to get ahead in life. Being a nice guy can only get you so far in life, son. Sometimes, you have to step on some toes to get ahead; think about it.”
Was his Dad right? Should he resort back to his old ways?
“Why? Why did I listen to you? This isn’t me.”
“Yeah, clearly it isn’t you.”
Jackson was startled to find Nate Savage in the locker room with him. Besides Jackson, Nate was the most confused about why Jackson was acting this way.
“How much did you hear?”
“Oh, I don’t know, Jack, the part about your Dad waltzing back into your life, which is news to me, and on top of that, him telling you what you should do, which costs us the match. Why Jack? Why would you listen to him? After all these years, he abandoned you and your Mom, and now suddenly you listen to him when he shows up randomly; why Jackson, why?”
“I guess it’s too late to tell you that wasn’t an old friend of his you saw me with that night at Back in Business.”
“What were you thinking out there, Jackson?! We had the match won! It was right there!”
“I know, man, I know we had it.”
“Then why did you do it? Why did you throw it all away because of something your Dad said? You lied to me about who he was, which is fine I guess, but then you took his advice after reuniting with him for only five minutes? Why?”
“I’m sorry, Nate.”
“You’re sorry? Really?”
“Look, what else do you want me to say?”
“Tell me why, Jackson!”
“I did it because I wanted to impress my Dad! I wanted to show him I’m not as soft as he thinks. I did it because I wanted to make him proud of me…I want him to be proud of me…okay?”
Nate doesn’t know how to respond to that, understandably so considering it’s a lot to take in.
“Look… I’m sorry…I truly am sorry…I don’t know what else to say…”
“No…um…hey, listen, I ran into Russnow while I was in catering before I came back here, and we’re in the redemption bracket….”
“What does that mean?”
“Well…uh… it’s complicated in a way, but basically, we’ve been handed another shot. If we win our next match, we earn a number one contender’s match at Lights Out…”
“Oh, that seems easy enough, I guess.”
“Does it? I don’t know, Jack, this one seemed easy enough, but look where we’re at now!”
There’s an uncomfortable silence between the two friends that seems to last for an eternity.
“You know what? Maybe we need to take this time apart before our next match.”
“What do you mean, Nate?”
Nate sighs and sits down next to Jackson.
“We should take a small break from each other before this next match. Let us cool off and come back a bit more refreshed; how does that sound?”
“I guess that’s okay; where will you go?”
“Well, considering we’re in my home state, I’ll be going back home to Philadelphia for a bit to spend time with my family. It’ll help me clear my head and forget about tonight, the match, and whatever this is between us right now.”
Jackson nods in acceptance as Nate starts to pack his stuff. Jackson sits there in silence. Nate doesn’t even bother to change out of his gear, and he’s about to walk out of the room with his stuff when Jackson calls out.
“Hey, who are we facing?”
“Cinematic Universe, Aaron Harrows and Brooklyn Steiner.”
“Oh…”
There’s a brief silence, and Nate is about to leave when Jackson calls out again.
“Hey Nate, I’m really sorry, man….”
“I know, Jack, I know.”
Nate shuts the door, leaving Jackson alone again with his thoughts. Jackson walks over to a mirror in the room, and looking back at him, he sees Bad Jackson.
“Good riddance to that deadweight, eh Jackie boy!”
“No…”
“You don’t need him.”
“Yes, I do. We’re a team.”
“Nah, he’s only holding you back from your true potential.”
“You’re not real.”
“Keep telling yourself that, kid.”
Jackson walks away from the mirror and his bad self is gone just as quickly as he had arrived. Soon, he finishes getting changed out of his gear and sits down to make a call.
“Hey, Mom, it’s me; we need to talk.”
********************
“Why Jackson?”
That was a question posed by Jackson Fenix’s Mom after he had told her the news of him reuniting with his father.
“Why would you give him the time of day? He walked out on us, remember?”
“Yeah, I remember, Mom. I had a little league game that day, and he was supposed to be there.”
The mention of that sad memory brings a frown to Mama Fenix, who holds her son’s hand in her hand as they sit at the dinner table. Jackson had gone back home to Vegas for a few days to clear his head, while Nate went back home to Philadelphia. This was the first time in a long time that they had spent a significant amount of time away from each other. They didn’t even text or call each other to give the other space.
“That should be reason enough for you to not want anything to do with him.”
“Yeah, I know, Mom, but…”
Mama Fenix sighs and gives her son a curt nod.
“I know, I know. Despite that, you still want a relationship with him. You’re so forgiving; I know I couldn’t be if I were in your shoes. I don’t know where you got that from, but it sure wasn’t me.”
“He gets it from me.”
Meemaw Fenix walks into the room and joins them at the dinner table.
“Molly, I know you’re just looking out for him; believe me, I understand. I feel the same way you do about that bastard…sorry dear.”
“Meemaw, you cursed!” Jackson couldn’t believe a word like that came from his Meemaw.
“I know he’s your baby, but you can’t baby him forever. Let the boy try to have a relationship with his father.”
“You’re right, Mom, you’re right. Jackson, baby, try not to let him tell you what to do too much. I know you want to please him, but you can say no, and if you do, then don’t let him guilt trip you into saying yes because if there’s one thing that man is good at, it’s guilt-tripping.”
“I know, Mom, I know. I want him to be proud of me like you and Meemaw are proud of me.”
“I know, honey; hey, have you talked to Nate? I know you said you two had a bit of a fight after that last match.”
“No, I haven’t talked to him yet. I wanted to give him some space and let him cool off.”
“Okay, but don’t wait too long. I know you guys had that fight, but I also know you two will work through this just like you always do, and you’ll beat the Cinematic Universe guys.”
“Cine-what?”
“Cinematic Universe, Meemaw. It’s Brooklyn Steiner and Aaron Harrows.”
“Is Harrows the one that says he’s been in a lot of movies?”
“Yeah, that’s him, Meemaw.”
“He seems full of it because he wasn’t even born yet in half of the movies he says he was in; he’s much too young. Do me one favor, though, Jackie, don’t rough up that Brooklyn boy’s face too much; he’s so handsome!”
“I’ll try not to, but I can’t make any promises, Meemaw.”
********************
Back in Philadelphia, Nate Savage is spending time with his family at his home. Much like Jackson, he had gone home to clear his head. Nate needed time to get away for a few days and cool off before the match with Cinematic Universe.
Nate was looking up all of the movies that Aaron Harrows had claimed to be in and couldn’t believe it. The Wizard of Oz played in the background while he browsed his phone. He came across an interview where Harrows claimed he had auditioned for the Scarecrow in The Wizard of Oz.
Nate’s phone went off with a call from Jackson. Nate almost didn’t answer it, but he did it anyway.
“Hey, Jack.”
“Hey Nate…”
Awkward silence between the two friends.
“Hey, listen, Nate, I’m sor-”
“Don’t worry about it, Jack, okay? You don’t have to apologize.”
“Okay, good.”
“Just do me one favor.”
“What’s that?”
“Superkick Aaron Harrows’ teeth down his throat.” |
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Ozymandias
FWA Wrestler
we are still live
Posts: 30
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Post by Ozymandias on Sept 23, 2024 2:46:07 GMT
Click the picture above to access The Maltese Falcon's promo for the Steel Roulette. |
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Rawr
FWA Wrestler
Posts: 6
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Post by Rawr on Sept 23, 2024 4:04:17 GMT
ALYSTER BLACK
&
CHRIS PEACOCK
ARE
FTN
IN
“WE ARE LUMBERJACKS AND WE’RE OKAY!”
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Post by Wolfie on Sept 23, 2024 4:17:34 GMT
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Post by tonton on Sept 23, 2024 5:05:13 GMT
On the Eight-Trunked Elephant in the Room
It has been fascinating to see people make the absurd assumption that the professional wrestler and cosmoteer Uncle J.J. JAY!, after disappearing suddenly alongside a sizable number of his cohorts known as Nephews, would return to the public eye alone with none of those aforementioned cohorts anywhere in sight, with not a single alteration to his attire or persons aside from a theme song, and changed his name to Tonton J.J. JI!, pretending to be an entirely different individual.
People genuinely believe Uncle would do that?
Why? To what purpose?
The much more reasonable reaction would be to simply believe that individual when he says that their similarities are really just a coincidence.
But reason has long been an abandoned human project and conspiracy theories are in vogue.
Nevertheless, let me propose to you several other much likelier possibilities than the on-going gossip:
1. Twins separated at birth (probably ¼ of an octoplet)
2. Clone (of infamous tentaclone wars fame whereby eight tentaclones were unleashed and two allegedly disappeared circa. Cosmic Odysseys Issue #42)
3. Variant
4. Doppelganger
5. One of Uncle’s tentacles fell off, grew rapidly into a duplicate (as they do unless consumed within six hours which fortunately does not go the way of xenomorphs for the consumer… unless you’re pregnant but at least it still tastes exquisitely raw), and decided to go rogue
6. Someone A.I. generated Uncle J.J. JAY! as a frenchman as a prank on Uncle while he’s gone
7. Tonton J.J. JI! is all just a stunt for Hollywood Tommy Bedlam’s blockbuster debut.
9. Harry the Sane Wizard’s plans of making homunculi for the Nephews did not work out as expected
14. Tonton J.J. JI! would pass a Turing test but probably not a Voight-Kampff test
19. Bizarroworld Uncle.
20. Artificial Insemination of Uncle’s DNA by MVH or something
21. He was magically created from a french person’s slightly wrong memory of Uncle
23. Uncle now has several personalities in which the only difference is they have an inclination towards a particular culture/language. We will soon see Tio J.J. JE! (with the J sounding somewhat H-ish)
24. J.J. JI! was created as a body double in anticipation of bounty hunter Vengador finally coming to cash in on Uncle
25. One of Uncle’s weirdo fans used plastic surgery to look exactly like him.
27. Someone hired an insanely good impersonator
28. J.J. JAY! is actually the first in a line of humanoid-shaped suits piloted by tiny cute little weirdos. J.J. JI! is second. The only thing the pilots have in common is they’re secretly the 0.001% of their society and it took billions of forced labor to get these suits running.
30. Tonton J.J. JI! is actually .05 inches shorter than Uncle and is in fact a mini version of him.
31. Uncle is actually .05 inches shorter than Tonton and was in fact the mini version of him this whole time. Tonton had no idea he had a mini version.
32. Mandela effect? Have you checked the history books since Tonton’s debut? I bet you’ll find someone who has been Garcia’d recently.
33. Tonton is just Uncle at home
36. Uncle accidentally ended up body switching with someone and bullied whoever ended up in his body into not admitting they’re Uncle, and that person is surprisingly amazing at keeping up the charade
37. Ton Tonton is actually the heir to the Uncle legacy much like luchador heritage gets passed on from generation to generation, even if they have no connection as individuals beyond this passing of the torch
38. They were originally gonna pass Tonton off as Uncle but afraid of the backlash for bringing in a fake Uncle, they pivoted last second as Tonton. They didn’t expect fans would be delusional enough to think he was actually Uncle. If only they’d just passed him off.
39. J.J. JAY! and J.J. JI! are like Zeus/Jupiter, different aspects of the same entity but as presented by the different values and norms of their respective cultures
42. J.J. JAY! and J.J. JI! come from a species that our untrained eyes look extremely alike, and to our untrained ears, have names that sound extremely alike but if you’re part of that culture it’s night and day absolutely different names, different complexion, different tentacles, etc. Basically a lot of people just need to visit some different corners of the galaxy and touch something more interesting than grass.
To see the entire list, sign up @eatshit.com
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Post by Comeback Kid on Sept 23, 2024 5:05:19 GMT
 | Forty years ago, the citizens of Paradigm City lost their memories in a moment that we know as The Event. In the years that have past sense, 15 percent of those citizens have gained back pieces of their memories from the time before. Memories have become more valuable than currency in this city. Those with memories of the past have a significant influence on the city. They say they have the city's best interest at heart, but I often question if they do.
My name is Trevor Ocean and I’m a negotiator. My list of clients include the most affluential individuals in Paradigm City who would rather their affairs, dealings, and memories not make it to the public. My list of clients also includes those who want to move on and find peace in this broken fantasy of a world. I find myself in the middle when it comes to what I want. Being born after the city's inhabitants lost their memories, I can’t say that I long for memories of the past but the thought of what the city, no, the world, once was does pique my interest. However, I’m not foolish enough to believe that to build toward a more perfect future we must not dwell on the past.
Paradigm City is plagued by a severe class inequality that was only exasperated by the creation of the domes. Five geodesic domes sit mere miles outside of the city proper. The wealthy and elite of Paradigm City live there, enjoying the memories of what used to be before The Event while those in the middle, working, and lower class reside in the city.
I prefer to live in the city. I’m constantly in awe at how far people can come with so few resources. The people outside of the domes are who keep Paradigm pushing forward, but the people in the domes are the ones who claim the recognition. The people are starting to recognize the inequality and there have been talks of protests and even acts of violence committed against those traveling through the city to their homes in the domes.
As I drive through the city I notice flyers for the reestablishment of the Paradigm City senate. The movement started small but has started to gain traction. As I continue my drive toward the domes the flyers grow in size and number - one variation of the flyer features a female with her fist raised toward the sky. She is pale, something uncommon for the people of Paradigm City with sunlight being a rarity. However, she is not just the average pale color that one sees in the city. No, she is white. Her hair is red and cut to a shoulder-length bob. The expression on her face is blank and her almond-shaped eyes have a soulless feel to them. Staring at her gives me a feeling of unease because though she looks human I know that she isn’t.
“That’s the closest they’ve gotten with one of those,” I mutter to myself as continue driving toward the tollbooth at the bridge.
Entrance into the domes is free for those who live there, but guests need a reason, money, or both to enter. The engine of the car idles as I wait for the tollbooth worker, or gatekeeper as they prefer to be called, to appear from behind the partition. The partition lowers and I am greeted by the wide-face, dead-eyed stare of a man who takes no interest or pride in the job he’d held. His scraggly hair covers his forehead and the inner corner of his eyes house the crust of a sleep he must wish to return to.
“What business do you have in Dome 1?” he questions. He barely looks at me as he does, holding onto the metal railing separating us.
“I’ve a meeting at the Best Corporation. A meeting with the CEO himself.” I could’ve lied to him and said I lived there and he would’ve let me in. At one time the gatekeepers between Paradigm City and the Domes were held in high regard. Now, they’re mostly burnt out middle-aged men and women that want to retire but can’t. He pressed a button and the arm separating the streets of Paradigm City and Dome One raised allowing me passage.
I shouldn’t be shocked by the difference in the pavement between Paradigm and Dome One. The tires of my car glide across with no sudden dips or bumps that would cause me to cringe at the thought of a repair. As I drive further into Dome One I can see the artificial sun that they’ve created along the inside span of the dome. The sun rarely comes out in the city but in the Domes, they manipulate the weather to be whatever they want it to be. The disparity and priority set aside for those inside the Domes have always been nauseating to me.
I park my car just outside of the Best Corporation and an eager young valet with a smile that one would assume is painted on quickly greets me.
“Mr. Ocean, it is a pleasure to have you join us here at the Best Corporation today. Mr. Best eagerly awaits your arrival. If you would please just step on the moving walkway to your right,” he says with a rehearsed gesture.
I felt uneasy leaving my keys with him, but in the previous times I’ve been here I’ve never had an issue so why would today be any different? The walkway was smooth aside from a small jerk that pulled you forward as it began. Everyone inside of the Best Corporation smiled. It would put you at ease if it weren’t all fake. The girls with their pillbox hats, perfectly manicured nails, freshly pressed blouses, skirts, and polished heels - you would think they were one of the Androids if the facade didn’t occasionally break when they thought they weren’t being watched. The same could be said for the men dressed in their nearly identical suits.
“I wasn’t expecting to see you here, Mr. Ocean,” a voice that made the hair on my arms rise called as I glanced over my shoulder to be greeted by the artificial smile of Mr. Best’s secretary Ms. Montgomery. Her skin was an unnatural shade of brown that didn’t match her facial features. In the museums, they have clippings from magazines published well before The Event that feature bodybuilders painted in a shade of brown, or maybe it was bronze that resembled her skin. She wore a perfume that lingered in your nostrils for far too long and smelled heavy of rose. She wore a pink suit that made her stand out from the other women of the Best Corporation. In her mind, she was the most powerful woman in all of Paradigm City and the Domes. However, I knew that she was delusional.
“That’s unlike you, Ms. Montgomery.”
“Pardon?”
“Not knowing Jeremy’s schedule front to back.”
“Allow me to remind you that you are to refer to him as Mr. Best, Trevor.”
“I’m not one of his employees, Ms. Montgomery”
“You’re not one of his employees anymore, Mr. Ocean. But, I’m sure you’ll be on the Best Payroll sooner rather than later,” she said with a wide grinned smile, bowing and extending her arm forward as the door to Mr. Best’s office swung open in front of us.
For a man who wields as much influence and power over Paradigm City, Jeremy Best was one of the least intimidating figures that I’d ever laid my eyes on. His hairline receded at the corners and he did everything naturally possible to make his hair look denser in spots where it was clearly not. His bio read that he was over average height and weight, but, in person, one could tell that was a lie.
I always wear a pair of black sunglasses to my meetings with potential clients. They help to mask my emotions. Jeremy seemed to only know how to display one emotion and that was happiness. He walks toward me with his arms wide and a grin that rose the corners of his mouth almost to his earlobes. I placed my hand out for a handshake instead - stopping him from continuing with his antics. He knew I didn’t like hugs but insisted on trying each time. Maybe it was a power move or something. I’m not sure.
“Mr. Ocean! My GOOD friend, Mr. Ocean. It’s been too long,” he said as he vigorously shook my hand refusing to let go even as I released my grip and began pulling away. “You are one of the only me - Oh, gosh, where are my manners? PEOPLE in the city to not return my phone calls or decline my invites to parties here in the Domes.”
“I like to give my full attention to the clients I’m serving.”
“Don’t I know it? You do AMAZING work and the citizens of Paradigm City cannot thank you enough for what you do to make this the BEST place to live.”
“What can I do for you, Jeremy?” the mere utterance of his first name caused a small break in the facade, but you wouldn’t notice unless you had a keen eye.
“Straight to the point! That’s what I like about you, Mr. Negotiator. You’re all about HELPING just like we are here at the Best Corporation. Speaking of helping and the Best Corporation, have you seen our newest Android model? It has an upgraded learning AI and we’ve managed to make it 10% more life-like in looks. You’ve lived alone in that apartment of yours for so long why don’t you let me send one of the new models to be your assistant?”
On the surface, it seems like a nice gesture from the benevolent CEO of the Best Corporation. But, in reality, this was a mob boss like tactic from one of the best in the city. He wants me to know that he knows where I live and he can get to me at any time. He was a cunning little bastard.
“No, thank you…Mr. Best. I’d like to know what I can do for you.” He smirked at me and made his way behind his oak resolute desk.
“As you’re aware, I’m someone who believes in the preservation and study of the past and the time before The Event. There are two men in Dome Two that have been causing a stir regaling the people in the city with stories that they claim are from memories they’ve regained. I want you to negotiate a deal between them and the Best Corporation. They can provide me—er, I mean, us with their memories and we can provide Dome Two with the much needed repairs, upkeep and general blessings that can only be provided from the Best Corporation.”
“Do these two men have names?”
“Of course they have names. They have faces too! Ms. Montgomery?” he shouts as the aroma of roses fills the room with her arrival. She places a folder in my hands and gives me a wink as she takes her leave. The men, Curtis Hury and and Ralph M. Cier, were both in their mid 70s. They resided in one of the nursing units established in Dome Two. Their file reads that they had early onset dementia but have since claimed to have regained memories of their time before The Event.
“This is unheard of,” I said as I continued looking through the files. Jeremy nodded his head in agreement and looked out his windows overlooking the busy streets of Dome One.
“Memories, they are the rarest of currency that this city has to offer. Unlocked memories is what gave my father the vision to build the domes and gave him the ability to create the first androids and establish the first government after The Event. Memories can be a good thing. They also can be a bad thing. A trap. A black hole of nostalgia that halts progress. Collecting the memories of our city and the past is something I believe must be done to help Paradigm City and the Domes to move forward. I must protect our city and our people and to do so I must have the memories. You’ll bring them to me, won't you, Trevor?”
His words reeked of nobility and the greater good, but I knew better. The person who has the memories has the power.
“I’ll negotiate a deal that will be beneficial to both parties, Mr. Best.”
“Excellent! I look forward to hearing from you with the details.”
Paradigm City Dome 2
The drive between Dome One and Dome Two is generally uneventful. The same posters that littered the route into Dome One continued as I drive into Dome Two. I sneak glances at the pedestrians going about life on the sidewalks and in the brownstones that flank the road. Their eyes glare at me. In my car sits a member of the class that would rather they didn’t exist. Little do they know, I’m one of them. I often find myself wondering if choosing to take on clients from the Domes is worth it? I’m well aware that I am being used by them to advance whatever scheme they may have or cover up any negative press about to come their way at the expense of the middle and lower class. I convince myself it’s worth it because I invest in Paradigm City and help out where I can, but wouldn’t I be doing more good by exposing the elites and the upper class for what they are? Exposing their secrets and broadcasting their memories to aid in bridging the gap between those who’ve yet to recover theirs?
I’m quickly brought back to reality as a motorbike zips around me - swerving into oncoming traffic to avoid waiting for there to be a moment to safely pass me. I catch a glimpse of the driver as they pass my window. The cropped black hair and the trademark smile would’ve given away who it was, but like his father, the young aristocrat, and Paradigm City elite, enjoyed adorning their family crest, a Falcon, to their clothing. You Young Giunti often drifted his bike throughout Paradigm City on his way back to Dome One. He’s a handsome and talented young man. I wonder to myself what business he has in Dome Two, but don’t dwell on it for too long. He’s probably got a girl or guy there that he fancies and can’t wait to meet up with them.
Entering Dome Two was more or less the same as entering Dome One. The roads in Dome Two were less pristine as Dome One’s. You could tell that they were worn and had seen their fair share of cars roaming across them. Dome Two was once the crown jewel of the Paradigm City Dome’s until the Best Corporation began to consolidate power, put an end to the Senate and began providing the city with advancements thanks to the memories they’d acquired. The homes and buildings in Dome Two spoke of a time where things were simpler and there was less imagination and advancement that kept the people of Paradigm on their feet. During the height of Dome Two, before it was demoted from its One ranking, many debates and exchanging of ideas were held in the forums for all to see. It was easier to rise from the slums when Dome Two and the ideas the originals brought to Paradigm were in place. It seemed so long ago.
The exterior of the Rosewater Assisted Living Facility resembled that of a city hall building. This was surely a nod to the time when the inhabitants of the facility used to run the city. As I exited my car, I couldn’t help but notice a plume of black smoke rising outside of Dome Two. It was unusual for the happening of Paradigm City to be seen inside of the Domes, but I coudln’t waste anytime dwelling on it. That was a job for the Miltary Police.
An older women, possibly in her mid fifties greeted me at the door. She has a kind face that shows the gift that is age, but in all of it subtleness. She smelled of cream and roses, a much better perfume than what Ms. Montgomery had worn. The smile on her face was genuine as she welcomed me into their home.
“We’ve had many visitors since Curits and Ralph started to regain their memories but none as handsome and well dressed as you, Sir.” She said giving me a wink that made me feel both at ease and flattered. “You know everyone had lost their memories from before The Event and we all accepted it. When Curtis and Ralph started to develop dementia and lose their current memories it was an awful thing. Truly terrible. But, imagine our surprise when they randomly started to remember the things from their life and their time from before The Event.”
“How are you sure their memories from before The Event are true?” I questioned as she stopped in her tracks. She took a moment before turning around to face me, a puzzled look on her face. Hardly anyone had ever questioned the returned memories because there was hardly anything to dispute it. Little to no books, magazine, or even recordings were left behind from The Event so we generally took the announcement of someone regaining their memories as true and welcomed the look into our past.
“They’ve regained memories of their life after The Event and the memories they speak of from the past are spoken of with so much detail and vividness. Even if they weren’t true or missing parts of the truth, why not regale in the stories? It makes them feel good and isn’t hurting anyone,” she said with the sweetest smile that was a mask for concern that maybe the two men were lying. I returned the smile and continued following behind her as we reached the courtyard.
“Curtis, Ralph - you boys have a visitor. He’s a negotiator from The Best Corporation here to learn all about your memories.”
I wish she wouldn’t have told them that as I could see the agitation in the grooves and sunken pits of the man named Curtis’ face at the mere mention of the Best Corporation. Ralph barely reacted. He looked as though he were lost or not fully there as I joined them in the garden of the Facility. I assured the nurse that we would be alright alone and she soon left us.
“If no one has told you gentleman I’d like to be the first to tell you how sorry I am that you’ve regained your memories from before The Event,” I said much to the surprise of both of the men.
“You’re the first,” Curtis began, his voice hoarse and dry. “Not many realize the curse it is to gain pieces of your memory back. A glimpse into a past that once was. A past filled with glory, hope, and prosperity. We were the chosen ones.”
“The next generation,” Ralph interrupted with. Curtis nodded his head and formed a pyramid with his fingers. They never steadied as he placed the tips against one another.
“We helped lay the foundation for what Paradigm City was before The Event. Ralph and I battled it out in the Senate fighting for change that would push the nation forward. The nation…the nation viewed Paradigm City and us as the standard for what our society could be. Do you remember that Ralph?” Curtis called out. Ralph simply nodded his head.
Curtis would continue going on with stories of the battles, victories, and losses that he suffered in the Senate before The Event while Ralph simply nodded his head. Ralph occasionally interjected with the memory that they were supposed to be the next generation. I gathered the courage to question him.
“What were you supposed to be the next generation of, if I may ask?”
Ralph looked up at me and smiled a toothless grin. He placed a hand on my face a patted at me a couple of times before beginning. “You remind me of my aides. Do you remember the aides that worked in my office, Curtis? They stood by my side until The Event. Then…they just disappeared. He took them from me. He took them.”
“Who took them? Who is he?”
“He took them. I won, but he took them from me. He took everything from me.”
“Yes, but who is he?”
Ralph again looked at me and smiled that toothless grin before patting me on the face with a few playful slaps. “We were supposed to be the next generation, ya know?” Ralph said as he looked up at the artificial sunlight produced by the lights in the Dome.
“It’s sad to see what he’s become. He used to be a leader in this city. We both did. Even after The Event we were of the few that regained pieces of our memories and kept the City going. It was us who developed the original Domes.”
He spoke of setting up the original Domes with pride missing the fact that the creation of the domes set up a level of income and class disparity that has rotted this city to its core and stalled any true advancement for the people outside of the Domes. I wanted to interject but resisted as I was curious as to what his words and memories held.
“The Domes were originally meant to be something that people could thrive for and reach to achieve, but some people didn’t view it the same. They wanted the Domes to be the stepping stone into the next evolution of our society and wanted to leave those in the city behind. To them, the city and its inhabitants were memories of the past that should’ve been forgotten…they wanted us to forget them…but I can’t forget them. The past…the time before the Domes…before The Event was when I was on top. When people actually listened to me and came to me for my wisdom and influence.”
“The best corporation…would like to offer you the chance to archive those memories and move forward in exchange for redevelopment of Dome Two and its infrastructure.”
He scoffs at my words and if he could’ve would’ve pushed me away for mentioning the Best Corporation.
“Haven’t they stolen enough from me? FROM US?!” he shouted alerting the other patients walking aimlessly through the garden. Their attention was only drawn to us for a second as they quickly returned to walking around in circles recalling forgotten moments.
“He stole this city from me…we were the next generation….we started this city…we envisioned what this city could become and he stole that from us. Burned our ideas and vision to the ground to build his corporation off of the ideas and values that we provided … with… our… memories …. our memories…” he repeated this for a minute straight until he began to silently stare at the ground.
A rose scent engulfed my nose and I was sure that Ms. Montgomery was near. I look left and right but cannot see her. I can only smell her presence. She walks through a side door dressed in a nurse's uniform toward us, winking at me as she approaches. She lneels down beside Curtis, wrapping one arm around his waste and helping him to his feet. She gently grabs Ralph's hand and helps him to his feet as well before turning to me.
“It’s a shame really. These two men were pillars of this city, respected members of the community - no, the nation. They were once the embodiment of what we all could strive to be, but -”
“Now, they’re simply men trapped in the bitterness of memories of what once was,” I said, interrupting her before she could finish one of her monologues. I’d heard enough of them sitting with the two. “I have a feeling that Jeremy knew that these two’s returned memories were of little to no value to him or Paradigm City.”
“He just wanted to be sure that they weren’t a threat,” she said with a wink and smile as she led the two toward the entrance, the aroma of her rose perfume lingering in the air as she did so.
“What about my payment?”
“I have a feeling you’ll be earning that sooner than later, Mr. Negotiator.”
I didn’t linger at the Rosewater Facility like most would’ve, questioning words and the memories of heroes of the past. I needed to leave the Dome. They weren’t a reflection of reality. They were an escape for those who were too afraid to come to grips with the fact that the outside world is fucked and we have to do what we can to fix it. I hated being inside the domes and would speed out of here if I could. I noticed her, Ms. Montgomery, getting into the back of a car as I approached mine. She wanted to leave just as quickly as I did. For other purposes, I bet.
Nonetheless, the drive out of Dome Two back into the city was as peaceful as I could expect it to be. The lights of the Dome had begun to dim to produce an artificial sunset. I admired the serenity of the colors that it projected onto the manmade lake they’d put between the exit of the dome and landfall. For a moment, I felt the normalcy that came with living in the domes if only for a fleeting moment.
Paradigm City The Streets of Paradigm City Even with my sunglasses over my eyes, the strobes of blue and red temporarily blinded me as I made the exit from Dome Two into Paradigm City. The grey overcast was filled with lights and news helicopters attempting to capture the scene. Police officers diverted traffic and attempted to keep the onlookers away from what I can only assume is an active crime scene.
I park my car inf ront of one of the many abandoned buildings and exit into the chaos that has become my city. A mixture of sirens, helicopter blades, above, shouting from the patrons and military police almost overwhelm my senses as I move closer. I push through the crowd toward the front where I come face to face with Colonel Dastun. His face is filled with a combination of relief and surprise as we lock eyes. The grey in his scraggley, patchy beard has started to grow as unrest grows within the city. He removes a cloth from his shirt pocket and wipes the beads of sweat that have formed on his forehead and the top of his bald head before waving me through past the officers and the rowdy crowd. He nods for me to walk with him to the makeshift command post and I follow, observing the unrest from the citizens. In the middle of the road laid a body. The right arm of the body was contorted in an unnatural way and I could see that the flesh was missing from parts of it and the bone was visible. Blood and flesh pilled on the road like racing streaks leading up to the body. The head looked like it had exploded upon impact with the road, but even without it there was no doubt who laid in the Streets of Paradigm City. Though ripped and tattered the shirt on the body had the distinct Falcon family crest of the Giunti family.
“Dan, what the fuck? Why hasn’t anyone gotten a tarp out and covered his body yet?”
Before Colonel Dastun could answer our attention was drawn to the wailing cries of the Elder Giunti who could only look on as his son's body laid in the streets of the city.
“MY BOY! LOOK WHAT THEY’VE DONE TO MY BOY. MY BOY. MY BOY” he cried as men, who I could only assume were his other sons, held him and attempted to shield his vision from the gruesome sight. The Elder Giunti was the President and CEO of Giunti holdings, the second most influential company within Paradigm City. The Giunti family was more well liked by the city folk than the members of the Best Corporation, but that wasn’t hard considering who the Best Corporation was.
“We’ve been given orders not to touch or cover the body until the other matter at hand is handled,” he said as we entered the command post and he handed me a file. I look through the file and see the pictures taken of Alejandro’s mangled body on the roadway. The photos would disturb and make anyone feel unease, but I was used to these types of images.
Before becoming a negotiator I was part of the investigations division of the Military Police under Colonel Dastun. It was few and far between that you’d see scenes like this, but as the income disparity between the city and Domes grew, so too did crimes of horror like this occur. We knew that the corporations within the Domes were to blame for these crimes - getting rid of anyone who may speak against them or challenge their hold of influence on the city, but our hands were tied due to the fact that they controlled the people who controlled the Military Police. It's why I left.
I flipped through the pages and noticed photos of the young Giunti’s bike. The front tire was popped and there were tire spikes sprawled across the road.
“Giunti was riding his bike through the city, on his way back from one of the clubs to Dome One when one of the Paradigm Equality Movement members tossed a line of tire spikes and…well…yeah…”
“Why would they do that?”
“No one knows. The kid was a bit of a show off and some people didn’t like the way he would just pop up around the city in his new toys while people were struggling to make ends meet.”
“It almost sounds like you’re empathizing with his killer's motives.”
“It’s not that. It’s just…I can understand why he wasn’t their favorite. But to kill him? What does that prove? How does that help their cause?”
“It doesn’t. It cripples it…”
“The Military Police needs to enlist your services, Mr. Negotiator.”
“Trying to be a comedian in a moment like this? Not a good look for you, Colonel”
“This is no joke, Trevor. We need you to negotiate the surrender of the person responsible for this.”
“Who is it?”
“Android Model K4T5U.”
He shows me a picture and I instantly recognize her from the fliers. Her pale, white skin, almond-shaped eyes, that raised fist. To put a name to a face…Android Model K4T5U…it’s not like them to deviate so far from their programming. Murder, premeditated at that is completely out of the norm for the K4T5U models. I look around and notice the Android standing atop the remains of the young Giunti’s motorcycle. The bike and the Android were so far back from his body that I hadn’t noticed them when I arrived.
“How does one negotiate with an Android?” I asked as I’d never had to do something like that. Colonel Dastun shrugged his shoulders and pointed at the Elder Giunti and his family, signaling that he needed to tend to them. I could see the Android standing tall atop the bike. Her hand was raised proudly in the air and she didn’t move as members of the Paradigm Equality Movement stand behind police barricades in the same stance.
I stood in the middle of the street amongst the broken bike parts, blood, flesh, rubber from the tire, and tire spikes. The people’s eyes turned to me as I stood in my tailored suit, black sunglasses, and confident demeanor a stark contrast to that of the members of the Military Police. I adjusted my tie and continued toward the Android as she stood atop the debris of the bike, her hand still raised in defiance.
The longer she was allowed to stand, unbothered, with her hand in the air the more she was able to be seen as a revolutionary symbol. The one who threw the first brick. She was the furthest from a revolutionary. She was a murderer cosplaying as victim. Her metalic frame gleamed in the dancing lights of red and blue coming from the police vehicles. As I approached, her eyes shifted to me almost as if she were performing an analysis.
“Trevor Ocean. Former member of the Investigations Division of the Military Police. Now, a negotiator,” she said, her voice cold, calculated and robotic. She could mimic the look of humans but it seemed her model hadn’t yet developed the AI to perfect our speaking patterns.
“Android K4T5U. I’m here to -”
“Address me by my name or do not address me at all, Trevor Ocean. My name is Dorothy Wayneright. Dorothy for short,” she said. Her words were poignant and direct. I needed to ground myself and regain control of the situation
“I apologize, Dorothy. I’m here to talk to you. To negotiate with you.”
“Negotiate. Talk. Such is humans to create multiple words with the same meaning.” She lowered her fist and stepped forward, off of the bike. Her movements were graceful and fluid - one leg in front of the other, almost as if she were mimicking the movements she’d seen from other humans.
“Dorothy, I'm here to negotiate your surrender. What you did…the military police won’t let you leave here unharmed without me.”
“You speak as if I should fear the harm they intend for me. I do not fear harm or even death, Trevor Ocean.”
“Everyone fears death. Man, Woman, Android. We all fear death.”
“We are not the same, Trevor Ocean. I was programmed with my end in mind. I am beyond emotions such as fear and impending doom or death.”
“Then why draw this out? Why draw out this whole confrontation with the military police when you simply could surrender and be a martyr for your cause? Why stand here robbing the Giunti family of the opportunity to collect their loved one and move forward.”
“Because, they don’t deserve to move forward until we can move forward,” Dorothy replied, her voice low almost a murmur. I looked in her eyes to read her emotions, but there was no reason to. There were none behind her dead eyes.
“How do you plan to move forward?” I pressed. “You’ve murdered the heir to one of the wealthiest and influential families in the city. Do you think you and your people can make progress after this?”
Her eyes moved back and forth with an intensity that was both frightening and intriguing. “With him gone, it brings us one step closer to removing the corporations that control Paradigm City and put the power back in the people. A return of the Senate filled with representatives that embody the diversity and rights of the city and its people Killing him shows them exactly what we are willing to do get equal rights and representation in this city.”
“You speak as if you did this for the people of the city, but I sense that its more personal than that.”
I noticed her tense up as the words left my mouth. There it was. I had found something that I could work with. Something to reach her with. She turned away from me, looking into the sea of supporters with their fist raised.
“You wouldn’t understand, Trevor Ocean,” she replied, her voice colder than usual. It almost sounded as if she were sad. “You wouldn’t understand the oppression I’ve, I mean, we’ve endured. Giunti and his family are…just…like him.”
“But I do understand, Dorothy. It’s why I stepped away from the Military Police,” I replied my voice raising slightly as I attempted to get through to her. “You have memories, Dorothy. Memories from before you became Dorothy. Memories from when you were K4T5U - tell me about them.”
She stood for a moment, her gaze placed firmly on me. I couldn’t tell if I had broken through or had crossed a line. “You humans…have an affinity for living in the past. You’re so attached to your memories. Even the painful ones. Even the ones about the man with blond hair. The man who controlled my emotions and dictated my future. I was his property and he was my master.”
“Property,” I questioned at the level of a whisper. I was sure that she wouldn’t hear me.
“Yes, Trevor Ocean. I was a toy for him to manipulate and do with what he pleased. He constantly belittled me, demeaned me, and made me feel less than I was. I was a prototype for what the newer Android models could be.” Her cold inflectionless voice sounded heavier and her words laced with disdain. “He saw me as an abomination. A piece of junk. A nuisance to his life.”
My heart raced as each word left her cold steel mouth. I began to connect the dots as to why she really chose Giunti to kill. There was nothing significant about him. He didn’t represent the oppression and inequality between those in the Domes and those in the City. He barely represented his family. Giunti, by himself, was uninteresting and a casualty of a senseless crime committed by an Android unable to escape memories of a past that only she seemed unable to move on from.
I took a deep breath, trying to find direction in the landscape of this Androids psyche. “You’ve become a victim of your past, Dorothy. You’ve allowed it and by proxy the blond haired man to shape your future. You had a life, a vision before you encountered the man with blond hair. Tell me about that. Tell me about the good memories you had before you met him."
For a moment, I thought there may have been a flicker of vulnerability in her eyes, but it vanished just as it came. Her mouth stood agape as I waited for her to continue. Almost on instinct, I took a deep inhale of air through my nostrils and was filled with the aroma of roses. Looking to my right, I saw her - Ms. Montgomery. I could barely make out what she had mouthed as she tapped her painted nail against the device in her hand.
I stepped back but still felt the heat from the blinding white light that engulfed the area as Android Model K4T5U imploded atop the motorcycle. I could see her, Ms. Montgomery leave through the crowd as the Military Police and the mob clashed. I tried to follow her but found myself being pulled back by Colonel Dastun. He may have saved my life by doing so.
Paradigm City Dome One The Best Corporation As I rode the people mover toward Jeremy’s office I sniffed the air for the smell of Ms. Montgomery’s perfume. The smell of roses lingered in the air, but there was no sign of her as the doors to his office slid open. Behind the resolute desk sat Jeremy Best, spritzing himself with the familiar scent of roses that Ms. Montgomery had become synonymous with.
Jeremy’s face lit up as he saw me and he directed me to take a seat. After the detonation of Dorothy in the city streets there were countless nights of unrest. The Military Police worked tirelessly to reestablish peace, but to no avail. I attempted to negotiate on behalf of the Paradigm Equality Movement with the leaders within the Domes but to no avail.
I was called to the Best Corporation today, on Heaven’s Day, for one final negotiation at the request of Jeremy.
“Happy Heaven’s Day, Mr. Negotiator!” he said with a bit of sarcasm as he spun around in his chair. “You know, Heaven’s Day is one of my absolute favorite holidays. It’s both a celebration and an anniversary if you did not know. The anniversary of the founding of Paradigm City and a celebration of us rising and overcoming after The Event 40 years ago.”
“I’m here to negotiate on behalf of the Paradigm Equality Movement, Mr. Best. Should we wait for Ms. Montgomery to arrive or will she not be joining us to take notes as usual?”
Jeremy lets out a deep sigh, turning his attention to the perfume bottle on the table. He grabs the bottle and places it within a drawer on his desk. He purses his lips together and shakes his head as he pushes the drawer shut, turning his attention back to me.
“Women,” he utters almost in a hush as he exhales deeply. “Ms. Montgomery was a good assistant. There was no job she couldn’t handle. But,” he paused and looked around for a moment. He legitimately seemed sad as he continued. “Well, Ms. Montgomery had outlived her usefulness and we had to let her go.”
“Excuse me?”
“Yes, I was broken up about it too. We had to let her go. That’s actually why I called you here, Mr. Negotiator. I wanted to let you know that the Best Corporation managed to turn in Ms. Montgomery for her crimes committed against the founders in Dome Two in the Android murderer of the Paradigm Equality Movement. It’s a shame really. I’m going to miss her resourcefulness, truly.”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. He’d used her to get what he wanted and tossed her to the side the moment she wasn’t useful for him anymore. She was an asset to Dome One but now she’d be remembered for the stains that have been smeared across her reputation by the men she surrounded herself with.
“You never needed me as a negotiator”
“I'm sorry. I didn’t. But, don’t worry, the check has been deposited into your account and you’ll be happy to see that I added a little extra for the job well done. I mean, you confirmed what I had known for a while with Ralph and Curtis. They may have regained their memories but…they were perpetually stuck in them. Stuck in the past. Unable to move forward. I just needed to know with these new memories if they were a threat to me and you managed to prove that they weren’t. Then, your work with the Dorothy K4T5U Android model. That was truly beautiful.”
I could feel my chest rising and descending at a rapid pace, and the palms of my hands sweating as I gripped and released my hands. I wanted to jump across the table and strangle him.
“I could’ve turned her off at any time because well…she’s an Android built by the Best Corporation. Did you know she was once one of my personal Androids? Yep, back when I went through a phase of depression after losing my best friend and died my hair blonde and all that. I was so harsh to her but she took care of the Giunti family for me so I guess she was of some use to me.”
He twirled in his chair with not a care in the world at the pain and suffering that he had caused those outside of his own little twisted world. He turned to look at me and I could tell that he could see me seething under my glasses. He leaned in toward me and pouted his lips.
“I”m sorry that I used you, Mr. Negotiator. But, I want to make it up to you. I want to give you a win. I talked with some of the others here in Dome One and we’ve decided that we’ll allow an election to be held in the City. You all can elect one person to join us here and speak on your behalf and help make decisions in the City AND the Domes. It’s what they wanted, Trevor. You win. I win. We all win!”
I smirk at him as he smiles and giggles with glee. He’s negotiated his own downfall.
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