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Post by mandalorian on Oct 25, 2024 21:09:42 GMT
The promo deadline is Monday 4th November at 23:59, Pacific Time. Which is Tuesday 5th November at 03:00(am), Eastern Time. Which is Tuesday 5th November at 08:00(am), UK. Which is Tuesday 5th November at 11:00(am), Istanbul. Which is Tuesday 5th November at 19:00, Melbourne.
Please note that daylight savings skullduggery affects all listed time zones except for the enlightened ones in Turkey. I believe that these are correct but, in the case of any errors, the latest time listed above is the final deadline for promos.
There are no extensions, but you’ve got a day longer than normal so YOU’RE WELCOME.
GLHF! |
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Post by supinesnake on Nov 3, 2024 7:56:16 GMT
By now, Jean-Luc Watkins had become used to being awoken by the sounds of breakfast being made. It surprised him how quickly he’d become used to Konchu breaking into his suite and making use of his kitchen, but it didn’t make sense to start so many mornings in a bad mood. Tagging with Konchu Hao was an experience that you best not stand in the way of. Better to let yourself get carried away. Usually, Konchu’s breakfast of choice was a combination of every ingredient that Jean-Luc unknowingly made available to him, but today - judging by the popping of the toaster and the subsequent scraping of butter - seemed a far more austere affair. Perhaps the Wizard had eventually become fatigued by his extravagance, after all.
Before exiting his bedroom, Jean-Luc took the opportunity to stretch, yawn, and then slowly stumble over to the window, opening the curtains and surveying the bustling San Juan scene unfolding below. The morning sunlight was harsh and hot, agitating his mild hangover and increasing his anxiety about the day of training that he and Konchu had planned. He imagined the Wizard would want to put him through his paces, especially given their dormancy over the past two weeks. In fact, he hadn’t heard from Hao at all since their victory over NTR, outside of a few garbled cell phone messages that sounded as though they’d been recorded on the high seas in the middle of the night. Even the messages had dried up a few days ago. This was uncharacteristic of Konchu, and Jean-Luc feared that he’d be hoping to make up for lost time today. Nevermind. Hangovers are a struggle, but struggle is good for the soul.
Jean-Luc pulled on a bathrobe and meandered out into the living area of the penthouse suite, the light from the floor-to-ceiling east-facing windows hitting him like an oncoming double decker bus.
“Good morning, Konchu. A little early today?”
He tried to focus on the figure, and thought for more than a moment that a trick of the light was rendering the silhouette of his tag team partner into that of another. Only when his vision returned to him was he sure that this was not Konchu Hao: rather, his partner’s other partner stood in Jean-Luc’s kitchen, biting into the corner of a slice of toast. Cyrus Truth looked solemn, serious, and dour, in the manner that only Cyrus Truth can. Jean-Luc was frozen, perhaps even a little intimidated, as the Exile continued to enjoy his breakfast. Perhaps enjoy wasn’t the right word…
“Where is Konchu?” Jean-Luc asked, when he’d finally re-gathered enough courage to speak.
“I was going to ask you the same thing,” the Exile replied, between mouthfuls of toast. “I haven’t heard from that crazy wizard in a week, and before that only nonsensical messages meant to throw me off his scent. Not completely out of character, of course. But odd timing…”
“Timing?” Jean-Luc asked, quizzically. “Is something going on? Something… big?”
“Yes, something big,” Cyrus affirmed. “I’m surprised you’re not aware, given that you are a part of it. A certain FWA World Tag Team Championships match that you and Konchu have somehow managed to earn, against all odds and wiser judgements. It’s less than a week away, and despite Konchu’s proclivity for distracting himself with all manner of bizarre escapades, he has at least always been committed to his endeavours here in the FWA. His disappearance… it troubles me.”
Truth withdrew into a silence, pondering with narrowed eyes the enigma that was Konchu Hao.
“And you think that he’d tell me where he went?” Jean-Luc asked. “I find it difficult to believe that I would know and you wouldn’t.”
“I don’t think he would abandon you at a time like this,” Cyrus replied, assertively. “Not when you still have so much to learn. Or perhaps re-learn.”
If he was honest with himself, Jean-Luc did find it strange that Konchu hadn’t been in contact about their upcoming championship match. Throughout the tournament, despite the wild tangents the Mad Wizard found himself drawn into, he had always been sure to involve the executive in them as well. Before their matches against Cinematic Universe, Trick or Trash, and NTR, all of which Jean-Luc fully expected to lose, Konchu was at his side every step of the way, coaching him towards success. For him to suddenly disappear when their labour was beginning to fruit indeed seemed out of character.
Out of character. What did he know? He’d tagged with Konchu for a couple of months, and announced with him for a few more months before that. A team is not the same thing as a friendship: that was much newer, and there were still so many things he didn’t know about the Mad Wizard. Predicting what was in and out of character was still a task far beyond him.
“You have any leads?” Jean-Luc asked, dragging both Cyrus and himself out of their individual musings. Konchu was usually the one who had leads. Ideas. He was hopeful that Cyrus would fulfill this role in his absence. Fortunately, the Exile nodded, though his cold and coarse nature rendered the gesture far from reassuring.
“Konchu’s a smart one, so it took a considerable amount of effort to pull this off, but I had tracking devices planted on some of his vehicles. Not exactly methods I’m fond of, but useful in their own way, I guess,” the Exile began, indulging in characteristic candour and clearly unashamed of what he deemed necessary duplicity. “Most are still in their safehouses, or are displaying as offline. This could mean a number of things. A faulty device is most likely, but there’s also the possibility that the vehicles are in another dimension entirely. My technology is exclusively bound to this plane, alas.”
“Then all of his vehicles are either accounted for, or beyond our ability to account for?” Jean-Luc concluded, indulging in characteristic hopelessness.
“All except one,” continued Truth. “His sloop is currently idling off the coast of a small island in the south of the Atlantic. I suspect, considering the irregular holding pattern the tracking device is displaying, that he might have run aground and become shipwrecked on the coral reef that surrounds its western shoreline.”
Jean-Luc knew the description well enough to guess the answer to his next question.
“Which island?”
Cyrus nodded his head.
*****
Devious Productions Presents…
Konchu Hao and Jean-Luc Watkins in
”A MOST AUDACIOUS HUNT! THE FINAL STRIKE AGAINST THE MOST SCURRILOUS PREY!!!”
*****
“Oh, quit your blithering commentary, Zeta! I’m quite done listening to you complain about our horrid circumstances and the headaches that come with it!”
Our scene opens on a white, sandy beach, the coastline of a tropical island resting in the middle of sparkling blue. Almost idyllic, if it weren’t for a raving madman watching the mast of his ship slowly sinking into the waves below several hundred feet away from land.
Konchu Hao is a world-traveler, a master of magic and seeker of the many mysteries of the world. In the world of shadows, few are as omni-disciplined as the Mad Wizard.
But sailing ships? Apparently, not something that Konchu ever took the time to learn. Theoretically, this should’ve been a simple enough journey. After all, this is not the first time that Konchu has been to this particular island. The elder patriarch of the Watkins family - in a meaningless attempt to protect his recently seceded Fallout brand from further invasions from Truth and the rabble of Meltdown warriors during the FWA sundering some years back - hosted wrestling on this very island. Folly, in the end. As if Rupert Watkins, even with his resources, could halt the advance of an angry Exile.
But who gives a damn about that? The point being, Konchu THOUGHT he could just simply sail to an island that he’s been to before, set anchor offshore, and find out what was going on. How the devil was he supposed to know that there was a massive coral reef surrounding the island?! Konchu Hao’s the Mad Wizard, not the Mad Marine Biologist! And the crew he commissioned…surely, they should’ve been knowledgeable enough to take precautions! Blasted fools, the lot of them!
It was only through sheer fortune that Konchu was able to get Epsilon away onto a speedboat, saving him from having to be shipwrecked as well. Perhaps Konchu should’ve joined him…but no! There was something here. Something that’s gotten the attention of a bunch of miscreants, the barrel-scraping malcontents of the world of shadows and Konchu had to find out. If Rupert was lying about his intentions towards FWA, or even if there were other secrets hidden here…yes, yes! He had to find out.
So, Epsilon escaped, hopefully to bring help. And while Konchu DID imbibe on some salt water swimming to the island, it was only a little! And he was thirsty! Admittedly…it HAS potentially destabilized Konchu’s already tenuous grasp on sanity in conjunction with exposure to the harsh tropical elements, but it’s FINE! PERFECTLY FINE! All Konchu needed was some fresh water after he completed his meditation ritual.
But Zeta…oooh, Zeta, that bastard!
“How many times have I had to tell you that your incessant whining and taunting is counterproductive to our mutual survival, hmm?! If you have nothing constructive to say, then I would recommend you be QUIET and wipe that repugnant look off your face!”
As Konchu sits cross legged on the beach, trying to focus his chakra in an effort to replenish his mana and restitch his psyche, we see, sitting next to him on a rock, an inflated, bright blue beach ball with a hastily drawn face out of something that’s probably mud, with the Greek symbol for Zeta etched where the forehead would be. There’s a few seconds of obvious silence before Konchu grits his teeth and launches into another manic tirade.
“Oh, it’s MY fault, is it?! Of course you’d blame me. What the bloody hell were YOU doing to help matters, you bulbous twit? Hmm? I did not see YOU pointing out the coral reefs. YOU didn’t bother to get people to the lifeboats. I DISTINCTLY recall that I saved YOUR worthless hide while sending my true friend off on his lonesome to find assistance for the two of us. But apparently, gratitude is well beyond you, you overbearing piece of sh…”
Konchu’s rambling rant at an inanimate party object is cut short as the Mad Wizard’s gaze focuses on something off in the horizon. He slowly stands up, peering off as an object slowly starts to grow larger.
The object, as it approaches the island, eventually reveals itself to be a high-end yacht, though a smaller and sleeker model than some of the more massive, luxury models favored by overcompensating capitalists. And unlike Konchu’s vessel, this one is far more cautious in its approach, as if the crew knows that the coral reef barrier is there, and knows how to bypass the worst of it.
A small vessel, a rowboat, is lowered from the yacht into the water, as a lone figure rows to shore, avoiding the reef barrier. As it closes in and arrives on shore, and its occupant hops out to walk to the beach in the shallows, the Mad Wizard lets out a wide, almost mad grin.
“Jean-Luc! KEHAHAHA! What fortuitous happenstance!” Konchu says as he stands to greet his tag team partner. “Zeta here was insistent that no one would care enough to come after us…but I knew! I knew that someone would come…although, not so quickly. But! But, but…one should not look a gift seahorse in the mouth, and should always…”
Jean-Luc, without saying a word, raises his hand to get Konchu to shut up. The gesture works as Jean-Luc simply anchors the rowboat as the yacht pulls away, heading back out to open ocean. “Konchu…what the hell is going on? Why are you here at the Granary?”
Konchu blinks before sheepishly responding, “Oh…is that where I am? What a terrible coincidence! I had not thought that Le Croissant would be where I was inevitably shipwrecked, but…”
“We’re supposed to be partners, Konchu,” Jean-Luc interjects with the forceful tone of an exasperated parent. “Cyrus had to break into my hotel in Puerto Rico to tell me you went off the grid, and now you want to stand there half-alive and tell me you ended up at the Granary by accident? How did you even get shipwrecked in the first place?”
“Leviathans.”
“...Excuse me?”
“Leviathans. Awful creatures. Usually relatively passive, but something set them off and one of them attacked my vessel and slaughtered most of my crew,” Konchu explains rather blithely before leaning in and whispering, “Between you and I? I blame Zeta. He never knew how to behave himself in dangerous situations.”
Konchu whispers the last pair of sentences whilst pointing an accusatory finger at the beach ball.
“Right…”
“At any rate!” Konchu continues. “I admittedly am a poor sailor and ended up running into the reefs. So…yes. That about sums it up.”
Jean-Luc scoffs a bit at that. “Fine. You still haven’t answered my question as to what you’re doing here. And don’t try and sell me that line about you ending up here by accident again.”
Konchu hesitates for a minute as his shoulders drop. Jean-Luc had him dead to rights and lying would serve their partnership ill. But…perhaps not the whole truth. “Very well, Jean-Luc…I’m here because certain movers and shakers in the world of shadow are congregating here. Under most circumstances, I’d usually ignore them; however, several elements amongst them are individuals that have done terrible business with the Black Mass in the past, and others are cretins that I would have thought would simply vanish into the dark abyss where they belong. But that seems not to be the case, and this gathering is not the first of its kind on this island from what little information I’ve been able to gather. My curiosity, as it typically does, won out over my self-preservation and…so…here we are.”
There’s a long sigh from Jean-Luc as he rummages through the rowboat and pulls out a bag, opening it to reveal a supply of non-perishable foodstuffs and bottled water. Knowing Konchu is dehydrated to all hell, the FWA executive tosses him a bottle, which the Mad Wizard almost gleefully opens and drinks from. “It’s a hunt.”
Konchu stops mid-chug as he simply blurts out, “A what?”
“A hunt,” Jean-Luc repeats as he grabs a bottle for himself. “My father’s fond of games, especially ones where he gets to pit those he considers beneath him against one another for his amusement. So, every year at around this time, he sends the call out for the worst of the worst to come to the Granary and hunt ‘the most dangerous game.’”
“Ominous. And by ‘most dangerous game,’ you mean…”
Jean-Luc simply nods as he re-caps his bottled water and turns his gaze out to the open sea. “Father’s always been into watching people destroy one another, and he’s never been shy about rewarding what he calls ‘good entertainment.’ And when it comes to the hunt? Well, the prize usually isn’t something money can buy. So it inevitably turns anybody who comes to play Father’s little game against all the others until only one or maybe two are left standing to claim the prize. And since this is happening in uncharted territory…well, laws don’t really apply here. It’s sick, and cruel if you ask me.”
“I see…” Konchu replies, the water already doing wonders in helping him reclaim his sense of self and poise… at least for a minute, before turning to the beach ball. “You see, you overinflated bastard?! I knew that there was some ill business going on here, but you dismissed it. Oh…I get it now! You’re on Rupert’s payroll! Well, then you shall suffer the only punishment allowed to traitors!”
Konchu pulls a long, ritual knife from a pocket in his now fairly tattered robe and immediately rushes “Zeta,” popping the beach ball before grabbing the tattered remains and throwing them in the ocean. Jean-Luc watches in somewhat wide-eyed terror at the outburst as Konchu returns the knife to his coat and sighs. “Sorry you had to see that, my friend. And I do apologize for not telling you about this sojourn. I had not wanted to bring you into this considering…recent events, but it seems all I did was make things incredibly hard for myself. My sincerest apologies, Jean-Luc.”
“Right…um…yeah, you really should’ve told me, but I guess I can forgive that,” Jean-Luc replies, trepidation obvious in his voice. When Konchu’s posture relaxes, so does Jean-Luc. “But that being said, now what? We probably should get out of here before…”
“Oh, I’m…afraid I can’t do that.”
“What? Why not?”
“Quite simple, really,” Konchu retorts in a playfully scolding tone. “I told you I came here to determine what these miscreants are doing…”
“Yeah, and you have. I literally just told you.”
“But not the WHY. The prize, Jean-Luc. If it was simply money, then I wouldn’t care. But if it’s something larger than that, something that money cannot buy and is worth slaughtering for…I have to know what it is. What if it’s some ancient artifact that’s still imbued with dark magics? Or worse? The prize up for grabs could be something that upsets the delicate balance of the world of shadows, and as Primogen of the Black Mass? It’s one of my responsibilities to ascertain that and ensure it does not fall into the wrong hands. And I think you would agree that anyone who would willingly go along with your father’s little diversions is not someone that should potentially be granted phenomenal cosmic power.”
There’s a long groan from Jean-Luc before the executive replies, “And how exactly do you plan to figure that out, Konchu? Do you plan on just waltzing up to wherever these bastards are meeting up and asking them?”
“Hardly!” Konchu says with a tone of faux-shock. “As fortune has it, I have reason to suspect based on travel itineraries that whatever this event is, it’s set up for two people to win. A duo to claim the prize as opposed to a single individual. Your arrival should now allow the two of us to infiltrate the opening ceremony and determine what’s at stake.”
“How? I know enough about Father’s little yearly tradition to know that it’s invite only.”
“Kehahaha! Not to worry. You forget…I am a master of black magic. Nothing is impossible for me…”
*****
The sensation of looking through eyes that aren’t your own onto hands that never belonged to you is something Jean-Luc never considered he’d ever have to experience, but apparently when you team with Konchu Hao? The impossible is merely a challenge the natural order of the world throws in front of the twisted and manic.
The FWA executive is still trying to wrap his head around this…disguise? Glamor? This strange appropriation of the identities of an older writer and his editorial partner that Jean-Luc remembered holidaying with the Watkins family at the Granary on a couple of occasions, but he never would’ve expected them to be invited to this bloodsport his Father revelled in hosting.
“Konchu…this is…this is a lot, even for you,” Jean-Luc blurts out in someone else’s voice as the duo make their way deeper into the island, following a map stolen from the men whose identities they now inhabit. “I knew these men before you…”
“Oh, stop being so melodramatic,” Konchu replies in a voice that’s about two octaves lower than his usual manic tone, as he pushed through the foliage to make a path to their destination. “I told you before, didn’t I? They are not dead, simply incapacitated from one of my more potent potions. At worst, they wake up in forty-eight hours on their gaudy, obnoxiously garish vessel naked and ashamed. I didn’t even use the nightmare reagent, so their dreams will either be pleasant or non-existent!”
“Nightmare reagent?”
Konchu simply clicks his tongue dismissively at the question. “At any rate! We needed their visages in order to infiltrate this event, did we not? I did warn you that the world of shadows is not for the faint of heart. If you’re wanting to back out at this juncture…”
“No,” Jean-Luc interjects with a forceful rebuke. “I’m already a bit too deep in the weeds on this, and I’m not about to let you run off on your own again. So…ergh…fine, I’ll stomach it and stop asking questions.”
“Never stop asking questions, Jean-Luc,” Konchu counters as the foliage starts to thin out and the sounds of a crowd start to grow louder. “That being said, perspective is important in all things. Ah…looks like we’ve arrived, and not a moment too soon.”
Jean-Luc and Konchu emerge from the island’s wilderness into a clearing. This is not where Rupert’s island estate is…no, that’s located on a beach in some hidden inlet. This is nothing more than a patch of flat, clear ground out in the middle of the Granary. Thinking back…was this where Rupert set up the rings and production for that fateful Fallout?
The younger Watkins doesn’t have a whole lot of time to ponder that as he pans around the crowd that’s gathered for Rupert’s hunt…and begins to recognize some familiar faces.
“Hey, Konchu…isn’t that Karen and Glenda? Those movie executives we forced out of FWA?”
Konchu follows Jean-Luc’s gaze as he sees the middle-aged women dressed in safari gear. “Ah, yes…seems that those wretches fell on harder times than anticipated. Not wholly unexpected. Hmm…now that’s interesting. Over there.”
Konchu points out a pair of hulking brutes, looming over the rest of the crowd with heavy, rusted axes strapped to their backs. “See those louts? Nasty pieces of work. Incredibly disruptive in the World of Shadows. I believe they have a bit of fomorian blood in their veins, but I’ve never been able to get close enough to get a blood sample to confirm.”
“I know those two,” Jean-Luc calls out, pointing to a scrawny, reedy man with a smile that does not look terribly friendly, standing next to a man as wide as he is tall looking for all the world like he’d rather be somewhere else. “I never did get their names, but I think they’ve been invited to this hunt before. Yeah…the twiggy twink somehow managed to outlast so many to claim the prize last year. Apparently he’s back for a repeat?”
Konchu shrugs as he scans the rest of the competition. “Those two, the one in armor and the man who looks like what happens when a bugbear and a troll have an incredibly ugly child? Bounty hunters among various magically-inclined societies in the world of shadow, but awful ones. No one hires them for anything serious. And those horrid pretenders who fancy themselves witches? How droll. And then there’s…”
“Fuck.”
“Beg your pardon, Jean-Luc?”
Jean-Luc is staring hard at a pair of traditionally-attractive men in their 30s in finely-tailored suits, sticking out like sore thumbs amongst this motley crew. “Ink and Quartz.”
“Seriously? Those are their names?”
“At least the names they use when conducting business. Their real names aren’t anything to write home about,” Jean-Luc explains with a bitter tone in his voice. “I went to school with those bastards. Father always liked them, and I learned recently thanks to those intelligence sources you introduced me to that they’ve been doing some business for the old man.”
“Shadow business, I presume.”
“Yeah. I mean, you always presume that, but in this case I agree. I fucking hate them. Pricks, the both of them.”
Before Konchu can urge restraint, the chatter amongst the competitors is cut short by a pair of men in balaclavas blasting an air horn to get their attention. A massive screen is set up, nearly twenty feet high and wide, as a drone with a projection device flies in and begins to broadcast a video onto the screen.
The host of the Granary, Rupert Watkins, sneers as he swirls a glass of brandy while addressing his guests. “My apologies for not being there to kick off this year’s event, but circumstances have occupied a great deal of my attention and resources. But, never let it be said that I don’t stand on tradition, and Hell itself will freeze over before the end of our yearly entertainment.”
Vox Potentis share a side glance at that final comment before returning their attention to the screen. “You may be wondering what this year’s Most Dangerous Game is about. After all, we’ve never had an event like this, where partnerships are encouraged instead of the tried and true ‘survival of the fittest’ that some of you have become accustomed to. However…this year’s prey is certainly something else entirely, and I feel it’s a welcomed change of pace. First of all, allow me to introduce you to your targets.”
The image on the screen changes from Rupert to a still photo of two men. One of the men wears a very dark mask that hides his face, while the other’s face is clear save for an incredibly tacky mustache. Both men are buck naked except for loincloths held up by belts adorned with golden studs, and a message on the cloth covering their genitals that says “Kiss the Cock Ring, Cucks.”
Most of the assembled would-be hunters don’t look too impressed. However, both Jean-Luc and Konchu clock the twisted look of disdain and personal animosity on Ink’s face as Rupert’s video continues. “Two hours ago, we released these two in the northern wilderness of the island. Your task is simple: track them down and take them out. Weapon caches are littered throughout the island for your use, and the only rule is that you are not permitted to use GPS or any other form of electronic tracking on the target. Aside from that, you’re free to deal with the prey - or your fellow hunters - as you see fit.
“Upon completion of the hunt and securing the tokens those two are carrying, you will be declared the winners and receive the prize. And this year? The prize…is the Granary itself!”
THAT gets the attention of the hunters as Konchu looks towards his partner…and sees the look of contemplation on his face as Rupert continues. “Due to…issues with regards to my efforts to modernize my portfolio and course correct on some other issues with regards to succession of my legacy, I am in a position where the Granary, as rich as prize as it is, no longer fits with my vision moving forward. But the Granary is truly the richest prize I have offered for the victors of my hunts, and I trust that is enough motivation for you all to give everything in pursuit of victory.
“The game begins in twenty minutes. Take those precious moments to prepare yourselves. Good hunting, my guests…and may the odds be in your favor. I will see you at the end…”
*****
Finding himself high in the mountainous regions of the Granary’s north, Jean-Luc grew conflicted. On their way to the orientation point, his mind was clearly made up: involving themselves in Rupert's games was a complete waste of time, and they should be back in civilized society preparing for FTN. His resolve had been somewhat dented, however, upon learning what the prize for this year's hunt would actually be. Even as a young boy, the idea of one day calling the Granary his own stood above the dreams he attached to all of his other potential inheritances. It had been difficult for him to accept that, by turning his back on his father, he had given up on all hope of one day securing it when his father finally passed. If his father finally passed. God knows what sort of deals Mr. Watkins had made concerning his soul.
But now, by a strange quirk of fate and Konchu's obstinate insistences, the dream of calling the Granary his private island now breathed life again. The idea of taking it from his father in the same way he had the FWA, through guile and trickery as opposed to a gift in the old man’s will, appealed to him. It wasn't often he got one over on Mr. Watkins, and he liked to savor such delicacies whenever they were served to him on a silver platter.
He did, however, have misgivings surrounding what might be necessary in order for him to claim this prize. At orientation, his father had instructed the hunters to ‘take the prey out’, and Jean-Luc was sure he'd read something in the rules about exchanging a token (in the form of their golden belts) for the Granary's deeds. For all his muddled ambition, Jean-Luc was no killer, and he liked to think the same was true of his tag team partner.
“Konchu,” he called to the Wizard, who was a few metres ahead of him, darting up the difficult terrain whilst at the same time checking a handheld device. Hao turned around and lifted a finger to his lips, encouraging Jean-Luc to keep it down. Watkins continued in a whisper. “One can't help but think that we should be back in Puerto Rico, or somewhere nearby that's a little less garbage-y. As attractive as the Granary is, we've already set our sights on another prize back home. Maybe we should be more concerned about Peacock and Black, and less concerned about whatever my father is up to with this strange bunch.”
“You should never underestimate the value of team-building exercises,” Konchu said in reply. Jean-Luc had been on quite a number of corporate team-building days, and none of them looked anything like this. “Puerto Rico is just a short sail from here. We'll be back in plenty of time. And besides, I've faced off against Chris Peacock and Alyster Black so many times by now that I know them like the back of my glove. I barely need to think about them at all. In fact, I'd wager I know what they're going to do next before even they do. Granted, most of the time what they're going to do next is a penis joke, but the point remains!”
Jean-Luc swallowed his response and fell quiet. Good for you, he thought to himself. He didn't share Konchu's confidence or his alleged prescience when it came to FTN’s mind. He had never shared the ring with Chris Peacock, and had suffered one painful defeat (all defeats were painful) to Alyster Black several years ago. He had called enough of their matches to know that they were unpredictable, and a well-oiled team of equals.
This last point stung Jean-Luc, as he stared ahead at his tag team partner, still traipsing up the hillside. He noted that he was following him again.
“What's that in your hand?” Jean-Luc asked, as Hao once more paused to check the device he was carrying. Of course, it wasn't really Konchu’s hand at all. The executive was surprised at how quickly he'd grown used to their disguises. Their path, towards a ravine on the horizon, seemed predetermined by Konchu and whatever it was that he was constantly consulting. “You remember that tracking devices aren't allowed, right?”
“You should listen more carefully to your father, J-L,” Konchu chided, mischievously. “That rule specifically applied to the prey. Nothing prohibits me from tracking our opponents.”
“Very well,” Jean-Luc allowed. “Nice loopholing, Konchu. But I really think our priority right now should be our targets, no?”
“Really?” Hao said, with just a hint of bemused mockery in his tone. “Those irrelevancies? They may be the eventual target, but it would be to our benefit to thin down the field before we eventually focus on the prey. Here, take a look…”
The Mad Wizard held out his device, which showed a radar map of the northern half of the island, complete with a topographical representation of the hills and a satellite view of the surrounding woodland. The screen displayed eight triangles of different colours, each representing one of the competing tandems. Jean-Luc assumed that Konchu had planted devices on each of them during the orientation meeting. The triangles had arranged into two separate clusters, one in the lowland forest and one upon the mountain. The labels next to those triangles in the hills informed him that they belonged to themselves, the Warner Sisters, the knight and his pet troll, and the bounty hunters. He was unnerved at how close the middle-aged cinema executives were, especially now that he knew their extensive ties to the World of Shadows.
As Jean-Luc stared at the screen, the triangle that belonged to the bounty hunters suddenly turned from green to gray, and stopped moving altogether. The brown triangle, belonging to the knight and the beast, hovered around it before slowly moving away.
“What happened?” Jean-Luc asked.
“They've been terminated,” Konchu explained. “Eliminated from the hunt. Seems the other teams have the same ideas as us.”
As you, Jean-Luc thought about correcting, but he decided against it when two coarsely feminine voices drifted up from the valley below. Konchu heard them, too. The pair scrambled around the crest of a hill above them, tracking the Warner Sisters as they made their way northwards.
“Where do you think Rupert found the prey this year?” Glenda asked, as they slowly waddled next to a trickling stream.
“Same place he always does, I expect,” Karen said.
“One of his subsidiaries in the South Pacific?” asked Glenda.
“Subsidiaries,” Karen scoffed. “More like colonies. But yes, I don't believe Rupert has broken with tradition in that regard. A shame. These men we chase are base and coarse. Vulgar specimens of the most uncivilised sort.”
“Beneath us,” Glenda added.
“Precisely,” Karen agreed.
As the two women spoke, Konchu showed Jean-Luc the screen of his tracker. The brown triangle denoting the location of the knight and the beast was also nearby. The executive grew more anxious. His breathing quickened, his heart pounded. He felt his senses heightening, though his mind was too clouded for him to make use of this power. He felt unprepared. Konchu read this plainly in his partner, and resolved to drag the old Jean-Luc out of him yet again.
*****
The Mad Wizard admired his handiwork with a smile on his face that Jean-Luc considered vaguely manic. This wasn't the sort of handiwork that the executive was prone to admiring. At least Hao hadn't killed anyone, Watkins guessed, albeit only because of his protestations. Restraint didn’t come naturally to him. The two unconscious beings currently tied up and attached to an elaborate system of pulleys and winches were, Konchu assured him, quite alive and only sleeping. Jean-Luc didn't want to be around when the knight and his beast woke up.
Under the direction of the Wizard, Watkins pulled the end of the rope around a winch at ground level, thus raising their incapacitated foes up into the air until (eventually, after much tussling from Jean-Luc) they were almost hidden from view within the branches of a tall palm tree. Konchu didn't help. He was busy inspecting the visibility of another unconscious tandem, this time the Warner Sisters, who were already obscured within the foliage of an adjacent tree.
“I'm not sure about all of this, Konchu,” Jean-Luc said, as he wiped the sweat from his brow and tied the rope around the winch. “You sure they're going to be okay?”
“When have I ever lied to you?” Konchu replied, already checking his tracking device for the movements of the other four teams.
“Well, there was that time when –” Jean-Luc began, before his partner cut him off.
“Rhetorical question, J-L!” Hao cried, dismissively. Two of the triangles that had clustered in the forest - those belonging to the wild-looking fomorian axemen and the reigning champion - had already been grayed out. He placed the device back into his pocket and gave Jean-Luc his full attention. “No need for a list! Yes, they'll be fine. I already told you that the drugs wear off in forty eight hours ish, and these ropes will slowly disintegrate in the atmosphere over a similar period. The fall won’t be pleasant, but they’ll live…”
“Why do you have rope on you, anyway?” the executive asked. He never failed to be surprised and impressed by his partner's resourcefulness.
“You should always carry rope on an escapade like this!” Konchu declared, as though this was obvious. “But general preparation tips aside, we should probably focus on the task at hand. I learned a lot from my interrogations.”
Jean-Luc shuddered at the memory of Konchu's questioning of the Warners, the knight, and the beast. He wasn't even sure that the latter and Konchu spoke the same language, rendering the endeavour rather pointless. Or so he assumed. He hadn't the stomach for the episode himself, and left Konchu alone to administer the interrogations himself.
“And what exactly did you learn?” the executive asked.
“I learned that the easiest way to locate the prey will be through their almost constant bawdy laughter, which they can't contain through their base and puerile tomfoolery,” Konchu explained. “At least, that's according to the Warner Sisters, who didn't appear to hold them in the highest regard. The knight told me that they're dangerous, and often violently unhinged. Not to be underestimated, regardless of Karen and Glenda's glib dismissiveness. What's more, they're fiercely loyal to one another, which is a trait that I will eventually hope to exploit.”
“All sounds like hearsay,” Jean-Luc mused.
“Ah, but you haven't heard the best of it,” Konchu said, triumphantly. “You and I saw the look on your old school friend’s face at the orientation meeting when the prey was revealed. It appears that they are known to both Ink and Quartz. In fact, this whole hunt may have been set up to encourage an eventual showdown between them.”
“You mean that we are irrelevant?” Jean-Luc asked.
“Only if we let ourselves be,” Konchu said, as he removed his handheld tracker from his pocket again. “Plus, there's the information that we have from this. It appears two more teams have bowed out of the hunt in the forest.”
Just as Jean-Luc peered at the screen, another of the remaining triangles in the forest grayed out.
“Three,” he corrected. This previously pink triangle belonged to the witches, leaving only the orange one of Ink and Quartz still active in the woods. Both teams - one hunting and one now eliminated - were within the northern eaves of the forest, upon the shores of the tar pits.
“Looks like your old school friends have been busy,” Konchu said. “They've accomplished in the forest what we have in the hills. In keeping with the script. At least so far.”
“Where do we go next?” Jean-Luc asked. The question shouldn't be misinterpreted as steely resolve, but rather begrudging acceptance.
“To the tar pits, J-L,” Konchu instructed, with an onward wave of the finger. “When you're upsetting an applecart, it's best to meet it head on.”
*****
On the shores of the murky and unwelcoming tar pits, Jean-Luc sat impatiently on a rock and watched Konchu pacing back and forth before him. The Mad Wizard waved his tracking device around in the air, perhaps hoping to catch some signal on the wind that rolled in above the trees. Jean-Luc sighed. On the hike here, he had resigned himself to a climactic showdown with Ink and Quartz, desperately hopeless though that might be. He wished for it to be sudden and decisive. Upon arrival at the tar pits, however, their nemeses (but not really, as Ink and Quartz were always destined for much greater things) were nowhere to be found.
“It's no good,” bemoaned Konchu, approaching Jean-Luc and handing him the tracker. “Their triangle has completely disappeared. Not even grayed out. It's like they don't even exist anymore!”
The Mad Wizard sat down next to Jean-Luc, cohabiting a rock that was just barely big enough for one. Hao placed his chin on his palms, simultaneously engaged in a huff and deep thought.
“I don't think they're going to show up to our climactic battle,” Konchu said, his disappointment obvious. “Says a lot about their courage! What did they teach them at this school your father paid so much for? Why did they even sign up for this tournament in the first place, if they intended to simply disappear from it?!”
“It's a hunt,” Jean-Luc corrected. “Not a tournament.”
“Yes, you're right!” Konchu exclaimed, seemingly delighted by this reminder. “I'm losing sight of myself, and of the real prize here. This is, as you have pointed out, a hunt, and I think it's time we focused our attention on the prey. I think there's a weapons cache around here, J-L. Better tool up.”
Hao found the armory with little difficulty, and inside he quickly began to tamper with a large computer unit that was hidden in a corner of the bunker. With some elementary hacking that Konchu thought Epsilon (or even Zeta) was probably capable of, he managed to override the security systems and access footage from the island's network of cameras. With a few more clicks, the screen began to play images of Ink and Quartz standing at the shores of the tar pits, watching the witches slowly sinking into the gloomy black lake.
“Grizzly,” Konchu said. “But at least we'll find out what happened to your old school friends.”
“I wish you'd stop calling them that,” Jean-Luc replied. On the screen, Ink and Quartz packed away their weapons and prepared to continue the hunt. As Quartz stepped back towards the cover of the forest, Ink reached out for his arm, halting his momentum. He listened to the wind, which carried on its back the thin cackles of the ones they hunted.
Jean-Luc and Konchu watched with baited breath as the two men on screen began to stalk hidden foes. The executive half-considered that they were watching the end of the hunt, that Ink and Quartz were about to realise the ending according to their script. Jean-Luc leant forwards as they pounced…
… onto decoys. Still laughing. Now at their hunters.
The cameras caught the beginning of the subsequent ambush, and even a candid moment of victorious tea-bagging, but couldn't follow when the prey dragged Ink and Quartz into the forest. Konchu turned off the computer, now more resolute than ever.
“Looking to bypass us completely, eh?” he said, as he began to survey the inventory of weapons in the cache. “Their focus was never really us, J-L. That much is clear. But we'll have the last laugh! We now have a clear line of sight to the prey. No obstacles in our way.”
As he spoke, Konchu nodded his head decisively, before picking up a crossbow and a quiver of bolts. He slung both of them over his shoulder in what felt like an unsettlingly natural motion, before turning back towards his partner.
“I suggest you get something, too,” he said. It felt like more than a suggestion.
“Why do we need weapons?” Jean-Luc asked. “We haven’t used anything like this so far, Konchu. Can’t we just use potions and ropes again? I like using potions and ropes.”
“This is the grand finale, J-L!” Hao declared. “We might be forced to go all in. Outside of our comfort zone. Or, rather, your comfort zone. You need to be ready for that eventuality, should it come to it.”
With this dreary premonition, Konchu left with his crossbow. Jean-Luc sighed, before scanning the room and eyeing a pair of hunting knives on a low shelf. With a grim acceptance of where his evening was heading, the executive picked up the knives, deposited them in his belt, and followed his partner out of the bunker.
Darkness was beginning to descend on the island, the moon already rising over the crest of the mountain.
“Now that we're tooled up,” Jean-Luc said, hinting at derision. “How exactly do you intend to locate the prey?”
Konchu allowed himself a wry smile.
“Shouldn't be too difficult,” the Mad Wizard answered. He pointed towards the lighthouse, which was shining a bright beam directly at the moon. The executive followed the light to the satellite, onto which was projected the hand-etched silhouette of a penis. “Their symbol.”
Jean-Luc indulged in another sigh before the pair headed north towards the lighthouse.
*****
Following the light to what would end up being their final destination in this game, the duo of Vox Potentis eventually find themselves on the banks of a somewhat murky lake, a rather unstable-looking jetty providing a means of crossing some of the waters heading towards the lighthouse on the other side. Konchu’s nose crinkles as he and Jean-Luc continue to cross across the strange, creamy pinkish waters.
“My father came to call this spot ‘Flamingo’s Rest,’” Jean-Luc explains when Konchu’s perplexed and somewhat disgusted look seems to non-verbally request some clarification. “Father at one point thought he could offer premium flamingos to wealthy buyers interested in having them…but there’s not much of a market these days for premium-bred pink birds.”
“And the creaminess of the water is because…”
“Yeah…this is their breeding ground. It gets really bad this time of year.”
“Delightful,” Konchu mutters with a level of disdain. Jean-Luc found himself wondering what his partner had against the circle of life. He found it rather beautiful, so long as he didn't have to swim in it. “Well, with luck, we won’t have to remain here for much longer. I can see the targets. Looks as if they’ve made themselves rather comfortable.”
Without another word, the Mad Wizard unslings his crossbow and loads a bolt into it as Jean-Luc nervously thumbs the hilt of one of his knives. The duo approach the lighthouse, where their prey has set up on a dock built over Flamingo’s Rest, having constructed a makeshift fire pit out of an old oil barrel.
Considering they were the targets of a literal manhunt, the targets didn’t exactly seem too concerned, having also grabbed some cases of beer and tossed back cold ones while reclining in some tacky lawn chairs, still wearing nothing but those obnoxious loincloths. As if that wasn’t enough of a display of their unbothered nonchalance, the first things they say upon seeing the last hunters standing hammers the point home.
“Yo, Chad! The dorks actually finally showed up! Thought for sure they’d get eaten by some jungle lizard or something,” the masked figure said, words somewhat slurred, and accompanied by a series of juvenile guffaws.
The other man, the one with the awful mustache, stands up and drains the remains of his beer before tossing the can carelessly into the pond. “Seems that way, Alph old friend, old pal. Probably would’ve been too much to ask, but here we are. Sup, fuckboys?”
Both Konchu and Jean-Luc share a glance that wordlessly asks one another “What the actual fuck?” before Konchu finally speaks up, addressing the man called Chad. “The other hunters have been dealt with. One would think that, here at the climax…”
Both Chad and Alph snigger at that before Konchu grits his teeth and continues, “At the END of the game, you’d be a bit more on edge. After all, it’s not as if you two have done anything to deal with the copious number of people on the island that were looking to take your heads, aside from one duo that was so easily duped.”
“And why should we?” Alph counters as he grabs another fresh beer and cracks it open, not even bothering to stand. “When Rupey told us what this was all about, we honestly didn’t give a shit. Who would want this shitty little island, anyway? Hell, the only reason Chadly and I agreed to this was because we knew those dipshits Ink and Quartz were competing, and we had a score to settle with them.”
Chad nods as he leans over the railing that outlines the dock they’ve set up shop at. “You get it, now? Why the fuck should we be bothered with the rest of you? The only ones that mattered were those shitstains. They were the only reason we even bothered to show up to Rupey’s little shindig. Anybody else is basically just a sideshow afterthought to that.”
“You say that,” Jean-Luc finally speaks up, hand hovering over his knife more to keep himself grounded in the moment rather than in any real desire to use the weapon. “But that doesn’t change the fact that the hunt’s not over. Konchu and I stole our way into this competition, in an event that nobody would have expected us to thrive in. And while Ink and Quartz might’ve been the only reason you participated, you can’t just dismiss us…”
“The fuck we can’t!” Chad interjects, mockingly irate. “Who the fuck are you two to tell US what we should or shouldn’t care about? Do you two shitheads know who the fuck we are?”
“The copious swear words aren’t entirely necessary, you know,” Konchu retorts, only for Alph to laugh derisively before completely ignoring the Mad Wizard.
“Chad and I are the shit. We’re the ones, you know. The fucking protagonists of whatever story we’re involved in. Two young, virile studs spreading our seed all over the world and doing whatever the fuck we want, whenever we want.”
“Right as always, Alph my friend,” Chad adds with a punctuated belch as he tosses his empty beer can at Vox Potentis. It barely reaches their feet as the inebriated mustached man leans over the railing, leering with a cocky smirk.
While Konchu’s irritation is evident and expected, Jean-Luc himself can’t help but feel…insulted. The younger Watkins has spent the last several weeks…hell, most of his life, in fact, having to listen to people, from his fellow executives to his own father, belittle and demean him…for what? To what end? What did Jean-Luc do to deserve that?
There’s a moment, a creeping feeling worming its way in the back of Jean-Luc’s mind as his hand slowly grasps the hilt of his knife as Chad continues blathering. “Let’s face it. With Ink and Quartz dead and gone, the story’s over as far as me and my studly partner are concerned. All this is? Just a tacked-on epilogue that some hack author added at the end. We could be twice as drunk as we are right now and it wouldn’t fucking matter! This is our world you’re living in, boys. The best you get is a footnote in the story that is us, and the opportunity to bask in our fucking glory.
“And besides…you spent this whole time tackling the other nobodies and going out of your way not to kill them. Traps? Potions? Fucking ROPE?! Let’s be real, kids…neither of you have the balls to do what…”
THWIP.
It’s such a simple, yet distinct sound. The sound of a crossbow drawstring, drawn taut, being released, sending a bolt flying.
Jean-Luc is stunned as he sees Konchu, with a swiftness and decisiveness that he wasn’t expecting, pointing his weapon at Chad and pulling the trigger, sending the bolt flying straight into Chad’s throat. Chad, wide-eyed from the pain, makes a horrible choking sound as he pointlessly reaches for the embedded bolt as he gurgles and chokes on his own blood.
Alph, who had been sitting there casually just a second ago, immediately rises from his chair…but he’s too drunk and staggers. He’s only able to shout out, “YO! WHAT THE FUCK?!”
Ignoring all of that, Konchu simply pulls back the drawstring and reloads his crossbow. “I’ve decided, at this moment…that I’m quite tired of listening to the sound of your voice.”
Before Jean-Luc can even get a word in edgewise, Konchu raises his reloaded crossbow and lets loose another bolt at Chad, this time striking him straight in the heart. The mustached miscreant, seconds away from death’s door, tumbles and falls over the railing as Alph fails to grab him. As Chad falls face-first into the murky waters of Flamingo’s Rest, his masked partner, without a moment’s hesitation, hastily dives in after him.
Not that it does him any good. With his back turned, he’s just going to die an easy target.
THWIP.
Another thrum of the crossbow, another bolt that finds its mark. This time, it’s Alph’s heart that gets pierced, his fate now the same as his partners.
Braggarts. Blowhards. The so-called “protagonists of the fucking story.”
Dead, facedown in a pond full of flamingo reproductive fluids.
Slinging the crossbow back, the Mad Wizard simply says in an eerily calm and somber tone, one laced with malice, “There are tombs and crypts all over this world filled with the bones of men and women alike who thought themselves safe from my wrath, you pathetic cretins. Their mistake was the same as yours…and their stories ended the same bloody way.”
Jean-Luc has never seen another man die before…nor did he ever think he’d see a man get killed by one of his friends. There’s the rational part of Jean-Luc’s mind that says he should be outraged, indignant, and maybe even terrified by the sheer callousness in which Konchu dispatched their prey.
But…that voice in the back of Jean-Luc’s head is…quieter than perhaps it should be. And if Jean-Luc was honest with himself?
He didn’t really feel anything…anything other than a small sense of satisfaction that the task was done, and that a couple of walking human wastes had gotten their comeuppance.
“Hey, Konchu,” Jean-Luc finally says, getting his partner's attention, “We…still need their tokens in order to cash them in and win the Granary. And wading through flamingo semen to get them isn’t exactly something I signed up for.”
Konchu tilts his head at that, and as the bodies of their prey start to sink into the water, simply smiles as he grabs another cord of his ever-reliable rope and begins to fashion a lasso…
*****
Both fatigued and surprisingly satisfied with what ended up amounting to a hard day of work, Jean-Luc and Konchu sat next to a campfire on the beach. The same beach that the executive had discovered the Mad Wizard shipwrecked on earlier that day. The very end of Konchu's mast still protruded through the water's surface, a hundred metres out from shore, and a flamingo was now standing in the crow’s nest. Closer to the beach was J-L’s yacht, safely anchored but hardly big enough for both of them and their trophies.
Still, neither of them were feeling down about either of their ships, one too small and one too sunk. They had friends of means and guile, and a temperate November evening in the South Atlantic on a tropical island was something to be enjoyed rather than worried about. With this in mind, Hao collected two beers from the prey's coolbox, opened them both on the side of his tacky deckchair, and handed one to Jean-Luc. They clinked them together before the executive drank greedily from his. Konchu simply sat on his chair and smiled at the sea. He didn't drink beer, but held a bottle anyway in the interests of team-building.
“Aren't we meant to be doing something with these trophies?” Jean-Luc asked, glancing over at the golden belts next to the campfire.
“We'll post them,” Konchu replied. “I think our disguises are wearing off. I can feel my mask again. I'll just have old Rupey send me the deeds to our new remote secret ocean base.”
“You mean our new remote holiday retreat?” Jean-Luc said.
“Our new remote holiday retreat slash secret ocean base,” Konchu conceded. Jean-Luc was content with the compromise.
As they spoke, the masts of a large ship appeared in the distance, breaking the fog on the horizon.
“Konchu?”
“Yes, J-L?”
“Do you think we can win on Sunday?”
Konchu smiled and answered immediately, as though he didn't need to think about it.
“Can? Absolutely we can! I wouldn't be doing it if I didn't think we could win! Konchu Hao doesn't make up the numbers. But as to whether we will win?”
A brief pause. The Mad Wizard smokes his chin thoughtfully.
“Of all my skills and talents, foresight isn't one of them. But whatever happens? This isn't over, J-L.”
The executive continued to watch the ship, two figures - one tall and one short - visible on its bow. He was comforted by his partner's words.
“It isn't?” he asked. On the ship, Cyrus Truth placed a hand on Epsilon's shoulder, the assistant waving excitedly at his master.
“Not even nearly.” |
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Post by cyrustruth on Nov 3, 2024 20:28:07 GMT
Exile Chronicles - Volume Six Chapter Seven: The Weight of the Crown
It’s a sweltering autumn day deep in the heart of Vice City.
A city of sprawling skyscrapers, a melting pot of Anglo-American and Caribbean cultures, where businesses jockey for market share just mere yards away from sparkling white sand beaches.
If Florida is a magnet for the various extremes that one can find in the world? Miami is the pressure cooker where those extremes are not only magnified, but celebrated.
It’s days before FWA’s next premium live event in San Juan, Puerto Rico. Lights Out this year is shaping up to be a rather interesting iteration. Between Konchu and Jean-Luc’s unlikely run to a Tag Title Match against FTN, Gabrielle actually earning another World Title match against that son of a bitch Jeremy Best while Katsu waits in the wings, and the various other conflicts between FWA rivals new and old.
Of course, the utter chaos and skullduggery of certain individuals and the cowardice and negligence of others in positions of supposed authority have basically forced a certain champion to create his own challenge for the big event.
As Cyrus Truth finds himself enjoying a light breakfast at a quaint little Haitian restaurant, the sun just having crested from the eastern horizon, the North American Champion has a moment of peace to just…think about everything that’s happened since Back in Business and reclaiming a singles title of his own, even if the World Title still finds ways to taunt him at the end of the Road.
There’s a lot going well with FWA. The promotion’s recent successes has encouraged a new generation of wrestlers to join the company and fight to make their mark. Competition is fresh, rivalries are running hot, and there’s a lot of potential for the company to continue to grow and evolve.
That being said…the worst compulsions of FWA’s most repugnant wrestlers have basically been allowed to fester, tumors that threaten to throttle FWA and drive away the fans who came to see professional wrestling at its finest instead of…whatever the fuck that episode of Meltdown was. It was good wrestling IN SPITE of the matchups, rather than excellent wrestling because of it.
There’s a lot of people who’ll need to answer for that. And maybe it’s long overdue for that bumbling fool Russnow to go into early retirement after a long, several story tumble down a flight of stairs.
It’s because of that spineless dolt that no effort was made to crown a proper challenger for Cyrus’s North American Championship…not even a paltry declaration of a challenger based on past accomplishments. Instead, The Exile has offered an open challenge. Unlike some champions, The Exile is not one to ever run away from the struggle.
Still, this does put Cyrus at a significant disadvantage. Any would-be challenger would be able to focus solely on The Exile. Cyrus? He has to contemplate anybody on the roster that isn’t already involved in a match at Lights Out…hell, maybe even them as well. Cyrus wouldn’t put it past Russnow to just let whoever ended up TV Champion also challenge for the North American title for no damn good reason.
It’s problematic, for sure. But then again, Cyrus knew this and went forward with the challenge regardless. And besides…nothing is worse in wrestling than a champion unwilling or unable to defend his championship on his own volition, regardless of the challenge.
As The Exile finishes off the last of his dark roast coffee, he puts these thoughts aside for the moment. Under normal circumstances, he’d already be in Puerto Rico, getting himself prepared for Lights Outs, maybe even getting a sense for whose attitude or hunger might provoke them to be bold enough to challenge him. But, aside from a quick pit stop in San Juan to ask Jean-Luc Watkins about what sort of insane scavenger hunt or whatever Konchu has opted to get up to before his own title match, Cyrus had to return to Miami for…other business.
In the wake of his trial by the Observers and the Church of 9 incident, Cyrus has, with no small amount of effort and frustration, rebuilt his reputation in the world of shadows as a man who, though he holds no allegiance to anyone but himself, is a valuable and trustworthy resource and information provider. However, his connections, even after the years spent repairing old alliances and seeking new ones, aren’t completely globally encompassing. Exiles from the Order of Observers are often seen as untrustworthy, unreliable in the best of times. It’s no small feat for an Exile to not only continue to survive in the world of shadows, but carve a place for himself in it to where such connections and partnerships were possible.
…Not entirely too different from his professional wrestling career, now that Cyrus thinks about it.
Regardless, there’s potential to gain a foothold in Florida and beyond for The Exile, hence why he’s here. There’s a collection of smaller movers and shakers that Cyrus intends on paying visits to in order to ascertain the potential of doing business with. But the biggest of the bunch was a meeting later this evening, with the boss of a moderately-sized Russian mafia gang called “Bratstvo Medvedya” that had recently fled Moscow to set up shop in the United States.
Dealing with Russian gangsters was never the…safest…prospect, but this gang was, in comparison to others, a lot less problematic. They still engaged in crime, but they least had very strict rules and codes of conduct that The Exile could at least work with. And their boss, the legendary Zheleznaya Dusha, the “Iron Soul,” was a man who embodied old world respect and fear.
Seems like the kind of guy worth knowing.
“Excuse me…is this seat taken?”
Huh. That certainly doesn’t sound like his Haitian host, who Cyrus had already concluded business with over breakfast. It’s a lot lighter, without the cadence of an islander’s accent.
It sounded distinctly Russian.
Cyrus looks up and sees a man dressed in a very fancy suit, one that probably cost more than what Cyrus pays for food every year. Immaculate black with white pinstripes, a designer silk red tie, all accented by perfectly coiffed black hair and a well-trimmed goatee. The Russian, with a smile that looks far more dangerous than friendly, doesn’t bother to wait for Cyrus to give him an answer before he has a seat.
Over near a bar, a Haitian server looks over and gives Cyrus a knowing look, his eyes asking a question he doesn’t voice. Cyrus simply waves him off, letting him and, more importantly, the restaurant owner know that he can handle this. With a nod, the server goes back to whatever it was that he was doing as Cyrus turns his gaze back to the Russian.
“I’m guessing you’re not here to sample some authentic Haitian cuisine,” Cyrus simply states as another server comes by to refill his coffee cup. The Exile takes a creamer and pours it in, stirring it while not taking his eyes off his table mate.
The Russian doesn’t break eye contact, smile still on his lips as the server pours him a cup as well. “Nyet, Pravda. You could say that I’m…here to get your measure, perhaps discuss some mutually beneficial business.”
“Really? Funny. I was under the impression that my meeting was later this evening. You know…with your boss,” Cyrus retorts bluntly as he takes a sip of his coffee, not even flinching from the heat of the drink. “Imagine my confusion, seeing you here when I don’t know you nor was expecting you.”
“Hmm. That is…how do you say? Ironic?”
“Not really the right word for this.”
The Russian shrugs as he extends his hand. “Victor. Pleasure to make the acquaintance of the notorious Exile.”
Still as stone, Cyrus doesn’t budge. He sure as hell doesn’t extend his hand to shake Victor’s. The Russian’s expression cracks a bit, presumably from the insult, but he quickly puts his mask of civility back on as he continues, “I understand you have your meeting with the old man, and I would be remiss to express any disrespect to the head of our little brotherhood. However, I am wondering…the Bratstvo Medvedya finds itself far away from home, away from the Old World and here in the new. And I am thinking that maybe…maybe a new world provides new…opportunity, da?”
“And you think that discussing new opportunities in another man’s territory without the boss of your brotherhood present is wise?” Cyrus counters as Victor casually sips his own coffee. “Far be it for me to question how Bratstvo Medvedya handles their business, but if I’m just looking at this from my own perspective? I don’t know…looks a lot like an underling trying to undercut his boss to try and make a power move.”
Victor only flinches a little, but he shakes it off with a shrug. “And would that be so bad, Pravda? You are not a stupid man. You don’t have the luxury of being one, Exile and all. Zheleznaya Dusha is venerable, but he is also an old and feeble man. He is not long for this world, so why should we not try and make an arrangement that will survive him? Is it not foolish, irresponsible for men who wish to have influence and power to build a friendship while they are young in spite of the old? After all, Pravda…I cannot imagine you would wish to waste your time in a few years having to rebuild a partnership when you could build one that gets you the alliances you want and will last much longer. Doing otherwise seems…unbecoming.”
Taking another long sip, leaning back in his chair, The Exile looks at Victor. There’s a moment, just a moment, where Victor thinks he’s gotten through with Cyrus, his smile growing even wider. But then…
“Hmm. Seems like a bad deal, honestly.”
Victor is stunned. Cyrus, for his part, doesn’t react as he takes yet another casual sip. “See, I think a bit differently than most. I have to. My real partners, the ones I can trust implicitly? Few and far between. I often find myself having to rely on others that I know don’t have my best interest at heart and will toss me aside when they have no use for me. As such, I have to choose my…business partners wisely. I have to choose to put my faith in men and women who aren’t troubled by greed, who’ll toss me aside just for a chance at greater profit.
“You might have a point that whatever arrangement I make with Zheleznaya Dusha won’t be terribly long. But the way I see it? Better to make a short-term deal with someone you can at least respect as opposed to making a long-term deal with a snake who clearly isn’t trustworthy enough for his boss to bring him into his inner circle, making him think he needs to go behind his back to make a deal.”
Cyrus, taking one last sip before draining his cup, sets the mug down and just smiles. “So, yeah…I’ll pass. Appreciate the offer, but I’d rather just keep my meeting with Zheleznaya Dusha as is. But I’m sure if you’re as important as you think you are? The boss man should invite you to at least listen in. Who knows? Maybe you’ll learn something.”
The smile on the Russian mobster’s face is long gone, replaced by a grimace that looks to have been carved in stone. He simply sets his half-filled coffee mug on the table, smooths out the creases of his suit, and stands there for several awkward seconds…before reaching into his coat…
WHAM!
Like a lightning bolt, Cyrus shoves the table into Victor’s midsection, stunning the mobster long enough to stand up and slam his head into the table. The force of the attack draws blood and knocks Victor unconscious.
A quick frisk of his would-be business partner turned assailant reveals a Russian Makarov pistol, which Cyrus takes and unloads right there on the table. He drags Victor’s body back to the chair he was sitting in and just leaves him there. The Haitian server behind the bar walks up wordlessly looking at the knocked-out mobster as Cyrus rummages through his own pockets, producing a few high-denomination bills.
“Sorry for the trouble. Let the owner know that I apologize for the mess, and that I’d consider it a favor if this one was taken care of in a way that doesn’t involve a morgue. If he wakes up before leaving, maybe even serve him some of that delicious tchaka that I had the last time I was here.”
The server nods with a knowing smile and takes the money before heading to the back, possibly to let his own boss know what was going on. Cyrus, seemingly nonplussed by what was an attempt on his life, simply leaves the empty Makarov on the table and walks out of the restaurant, tossing the bullets into a trash bin on his way to his next stop…
*****
Words exchanged.
An enveloped swelling with papers or dollar bills changing hands.
A handshake to show an agreement has been made.
This meeting has gone relatively well, Cyrus thinks, as the twenty-something man in the bomber jacket adorned with various Internet subculture iconography, despite the Southern Florida heat. The man half-mockingly, half-joking tips his beanie at The Exile before hopping onto his skateboard and rolling out.
Cyrus finds himself alone in David T. Kennedy Park, the morning hours slowly creeping towards mid-day as The Exile begins to walk in the opposite direction from presumably his new business partner. The park isn’t terribly busy today…yes, there are some joggers and others enjoying some outdoor sports or frozen lemonade, but for the most part? It’s a nice quiet place for Cyrus to sort through his thoughts again before tonight’s big meeting with Zheleznaya Dusha.
“Quite a lovely place. I can see why you met that hacker here, krasivyy,” a voice slithers into The Exile’s ear as a slender arm weaves its way into his. Cyrus looks to his right and sees a woman, with piercing slate eyes and an easy smile wearing a very thin sundress. Her pitch-black hair was pulled back into a ponytail, and for all that anybody can surmise? It’s a couple of old friends or current lovers having a moment in the park.
Still, that accent was unmistakable. “If you’re here because I gave Victor a bloody nose, I don’t suppose it would make any difference if I pointed out that he tried to shoot me first.”
The woman chuckles, almost melodically as she simply replies, “Oh, that? My apologies for my brother’s actions, Pravda. He always thought he was more clever than he really is. My name is Anya. Can we…walk for a bit?”
The tone is inviting, sultry and siren-like. But Cyrus can tell easily enough that there’s some sharpness hidden in all those silky words. Still, making a scene with people watching wasn’t something Truth was eager to engage in, and at least this Russian was a lot better to look at. So, The Exile allows his and Anya’s arms to stay linked as the two of them walk away from the congregation point, walking down a path that cuts through the wooded area of the park.
As they walk, Anya leans into Cyrus just a bit, getting very close and casual with The Exile as she explains, “I have to apologize again. Victor means…well enough, I suppose? And it has been…difficult, leaving the Motherland and uprooting our lives in such a strange place as this. I must admit…when Zheleznaya Dusha told us we would be setting up in Miami, I was concerned that the decadence of this city might lead our little family to grow soft and fat.”
“Hmph. Doesn’t look that way from what I can see.”
Anya chuckles. “Charmer. But I'll admit…there’s opportunity in this city, if you’ve the stomach for it. Do you, Pravda? Do you have…what is it you Americans call it? The ‘grit’ to take what you want?”
The way she words that question? It’s as much an invitation as it is an interrogation. The pair eventually stop their walk as they reach a wooden bridge over a burbling creek. Anya slowly slides her arm out from Cyrus’s as she leans against the bridge railing. Cyrus mirrors it as he asks, “And what about you? What do you want, Anya?”
“Everything, of course,” the Russian bombshell replies in the most matter-of-factly tone imaginable. “For people like us, Pravda? What is the point in simply settling for a little slice when you could have it all? The world of shadows provides much, if one is brave and daring enough to reach their arm out into the dark and take hold of it. Is that not why you wish to speak with Zheleznaya Dusha? Because there’s much you want that the Bratstvo Medvedya may be able to help you attain, even in the state our esteemed elder has put us in when he uprooted us and had us move to your lovely country.”
“Seems to me like you’re a bit bitter about that,” Truth retorts, still looking out towards the creek below. “No disrespect, but what other choice did Zheleznaya Dusha have? The situation in Moscow is getting worse by the day. The only families that stay are the ones that bend the knee to that tin-plated tyrant in charge of the government. Zheleznaya Dusha has made it clear that…”
Cyrus is interrupted as Anya slyly slides her slender hand over his on the railing, using her other hand to gently cup and caress his cheek. “Shh. What’s done is done, Pravda. All we must worry about is where to go from here.”
The Exile’s eyes meet Anya’s, his jaw clenched tightly. “And I’m guessing you have some ideas on that?”
Another sultry smile from the stunning Russian criminal as she coyly replies, “My brother may be a bit of a fool, but he is correct in thinking that a…change might be needed in a new world. Victor is clever, but betrays easily. He doesn’t understand that it’s always better to…foster good relationships. Mutually beneficial relationships, both business and…”
Anya leans in, pressing her lips against Cyrus’s. The Exile doesn’t return the kiss, but allows Anya to…make her point, per say. It’s a brief kiss, lasting only a second before Anya pulls back and turns away from the railing towards the path, a confident smile on her face.
“Bratstvo Medvedya needs a new breed of leadership, Pravda. You could say it needs…a woman’s touch. With the right man by my side, perhaps more exciting opportunities could present themselves. After all, why not mix a bit of pleasure with business when possible?”
Anya spins on her heel, turning back to face Cyrus. “Help me, Pravda. Help me get Zheleznaya Dusha out of…”
Anya’s offer is cut short, the smile vanishes from her face, replaced by a look of confusion.
She had turned to face Cyrus Truth to make her final push. But The Exile? Nowhere to be seen.
Anya looks perplexed. Her beautiful face twisted into a contorted expression of anger, confusion, and fear. She tries to look for Cyrus, frantically peering down the trail and through the trees, but is unable to find him.
Cyrus, meanwhile, is not too far, using thicker foliage to break line of sight with the Russian. He takes his sleeve and wipes his lips, and says nothing else. It’s apparent that he’s as uninterested in Anya’s attempt at a power play as he was Victor’s, and he can’t help but wonder if this is going to be a trend until his meeting with Zheleznaya Dusha.
Oh well, such is the way of the world of shadows. Cyrus, without another word as Anya starts to walk away down the trail, constantly looking over her shoulder for an attack that will never come, turns and heads deeper into the forest. He has one more stop to make in Miami before his evening meeting with Bratstvo Medvedya. Maybe, if he was lucky, he’d be able to conclude that last bit of business without any more distractions…
*****
Well, fuck that thought, apparently.
There’s a moment where Cyrus almost misses Anya’s seduction and Victor’s slimy backbiting as that old familiar taste of blood in his mouth overwhelms his tongue, as The Exile finds himself in the back of an unmarked moving van after meeting with the local capo of one of the larger Cuban gangs and hammering out an agreement. Accosted by three Russian hoods, two of them in the driver and passenger seats of the van driving down some back alleys and less-traveled roads while Cyrus was being…attended to by the third.
Cyrus’s new host, a hulking beast of a man with a crew cut and wearing a striped T-shirt that was about two sizes too small for his roided-out frame, has been exceedingly liberal with the amount of punishment he’s inflicted on The Exile, who has had his wrists tied together with a large zip tie. The bumps in the road don’t help matters as Cyrus has to work even harder to get back to a vertical base as the Russian gorilla who’s taking way too much enjoyment out of beating up what he believes is a defenseless man.
“Yebanyy brodyaga,” the Russian thug spits with derision and scorn as he lands another blow to Cyrus’s midsection. “You think you’re some kind of big shot, da? Who the fuck are you that you think Bratstvo Medvedya would need to ally with?!”
The driver speaks through the pardition separating the van’s cargo space from the front in Russian. Cyrus, omniglot as he is, catches a good portion of it, although not all of it. Russian was one language that he still had some ways to go in order to be fully fluent…but the one thing he DOES catch in that quick little conversation is the name of his jailor.
“This is a pretty big fuck-up, Dhmitri, if I’m being completely honest,” The Exile says as he gets back to a vertical base, leaning up against the side of the van, a wicked and bloodied smile on his face. “Your boss granted me a meeting, and yet here you are, kidnapping me and beating me up like a damn coward. Can’t imagine Zheleznaya Dusha will be pleased that you’re leaving a bad impression with a potential business partner. Also, the van’s suspension sucks. Probably should get that looked at.”
That cheeky comment earns Cyrus a slap in the face as Dhmitri grabs Cyrus by the throat. The smell of Dhmitri’s breath makes Cyrus’s nose crinkle as the brute practically screams at him, “Shut up! You talk too much! Zheleznaya Dusha is an old fool with a foot in the grave. We don’t need musor like you. Nobody will miss you when you’re gone, Pravda.”
Cyrus, despite the fact that he’s in a fair amount of pain, simply laughs at that. “You know, projection is a clear sign of insecurity, Dhmitri. You should probably talk to a therapist about that.
“And let’s talk a little bit about your manners while we’re at it,” The Exile continues as Dhmitri continues to get angrier and angrier. “At least Victor and Anya were a bit more civil when approaching me. That’s why they got to walk away without being completely humiliated. You? Well…”
Cyrus spits blood, striking Dhmitri in the eyes. The bruiser angrily shoves Cyrus to the floor of the van as he tries to restore his sight. But, it appears that for all the muscles Dhmitri has? He overlooked two critical missteps.
The first was keeping a knife on his belt way too visible, making it easy to grab with bound hands.
The second? Binding Cyrus’s hands in front of him instead of behind him.
By the time Dhmitri has cleaned his eyes, Cyrus has managed to cut through the zip tie enough to free himself, and the heavy Russian bute is too slow as Cyrus lunges at him.
Back in the driver’s seat, Dhmitri’s cohorts see through the partition that there’s a much more vigorous scuffle instead of the one-sided beating they were anticipating when they snagged Truth. They immediately make a decision to pull over into an empty parking garage and exit, heading to the back.
However, as they open the door, presumably to help Dhmitri get their prisoner back under control, they’re not quite quick enough on the draw. They’ve pulled out their Makarovs, but Cyrus has also pulled out something as well…a small glass vial that he kept around his neck that he now throws violently onto the floor of the van, shattering it.
A massive haze of reddish mist emerges from the shattered glass as Dhmitri and his goons begin to cough, grasping at their throats. Cyrus, despite wearing no mask, seems completely unaffected by the noxious tincture.
All three Russian thugs collapse…unconscious, but still alive. As the mist dissipates, only The Exile remains standing. Beaten, bruised, and bloodied…but otherwise whole.
Truth makes a mental note to thank Konchu for the tincture. Blood magic is something that is problematic when abused, but it does mean that certain alchemical compounds can be used with no negative effects to the user if brewed properly.
Grabbing a handkerchief from Dhmitri and using it to mop the blood trickling from his mouth, Cyrus tosses the soiled cloth on Dhmitri’s face, one final indignity before stepping back out into the street. The Exile digs out his cell phone (yet another mistake his kidnappers made, not taking his personal effects) and checks the time.
Only an hour or so before his meeting. Well, it could be worse, depending on where the van took him in the city. Well, best hurry up and find transportation to where Zheleznaya Dusha would be waiting for him.
And hope and pray there’s no further distractions that pop up along the way.
*****
Thankfully, fortune seems to finally smile on The Exile, as he arrived in time to the meeting location where the boss of Bratstvo Medvedya would be holding court. Cyrus even had enough time to get a fresh change of clothes and clean up from his recent abduction, and while there’s evident bruising and marks from Dhmitri’s ministrations, Cyrus at least looks mostly presentable.
The location happens to be a dingy bar adorned with old Soviet iconography, a rathole that doesn’t bother with making itself appealing to visit. Still, it certainly has its patrons, riffraff of all sorts who couldn’t or wouldn’t bother with more respectable establishments.
Perhaps Bratstvo Medvedya would work to restore it, making it the center of their operations in Miami. Or perhaps they won’t give two shits. Either way, Truth could care less. As he walks in, getting a few strange looks from the patrons, he’s waved over by the bartender, a middle-aged man with a barrel chest and a shaved head. The Exile approaches the bar, and without saying a word the bartender motions to the back.
Cyrus walks back behind the bar, past a few crates of various alcohols to a small room, barely bigger than a closet. There, sitting at a rickety table with an oxygen tank feeding air to him through a nose tube, is a man who looks a lot older than his six decades of life. Thin and gaunt, the older man’s clothes just drape on him as he shakily holds up a newspaper written in Russian. Yet, despite his infirmity, the old man’s eyes still have a sharp and exacting look to them as he looks up from his periodical and examines his guest.
“Pravda…sit.”
It’s more a command than an invitation, but Cyrus feels no need to argue or be difficult as he has a seat across from the old man as he sighs. “The world is a mess…where criminals and thieves are more honorable than politicians and presidents.”
“I don’t know, Zheleznaya Dusha,” Cyrus replies in a fairly flat, unassuming tone. “One could say that most politicians are just criminals who don’t have to work as hard to hide their crimes.”
Zheleznaya Dusha coughs, but it’s clear that it’s more a laugh than anything. The old man puts his paper down as he reaches for a nearby bottle of vodka, but his hands are too shaky. Seeing that, and without saying anything, Cyrus takes the bottle himself and pours Zheleznaya Dusha a glass of the liquor, before pouring one himself.
“Spasibo, Pravda,” the old crime boss croaks out as he holds the glass of vodka, taking a small sip. “My men tell me that you’ve been…busy.”
“If by that, you mean being accosted by your children? Then I suppose you could say that,” Cyrus simply retorts. The tone is not accusing, and Zheleznaya Dusha simply nods in acknowledgement.
“You are lucky in a way, Pravda. For a father, children are his greatest joy and his constant torment. You try your best to teach them, protect them, make them better than you ever were…and it tears a man’s heart out knowing that you failed in even that. You didn’t kill them, though. Why?”
“Would you have agreed to meet with me if I had?” Cyrus asks. When he sees Zheleznaya Dusha shake his head, Cyrus continues. “Beyond that, I couldn’t help but think that you allowed them to approach me as a way of testing me. After all, I don’t doubt that you could’ve kept them in line if you wanted to. But that doesn’t seem like something you’d bother with, so then I start to think…maybe, just maybe? You had to teach them a lesson, and used me as the vehicle for them to learn from.”
“And what lesson might that be?”
Cyrus holds up his own glass and looks the elder Russian in the eyes as he says, “That cunning, charm, and strength are all well and good, but they aren’t enough to make someone worthy of ruling. And that it takes a will of iron and a spine of steel to bear the weight of the crown. If you don’t have that, and aren’t willing to forge them? Then all you’re left with is a broken neck when the crown becomes too heavy to bear.”
Zheleznaya Dusha does not smile. Doesn’t nod or give Truth any semblance of acknowledgement. But when the old man raises his glass of vodka towards The Exile, despite how much it clearly strains him to do so? It tells Cyrus that he’s hit the nail on the head.
“Well, then, Pravda…from one czar to another? Let us discuss what Bratstvo Medvedya can do for you. And see if we might live to sit upon our thrones for another day.”
“K novym nachinaniyam i rokovym kontsam,” Cyrus says in Russian as Zheleznaya Dusha finally nods. The Exile and the old man toast and drink, before beginning the task of negotiation…
*****
The Long and Winding Road is a treacherous path to walk. Even when you know what the next obstacle in your way is going to be, it doesn’t guarantee victory, or even survival.
No matter what you do, no matter where you go, there’s always going to be people and challenges that want to see you fall. People that are stronger, more ruthless, more charming.
In the end, strength, ruthlessness, and charisma are useful tools, but all tools eventually fail when met with the steel of a true champion’s soul.
As Cyrus leaves Zheleznaya Dusha’s bar, having completed his negotiations, he looks up into the sky as drops of rain start to fall. It is storm season, after all.
Who can say what the end result will be when a fresh storm in the form of a new North American Champion tackles his first challenger?
Only time will tell. How many broken necks will be left in the wake, when all is said and done? |
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beavie
FWA Wrestler
Posts: 114 
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Post by beavie on Nov 3, 2024 21:30:22 GMT
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Post by bruciejuicie on Nov 3, 2024 21:51:41 GMT
Jason Jettas in "To New Beginnings" |
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Post by Dubb on Nov 4, 2024 21:19:51 GMT
"Vengador! Where are you?"
Bobby "The Dubb" Joel couldn't find his client. But its probably because Vengador didn't want to be found.
If he wanted to be found, Vengador would be found.
He had no time for Joel's tomfoolery. He probably wanted to talk to him more about his upcoming Japan appearance. Vengador would fulfill his obligations, but he had other things to worry about right now.
So instead of allowing himself to be found, Vengador sat in the shadows of the arena. Alone. Bathing in the faint glow of the exit sign. His mask was firmly in place as always.
He was coming off a huge win. His unlikely pairing with Michell and Tonton had proved to be victorious over the reigning FWA Trios Champions.
Michelle is moving on to a big match against the holder of the Golden Opportunity.
Tonton... well, he's probably off on another misadventure without Vengador. Especially if he truly was Uncle J.J.JAY!
And yet Vengador is relegated to the pre-show of Lights Out.
Perhaps it makes sense. After all, he hasn't lit the world on fire before the trios win. And one might argue he was riding the coattails of two that are much more succcessful than he.
Instead, he gets to play gatekeeper. He gets to be the first challenge for a newcomer.
Nick Williamson.
Vengador doesn't know much about this man.
He calls himself The Last Man Standing.
He seems to be fueled by hatred.
"Good", Vengador said quietly to himself, "I know hatred better than most."
Hatred, after all, had carried him through countless battles across the multiverse. He had been through the mud. He had been covered in blood. It was hatred that was the fire that had burned his way out of the Realm of Despair.
At a young age, Vengador had watched his parents die. His brother had died to protect him as a teenager.
Vengador was truly the Last One Standing. He had survived the Realm of Despair. He had made his way to FWA. He had brought that hatred with him. The hatred for those who killed his parents and those who killed his brother. He had used that hatred when, as James Grimshaw, he put on the mask that once belonged to his brother and became Vengador.
For many years... hatred was all Vengador knew.
Hatred defined him. But that's not the Vengador that his brother was. Dominic knew how to channel his hatred. He was more focused. He was able to detach himself as Vengador. He was cold. When James put on the mask... he questioned whether he was worthy. He questioned if he could live up to his brother's legacy.
The truth is... he couldn't.
His action as Vengador were much more sloppy. He was not as focused. Much more erratic.
Now, as he sat alone in that quiet corner of the arena, he felt the echoes of that old, festering fury. And yet... it felt different. Since his arrival in the FWA, he had begun to see the mask for what it was: not a vessel for vengeance, but a way to honor his brother’s memory and their shared legacy. Wrestling had become more than a way to feed his hatred. It had become something deeper, more complex. He wasn't just an avenger. He was becoming his own person.
He was evolving.
The partnership with Tonton and Michelle were a symbol of his evolution. He could not believe that he actually enjoyed himself on their team bonding outing. He felt himself more drawn to Tonton. Not just because he bared a significant resemblance to a man with a hefty bounty on his head either.
For the first time in a long time, Vengador wasn't just fighting to survive or to avenge. He was fighting because he was beginning to see what life beyond hatred might be... what it could mean to finally move beyond the pain and live in honor of those he'd lost
But Nick Williamson... he has a lot to learn still. The rumors painted him as a man hardened by anger, using it to fuel his rise in FWA. But hatred alone isn't enough. It alone will not be a strength but instead a weakness.
Unfortunately for Nick, Vengador does not have time to be his teacher.
But he will learn who the real Last One Standing is. |
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Post by Dubb on Nov 4, 2024 21:29:57 GMT
Jeremy Best
Subscribe Today. Free Trial.
{Spoiler}You sit at your desk, fingers hovering over the keyboard. The glow from your computer screen casts a soft light in your otherwise dimly lit room. You stare admiringly at the desktop wallpaper which is, of course, none other than Jeremy Best. Your wrestling hero. Flashing that familiar, wide-eyed grin back at you.
That's right. You are a Bestie.
In your mind, you're the biggest Bestie in the world.
You've stayed by his corner through thick and thin. When everyone else was jumping on the FTN bandwagon or backing Krash... ahem, how silly of you, Jeremy would be quick to correct you, the "Demon" that had taken on Krash's body... you never left Jeremy's side.
But that begs the question.
Why haven't you subscribed?
So many others already have. And you call yourself the biggest Bestie.
For weeks, your hero has been offering up weekly doses of videos of himself and others doing all sorts of activities on this very popular social platform. Sometimes taking requests from people on things he should do. Sometimes doing collabs with others as well. He's even had some fan meetups!
But for whatever reason, you hadn't. Perhaps it was the worry of having to explain to your significant other what it meant on the billing statement.
But for a limited time only, Jeremy is offering a Lights Out special. A free trial. No credit card required!
And what a time to be able to subscribe to see some exclusive content for all his "friends with benefits." The benefits, of course, being the content he is providing. All ahead of his match with Gabrielle at Lights Out. A legend in the business. Perhaps the most decorated competitor Jeremy has faced in his entire career. A legit Hall of Famer.
But you were sure Jeremy would prevail. Friendship always wins in the end.
Okay, you have to stay on task here. Stop letting yourself get distracted. This is the moment you've been waiting for.
You can feel the butterflies in your stomach as You open up your Google Chrome browser, looking over your shoulder to make sure no one is watching. And you pull up the website.
OnlyFriends.
You pull up his page. As it loads, you do the same thing you do before every match of his. You remind yourself why you believe in him, why you need to believe in him. And now he needs you more than ever after Lizzie Rose returned to take sides with Gabrielle. Someone Jeremy himself once considered a friend.
You might not be in the ring with him, but subscribing to his OnlyFriends account? That’s your way of standing by his side. And if Jeremy’s taught you anything, it’s that every little bit of support matters. This is how you know that you can be part of something bigger. Be a part of the Friendship Wrestling Alliance.
And so you click..
Subscribe.
A rush of euphoria washes over you as you hit that subscribe button. Almost immediately, a bell rings out alerting you of a message. And it’s from Jeremy! You can barely contain your excitement as you quickly click to pull up the personalized note.
“Welcome, New Bestie! I'm so glad to have you as part of the Friendship Wrestling Alliance! Be sure to check out some of my new videos. The series of videos about the FWA Academy are especially some of my favorites, but I'm putting out new ones constantly! So... enjoy your stay and don't just have a good day, have the BEST day ever!"
Can you believe that? You couldn't slap the smile off your face right now! THE Jeremy Best just sent you a super personal, definitely not auto-generated message welcoming you to the Friendship Wrestling Alliance!
This subscription is already proving to be life changing. Here you have instant access to Jeremy. A direct line of communication to the FWA World Champion. No, the World Champion of FRIENDSHIP! But most importantly, your hero!
You waste no time responding back to him.
"Hey Jeremy! Thanks for the warm welcome, I’m so excited to finally be part of this! I’ve been rooting for you forever. Good luck against Gabrielle, I know it’s gonna be tough, but I believe in you! You’ve got this, Bestie!"
You click "send" and feel a flutter of anticipation. A quick glance at Jeremy’s profile shows that little green dot. He's active right now. He's online. He's probably about to read your message! And then he'll probably respond!
You wait.
And wait.
And wait some more.
A few seconds pass. Then a minute. Still, nothing. Your initial excitement wanes a little, but you quickly remind yourself that Jeremy probably has tons of messages coming in all the time. You’re sure he's super busy. Lots of Besties out there to talk to and the Friends with Benefits match to get ready for.
So instead of just sitting here waiting, how about you do what he told you to do?
Explore! So much content!
With a grin, you click over to his collections, where Jeremy’s colorful thumbnails fill the screen, each one cheerier than the last. The one about the FWA Academy catches your eye first, just like he said. But there’s so much more. A whole library of different videos… It's hard to know where to choose. You decide maybe to just click on a few categories and watch the most recent videos from each.
Video Title: “Your Best Friend Satisfies Himself” (solo)
-Posted 9/10/24-
The video opened up on the bright, vibrant colorful land of Friendtopia appeared to be frozen in time, with birds stuck in midair. Jeremy materialized inside his castle where his purple, spherical friend Bobo and his would-be Friendship Wrestling Academy pink-haired protege, Becky, both remain frozen mid-motion, sans mouth after their last interaction with Jeremy when Jeremy stood up to the figments of his imagination when they argued over what to do about Bryan Baxter.
Jeremy looked around at the frozen nature of his imaginary landscape, it all feeling so dormant as if it had been waiting for Jeremy to return.
With a light-hearted wave of his hand, Jeremy "unfroze" his friends, bringing them to life with a spark. Bobo blinked and stretched, while Becky snapped to attention and seemed more annoyed.
Jeremy paced back and forth, seeming a bit concerned. "Oh Bobo... Becky... did I do the right thing? I left Bryan Baxter to the proverbial wolves... and now who knows when we'll see him again? It feels like it needed to be done... it felt like it... but I dunno... maybe I was a little hard on my buddy."
Bobo and Becky both exchange a glance, trying to talk but Jeremy had removed their mouths last time they tried to interject so they literally could say nothing. Their muffled mummers go undetected as Jeremy continues. "I mean... Bryan disappointed me, you know? Imagine what could've happened after he left me alone with Krash at Back in Business? I might not be standing here today! I might be a pile of ashes like that demon! And it would've been all Bryan's fault! So maybe this will be a lesson learned for him. And when he comes back, I'll give him a big warm hug and welcome him back into the Friendship Wrestling Alliance where he belongs."
Once again both Bobo and Becky were eager to chime in, but still their attempts are just mumbles from their lipless faces. However, this time Jeremy noticed his gaff and he chuckled. "Oh, whoopsie!" With a flick of his hand, he restored their mouths and both took a big gasp of air in.
Bobo stepped forward first, "I know you think you were doing the right thing... but you know, maybe you were a little hard on Bryan. He was always so, uh, valuable to you. So big. So strong. So intimidating. So... ruthless at times. No one can scare the FWA quite like Bryan could, right? Sir Stache and Mejor Amigo… well, they’re wonderful friends, but they don’t exactly make anyone tremble."
Becky, with her sweet but no-nonsense demeanor, shook her head, clearly not on the same page as Bobo. "No way, dude. You did EXACTLY what needed to be done. It wasn't the easiest decision but that's why you're a leader, Jeremy. You have to make the hard decisions sometimes. An example needed to be made."
Jeremy nodded, taking a seat on a candy cane plated chair, crossing his leg as he mused. "You're right, Becky. Thank you!"
"But... what about Gabrielle?" Bobo pointed out, reminding Jeremy that the FWA Hall of Famer was next up to challenge for the FWA Championship. "I'm just saying that it would've been nice to have Bryan in your corner when you have to deal with a legend like her."
"I suppose you have a point... but maybe strength in numbers will be enough anyway!"
"Don't worry about it, Jeremy. Bryan is replaceable. Besides, it's not like Gabby has anyone in her corner anyway. She isn't exactly known for keeping friends... at least not for longer than one night anyway."
A lightbulb seemed to go off in Jeremy's head at Becky's words. "Becky, you're a genius!"
"I am?"
"Yes! If anyone needs a friend in the FWA, it's Gabby! Back when I was just a fan, I saw the highest of her highs. But lately it's been more low than high for her. She could probably use a friend like me! I'm going to invite her to a playdate!"
Both Bobo and Becky froze, eyes wide in disbelief. Becky speaks up hesitantly, "Jeremy, maybe Gabbie isn't exactly... playdate material."
"Yeah, I don't know about this, old pal."
But Jeremy stood back up confidently, waving to them as he was already ready to once again dismiss their concerns. "Nope! Not hearing it. My mind is made up. Gabbrielle just needs to be shown how fun it is to be friends with me! I'll make her a Bestie and she won't even want to fight me for my title!"
"Well... okay..."
"Great! I have certainly satisfied myself with this decision."
Without another word, he spun on his heel and skipped back toward the exit, humming a cheerful tune, leaving Bobo and Becky in stunned silence as Friendtopia returned to its frozen, waiting state with Jeremy's departure.
Video Title: “Help! Your Best Friend is Stuck in a Wardrobe” (M/F)
-Posted 9/20/24-
The video opened up on a pristine, upscale home full of the sound of high pitched, whiny voices of young spoiled brats. Because inside the home was a crowd of cross-armed, skeptical children being subject to one of the things kids of about 11 or 12 hate most at a birthday party...
A party magician.
Now this party was being led by not just any party magician, mind you. Because at the front of the crowd was the Friendship Wrestling Alliance's own, Tonya Scott. She was doing her best to continue her act while dealing with exaggerated yawns and eye-rolls from the little snot nosed brats.
Needless to say, the frustration is evident on the magician's face. No magic could hide that. And it seemed to only grow when in walked Jeremy Best, grinning ear to ear.
"Hiya Tonya!" Jeremy waved, "Mejor Amigo told me I could find you here."
Tonya’s expression shifted from strained tolerance to outright exhaustion. "Jeremy, can't this wait? I'm… working,” she said, forcing a smile as she dodged a tossed juice box from one of the little terrors in the crowd.
"Oh, my mistake," Jeremy nodded enthusiastically. "I just could use a little... uh... female perspective but I'll gladly take in a magic show!"
"Fine... maybe you can be useful here. I could use you for one of my acts." Tonya smirked as she gestured to a tall, ornately decorated wardrobe that she had wheeled in. The faux-gold trimming around the wardrobe sparkled from the living room's expensive lightning.
"Oh, boy!" Jeremy clapped, "I've always wanted to be part of a magic act. What do I do?"
"It's easy, just climb on in," she opened up the doors. "And just let the magic happen."
The kids snickered as Jeremy climbed up into the wardrobe. Not an unfamiliar setting for him as the wardrobe was always his favorite hiding spot during hide and seek with his father... and later Bobo. Jeremy turned to the uninterested kids and offered a big thumbs up as Tonya shut the doors with a huff.
With a dramatic wave of her "magic" wand, Tonya chanted, "Abracadabra, alakazam!" while spinning the wardrobe around on its wheels. She then brought it to an abrupt stop, and swung open the doors.
It was empty!
The kids actually gasp, momentarily impressed by Tonya's act.
She smirked, "Trust me, it ain't that easy to get rid of him." She was surprised to find that the kids actually joined her in laughing. With a sigh, she had to admit, "Unfortunately, I do have to bring him back..."
And so she closed the wardrobe once again and spun it around once more. With another wave of her wand she then brought the furniture to a stop.
"Annnndddd... TA DA!"
Tonya swung open the doors.
But it was still empty.
"WOW, YOU SUCK!"
The children erupted into even more laughter as the heckling now reached a fever pitch. Tonya peered into the wardrobe, whispering for Jeremy. Suddenly from within the inner walls of the wardrobe, Jeremy began to bang on the walls.
"Help! Help! I think I'm stuck!"
"Uhh... all part of the act," she tried to play off but not even a single child was buying that.
"Please... help me! It's dark in here! I think there's a spider on my knee!"
Tonya forced a nervous laugh, wiping sweat from her brow. She then addressed the kids, pulling out a golden pocket watch. "Hey, kids! Let’s see another trick! See this clock here? I want you to keep your eyes on it... as it swings.. back... and forth... never take your eyes off the clock..." She swung the watch back and forth, her voice turning soft and smooth. "That's it... keep your eyes on the clock... you can feel your eyes getting heavy..." The kids' heads darted back and forth, keeping their attention focused on the trinket.
Within moments, the children’s laughter quieted as their eyes glazed over, one by one, entering a silent, hypnotized trance.
She lowered the watch and let out a deep sigh before returning to the wardrobe. She reached back, grabbing a lever that released a hidden trap door that allowed a wide-eyed Jeremy to pop out, breathing in deeply for air as if he'd been trapped in a cave for hours.
"Sorry about that, boss."
"It's... okay... I suppose. I hope I didn't mess up your act too much." Jeremy turned to the kids, quickly growing confused and concerned by their current dazed state. "Umm... are they okay?"
"They'll be fine," Tonya said dismissively. "When they wake up, they’ll think they just witnessed the greatest magic show ever." She smirked and winked at him. "So, what did you want to talk to me about?"
Jeremy glanced at the still-hypnotized children before turning back to Tonya. "Well… so you know Gabrielle right?"
"I mean not personally, no. But sure, I know who she is."
"Well, I invited her to a playdate, but I don’t know what she might want to do.”
Tonya tried to stifle a laugh. "Jeremy… again, I don't know her that well but I do know that Gabby's more of a uhhh... how can I put this... 'friends with benefits' type of person."
Jeremy tilted his head in confusion."Friends… with benefits? All my friends have benefits! That's what friends are for!"
Tonya raised an eyebrow. "No... like... you know... bedroom benefits?"
"I mean I think I decorated my bedroom pretty well but I suppose I could take her advice."
"Dammit.. no. Like... sex. Jeremy. Sex."
"Ooooooh. That does make more sense. But no thanks."
"I mean I'm not sure she was offering... I mean... yeah she probably would... but... uh... I think we're getting off topic here. But... I really gotta ask this question... Jeremy... have you, uh, ever even been... uh, romantic... with a woman before?"
He shook his head, almost with disgust. "Nope! Sure, I’ve got lots of friends that are girls, but friendship is all that matters to me. That's my kinda love!"
Tonya shrugged. "Well, to each their own I guess. That being said, I don't think Gabby is exactly traditional friendship material. And something tells me she isn't gonna be interested in playing board or card games. Maybe Twister?"
"Hmm... I want to think she'll want to be friends."
"That's fine... I'm just sayin', you might want to have a backup plan. You know, just in case it doesn't go exactly the way you're thinkin' it will."
"Hmm. So you think maybe I need to find new friends to replace Bryan some other way?"
"Yeah, I think you should be prepared. Again, just in case."
"It's a pretty tight window here. Making friends takes time. Where am I going to find a new friend that fast?"
Tonya thought for a moment. "How about the internet? People are hooking up on the internet all the time."
"Ooooh! That's a great idea!" Jeremy spotted the family desktop of whoever this birthday party belonged to, darting over to it immediately. Tonya winced, not sure if Jeremy should be doing this on a client's computer but then shrugged and let him continue on.
"Let's see," Jeremy thought as he pulled up a Google search, "maybe I can search for... what... oh how about ‘Man Seeking a Bigger Man For Companionship?"
Tonya stifled a laugh. "Yeah, I bet that'll get you some hits."
"Wait! What is this? Adult Friend Finder? Oh, Tonya! This is perfect! Look at all these people on here just wanting to find an adult friend!"
Tonya again, trying her damnedest to not break down into laughter. "That... is.. quite the jackpot, isn't it."
"Oh, yes. I'm going to recruit so many people."
"You know, you might wanna go back home and use your own computer for this. To make sure that you get all their responses and stuff..."
"Yeah," Jeremy nodded, "that's a good idea. Well, thanks for your help Tonya! You have been quite the helpful Bestie today!"
"Anytime," she chuckled as Jeremy began to leave, waving as he headed out the door.
Once Jeremy was gone, Tonya didn't bother to close out the Adult Friend Finder website. The dick dad didn't even tip so let him explain this one to his wife. She headed back to the kids. "When I snap my fingers, you'll be applauding the greatest god damn magic act you've ever seen in your miserable little lives."
And with a snap of her fingers, the kids were brought back to life. They each looked at each other in momentary confusion before they all suddenly stood up from the floor, applauding loudly for Tonya the Great's amazing act.
Video Title: “Your Best Friend Gets Lubed Up” (M/M/M)
-Posted 10/11/24-
The video opened up with the sound of revving engines as Jeremy now found himself at the edge of a racetrack. His feet walked along the asphalt as he took in the heavy scent of fuel and rubber. As he walked off the track, he approached the garage area where he found Johnny Murdoch and Sonny Zucko, The Goodefellas, who also happen to be the newest recruits to the Friendship Wrestling Alliance.
Murdoch and Zucko were bent over the engine of a vintage drag racer, their sleeves rolled up and hands coated in grease. Johnny noticed Jeremy first, pulling his head up from the hood. "Hey, hey! Looka here, if it ain't Jeremy Best." Johnny grabbed a rag and wiped some of the grease off his hands in order to greet Jeremy with a handshake. "Didn't expect to see you down here at the track, boss."
Sonny grinned, tipping his head toward Jeremy. "Yeah, thanks for comin’ down. Guess we really are big shots now, huh?"
Jeremy just greeted both his new allies with a smile and a handshake. "Well, I thought if you fellas are gonna be part of the team, I should get to know ya. And first and foremost, I gotta thank you for realizing the importance of friendship."
Johnny and Sonny exchanged a look, nodding in agreement. "Hey look, you’re givin' us the chance we never got with Danny B. Goode," Johnny said, spitting on the ground. "He was all talk, no action. Now we can win on the track and in the ring."
"Exactly!" Sonny added, giving the engine a final tweak. "Danny was no-good, man. We're amped to be paired up with the FWA Champ."
"Yeah, boss. You just tell us where to go, where to be, and who's heads we need to be bashin' in. And we're there and we're square! Just as long as we get the opportunities in the FWA that come along with it."
"Ah ha! See, now that's my kind of friends with benefits! Which is another thing... I still gotta figure out who I want in my corner for the match. As great as it is having so many awesome friends... it sucks having to choose! But... you boys... you got something special about you. You got the look. You got the strength. You got power. I could see where that could come in handy at Lights Out."
"Whatever you need, boss" Sonny said as he tightened up a lug nut. "You want one of us in your corner, we're there."
"Heh, I tell ya though... I wouldn't mind bein' that Gabby's friends with benefits, if ya catch my drift."
"Ha! Get in line, pal," Sonny chuckled, playfully elbowing Johnny. "Girl like her? She’s faster ‘n looser than our hot rod."
Johnny shrugged, "That’s fine by me. I always liked my women like I like my cars."
Sonny rolled his eyes, laughing. "You’re disgusting, y’know that? Me, I like a woman who likes to be wined and dined... and six..."
Johnny stopped Sonny by slapping him on the back of the head. "And you call me disgusting?"
The two men laughed, ribbing each other in a way that Jeremy admired, even if he didn’t quite get all the jokes. Johnny turned to him, his eyebrow raised. "What about you, Jeremy? What kinda girl you into?"
Jeremy blinked, once again caught off-guard. Why were people suddenly so interested in what he thought about romance? Who knew being up against someone so promiscuous as Gabby would bring so many questions about his own sexuality, or in this case, lack there of. "Oh, uh... yeah I'm not really interested in romance."
"Whaaaat? Get outta here! Everybody needs to be loved sometime."
Jeremy shrugged, "Who said anything about not being loved? I feel love every day I'm with my Besties. Love doesn't have to be about romance, right? My friends gratify me in ways no lover ever could."
"Woah," Johnny's mind seemed to be blown, "that's pretty deep, dude."
"So I guess if you were to ask me the same question but about what I look for in a friend, I could tell ya. Loyalty. Someone who I know will have my back. Someone who will always be there for you no matter what. Someone who is willing to do... anything... for you."
"Willin' to do anything, huh? Yeah, still sounds like you're describin' my type of woman."
"Man, shut up, would ya? Jeremy's over here philosophizing and all you can do is crack jokes."
"That ain't even a word, ya dope. Hey Jeremy, can you grab that wrench for me?"
Jeremy eagerly stepped forward, though he looked at the wrench as if it were a foreign object. "Sure thing, but… what do I do with it?"
"Just hand it to Johnny, and try not to screw anything up"
Jeremy passed the wrench, smiling proudly, even as the two of them continued to tune up the engine, revving it every now and then. At last, Johnny stepped back, wiping his hands. "She’s ready, Sonny. Think it’s time we take her out for a spin."
"Now we're talkin' daddy-io. Hey, Jeremy… you ever been in a race car?"
Jeremy’s eyes widened. “No, but it sounds amazing!”
"Awesome!" Johnny clapped a greasy hand on Jeremy's shoulder, guiding him toward the passenger side of the car. "Hop in, my friend."
Jeremy climbed into the small, confined passenger seat as Johnny slipped into the driver’s side. Sonny patted the hood and gave them a thumbs-up. Johnny reached over, fastening Jeremy’s seatbelt a little tighter than he seemed comfortable with. "Alright, hang on, Jeremy!" Johnny revved the engine, and with a roar, they rocketed forward. The force pushed Jeremy back into his seat, his eyes wide as they sped down the track.
"Is... it... supposed... to go... this... fast?!” Jeremy shouted over the roar of the engine, clinging to the dashboard for dear life.
“Yeah, that’s the point, boss!" Johnny said, clearly enjoying the thrill of the ride.
The car zipped down the track with Jeremy squeezing his eyes shut, his hands gripping the seatbelt as if it were his only lifeline. By the time they slowed and pulled back into the pit, Jeremy’s face was pale, his hair tousled from the wind.
Johnny and Sonny were doubled over with laughter as he stumbled out of the car, his legs shaking. Johnny gave him a hearty slap on the back. "How was that?"
Jeremy managed a shaky thumbs-up.
"Wanna go again?"
"Uhh... no... maybe next time... I still have to figure out my friend with benefits... but... uh... thanks guys. See you soon."
"See you soon boss!"
Video Title: “Your Best Friend Gets Squirted On” (M/M/F)
-Posted 10/26/24-
This video opened up on the interior of a fancy steakhouse. We're not talking Outback or Texas Roadhouse here. This is the kind of place where they would be absolutely offended if you asked for A1 sauce to go on your steak. Tonya Scott sat across from Mejor Amigo in a cozy booth as a flickering candlelight cast shadows across the red table cloth while soft jazz music played in the background.
Amigo shifted in his seat, his fingers nervously tapping the rolled up utensils. "So, uh.... do you, umm.. enjoy... uh... eating meat?"
Tonya couldn’t help but chuckle, leaning forward with a grin. "Yeah, Amigo, I enjoy eating meat. I'm glad you didn’t take me to some all-salad joint. You can relax, though." She tilted her head, offering a gentle smile to her date. "I’m glad you asked me out. I thought you were never going to get around to it."
Amigo’s eyes widened beneath the mask, and he let out a nervous laugh. "I… I wanted to! I just… wasn’t sure if, uh… if you’d be, y’know, interested. You're just so... well.. pretty.. and well... I wear a mask."
"Oh come on," Tonya said as she took a sip of wine, "that mask really does it for me. After all, I wouldn't be here if I didn't want to be."
"Heh... thanks. Being in the ring is one thing... I just don't have a lot of moves when it comes to dating."
Tonya laughed. "Good, because I'm not looking for any 'moves.' Just… be yourself, Amigo. That’s all I’m here for."
Amigo's shoulders relaxed, and he let out a relieved sigh. "Gracias, Tonya. I was… honestly, I was worried I might, uh, mess this up before we even got to dessert."
"Trust me, you're doing great," she reached over, taking him by the hand in an effort to put him at ease. Honestly she was slightly impressed that he hadn't managed to fumble his way into her good graces to begin with. She never thought much of Jeremy Best and his merry band of buffoons, having only joined up with them because it was a steady paycheck, but somehow this little goof had won her over.
"Hiya guys!"
Please... no... not now, she thought, knowing exactly who that voice belonged to.
Jeremy Best practically bounced up to their table, ginning as he slid into the booth alongside Amigo. "Sorry I’m late. I hope I didn't miss too much."
Tonya felt herself tensing up. "Jeremy... what are you doing here?"
Jeremy tilted his head with some confusion. "What do you mean? Amigo told me about the dinner and I couldn't miss out on a friendly get-together. This is a bit nicer than the Chili's we usually go to for Friendsgiving though."
Tonya glared at Amigo, who shrugged his shoulders, equally in the dark as to why Jeremy was there. "Jeremy, this isn't Friendsgiving."
"Oh, of course not. It's a few weeks too early for that, I know."
Tonya crossed her arms, her voice exasperated. "This is supposed to be a date, Jeremy. Just me and Amigo."
"Oh..." Jeremy’s face fell, his gaze shifting between Tonya and Amigo. "A date date?"
"Yes," Tonya replied, her tone firm.
"Oh dear..." Jeremy's own tone shifted to a mixture of confusion and perhaps disappointment. Mejor Amigo was on a date? That doesn't make sense. Jeremy had been training Amigo as his protégé, his prodigy, someone he believed was cut from the same cloth. A loyal friend devoted to the cause of friendship.
But yet here he was. On a date.
It was becoming clear to him that perhaps his team wasn't quite on the same page as him when it came to their values.
This idea of romance.
It was becoming...
A distraction.
How was Mejor Amigo going to carry on Jeremy's legacy one day? How was he going to take on the mantle of Defender of Friendship if he had these types of distractions?
Clearing his throat, Jeremy forced a smile, though his thoughts were racing. "Well, I… didn’t mean to intrude. I’ll just, uh, be on my way then...."
However, just as he was about to get up, the waiter brought out the meals. She placed two hefty looking plates of filet mignons in front of both Tonya and Amigo. "But on the other hand... I could use a good meal right about now. I mean... this whole Gabby... and now Lizzie... situation... it's got me so upset. I could really use a dinner with friends right now. You don't mind if I just have a quick bite with you guys, right, Amigo?" Jeremy turned his gaze to Amigo, looking for his reassurance, not wanting to lock eyes with the silently fuming Tonya.
"Well.. I don't..."
"You don't see why not? Of course, what a true friend you are. Excuse me, waitress, can we get some A1 sauce."
The waitress was taken aback by Jeremy's request, but wanting the best tip possible, simply nodded as she walked off, soon returning with the sauce as requested.
"Jeremy... please... can we just have some alone time."
Jeremy sighed as he began to twist open the lid of the A1 sauce. "Sorry, I can see that perhaps I misrepresented the types of friends you both are."
Tonya, remembering what happened to Bryan Baxter when he "disappointed" Jeremy and his view of friendship, quickly changed her tune. "Wait... you know what. I'm sorry. I was being rude. Of course you can stay. But here, let me help you with that."
Tonya reached over and grabbed the sauce bottle, taking the lid off.
"Oh, no worries," Jeremy smiled. "And thank you!"
She turned the bottle up, aiming it at the plate, but nothing came out. Tonya examined the bottle, "Hmmm.. must be running low. Don't worry, I think there's still some in here..."
Tonya smirked as she turned the bottle around and gave it a couple firm pats on the base of the bottle - sending brown A1 sauce shooting from the bottle and onto Jeremy's white polo shirt.
"Oh, shit... I'm sorry Jeremy. I didn't mean to squirt on you."
"Ugh," Jeremy said, grabbing a napkin and dabbing the sauce, "this is my favorite shirt. I'll need to get this pre-treated and in the wash as quickly as possible."
"Aw, does that mean you'll need to go."
"I'm afraid so... sucks because I had a lot of thoughts about Lizzie getting involved in this Friends with Benefits Match."
While finding it amusing that she had found a way to get rid of Jeremy, she could tell Amigo seemed somewhat guilty about chasing off their... friend... "Look... Jeremy... I think I have an idea of what we could do about Lizzie. I may know someone who can help us."
"Oh, that'd be wonderful!"
"I'll text you some info... but for now, get that shirt to the wash before it's too late!"
Jeremy nodded, quickly exiting the booth. While he wasn't happy with their choices of being romantic, Jeremy was once again grateful for his amazing friends, willing to forego a night of friendly banter in order to save his favorite shirt from having a permanent steak sauce stain.
He still needed to figure out who he wanted in his corner at Friends with Benefits and his friends weren't making it much easier for him.
Once Jeremy was gone, Tonya let out a sigh of relief. She glanced over at Amigo, who was rubbing the back of his neck, still looking a bit flustered. "So, uh... where were we?"
Video Title: “Your Best Friend, Two Girls, One Pup” (M/F/F)
-Posted 10/30/24-
The video opened up with Jeremy and Tonya making their way through a quiet street until they reached a small, ivy-covered cottage at the end of the road. Jeremy quickly noted how it was quite an unusual little place with herbs hanging from the rafters and bottles filled with strange colored liquids on the window seals. From inside, Jeremy could notice a mysterious glow seeping through the window.
"Who are we meeting with again?" Jeremy questioned.
"Her name is Iris Everglow," Tonya responded. "She was one of my friends from Ground Zero."
"Ahh and how exactly is she doing to help us?"
"Well... she's like this aspiring witch."
"Witch? Like the Coven?"
"No, no... she's actually nice."
"Oh... a nice witch. Like Glinda the Good Witch of the South?"
"Yeah, sure..."
Tonya knocked on the door and it was quickly opened by Iris, a quirky grin spreading across her face as she spotted Tonya. "Tonya!" she exclaimed, pulling her into a warm hug. "So great to see you!"
"It really has, Iris," Tonya replied, smiling as she hugged her friend back. Iris’s energy was infectious, and the cottage felt as full of life as she did. As Tonya introduced her to Jeremy, Iris extended a friendly hand, but she couldn’t help but chuckle at his curious stare around her cottage.
"Thank you for agreeing to meet with me," Jeremy expressed, "I am really concerned about my friend Lizzie."
"You mean Lizzie Rose?"
"Yes. Exactly."
"Oh, I'm aware of her situation. I've been working on this for quite some time."
"Wait, what do you mean?"
"Yes, during Ground Zero one of her old friends came to me about the whole TORN... Eternal... Elizabeth Rose... situation." She took a strand of Lizzie Rose’s hair from her shelf, holding it up with pride. "I’ve poured my heart into trying to bring Lizzie back. It’s been hard... at one point, I may have accidentally created an evil clone... but I feel like I'm getting close."
"Well," Jeremy interrupted, "I should point out..."
"Wait," Tonya herself interjected Jeremy's thought, "did you just say evil clone?"
"Oh nothing to worry about. Just don't... uh... don't open the basement door, okay?"
Tonya's eyes grew wide as she glanced over at the door in question. Though Jeremy seemed less worried about the clone down below. "Iris, I don't know how to say this but... Lizzie Rose has already been saved from Eternal. Elizabeth Rose actually just came back as Lizzie Rose."
"What!?" Iris’s eyes widened, genuinely shocked. "And no one thought to tell me? I’ve been stuck here, trying spell after spell to undo the corruption, thinking I was the only one who could do it! All I had was this strand of hair…" She sighed, placing the strand gently on the table, looking crestfallen. "I was so close too..."
"I mean... I assumed you would've seen it... it was all over TV. Gabrielle beat Keres to free her from TORN."
"TV!? I HAVEN'T HAD TIME FOR TV IN A YEAR BECAUSE OF THIS!!"
"I'm so sorry... but... maybe you can still help."
Jeremy's words seemed to bring Iris back down from her elevated emotional state. "See... sure, she's not TORN anymore... but I question her current mental state. Much like how I saw when Krash returned from the dead, that it wasn't really Krash... I don't think this is the same Lizzie I was friends with. She would never choose to be in Gabby's corner. Not after everything those two have been through. Gabby is taking advantage of Lizzie's vulnerable state. So... maybe there's some type of spell... something you could do to make her mind stronger... or something... I dunno how this all works. Just something to show her who her true friends are?"
"Hmmm..." Intrigued, Iris opened a thick, ancient-looking spell book, flipping through yellowed pages, her fingers brushing over each spell name. “Ah... let’s see… there's a 'Strengthen the Spirit' spell, but that’s more for endurance... 'The Light of Truth' spell... not sure if that’s the vibe... A 'Love Spell'... no you don't look like the romantic type..." Jeremy nodded, as if he finally found someone who understood him. She suddenly paused. "Here it is: the Best Friend Spell!"
Jeremy's face instantly lit up. "That sounds perfect!"
Tonya shot him a sideways look, brow raised. "I'm not sure we should rush into..."
But Iris was already moving with excitement, gathering her ingredients. She took the strand of Lizzie’s hair, placed it carefully in a small wooden bowl, then sprinkled an array of mysterious powders over it while murmuring a few ancient phrases under her breath. As the last words left her lips, a bright flash lit the room, momentarily blinding all three of them.
When their eyes adjusted, they looked down at the wooden bowl, where Lizzie’s strand of hair had vanished.
And now on the table was a small, energetic puppy dog. It barked happily as it ran and jumped into Jeremy's arms, licking at his face with enthusiasm.
Jeremy giggled and began scratching the pup behind the ears. "Well hello there, little buddy!"
"Oh dear... where did I go wrong this time?"
Tonya walked over to the spellbook, wiping off a layer of dust from the page Iris had been reading. "Iris... this isn't a 'Best Friend" spell... it's a 'Man's Best Friend' spell."
"Oops," Iris said with embarrassment as her face turned red.
Jeremy didn’t seem to mind one bit. The puppy squirmed in his arms, licking his chin, and he grinned at Tonya and Iris. "Maybe it’s not exactly what we were after, but… I like this guy."
The plan didn't go... well, according to plan. Jeremy was going to have to deal with Lizzie being in Gabrielle's corner whether he liked it or not. Which made it even more important that he chose the right person for his corner.
And he still had no idea where to go.
Video Title: “Your Best Friends Services Strangers” (M/M)
-Posted 11/05/24-
The most recent video on Jeremy's page. It once again involves a food-centric setting, but this time it was much less fancy than the steakhouse that housed the first date between Mejor Amigo and Tonya Scott. Instead, a line of disheveled individuals made their way through a small church kitchen, having hearty soups ladled into their bowls as they shuffled along their way.
Among those doing the ladling was both Jeremy Best and his masked right hand man, Sir Stache.
Jeremy observed the people filtering through: weary faces, hopeful faces, faces that had seen struggle and survival. As he handed out meal after meal, Jeremy glanced over at his friend who he could tell was smiling under his mask.
Sir Stache had been in their shoes.
Before Jeremy had "discovered" Stache and brought him in on his Krash Crusade, Stache had been one of them. He never knew exactly where his next meal was coming from or where he was going to lay his head on any given night.
Jeremy found himself admiring Stache. And he was happy to be there with him, servicing these strangers alongside his friend.
When the line had finally dwindled, the two friends sat down at one of the tables, their own plates of steaming food before them. Jeremy glanced over at Stache with a friendly smile. "I can't believe you do this so often. It’s... really admirable of you."
Stache nodded nonchalantly, as if it was no big deal. "It's nothing. I don't want to forget where I came from, y'know. Helps keep me grounded, I guess."
Jeremy smiled, taking in the sincerity of his friend's words. "It's honorable. I don't think I've ever known anyone so selfless. It makes me think...maybe that’s what I need more of in my corner."
"In the Friends with Benefits match? Yeah... I dunno..."
"Yeah," Jeremy sighed. "You know this whole match was my idea... but why is it so dang hard to figure out who is going to be in my corner? How can I pick a favorite friend? Gaaaah - it's like I've been cursed with too many friends!"
"Listen, Jeremy... it's okay. None of us are gonna feel like you are playing favorites. Whoever you choose, we'll be fine with. We'll support it. We just want you to win. That's all that matters. You just need to pick whoever you think is best for the job."
"The more I think about it... the more complicated it feels. Over the last few weeks, I've learned a lot about the Friendship Wrestling Alliance. I've seen the pros and the cons of each. The Goodefellas... yeah, they have the strength. The size. The power. But they're also immature... inexperienced... and a little careless."
"Yeah, they're a bit of a handful," Stache laughed.
"Then there's Tonya Scott," Jeremy continued, "she's not afraid to get her hands dirty. She'd definitely do whatever is needed of her. She has an edge to her... and that can be useful. But she's also unpredictable. She's a wildcard. We both know she's here for the money... and I'm fine with that. But I just worry about what someone with that type of edge to her... could do in the end. I don't want another Bryan situation."
"Wildcards can definitely be tricky. But you know there's always Amigo."
"Ahhh, Amigo," Jeremy said with a bit of disappointment in his voice. "I did think he'd be the shoe in for this. He has always reminded me a bit of myself. So friendly. So pure. I thought he too could be the embodiment of friendship. The next person to follow in my footsteps and take up the friendship mantle. But, I've come to see that perhaps he's not as much like me as I thought. He has become distracted... and right now, I just can't afford distractions."
"Oh... I had no idea..."
"And then there's you, Sir Stache. My right hand man. You are without a doubt my most loyal friend that I have. And certainly the most selfless. Look at what you're doing here and asking nothing in return. That's just how you treat our friendship. You expect nothing from me. You don't expect a paycheck. You don't expect an opportunity. You're here for me. I know without a doubt you have my back."
Stache lowered his head, despite the kind words from Jeremy, he knew there was a 'but' coming so he decided to give it himself. "But I'm weak."
"I wasn't going to say weak."
"It's okay, Jeremy. I know my place. I know I'm not the strongest or the most skilled. I know I'm the weak link of the Friendship Wrestling Alliance. I'd be useless against Gabby. Just a crash test dummy that's in her way... one little obstacle between you and her."
Jeremy's eyes softened, understanding the weight of Stache’s words. But something about his humility resonated with him. "Maybe that's what I need, though. Someone who’s willing to put themselves on the line, no matter the cost."
"I'm not going to tell you who to pick, Jeremy. I'm just sayin' I don't think I'm the right choice, is all. But I know you'll make the right choice."
Jeremy looked up from his own bowl of a soup with a renewed sense of purpose. Sir Stache was right. There was no wrong choice. His friends had their different strengths and weaknesses, but whoever he chose, he knew he could count on them for this night. And that, in itself, was powerful.
Could Gabby say the same thing?
How stable was Lizzie's mind truly?
Jeremy couldn't concern himself with Lizzie though. She made her choice. She turned her back on friendship.
No matter who stood in Jeremy's corner, he knew that true friendship would win in the end.
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bongo
FWA Wrestler
Posts: 37
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Post by bongo on Nov 4, 2024 22:09:18 GMT
"Soooo....umm...I've been thinking about this thing. Do you think there are more wheels or doors in the world? See, when I first thought about it. I thought it'd be wheels, clearly. But then I thought, there are so many cars driving around and shit? But then, like...every car has its own doors, and those count, too, right? But then I kept thinking...and you know how drawers have those tiny wheels they slide on? and sure....a single apartment will have multiple doors. But it also must have a larger amount of those drawer wheels. That make sense to you? Though the again...cupboards...wardrobes....and closets....Count as doors, too, right? But then again, what about toy cars? and suitcases? I dunno...we need to get some science up in this bitch! What do you think?
"I literally just asked you how you're going to handle the prodigy.
The scene is a local cafe in downtown San Juan as a rather uncomfortable-looking FWA press officer nursed his coffee as he sat across from everyone's favourite Dude.....DUDE, scoffing down a plate of pancakes like his name was Chubby Carlos, sporting a ripped, paint-splattered leather jacket; his pants are a wild kaleidoscope of patterns that don’t match, wrapped with duct tape in random places like he got halfway through fixing them and decided he had better things to do. He nods casually at the press officer as he repeats the first question.
"Oh....right.... Cool. Cool...cool...tight. Tight...tight. All good. That whole deal.....Man, good pancakes here...."
He said with a mouthful of pan (Of the cake variety)
"How much would you pay me if I just smashed this plate over my head?"
"What?"
"Like right now- how much would you pay me to totally crush this plate over my head."
"....like none...."
"5 dollars?"
"No."
"4.50?"
"No."
"I'm doing it for two cents...."
"Ok, I think a few things are becoming clear; one, I really don't want you to actively smash a plate over your head, and you clearly want to."
"....1 cent, final offer, no takes back."
"No"
-Dude shrugs-
"Your loss..."
"...Ok, so I'll ask the question again; You feel confident about your match with Mike Parr?"
"Who?"
"The Prodigy..."
"Oh right, that guy."
DUDE-! Takes a beat and shrugs
"Meh"
Awkward silence.
"Meh?"
"Meh. Eh. Whatevs'"
"The biggest match of your career, a shot at the Television title, and that's all you have to say...."
"Eh, I'm good. Like if Mike Parr really wants a shot at the belt, we can still fight and stuff or whatever, but if he wants the shot, he can have it." "I'm just here to have fun, man; I mean, what I'm I going to do with a big fucking gaudy title belt? That ain't what I'm about, man; I mean, I like to win, I like to fight and stuff, but I don't need a belt to feel good about the shit I do. "See, I know my place in this whole wrestling ecosystem. People come to watch DUDE-!, to see DUDE-!, main event back in business and win all the belts, and walk red carpets and go on shitty talk shows, they wanna watch DUDE-! because. I do the shit, no one else does. I'm the dude. They get out of their seats and say shit like, "HOLY SHIT, THAT'S THE CRAZIEST SHIT I'VE EVER SEEN IN MY LIFE!!" Dudes like DUDE-! because DUDE-! is the The Dude that steals the show. Belt or no, I'm still gonna do that. So yeah, I'm still gonna fight because that's what I do. That's what I live for, but I don't need validation. Besides...I don't even own a TV; how am I going to be a TV champion?
"You think that's what your role is?
"Totally-!"
"That everyone likes you, and all this is for fun, and everyone is totally cool with your lack of ambition."
"Yep."
The press officer sighs and begins to take out his phone.
"I really didn't want to do this, but I'm going to have you listen to a podcast that's been making tracks in the last few weeks."
"What's a podcast?"
"....What's a-What the hell have you been doing for the last twenty years?!"
"Partying. Getting hit on the head with blunt objects repeatedly."
"...Actually, that does track."
"It's a good thing I don't believe in concussions."
Putting aside that possibly problematic comment, The FWA aid pulls out his phone; his fingers dance effortlessly across the keypad as he turns up the video on his phone, and we're instantly transported-
- to what feels like a shrine to the golden age of wrestling; the walls are plastered with yellowed posters of wrestlers with thick moustaches and ripped singlets — with sneers plastered on their faces, as if daring any high-flyer to step into the ring. Framed vintage tickets, old Polaroids, and an autographed steel chair. There’s even a dusty, slightly battered replica of a championship belt hanging behind the hosts, its edges fraying from years of wear.
"You know what's worse than High spots in wrestling? PC culture"
"Yes, absolutely"
"People just don't like jokes and fun anymore."
"Yes Absolutely"
"...and now it's gotten to the point where you can't say anything."
"Yes, absolutely"
"I mean, watch I will try to say something right now- EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE"
"Yes, absolutely"
"See, I could only make a strange high-pitched whining sound, I'm physically incapable of saying anything funny, and you know who's behind that? Communism"
"Yes, absolutely"
"We've fallen so far from the glory days of comedy when Tony the pancake would headline the comedy show and call every woman he saw a fat bitch; now that was comedy. but now he'd never get away with it."
"Yes, absolutely"
"And the thing is about this stuff is, we're joking; they take it too seriously if we say it as a joke, that means we can say anything we want, and that's what makes it so funny."
"Yes, absolutely"
"Comedy is best when it's like a rock to beat over the head of someone less fortunate than me, a rich former wrestler who gets paid millions to talk in a mic."
"Yes, absolutely"
"Wrestling is the only art form that isn't ruined by women...which I can't say because I'll be cancelled-! Oh, someone's going to say that's sexist! God take a joke-!"
"Yes, absolutely, and you know what else I hate, this DUDE-! guy"
"Urg, right?"
"They’re tryin’ to sell me on this crazy-bastard who drinks bear and are more famous for his hangovers than his headlocks? Are you kidding me": DUDE yeah, that’s right, “DUDE” walks out there lookin' like he just stumbled out of a dumpster, or whatever hole he crawled out of a slum or whatever, this guy has no discipline, no focus, and certainly no respect for wrestling. DUDE’s just gonna keep throwing himself off a chair or a ladder or whatever random piece of furniture he can find! It’s embarrassing, just downright embarrassing! And now they’ve got him booked against Mike Parr. Mike. Parr.!. I’ve watched this DUDE botch more moves in one night than some wrestlers do in a career! You think Mike Parr’s gonna just stand there while this guy throws himself around the ring like he’s in some backyarder? Parr’s gonna pick him apart like a surgeon, limb by limb, until there’s nothing left! DUDE’s all flash, no substance. He throws himself around, hoping somethin’ sticks, like a jackass runnin' blind through a minefield! And for what? So he can say, “Look at me! Look at how cool I am!” No, DUDE. You’re not cool. You’re reckless, you’re sloppy, and you’re flat-out dangerous...to yourself and everyone around you. And what’s worse is, they’ve got people buying into it! People are actually cheering for this disaster! Folks, just ‘cause a guy throws himself off a ladder don’t mean he knows what he’s doing. It means he’s desperate for attention! I can tell ya right now, come Lights Out, Mike Parr’s gonna teach DUDE what real wrestling’s all about. DUDE’s gonna go in there, do his flips, crash and burn like he always does, and Parr’s gonna stand over him, just like he should. And if DUDE’s got any sense, he’ll take that beating and learn something but I doubt he will. No, he’ll be out at the bar that night, forgetting his own name again, while Parr walks away with his hand raised.
The FWA assistant (You didn't ask, but his name is Gary, and I have to say it's really rude you didn't ask) sadly pressed a button on his phone so the stream of utter bullcrap stopped infecting our ears.
"I'm sorry you have to hear that podcast well technically, it's a live stream going on right now, but it's important to remember that you can't go into wrestling just because you want people to enjoy your work, FWA isn't a circus, you have to accept that....
The assistant had to stop in mid-sentence. Why?
Because DUDE was no longer there.
-------
"And now that we've done our fifth ad break, it's time for number six, which-
When all of a sudden BOOM-! The door flies open with a crash, nearly knocking one of the framed posters of Gerald Greyson clean off the wall. A cloud of dust billows into the room as DUDE—unmistakable and larger than life—storms in like a pancake covered tornado.
"WHOSE TALKING SHIT ABOUT DUDE?!
Both podcast hosts faces drain in colour, which, for them, to have a strong emotional response to anything is something to behold, their fear no doubt matching with a sense of befuddlement. FWA Lights Out is hosted in Puerto Rico, and this podcast was set in the US. How did he get here so fast? How did he know how to find them?
This is the magic of DUDE-!
"DUDE HATES ALL THIS; YOUR VIBES AIN'T CHILL AT ALL, AIN'T CHILL AT ALL “You old relics wanna talk about what’s ‘real’ in wrestling. “Y’all think DUDE can’t hang, huh? You think I’m all flips and dives and no fight? Well, buckle up, grandpas, ‘cause DUDE’s about to show you what ‘real’ looks like when I slap Mike Parr in the mouth. Y’all think DUDE is some kinda joke? Some wannabe fucking around, just for the hell of it? You think DUDE can’t get real? DUDE ain’t here to live up to your crusty standards from the fucking 70s. DUDE’s here to bring a hurricane of FUN, that this shit needs because guys like YOU? You overpaid Freak shows hanging onto the past now you got DUDE versus Mike Parr at Lights Out. Yeah, he's a prodigy. He's THE prodigy! A dude who thinks he can dissect DUDE piece by piece, slow me down, teach DUDE a little “respect” for the art of good old fashion wrestling, and maybe he is better than me; maybe I ain't some kind of technical wizard. Maybe I ain't the type to out-wrestle someone who's all biz-nash like Mike Parr. I ain't got none of that training he's got, but I promise you one thing.
That dude ain't never faced anything like DUDE before |
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beavie
FWA Wrestler
Posts: 114
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Post by beavie on Nov 4, 2024 22:32:13 GMT
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Post by supinesnake on Nov 4, 2024 22:37:12 GMT
***
“Hang ‘em! Hang ‘em high!”
“Let ‘em go! They fight for your freedom!”
“Get on with it! We don’t got all day!”
“Yeah, we’ve got your taxes to pay, remember?!”
The rabble was getting rowdier by the second, much to the discomfort of the two City Guard officers upon the raised stage. The moustached trooper glanced sidewards towards his masked colleague, his fingers nervously stroking the grip of his revolver. He tried to scan the crowd for the rest of his squad, who were under the command of the volatile youth, loyal but perhaps lacking the temperament for the delicate task of crowd control. He hoped the rabble’s patience would hold longer than hers.
Behind them, the magistrate remained oblivious to the general unrest unfolding amongst his audience. He instead focused entirely on maintaining his scowl and administering justice on the two prisoners currently standing on the blocks. The condemned men were naked - officially an effort to stop them from concealing a weapon and hatching an escape, but unofficially a means to embarrass the prisoner on their way out of this world - with separate nooses around their necks. The smaller one looked terrified. The rumour was that he was little more than an assistant. The other one didn’t look like a pencil pusher: a huge hulk of a man from the mountains, who was greeting his demise with a solemn sense of duty. Even naked and unarmed, this one could’ve caused the guard trouble with only his hands and his mana, if he decided against going quietly. The magistrate, emboldened by his prisoners’ compliance, continued with his sentencing.
“It is therefore beyond a reasonable doubt that these two men were at the very heart of the insurgency,” he shouted, whilst brandishing an accusatory finger at the condemned. “That they have plotted to commit acts to undermine the stability and the order of Vobrazhenye, and indeed have carried out such acts, in the few instances where the brave, noble City Guard were unable to stop them. Their guilt is told in the testimony of countless eye witnesses, as well as in their refusal to renounce their support for the insurgents. And so, with a heavy heart, the Champion of the City - at the behest of the Administrators - has sentenced them to death.”
“Who are you trying to convince?!” a voice heckled from the front of the crowd. “The nooses are already around their necks!”
The magistrate, ever oblivious, nodded in the direction of the guardsmen, who proceeded to kick away the blocks on which the prisoners stood. A train rolled into Vokzal above, disturbing a dozen nighthawks who had nestled on the high bridge that the track ran across, a low rumble washing over the plaza below. The hawks voiced their noisy dissatisfaction through a series of shrill cries as they ascended into the dusk.
Dreamer was standing at the back of the crowd, leaning against the bronze statue of the Astonishing One that dominated Vokzal Plaza. Her gaze was drawn to the train at the station, high above the square on the roof of a tall building, serviced by a north and south bridge that ran out of the city and towards the mountains beyond. She watched the passengers disembarking, their robes marking them as visiting dignitaries from the kingdoms of Hinodé or Hashi Takai in the peaks, or merchants from the Smotret Coast, or academics from Institute in the far west. Then, her eyes drifted to ten metres below them, where two men were hanging limply from ropes in a busy city square. Two members of the City Guard watched the bodies closely, stroking their holstered revolvers, whilst a city magistrate only now began to contemplate the growing unrest in the crowd assembled around him. She wondered what the diplomats and traders from foreign lands would think upon their arrival in Vobrazhenye, alighting the train into both the future and the past.
For those in the city, and specifically those in the crowded city square, the present was much more of a concern than the future or the past. For a small contingent amongst them, this present moment was the culmination of weeks of careful planning, and the hanging of the prisoners - insurgents to some, revolutionaries to others - was the appointed call to arms. In the hopes that discontent at the public execution would spark wider unrest amongst the rabble, a group of six young men spurred into action. They wore purple robes emblazoned with an orange isosceles triangle - the insignia of the burgeoning movement associated with the New Traditional Revolutionary Front - descended on a pair of dogs from the City Guard. A moment later, one of the rebels had possession of an officer’s revolver and began pointing it frantically towards the magistrate on the stage.
Most of the Vobrazhenяns began to disperse when the disturbance grew unlawful, cowards until the end. Some helped the Guard, which swarmed and encircled the protestors, revolvers of their own drawn and aimed. More cascaded out of a nearby stagecoach. Dreamer watched on nonchalantly, smoking a rolled up cigarette, her head propped against the Astonishing One’s cold, metal calf.
The demonstrators would’ve been done for if it wasn’t for the covert presence of a handful of their supporters amongst the circle of guardsmen and loyalists. A scuffle broke out in the line, and through this chaos the rebels scarpered, dragging along their prize - an overwhelmed guardsman and his confiscated service revolver - towards a waiting, unmarked coach. He was thrown into the back as its horses lurched forward under the command of their master’s whips. The rest of the rebels attempted to scatter, many successfully evading capture whilst others ran into the batons of guardsmen, or were gunned down whilst darting up adjacent alleys. Those that survived were carted off towards the Ostrog. There would be more executions the next day, accompanied by more lengthy proclamations from City Administrators outlining the diligent judicial process that had resulted in their sentences.
With the scene disquietingly quiet, Dreamer flicked the end of her cigarette away and meandered eastwards along Fletcher’s Row. Upon the hill in the north, the ancient institutions of the city loomed over her, forming a guard of dubious historic honour as she headed for the less savoury settings of the legovo. The library, city hall, and the most prominent guildhouses - those belonging to the fishermen, the City Guard, and the military - were the largest of the grand old buildings on the hill, erected when Vobrazhenye was still young. To those within the city, these were symbols of the dawn of civilization, little though that meant to them. Anyone who had travelled beyond the outer walls, however, and had looked upon even the most modest cities of the far west, was able to more clearly see the crumbling marble and rotted wood that held these buildings together. It was an uncomfortable contradiction that the Vobrazhenяns held themselves up as the cradle of civilization, whilst at the same time its institutions were falling apart, and its people lived in shanty huts lining dirty, cobbled streets. This coarse exterior was a badge of honour for even the poorest within the city: theirs was a dominance won with strength and guile, without perfunctory airs or useless graces.
Dreamer arrived at the legovo as the moon was beginning to show her face. The complex of taverns, casinos, smokehouses, and brothels was tucked between the two railway lines that ran eastwards out of the city, far enough away from the hustle and bustle of daily Vobrazhenяn life so as to not impinge upon the sobriety of it, but close enough that a large proportion of its citizenry would empty into it when the sun went down. Indeed, many of the legovo’s most prolific patrons were also those who lobbied most ardently against it in their public life as Administrators or religious figures. Such were the contradictions of Vobrazhenye. Dreamer wasn’t interested in the seedier establishments that lay deepest within the legovo’s underbelly. Not tonight, anyway. Instead she settled on Midgard’s, as she did most nights, nestled on the edge of the district and with one eye still open towards the city.
The heavy tavern doors swung open as she approached, three vaguely familiar youths tumbling out of the inn and landing in a heap at her feet. She recognised the well-dressed one as the son of a local merchant, and the other two as foreign minstrels who’d recently begun to shadow him. At the doors of the tavern, the two patrons responsible for this ejection admired their handiwork.
“Late to the party as usual, Dreamer,” Rod Agnev announced, in his characteristically derisive and superior manner. The bounty hunter from the wild and independent north had arrived suddenly in the city without explanation, and had been holed up in Midgard’s ever since.
“You know this woman, Rod?” Dyadya asked, as he regarded Dreamer with a total lack of recognition. She didn’t bother reminding him of the years they’d spent riding together in the Svëlgovan lowlands. Dyadya’s memory hadn’t been what it once was since his horse kicked him in the head.
She elected to ignore them both, instead entering the inn and taking a seat at the bar. Mike, the beleaguered barkeep, placed a tall glass of amber in front of her. He then returned to running an old rag around the inside of a tankard, keeping a watch over his tavern. It wasn’t really his tavern, in the sense that the tavern in the North District was his before he’d lost it. He was both grateful for his employment in Midgard’s and resentful of his employers for keeping him there. Now there was no escape for him, except maybe through the pit.
“Looks like you’ve had an eventful evening,” she said, after a few sips of the warm and emboldening amber. She began to prepare another cigarette on the surface of the bar.
“Nothing that my Gladiators couldn’t sort,” he replied, barely glancing up from his task. She could’ve pointed out that he too was a Gladiator, and a formidable one in his day, but now he favoured others getting their hands dirty on his behalf. “No thanks to you, Dreamer. I don’t know why I keep you drunk if you’re not around when I need you.”
“You want an employee, hire security,” she advised. Not that he’d listen. Michael wouldn’t fork out for guards when several of the Fabled Few regularly drank at his establishment. Some former Champions, no less. And these Gladiators were all too happy to provide this service if it meant free amber and grog in return. Even Dreamer wasn’t above the quid pro quo. “What was tonight’s disturbance?”
“The youngest Falcon boy again,” the barkeep explained. “Wanted his out-of-town friends to perform on-stage, but we’ve already paid those actors for a month’s residency. Wouldn’t take no for an answer. The boy’s entitled.”
“There’s trouble in the city tonight, too,” Dreamer mused, absently. “More executions. Fighting and kidnappings at Vokzal Plaza.”
“More NTR Front nonsense?” the barkeep asked, offering only vague interest in the conversation. Dreamer nodded her head and finished her drinking, placing the empty on the counter. Michael poured her a fresh one as he continued. “Executions almost every day now. No wonder the legovo is full. Good for business, I guess. And where is the Champion?”
“Organising more Games,” Dreamer said. The barkeep didn’t stifle his chuckle.
“I take it you aren’t fighting tomorrow?” he asked. She shook her head.
“Only the Open’s losers,” she answered. “I didn’t fight in the Open.”
It occurred to her that she’d sat on the sideline for much of the action in the Coliseum during the summer season. She had been reduced to watching from afar, mithering about the direction of the Games and the Championship whilst ejecting unsavoury drunks from a tavern on the edge of a legovo. Such was life. Hers, at least.
“Ah, the Administration’s Second Chance Games,” the barkeep said, shaking his head. “I’ve seen the flyers. I would argue they are scraping the barrel, but the premise admits it openly. Will you go to watch, at least?”
She sighed deeply and lit her cigarette. She hadn’t been inside the Coliseum as a member of the audience in years. If she wasn’t fighting, she stayed away completely. But there was every chance the next Champion would be unveiled tomorrow in the pit, and she didn’t like the idea of being the only one in Vobrazhenye who wasn’t there to see it.
“I’ll go to watch,” she said, begrudgingly.
***
A cheer circulated in the Coliseum as she filed towards her seat, the penultimate battle drawing to its climax. She’d deliberately missed most of the Games - a distraction set up by the Champion and the Administration to drag the citizenry’s attention away from the brewing insurgency and declining quality of life - in favour of propping up the bar at Midgard’s. The barkeep (Michael’s stand-in on his day off) eventually reminded her that she wanted to see the next Champion as the roars from the top of the hill made their way down into the legovo. She’d filled her canteen with amber from behind the bar and walked through the deserted streets, the rest of Vobrazhenye already gathered within the Coliseum, willing pawns in the Administration’s diversionary strategy.
Several members of the city’s government were in attendance, exchanging hushed whispers and pouring freely from large vats of red wine. She spotted Administrator Robinson, Administrator Russnow, Administrator Watkins, and a handful of others whose names escaped her. It appeared their next dining course was arriving just in time for the main event. Vobrazhenye’s governmental system was peculiar to most outside observers, with its two branches operating separately with vastly different remits. First there was the Administration, which usually consisted of bureaucrats and clerks recruited and promoted from within. The Administrators that made up the Administration were responsible for any and all decision-making relating to the city’s internal structures. If a Games was called, the Administrators were the people behind it.
The other branch of Vobrazhenye’s government consisted of one person: the Champion, whose responsibilities lay in maintaining the city’s standing on the global stage. At first glance this seemed an important duty, but it had been many long years since any local powers had risen to rival the might of Vobrazhenye. The Champion’s position was now a mostly ceremonial one, important only for his or her participation in the Games. For whilst the Administrators were chosen by interview in city hall, the Champion was selected by combat in the pit, and would then defend their status in other bouts at the whim of the bureaucrats.
The Champion was here, too, a shit-eating grin on his face as he beamed down on the citizenry, tightly packed in long rows around the pit. The Master of Ceremonies introduced him as Fiend, but most of the crowd knew him as the Droog. He was surrounded in the Champion’s box, as he always was, by the assembly of happy-go-lucky goons and yes-men that propped up his reign. As she stared across the pit at the Champion’s box, Dreamer found it difficult to remember the time that she had occupied that lavish place of honour. She had been a more austere Champion, sure. But could it be objectively argued that she was a better one? It was so long ago, with too many evenings spent at the bar in Midgard’s between then and now, that this question was difficult to answer.
“It’s the main event next?” a young boy in the row in front of her asked his father. He seemed excited. He hadn’t yet learned that it didn’t really matter who was Champion. His father nodded his head and continued to sip at the froth on top of his grog. “That means Izgnaniye. I think it’s his day today, papa.”
The man only scoffed in response. Dreamer found herself agreeing with his appraisal. Izgnaniye was given another chance to unseat the Champion on the day of the Open, and when he failed to do so he entered the Melee immediately afterwards. He came up short again, but that was the price of entry in today’s Second Chance fiasco. The Administrators were impressed by the valour of those defeated in the Open, and six of them were selected for this special contest, the winner of which would get their own opportunity to face the Champion one-on-one. What’s more, this Second Chance would come at a time of the winner’s choosing, in circumstances that they themselves could devise. These were boons not even awarded to Volk, the eventual winner of the Open Melee, even though he’d outlasted and defeated all six of today’s combatants. This advantage almost certainly meant they would be Champion one day soon, unless the Droog’s unusually resilient luck continued to hold out.
“Who do you like, papa?” the boy questioned, as the Administrators took their turn waving and bowing before the audience. Despite their role in the preparations of the Games, the response from the crowd was a less than savoury one.
“Boginya,” the father answered, in between sips from his grog. It was Dreamer’s turn to snort. She wasn’t surprised that he was a fan of Boginya. He looked like her target market. She’d seen many men like him in the seedier bars of the legovo, some of which Boginya had even allegedly found employment in during her times away from the pit.
“I don’t know,” the boy said, astute beyond his years. “She already has her shot at Fiend next week. I don’t think she’ll want to get hurt today.”
Dreamer concurred. Fights in the Games ended in surrender or death, and although that usually meant surrender, this didn’t rule out the very real possibility of significant injury.
“I wouldn’t want to be the Droog,” the boy continued. “Someone in the Administration has it in for him.”
Another astute comment, Dreamer thought. Fiend had already defeated Izgnaniye and Volk in quick succession, and next week it was Boginya’s turn to fight for the Championship. And now here the Champion was, witness to a main event whose winner would have the power to choose the date and time of his demise. The Droog did his best to smile through it, but she imagined he was fully aware that his days in that box were numbered, and his friends in the Administration were the ones to blame for that.
Dreamer found herself wondering why? There was the burgeoning insurgency, of course. The violent unrest hung like a black cloud about the entire city, and although this was a threat that came from within and thus directly in the purview of the Administration, many still looked towards the Champion to address the growing threat. Thus far, he had been unwilling or unable to do so, and Dreamer felt an eventual showdown between him and the NTR Front’s leadership was on the horizon, if the Droog could hold onto his position for long enough to face them. Perhaps the Administration felt another would be better placed to fight off the rebellion, or maybe a busy Championship reign was another strategy to distract attention from it. Either way, Fiend clung onto power with increasing desperation.
Even if a climactic tussle with Fiend seemed on the horizon, for now the Front was content in agitating a more general target than just the Champion. Part of that was frequent bookings in the pit for their leadership as part of the Games, an arrangement that Dreamer found difficult to comprehend given the festering conflict between the Front and the Administrations. Regardless, the rebels had been booked in today’s Games, defeating a pair of necromancers from the wild north that the Administrators must’ve hoped would provide more fierce resistance. Dreamer wouldn’t find out until later that evening, when drinking in the bar and listening in to people who’d sat through the entirety of the day’s festivities, that the Administration had even approved a special show at the Coliseum, with the Front as the curators of the Games. A far cry from the decrepit warehouse on the edge of the city that the rebels usually used for their unofficial and unsanctioned bouts.
“It’s starting, papa!” the young boy in the row ahead declared, excitedly pointing at the gates at either end of the pit, which were slowly opening like hungry mouths. “They’re coming!”
Izgnaniye emerged from the far gate, a low rumble of approval circulating around the Coliseum. The young boy led the cheers, the audience showing its appreciation for a man who barely seemed to register their existence. And from the opposite gate… Dreamer had to smile. She had heard that the Vunderkind had crawled out of the woodwork at the Open, but she’d no idea that he’d survived long enough to earn a Second Chance. Of course, he wasn’t so much of a kind anymore, and the jury was out on the vunder, too. She knew him by a different name. Michael, the barkeep. No wonder he’d asked if she was going to watch.
The Vunderkind took up position near the centre of the pit, his palms cupped together, his weight shifted back onto his haunches. Izgnaniye was undeterred, and withdrew his longsword, which he pointed in the direction of the Vunderkind at the same moment as a ball of energy formed in his cupped palms. With a focus of mana that Dreamer didn't think the old barkeep was capable of, a beam of light roared across the pit, scorching the sand beneath its path. Izgnaninye was flung backwards, his sword flying from his hand, and he landed in the dirt with a dull thud. The audience was shellshocked, but the Vunderkind only fell backwards, unable to match this opening gambit. The exertion was too much. He managed only moments of such power scattered throughout the match, the result of too many years spent drinking the amber as well as serving it.
As per the rules agreed upon by the Administration, the rest of the combatants emerged at regular intervals. First came Boginya, who seemed distracted and aloof throughout, as though her pre-announced Championship opportunity took precedence over this sideshow. She exerted herself little, and surrendered early under little duress. The Vunderkind followed her in flying the white flag a short time later, fighting valiantly from the start of the contest but unable to sustain the effort it took to rewind the clock. Shortly afterwards, the man known as Volna walked through the distant gate, the audience cheering his appearance in a manner that Dreamer felt he hadn’t earned. Volna had returned at the Open, she’d heard, but had done little outside of novelty team brawls to distinguish himself as a future Champion. She was surprised to see the young Falcon boy competing, the very same who had been ejected from Midgard’s the night before, and yet more surprised to learn that he knew how to fight. Inznaniye’s defeat was expected, but the nature of it was not, with the Exiled Warrior surrendering as a result of the young Falcon’s guile rather than his mana.
She knew the sixth and final Gladiator who entered the pit. She had fought her, even, albeit two years ago when both of them were different women. When she first arrived from the islands in the far north, beyond even the wild, uncivilised terrain of the Svëlgovan lowlands, she was known only as Kitsune. The locals had since given her the name Licitsa, although this suggested a familiarity between the Gladiator and her audience that perhaps didn’t exist. Licitsa’s extended sojourns abroad, mostly to return to her distant and peculiar homeland, didn’t endear her to the territorial and nationalistic Vobrazhenяns, who craved loyalty and compliance above all else.
Since her most recent return, however, Licitsa’s name and stature had grown. Even Dreamer, now much further away from the Champion’s box and even the pit in general than she had been when Kitsune first appeared on the scene, had heard about the she-fox’s sequence of near misses dating back more than a turn of the sun. It was her first opportunity to observe this new and improved Kitsune, and to gauge whether she was worthy of any novel sobriquet, let alone that of Champion.
“Licitsa will win,” the young boy declared, as the far gates swung open and she entered the fray. “I know that she will.”
“I thought you liked Inznaniye?” his father replied, not long back from collecting more grog.
“Inznaniye’s eliminated, papa,” his son informed him, somewhat dejected, but throwing his weight behind his second choice. Perhaps it was the mask. The young woman certainly seemed more marketable to the city’s youth than the two men she shared the pit with. Perhaps that was why the Administration continued to serve her chance after Second Chance, nudging her ever closer to the Champion’s box despite the woman’s best efforts to scupper her own progress.
Dreamer failed to be impressed by the she-fox’s clumsy rapier, and even less so by the footwork that almost saw her skewered by Volna’s broadsword. She was only saved by the duplicity that brought a temporary alliance between Volna and the Falcon boy to its end, the former surrendering with the latter’s hunting knife pressed against his throat. The Falcon seemed equally as unimpressed by Kitsune as Dreamer was, paying her no mind whilst collecting Volna’s discarded broadsword. He felt the weight of it in his hand, tossing it over and admiring the fine detailing on its hilt. He turned back towards Licitsa, who expelled a column of energy as thick as the stone pillars holding up the roof at the Central Library, which gushed across the pit like a flash flood, washing over the Falcon and turning him inside out. His wings drenched, the merchant's son found it impossible to fly, and surrendered when she began to push her rapier through his leather tunic.
The young woman had won, and - despite the aforementioned string of nearlys that had preceded this contest - those gathered within the Coliseum could barely seem to believe it. Few predicted Licitsa’s victory at the start of the day, including the masked woman herself, who recovered on one knee in the middle of the pit, her rapier at her side but deliberately pointed at the Champion’s box. The Droog’s smile had long since disappeared. He looked down at the triumphant Gladiator with an expression of pure scorn.
The scene was disrupted by an explosion near the far gate. There was confusion in the stands, but Dreamer for one knew that the Administration would never pay for fireworks at an event like this. They were already paying the Gladiators. One glance at the Administrator’s box confirmed that the pyro was unexpected. A second blast sent more smoke billowing across the pit, this time from further up in the Coliseum. Confusion turned into panic, with the Champion leading the mass exodus towards the exits that followed.
“Come on, son,” the father said, whilst shuffling his boy towards the end of the row. “Show’s over.”
Dreamer happened to agree. She didn’t intend to die in the Coliseum, either in the pit or in the stands.
***
That night, Michelle sat at the counter in Midgard’s, sharing an amber with Michael, who for once looked like he needed the drink even more than her.
“You should’ve told me you were fighting,” she said, conveying her surprise at seeing his entrance at the Coliseum. She knew that the Vunderkind was a formidable foe back in his prime. She had shared the pit with him on several occasions. Sometimes she won, sometimes she didn’t. It was through these battles that she earned a vague respect for the man. Now, though, she had assumed that he was as far from the Champion’s box as she was. Today proved otherwise. “I could’ve offered you some pointers.”
Michael offered her a wry smile that belied his feelings. This Second Chance might very well have been his last chance. Yet another newcomer had forced their way ahead of him. Perhaps he would be cleaning tankards with old rags at Midgard’s forever.
“I’m glad you got out of there okay,” she said, offering to change the subject. In truth, she’d not really considered Michael after the explosions had started until she’d seen him behind the bar. This truth was impolite, though. “I don’t think that’s exactly what the Administration had in mind for today's Games.”
“Maybe not what they had in mind, but what they asked for,” the barkeep replied. “When you keep inviting the Front to the pit, don’t be surprised when you get fireworks.”
“We don’t know that the Front set off the bombs,” she pointed out. Michael didn’t want to hear it.
“That’s the kind of ignorance that leads to explosions in the Coliseum,” Michael argued, shaking his head. “The Administration's response? They give them the keys to the place! And where is our Champion?! Concerned with endless distractions, when the whole city knows who the Big Bad is! How many more pretenders will he fight before he finally confronts the Front?! Izgnaniye, Volk, Boginya, and now this Licitsa --"
A pause here that lingered, until it became clear that Michael had no intention of resuming this thread.
“And now this Licitsa?” she repeated, as a prompt for him to continue.
“And now this Licitsa is standing behind you,” the barkeep answered, though Dreamer doubted that this response was his original intention. She turned around to find that it was at least a truthful one. Kitsune was dressed for battle but not in the pit, her rapier replaced by a single stiletto dagger worn at her belt, her mask more elaborate and less practical.
“Haven’t been here for a while,” she said, whilst glancing around at the drab interior of the tavern. “It hasn’t changed at all.”
The young woman sat down at the bar. Michael, rather than serving her a drink, removed himself from the situation to clear tables at the opposite end of the room. The barkeep knew the order of every Gladiator in town, so it was safe to assume that Kitsune didn’t drink. Dreamer didn’t slow down for her benefit, nearing the end of what was her fourth amber since the Coliseum, added to the five or six grogs she’d enjoyed before it. It had been a good day, notwithstanding the terrorist attack.
“Haven’t been here for a while,” Dreamer responded, curious but bemused. “But here today. Lured in by the smell of hops? Or for a debrief with the Vunderkind, perhaps?”
Kitsune glanced uneasily across the inn at the barkeep, as though a prolonged conversation with him was an uncomfortable prospect. In fact, the idea of being exposed to this many people in general seemed to make her anxious. Perhaps this is why she’d stopped coming to this or any other tavern, and was now rarely seen outside the pit.
“I’m here to see you, Dreamer,” the young woman announced. The older one began to prepare a cigarette, perhaps in a deliberate attempt to make her naive counterpart feel even more uncomfortable.
“Well, you’ve seen me,” answered Dreamer. “I’m afraid I don’t do autographs, though. Perhaps if you bought me a drink, tulip, but I don’t pay for my drinks here. At the Coliseum, maybe. During one of your fights.”
“The Champion is scheduled to face Boginya in the pit next week,” Kitsune declared, undeterred by Dreamer’s gentle prodding.
“So I’ve heard,” allowed Dreamer. It was difficult to escape the posters.
“And although the Administrators do not insist I fight until I myself enter the pit as Challenger,” the young woman continued. “I do not intend to do so rusty and unprepared. I am, I’m sure you’d agree, unprepared. For what it takes to be in the pit with the Droog, as well as to occupy the Champion’s box afterwards.”
“You’re right,” Dreamer replied. “I do agree. What I saw in the pit today was enough to reach that conclusion. That finishing blast was something, sure. But flair and creativity was never your problem. It was the humdrum that you struggled with. The everyday routine. Your skill with a rapier suggests one too many practices missed, and your footwork is still clunky. A better opponent than the Falcon boy would’ve made you pay for your mistakes, tulip.”
The woman they now called Licitsa bristled slightly at the memory of their previous encounter, two years prior, forced upon her by her belligerent counterpart.
“I didn’t know you came to watch me today,” she answered, attempting to reassume control of the conversation. “But I’m not asking you to tell me how to become Champion.”
“I don’t give practical instruction,” Dreamer offered, whilst finishing her drink.
“There’s a spot for me on the undercard for the Droog and Boginya’s Championship match,” Kitsune continued. “I’m here to challenge you. I think it would be good for me to face off against a former Champion, and --"
“I don’t exist for your character progression, tulip,” Dreamer interrupted. Her ire was raised more by her empty glass than the girl's challenge. “I’m not interested. You haven’t heard? I only do sideshows and grudge matches now. The Champion’s box is behind me. Find another teacher.”
Dreamer would say no more, and summoned Michael by shaking her empty glass. Kitsune began to leave, tripping over the feet of Feniks - a grizzled veteran Gladiator who now seemed more concerned with sleeping his way through the city’s peasantry than fighting in the pit - who was sitting next to the fire. He barely registered her apology, instead staring into the middle distance with a steely resolve in his eye.
“What’s his problem?” Dreamer asked, as Michael returned with a glass of amber.
“You didn’t hear about Dikar?” he replied, his eyebrow cocked quizzically. “Ambushed by the Front on his way home from the Games. City Guard nowhere to be found, unsurprisingly. They’re no friends of Feniks and Dikar. But looks like Jack’s going to be riding solo for a while.”
“Why Dikar?”
“Your guess is as good as mine,” he said. “He’s been one of the Administration’s favourite Gladiators for years. That could be it. Or could just be that nobody’s safe from the Front. Maybe not even Midgard’s.”
Michael's suggestion was an uncomfortable one. Many of the bar’s clientele had been harried or bothered on the street by the Front, but the tavern itself had thus far remained a sanctuary. Many liked to call it a safezone. Feniks continued to stare, near-catatonic, across the bar at nothing in particular.
“How long has he been like this?”
“Since he sat down,” the barkeep explained. “Some people tried to speak to him but he wasn’t interested. Guess he’s thinking. A lot of us have been.”
As if he had heard their conversation - along with the dialogue of the rest of the tavern that was centred around his unresponsive state and his hospitalised partner - Jack Feniks chose that precise moment to stand up. The veteran Gladiator glanced out across the crowded tavern, which grew silent in anticipation and expectation.
“There’s nothing else for it,” Jack declared, his comically long sword scraping against the wooden floorboards as he spoke. “The rest of you can sit here and wait for them to come for you if you like. But at this stage, it’s us and them. I’m not going to wait.”
He drained his grog - which had been sitting next to him, neglected, for much of the night - and then turned to leave. Dreamer half-admired his courage, but found it more difficult to find a home on either side of the battle lines being drawn.
***
The next morning, Dreamer awoke with her head swirling. Concerns about the insurgency, conflicting emotions about the young woman's challenge, a strangely unfulfilled nostalgia regarding the pit and the Champion's box… no one thought had time to settle before another arrived to displace it from the forefront, her head beginning to pound in rhythm to this spinning carousel. She attempted to soothe herself with a morning walk around the raduga sad, an elaborate maze of flower gardens in the south of the city, away from the chaos that the nucleus had become. She was partially successful, and almost found it possible to truly think of nothing, but she realised throughout that any respite was only temporary. Whether it was an hour walking in the raduga sad, or a six month sojourn to the islands in the wild north, there was no escaping the nagging, incessant pull of the city and the pit.
Her carefully built sanctuary was destroyed almost as soon as she returned to the centre. The streets were both busy and quiet, a hush having descended over its inhabitants, who garisonned in small groups on corners and exchanged excited, secretive whispers. When she passed by such clusters, they observed her warily with narrowed eyes, as if her presence was noted and only begrudgingly accepted. Vobrazhenye had never been the most welcoming of cities and the insurgency hadn't helped this, but Dreamer felt the hostility more acutely this day than ever.
The reason for this atmosphere soon became apparent when Dreamer overheard the whispers of some of the more loose-lipped citizens. It appeared a body had been found in Vokzal Plaza, hanged like all of the others. This one, though, was peculiar because it didn't bear the hallmarks of the public executions that the City Guard had been carrying out with such lustre. It had only been announced when the body was found swaying gently in the wind that morning, without the fanfare and faux-legitimacy that the magistrates were careful to orchestrate for their own killings. There was no question, it seemed, as to who was responsible, nor as to why this poor soul had ended up in the noose. This was the work of the New Traditional Revolutionary Front, so said the grapevine, and a clear indication of what happens if you pick a fight with them.
Although these assertions were made confidently and with little disagreement, there was one question that was open to interpretation. Why were the City Guard leaving the body on display in Vokzal Plaza, for the eyes of the passing citizenry and the beaks of hungry hawks?
“They're waiting for the right type of officer to arrive,” she overheard one woman contending, in lament of the layers of bureaucracy that plagued every aspect of Vobrazhenяn life. “One that's trained to cut dead bodies down.”
“It's a message they're sending,” another suggested in conspiratorial tones. “They want the people to see what the Front is capable of. Scare those that might join them.”
Whatever the reason for the Guard's inaction, Dreamer found the body in Vokzal Plaza shortly afterwards. A half-dozen officers surrounded it, guarding the exhibit from the droves of onlookers who had come to gawk, but none of them made any effort to cut it down. She noticed that none of them could even seem to look at it. She did, though, and found the cold, lifeless eyes of Jack Feniks staring back at her.
The City Guard overseeing the exhibition of Feniks’ body weren't the only employees of the Administration active in the plaza that day. Several more lowly bureaucrats were busy hanging posters to the walls of municipal buildings around the square, advertising the next busy season of the Games. Amongst those advertisements featuring hand-drawn, Godly caricatures of the Droog and Boginya were others looking ahead to next year, calling for entrants in the Sixteenth Open Melee. It was only a few months ago that Volk triumphed in the Fifteenth Open Melee. Many of the gathered citizens took an interest in these planned distractions, whilst others sneered cynically at them, or spoke openly and disparagingly of the Champion.
It seemed that, although the lines were being clearly drawn between the Front and the Administration, many in Vobrazhenye were finding it difficult to pick a side. Neither the insurgents nor the incumbents really spoke up for their interests. The NTR Front certainly offered meaningful change, but most saw that change as destructive and self-interested. Replacing bureaucrats with narcissists wasn't likely to alter much for the fishermen of Hawk's Bay or the quarriers of the Colbar Pass. Regardless of this cynical attitude, the Coliseum was likely to be full tomorrow for the Front’s takeover of the Games, although it was anticipated that the Champion and much of the Administration was likely to boycott the event.
Turning away from Feniks and the ugly scene at Vokzal Plaza, Dreamer meandered eastwards along Fletcher's Row to the legovo. She had half a mind to order herself a grog, Jack's favourite tipple, but eventually decided that such sentimentality was beneath her. This decision was taken away from her entirely, however, as the entrance to Midgard's was blocked by another large huddle of people. Behind them, a line of troopers from the City Guard formed a barrier between the rabble and the tavern, which showed signs of a recent fire. Its windows were smashed and its walls charred, its thatched roof reduced to a rotted wooden frame.
“What happened here?” Dreamer asked Don Agnev, who was standing nearby and holding a barrel of grog, ostensibly from the now closed-off bar. She concluded that he'd helped himself in the cellar whilst the evacuation took place.
“The Front, of course,” Don answered. “Michael was still inside when the fire started. I guess they didn't take too kindly to the idea of a safezone.”
As Agnev spoke, a quartet of guards carried a stretcher out of the tavern, a blanket obscuring the form of the man on top of it. They didn't need to see his face to know who it was.
“Seems random,” Don added.
“Anything but,” Dreamer mused.
***
Given the growing unrest sweeping the city, Dreamer felt the stands perhaps weren't the best place to watch the Front’s takeover of the Games. The climactic events of the Second Chance fiasco had shown the rafters to be unsafe, although she doubted that the revolutionaries would be so eager to bomb their own show. Beyond concerns for her safety, though, Dreamer was preoccupied by the fates of Feniks and the barkeep, and so had used her status as a Gladiator (and a former Champion, even if the fact was now little remembered) to enter the combatant's section of the Coliseum for what promised to be the most peculiar Games of the year. Members of the Front were known to frequent some of the more peculiar burlesque bars in the legovo, a rare trait that they shared with their nemeses in the City Guard, and had spent much of the previous week courting a wide array of sponsorships from Vobrazhenye’s merchant class.
It became apparent that Dreamer wasn't the only one who'd had this idea, for the combatant's viewing pen was mostly full of Gladiators - both past and present - who weren't booked in the Games. Those that were seemed less than enthused about their engagement for the night, the bouts as much vehicles to sell artisan furniture as they were genuine athletic competition. There was a general sense of debasement amongst the combatants, and unease in those that had come to watch from the pen.
Amongst them was Kitsune, who sat on the front row of the Gladiator's section, fenced off from the rest of the audience and guarded by a long line of troopers who perennially faced the rabble. When Dreamer arrived at the culmination of the second fight, the she-fox signalled to her, drawing her attention to an empty seat at her side. It was noticeable that it was only one of a large number of empty seats around the masked woman. As the announcements were made for the third of the day's fights, Dreamer skulked over towards the woman they called Licitsa, taking a seat three down from her and immediately occupying her hands in the preparation of a cigarette.
“What have I missed?” she asked, eventually, as two young men recognisable as the actors in residence at Midgard’s emerged into the pit below. They looked as though they'd rather be elsewhere, but a gig was a gig.
“Surprisingly, not very much,” Kitsune responded. The actors’ opponents were introduced as lesser-known henchmen from the Front. Dreamer was surprised that they still had enough men to send into the pit, considering the now daily public executions in Vokzal Plaza. “The influence of the merchant class is a little more obvious than usual, and the Front's penchant for self-promotion is on full display. But underneath all that, it is a Games, like any other.”
“I am surprised that the Administration and the City Guard have let this happen,” Dreamer said, whilst surveying the peculiar arrangement in the pit. A merchant sponsor was introduced to the crowd and handed a wooden training sword by the Master of Ceremonies. One of the actors presented his heavily armoured gut, the sponsor preparing to strike the ceremonial first blow. This was not a standard opening for a bout in the pit.
Surprised? Yes, me too,” Kitsune agreed. She seemed even more bemused by the scene than Dreamer. “Though it wouldn't surprise me if the Guard has something up their sleeve. There's enough of them here.”
Enough Guards, yes, thought Dreamer. But no Champion. The box in which Fiend usually sat during the Games, provided he wasn't competing himself, was currently unoccupied. The Administrator's box next to it would've been, too, if it wasn't currently filled with prominent figures from the rebellion. Something informed Dreamer that this wasn't an arrangement that had been agreed by the Administrators. Regardless, the insurgents helped themselves to the officials’ wine and meat as if their ownership of the place wasn't so temporary.
“Our Champion didn't think the takeover was worth his time?” she thought out loud. Kitsune didn't bother to glance up at the empty box, instead retaining focus on the action in the pit. The bizarre competition saw all four combatants using wooden swords, forbidden to use real weaponry or their mana by the peculiar regulations of the contest.
“To be expected, really,” the masked woman said. “Fiend has shown what type of Champion he is.”
“And you?” Dreamer asked, a playful smirk appearing upon her lips. “Have you shown what Champion you will be? We watch together, as the Front itself competes within the pit, and yet I don't know which side of this dispute you come down on.”
The young woman looked conflicted. Whilst pleased with the invitation to speak about herself, something about her suggested she didn't have a satisfactory answer at hand.
“I can only focus on my own improvement,” Kitsune said. “The history of this city is littered with the names of those who spoke their lofty plans aloud. Of all the things they would do when they became Champion. But this year has taught me that one cannot rely on assumptions of victory. Right now, I am only interested in cultivating the correct circumstances for my ascent to the Champion's box. I must learn from the mistakes of my past and become a warrior capable of defeating the Droog. Only then will I begin to consider what kind of a Champion I will be.”
Not soon enough, Dreamer thought. She wanted to shake the young woman, to tell her that part of being ready was having a plan for the Front. Now wasn't the time for a training arc.
“And that is where I come in,” she muttered, meekly deciding that it wasn't her place to shake life into the girl. The city would do that anyway, sooner or later.
“So you've thought about my challenge,” the other declared, with a sense of subtle triumph. In the pit, the actors were becoming increasingly infuriated by the limitations of the contest. The younger of the two went so far as to retrieve a hunting knife from his belt, in direct contravention of the bout’s rules. The audience cheered the development, but the officials - wearing the purple robes and orange triangle insignia of the Front - were less enthused.
“Not much,” Dreamer replied, as the audience hollered around her with each swipe with the actor’s knife. One of the insurgents had his robe sliced open, whilst the other was forced to drop his wooden sword when blood was drawn from his wrist. “The city's on fire. You might have noticed. I haven't had much time for other contemplations.”
“One might argue that this is exactly the time for you to remain sharp,” Kitsune argued, in a secretive whisper, a devious glint in her eye.
As she spoke, the officials in the pit called for the bells to be rung, a rare disqualification bringing a timely end to the unsatisfying fight. The rebel team attempted to withdraw towards the gates, but the other actor was in their way, slugging one of them to the ground with the hilt of his wooden sword. Before any more disorder could occur, more men dressed in the purple robes of the insurgency appeared in the pit. At the head of this arriving force was a pair that were instantly recognisable, despite their status as clandestine underground figures.
“Almaz and Krasivyy?” Dreamer mumbled, her attention suddenly monopolised by the brewing trouble in the pit. “I didn't expect them to be here.”
“They're meant to be fighting in the main event,” Kitsune noted. “Against one of the Administrators, no less, along with a mage from the north. Something tells me there might be a different ending planned, though…”
Almaz, Krasivyy, and the other Front members had arrived to put an end to the actors’ display of petulant resistance, and they had managed that with little reprisal owing to their strength in numbers. Several of the Gladiators in the pen were stirred to action by what they saw as bullying tactics, and collected their weapons as if they intended to storm the pit and defend the actors. They were beaten to the punch, however. All around the circumference of the pit, men from the City Guard were slowly encroaching, their circle growing ever smaller, spears in one hand and drawn revolvers in the other.
The Front quickly realised what was going on. Almaz and Krasivyy organised their men into a defensive formation, their hunting knives in hand and the two actors, now hostages, stored safely in their midst. The odds were against them, though. Around a dozen insurgents were surrounded by forty armed guardsmen, who came to a halt only a few metres away from the cluster of rebels. Two of them were more prominent than the others. Dreamer recognised them as the pair who had overseen the executions of the prisoners in Vokzal Plaza two days before. The moustached trooper looked at his masked colleague nervously. There seemed no way of escaping this without bloodshed.
In the brief pause that followed, an explosion sounded in the middle of the Coliseum’s south stand, much larger and more effective than those of the last Games. Smoke billowed across the pit, obscuring the tense standoff unfolding in the centre of it. Glass shattered and marble crumbled. The assembled audience began to panic and scatter as a second bomb detonated on the opposite side of the arena. The troopers in the pit were about to lose their nerve, their neat circle beginning to break, when the moustached officer signalled for them to finish off the job. Spears clattered as the circle crunched inwards. A third, even greater explosion shattered the barricade between the pit and the rabble, who swarmed onto the sand in a frenzy.
“You think we should go down and help?” the she-wolf asked, wide-eyed and horror-struck.
“I think we should leave,” Dreamer replied. She didn't stick around to find out if Kitsune would follow. She made for the exits immediately.
The scene outside wasn't much calmer than that within the Coliseum. Occasional showers of dislodged rock would rain down from above with each new explosion, whole streets were ablaze, and clashes between guardsmen, loyalists, and insurgents - with little distinction being made between these subgroups - raged all around. Dreamer made for the nearest alleyway, the walls either side of her plastered with hundreds of posters for upcoming Games. She leant forward with her hands on her knees, sucking in oxygen with great difficulty. She smoked too much.
Only after her breathing had regulated did she realise that she wasn't the only one in the alleyway. The young masked woman stood behind her, leaning against the wall and barely over-exerted, looking quite smug about her superior cardio.
“We should have stayed,” Kitsune said, as Dreamer peered around the edge of the alley. A column of guardsmen filed by in the direction of the Coliseum as she did. “We should have helped.”
“You could have stayed,” Dreamer replied, retreating back into the alley. “Just leave me out of it.”
“You can't hide forever,” Kitsune pondered, absently. “This battle will come for you too, in the end.”
“That's just the problem,” Dreamer answered, as she sat down against the wall. “This is being presented as a Vobrazhenяn struggle… something that matters to all of us. But that's just a lie. It's the Front and the Guard, with the Administrators pulling the strings. The rest of us can pick a side or move aside.”
“Then we should all just give up?” queried the younger woman, standing over Dreamer. “Let the Front do whatever they will with the city?”
“You'd rather fight for the Administrators?” Dreamer asked, mockingly. “Then join the City Guard. Because that's the alternative. There is no side of right in this battle. No third option.”
“There's the Champion,” Kitsune said, without hesitation. Dreamer didn't stifle her laugh.
“You know, when I asked you earlier what sort of Champion you would be, you replied only about yourself. Sure, that is what the question called for, on the surface. But a Championship is about much more than its holder. Or it should be, anyway. Especially at a time like this.”
Kitsune bristled once more at the accusation, but didn't offer a response. Michelle lit a cigarette as she continued.
“If I were you, I would challenge for that Championship tomorrow. Tonight, even, although it is getting quite late, and I think the clean-up job at the Coliseum will be quite substantial. Wait too long whilst you embark on this voyage of self-discovery, and you might find the Champion’s box has fallen into rubble by the time you come to take your place in it. That's what I would do, if you want my advice.”
“I’m not asking you to tell me how to become Champion,” Kitsune said, after only a brief pause. Dreamer recognised the repetition from their conversation in Midgard’s two nights prior. She smiled, to herself and to the other.
“I don’t give practical instruction,” she said, completing the line.
Kitsune walked to the end of the alleyway.
“Maybe you're right,” the young woman said. “Maybe by the time I am ready to occupy the Champion's box, it will already be over. Perhaps what I'm doing is too little and too late. But at least I am doing something.”
Dreamer closed her eyes, her head resting against the marble wall behind her. Her cigarette hung limply from her pursed lips, a column of smoke surrounding her visage. She looked old. She was old.
“I'll be at the Coliseum, ready for you, the night the Droog fights Boginya. If they can fix it up in time.”
Her footsteps led away from the alley. Dreamer opened her eyes, discomforted by the nagging feeling that the girl was right. A poster, immediately ahead of her and at eye-level, dominated her view, as if it had been placed there to confront her at this lowly moment. She ripped it from the wall.
The Sixteenth Open Melee.
She could hear the clashing of swords as though she was sat in the Champion’s box.
Her eyes were open. |
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Post by roguesquadron11 on Nov 4, 2024 23:05:57 GMT
Ryan St. James - Silver Lining
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bongo
FWA Wrestler
Posts: 37
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Post by bongo on Nov 4, 2024 23:54:39 GMT
Once again, we find ourselves near a locker room marked with the elegantly crafted Trick Or Trash sign. Rather than joining our favourite masked trio in their private quarters, we're in the corridor outside. A long cable runs along the floor to some unknown production machinery off-screen. Soon, we see Halloween Knight approach the door with trepidation, his head down as he goes to knock on the door. He stops short, stares at the sign, and then shakes his head and turns away. Halloween Knight stops a few paces away, sighs, and turns to face the door again. Again, he shakes her head and attempts to walk away; again, she stops short and approaches the door.
"I know, you've been hiding since we lost to ETERNAL. I've been looking all over for you. You know, the locker room is kind of a shitty hiding place..."
No response.
" We need to focus on Jason Jetta and Ryan St. James.!
Another pause-
"Ok enough of this; I'm coming in-"
Halloween Knight takes the silent seriously before reaching out to turn the door handle. With a deep breath, he pushes the door open and steps through to meet no one at all. While there's luggage stacked up in a couple of spots, there's no sign of Juan Tothrefour anywhere,
But that didn't make the scene that was in front of Halloween Knight any less strange.
"What the-_
PINK.
The moment Halloween Knight entered the room, he almost had to shield his eyes as his vision was bombarded with violet violet rays as the trick or trash locker room had undergone a brand new aesthetic and that aesthetic?
Flamingos.
The room is covered with images of Flamingos from wall to wall. The soft sounds of a ukulele can be heard in the background coming from some kind of sound system in the back, along with the rhyme of a steel drum, while on a nearby quirk board, with tape all over it, connecting from a blurry black and white picture of Trash Mammal. Connected to what appears to be a word scribbled in pink marker, "FLAMINGO WORLD"
Halloween Knight sighed and shook his head.
"God damn it-"
Suddenly out of nowhere, Juan Tothrefour burst out from even more pictures of bright pink flamingos a pink feather boa wrapped around his neck "Finally, you're late, five point six minutes late to be exact"
"Juan, if I ask, what the hell is going on here? Am I going to regret it?"
"No-!"
"....."
"Possibly"
"But you're going to tell me-"
"Haven't you noticed? Trash Mammal is missing"
"Um? Yeah, what about it? It happens. No need to freak out."
"But there is...Because I know where he is!"
"Oh? And where is that exactly?"
Juan took a moment to look around to make sure he wasn't watched as he leaned in and invited Halloween Knight to do so as well as he whispered
"Flamingo World, he's lost in flamingo world."
"God damn it, not Flamingo World again, for the last time Juan, Flamingo World isn't real, and Trash Mammal hasn't been stolen by Flamingos.
"That's what they want you to believe-! But I know the truth! Flamingo World is real! It's a world of mayhem and evil and beautiful pink feathers that temp you inside; we have to save our friend before it's too late. The flamingo spirits have trapped him, beyond this plain of existance, wandering a slave forever more for his Flamingo overlords. I've seen it-! the visions, the flamingos are out to get us, they're picking us off one by one"
"...Juan, you really need to let this go; you've been like this since you let Eternal steal your mask. I know you took it hard, but it wasn't your fault. You need to focus on Ryan St. James and Jetta. These new guys"
"Oh, trust me, I am focused on them!"
"Great!"
"....Because they're agents of the Flamingos!"
"That's not great...."
"Don't you think it's a little INTERESTING timing that these two new guys turn up just in time to when our friend was kidnapped?!"
Juan points erratically towards the quirk board. "See, it's all connected-! If you take the letters for Jetta and St. James, you get "Flamingo" "
"I don't think that's true!"
"Exactly! It's all a con! A flamingo con! Jetta even sounds like the call of a Flamingo if you really focus on it, which I have! You have to believe me, HK. They have our friends! And they won't let him go; hell, he probably won't want to go! He's been caught in the enchantment of the Flamingos."
"Juan, I know you took the fact that we lost the trios titles AND lost against Eternal, but you don't need to lose your mind because of it; we have to get back on the horse, and we can do it at Lights Out when we beat Jetta and St. James. That's our path back, but we gotta focus. Trash Mammal is going to be fine; he's...I don't know...somewhere, he says he doesn't live in a trash can, but I have my doubts. I digress, but he's fine. You're fine. I'm fine. We'll all be fine, you know why? Because we have each other, when one falls, we have two other people to pick us up. That's something St. James and Jetta can never understand; they want to prove themselves as individuals, but we're here to fight as a team."
Halloween Knight's passionate words seem to have gotten through the pink haze that has invaded his friend's mind as he blinks a little, considering his words.
"Ok, I'll focus, I'm there for you. I'm there to beat St. James and Jetta...."
"That's what I want to hear"
"Just remember....They're watching; the flamingos are always watching"
Juan leans back in, to whisper into Halloween Knights's ear as if afraid that the powerful flamingo army will invade at any moment.
Halloween Knight sighs
"Ok...well I guess I'll take that, that'll do"
How did Halloween Knight end up the straight person in this situation? |
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tig
FWA Wrestler
Posts: 17 
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Post by tig on Nov 5, 2024 1:25:50 GMT
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ETE
FWA Wrestler
Posts: 8
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Post by ETE on Nov 5, 2024 2:20:47 GMT
A familiar scene for anyone who had subscribed to Gabrielle Montgomery's Only Fans account at its peak is starting to play out.
A sleek black car.
Andrew Brown driving.
Gabrielle in the back seat.
Only, this is just a black town car, likely a Cadillac. Andrew isn’t glancing in his rear view mirror locking eyes with her. Gabrielle has all of her clothes on, and her head isn’t buried in some Producers, Directors, Agents, or ‘Actors’ lap.
There’s even a nice, subtle classical jazz song playing through the speakers. Andrew Brown isn’t driving her to a Porn set like he had dozens upon dozens of times before. He isn’t taking her to meet someone. He isn’t about to pick up Desmond, or Arthur, or anyone else to join Gabrielle. He couldn’t do that to himself anymore, she was a friend and he couldn’t watch her like that anymore.
When she re-entered the World of Adult Entertainment, by ‘entertaining’ Desmond, Arthur and various other men in that World, Andrew distanced himself from her. Not wanting to watch her on that back seat any longer. He never wants to drive her anywhere to a soundtrack of her moans and groans.
Instead he is driving her to the airport ahead of a night that could come to define so much of Gabrielle’s legacy. A Legacy that has changed so much in recent years and could change again if it all works out in her favour in Puerto Rico.
Lights Out. The FWA World Championship. Jeremy Best. Friends with Benefits.
She’s nervous. More nervous than she’s been since she returned to the FWA. This match, this one night is everything she wanted, everything she has worked towards since returning almost a year ago. It has been a rocky 12 months full of ups and downs. Moments where Gabrielle felt young again, where she felt like The Caramel Coated Goddess again. Then there were moments where she felt like she’d lost the magic, and once more sought her worth in being The Cum Coated Goddess.
For Gabrielle there is still no rush that compares to the exhilaration of winning in the middle of the FWA ring with the World watching. Yet nothing as crushing as losing in that same ring with the World watching. After a win she was always on such a high that nothing could bring her down from. After a loss, she’d have to go ‘down’ on someone to raise her spirits back up.
Through it all though, she’s perhaps never felt as respected by the FWA itself as she does now. In the past she had to use The Great Siege or Executive Excellence to get what she wanted and felt she was owed. Now it feels like the FWA is behind her, supporting her, giving her every opportunity to reclaim her former status.
Maybe it's those feet pics she may or may not have sent to a certain someone that may or may not be pretty high up in the FWA…
Regardless, she finds herself with a World Championship match for the first time in two years after making the most of her latest Contendership opportunity. The Golden Opportunity notwithstanding, but that would have been greedy…
She exhales loudly, nervously as the traffic ahead of them builds up bringing the Cadillac to a stop. She glances out of the window, the glass is tinted but not blacked out. A young kid in the car next to them smiles at her, then waves and frantically brings to the attention of her family that Gabrielle is in the car next to them.
She waves back at the family, before turning her attention towards Andrew. Seeing him driving her again, she can't help but wonder as black as the windows on that limousine, where did anyone ever manage to look over and see Gabrielle bobbing her head up and down in some man's lap? Or see her legs up in the air with some man in between them? Or see her bent over with some man behind her?
Did any little kids ever glance over and frantically tell their family Gabrielle is getting fucked in the car next to them?
Andrew Then pulls her away from that thought. “Hey Gabs…I remember a long time ago, you were sitting in the back seat of my Limo alone for a change, and you told me you wanted to go back in time and change this one single moment in your life. A moment that would have changed everything for you. You’re about to fly to Puerto Rico and win the World Title for the third time, do you still want to change that moment?”
Gabrielle goes silent, Andrews' question is a big one. Gabrielle at times had lamented where her life had taken her, and indeed had looked back upon one single moment in her life that she wished she could change…
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…
“Oh God, can I really do this?” A young woman, with a vibrant and alluring skin tone and long brunette hair nervously states. She looks panicked, nervous and yet at the same time so excited. There’s a storm of emotions within her mind, she’s never felt so loved and yet so scared before.
An older man, who seems to have her same brown eyes then grabs her by the shoulders, looking into her eyes deeply he states. “You can do this, I believe in you.” Then he embraces her with a hug, holding her tightly, like it could be the last time…at least for a while.
“Thanks Dad.” The young woman, a young 18 year old Gabrielle exclaims in the middle of the Airport. Her family, her parents, her brother, some of her uncles and aunties, a few cousin’s, and several of her closest friends surrounding her. Jack Severino, a young Jack already blessed with that smirk that would soon see him label himself Diamond Jack stands beside her.
Everyone hugs her, and him. Wishing them farewell and safe travels as they embark on a life changing journey.
In about five years time Jack will be a Triple Crown Champion, and one of the most detested and evil men to ever step into a Wrestling ring. This is the moment that sets that in motion. When Jack and Gabrielle step on that plane they’re unknowingly embarking upon all the things that would ever happen to them, though right now they think they’re just chasing a shared dream.
Gabrielles family and friends and Gabrielle herself could never predict that stepping on that plane would see her work as a Stripper within the year. Nor could they envision the two failed marriages, her own claim to being the most detested person in all of Wrestling capped by causing a full scale riot. Her public battle with depression, and her time in hardcore pornography.
As far as they all know, Gabrielle and Jack, two childhood friends turned lovers, are simply chasing a dream they both have. If they fail they’ll be back, if they succeed in chasing the dream then the sky's the limit.
If her Father knew the things she would do, he would tackle her to the ground and make sure she never boards the plane.
If her Father knew all the other things she would do, he would put her on his back and swim all the way to America if he had too.
She’ll go on to create history. She’ll go on to shatter the clase ceiling, and revolutionise the World of Professional Wrestling for every woman that comes after her. She’ll hold so many records, so many firsts, she’ll be famous and infamous. He’ll spend the rest of his life bragging about how great his daughter is…
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…
“Not anymore.” Gabrielle states quite simply. Back in that Cadillac being driven by Andrew Brown, it seems impossible to have ever regretted that moment. But alas Gabrielle has in the past, when she was her most lost, most broken, most defeated she would look back on that day in the airport saying goodbye to all her family and friends and she would wish that she had never gotten on that plane.
“I wouldn’t be here right now if it wasn’t for that moment when I stepped foot on that aeroplane.” She states while casting her attention outside, upon the lights of her surroundings. “I used to think that I could have been anything else. Whatever else. Anyone else.”
“When Wrestling was all I had…and then Porn was all I had I wanted any other life. I wanted to be anyone else, with a normal job, a Marriage, kids I could see everyday. I just wanted a normal life. Normal highs, but normal lows as well.” She drifts off, before regaining her focus. “But I couldn’t do normal, the things I’ve done…how could I ever just live an average quiet life? I’ve dined in all the best restaurants, been on red carpets, watched my own blood run down my face.”
“I owe all of that to those small moments in life where I took a chance and made something of it.” Her voice trails off. Not all moments are created equal, surely there are some that can only be a regret.
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Gabrielle closes the door behind herself with a sweet but nervous grin upon her face. She’s never done this before, but her life has become a series of firsts ever since she packed up everything she owned and moved to the other side of the World. To succeed now she had to be willing to push the envelope, she had to be all for trying new things.
Still this was something unlike anything she’d ever done before. She enjoyed working at the strip club. She enjoyed dancing, she loved working the pole, she even enjoyed stripping out of her clothes, and certainly enjoyed the money she was making. The attention, the lust, the feeling of being so wanted was intoxicating. She even felt powerful, making all those people out there hoot, holler and sometimes literally throw away their week's paycheck on her.
But she’s never done this before. What had started out as a typical lap dance for a random patron of the club had turned into discussions of more lucrative money, and a different but similar enough line of work.
It all felt like a natural progression admittedly. The next step in her life as she chases her dream which had started to seem unattainable. Arthur Chase grins back at her, and beckons her closer. “This will do nicely.” He states in regards to this quiet room backstage as he looks her up and down, admiring her glistening and glitter covered body. Just 4 inch stiletto heels, fishnet stockings and a little lace skirt are all that adorns her body now after their fun out there.
She’s nervous as she closes the distance between them, partly because this is essentially an interview now, partly because the only man she’s ever been with before is Jack Severino, and partly because Mike Corbin, the owner of the Strip Club would likely not approve of one of his girls disappearing backstage to fuck a Porno Director.
They embrace warmly, Arthurs hands running across her skin as his lips find hers and they kiss. He feels her relaxing against him, though her heart is beating so fast. So he lets her melt into his arms for a few moment’s, running a hand through her brunette hair before breaking their seemingly tender embrace. He’s not here to make out with, or make love to a stripper after all.
He’s here to find a whore.
He places a hand on the top of her head and pushes her down, he has to really guide her down onto her knees. Once down there Gabrielle looks up at him, and then awkwardly helps him undo his fly. Though she’s shocked when his ‘member’ is free from his pants, not quite knowing what to do. She knows she’s meant to put it in her mouth…but…
“Ghhhhhuggg” She groans as Arthur, sick of waiting, crudely palms the back of her head, pulling her down onto himself while guiding himself deeply past her lips…
Gabrielle relaxes as much as she can and lets him work her head back and forth. Letting him build up a rhythm. This is her first leap into something that would later on come to define her. Though this time she would bail before the camera’s could roll.
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Silence. Surely there are some moments that can only be a regret.
A night like that planted the seeds for what would come later. Working in the strip club was forever a small part of her identity. She’d hide it, ignore it, pretend it never happened for years and years. But it was still a part of who she was, and when she had nothing else it was something she fell back on.
But even before then, awakening that level of sexuality within herself was something she couldn’t ever escape. Going from being a young woman that had only ever been with one man, to dancing and stripping for strangers had made her realise how desired she was, how lusted after she was…and how much she enjoyed that.
If she’d never worked in that strip club as an eighteen year old she’d never return to it as a thirty six year old, and she’d never enter the World of pornography. She wouldn’t garner a reputation for sleeping with half the roster. She likely wouldn’t have two failed marriages.
She’s been silent for a while now. Sitting there contemplating an unexpectedly pivotal moment. She’s never thought of it so deeply before but that night really shaped so much of her personality. Sneaking a man she’d just met backstage to fuck him under the promise of being filmed having sex later for money…she’d backed out last minute. But still being so willing to do that was something she never escaped.
“We all make bad choices when we’re young.” Andy chimes in with. More just to break the silence than anything else.
Gabrielle doesn’t have to respond, they’re both thinking the same thing. Most people’s bad choices when they’re young are not working in strip clubs, fucking porno Directors, and then ripping them off.
“That money made such a difference though…you know.” She’s not really talking to him, more just to herself, and to the World. Explaining herself. “That money kept a roof over my head, that money kept Jack and I off the street. That money furthered our wrestling training. We were signed by the GWA not long after that…then the FWA came along.”
“The money I made on nights like that snowballed and led to me defending a World Championship at Back In Business…twice. Letting Arthur fuck me, led to me getting inducted into the Hall of Fame. I was broke, Jack and I were so broke…I think that night saved me…it saved my childhood dream. Getting paid the next day to fuck someone else on camera let me achieve my dream…and I didn’t even fuck them.”
There’s a weird little moment of pride in that. She did it, but she didn’t do ‘it’, she still got paid for it. The looming presence of her 6’5 boyfriend when the porno guys wanted their money back saw to that.
“If I didn’t let Arthur fuck me up the ass in that storage room I wouldn’t be able to say that I was a World Champion for nearly two years of my life, not many people could ever say that. I could never give that up.”
It’s a weird sentence to say, and she knows it. It's bizarre, and nearly anyone else would baulk at that statement. But not Andrew Brown, not after he’s seen so much of Gabrielle in his rear view mirror before.
“Two years of my life I wore a Golden belt around my waist that said I was the greatest in the World. How could I ever not want that?”
Andrew smiles warmly in the front seat. “I’m glad to hear that, and you‘ve got a chance to add to that. You could go for three years!”
Gabrielle chuckles sweetly, that possibility is right in front of her. A third reign as World Champion is just within her grasp, yet it feels almost as unobtainable as that first time…
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…
“You don't understand Chris!” Gabrielle states, a young Gabrielle again, though not as young as before. Her hair is a bit darker, her skin tone seems even more alluring, and yet she’s just as panicked, nervous and scared as we saw her before.
“You don't get it!” She states with near venom dripping to her words, hurling it in the direction of Chris Kennedy, the man she would come to Marry, the man she would have a Daughter with. The man she would share so many of her greatest and worst moments with.
“It's so different for me Chris. I get one chance at this. Just one, and if I fail, I’ll never get another shot. I’ve been here for four years now and have achieved everything that the FWA deemed it acceptable for a woman to achieve.” There’s a real bitterness to her tone. “Womens Championships, they let me and Jenny be Tag Team Champions because G-Rich and Boudreau had our backs, they vouched for us. But without that we never would have been allowed to hold Mens Titles…and Chris without you, and Dan, and Andrew, and Zaire, and Jolson I wouldn’t be standing here just minutes away from stepping into that Mile High cage.”
“I lose this and I’m done, we only get one shot, and when that's over we’re done, us women don't get this opportunity again. You weren’t here when Jillian de Silva and Moira Crawford were here. You didn’t see Jillian have to get into screaming matches backstage with the higher ups as they constantly tried to undermine her and stop her from getting anywhere near the FWA Title. I was there, I was backstage in awe of her.”
“And you weren’t there when Moira had to prove night after night after night that she could endure any level of brutality just to prove she could hang with the guys. I watched all of her matches in disbelief that she could put herself through all of that, but she had to if she was ever going to replicate Jillian's accomplishments.”
Gabrielle casts her eyes downwards for a moment before continuing. “Chris I watched Jillian and Moira get to be World Champions. Then I watched after they lost those Titles, they were pressured to retire…offered pathetic new contracts, offered an Office job, bluntly told they were being taken off TV, or that the FWA had to move on to showcasing other people. That's me now Chris…I lose this, and I’m done. They won't let me have a second shot of it.”
“Hell if I win, the clock is ticking on my career. Chris I’m fucking scared. I’ve worked so hard to get here to this moment, and now everything hangs in the balance. I lose this and none of that ever really mattered. And my one chance is being locked in a cage with five men, I have to beat five people at once to make anything of this…”
Chris embraces her with a hug. The newest member of The Great Siege had already struck up quite a relationship with Gabrielle. Whether it was his rugged good looks, his prowess, his confidence, (the fact he is the Son of Gabrielle’s childhood Hero and Wrestling inspiration; Kerry Kennedy), or whatever else the two were very close, and as much as he could understand pre-match nerves he hated seeing Gabrielle be this defeated before a match, especially when she’s always so confident.
“That’s what I’m here for, and Dan, and Andrew, and Zaire, and Jolson, that's what The Great Siege is all about. We’re changing all of that. That's what brought all of us together. We’re in the same boat together Gabs, we’re not letting them break you no matter what happens.” Chris states with absolute confidence, then he makes a comment that would turn out to be quite prophetic indeed. “You’ll be the one who changes all of that…”
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Gabrielle exhales a deep breath. Back in that sleek black car. Another moment that she had at times looked upon less than fondly having played out again. She had pinned some of her sorrows and disappointments upon that moment. She of course won on that night, claiming her first World Championship.
But was that a gift and a curse? Raising the Bar for the rest of her life. If she could be a World Champion in the FWA, the Worlds number 1 organisation…then some thirteen years later being dubbed the World Champion of Sex was quite a fall. Had those early successes raised the bar so much that she had to chase any glory she could get later in life? Can you ever just be a normal, regular person when the World has spent so much cheering you on, chanting your name and watching you achieve greatness?
“Imagine where I would be right now If I had let my fears get to me all those years ago. If I had truly cracked under the pressure of a World Championship match and fumbled that opportunity. I still think I was right, I don't think I would have gotten another chance. But I proved myself, and made it undeniable to everyone in the FWA that I was as great, as talented as any man on the roster.”
A beaming smile crosses her lips, a truly beautiful, lovely, warm, blissful, sweet smile, and her cheeks redden as she blushes slightly.
“It goes beyond me as well Andy…If I didn’t win that one match some fourteen years ago…Bell Connolly, Shannon O’Neal, Michelle von Horrowitz don't get to follow in my footsteps. They have to struggle for everything as hard as I did. Women like Katsu don't get a Golden Opportunity so quickly, she has to spend years struggling to get there.”
“That's a huge part of my Legacy that nothing will ever erase…”
Her mood, her emotions have gone up and down. But right now she’s on a real high.
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…
“Melly!” Gabrielle exclaims. Younger, but yet older than last time again. She’s beaming with absolute love as her young daughter Carmella, just three years old leaps out of her Fathers arms and rushes over to her Mother. For several moments the room is relatively quiet, Chris just watching with a smile as Gabrielle hugs her daughter tightly.
They’re on good terms again, though as we all know it won't last. But for now they’re almost a happy family again. Chris approaches his daughter and his ex-Wife, pressing a soft kiss to Gabrielle's forehead.
Few words are spoken between any of them, just the joy of the moment, though Gabrielle is nervous.
It has been four years since she last held the FWA World Championship. In that time she’s given birth to Carmella, married Chris, divorced Chris, fought for the FWA’s very survival against the CWA, went to War with Stu St.Clair and had a whirlwind romance with Ashley O’Ryan. She also had a small handful of chances at winning the World Title once again, but men like MC Fromage, and Ryan Hall managed to turn her back.
Tonight feels different though. Phillip A. Jackson and Gabrielle have met in the ring before, earlier in the year at Back In Business. Gabrielle got the better of him, though PAJ went on to win the World Title. Now Gabrielle can take it off of him.
“You’ve got nothing to be nervous about.” Chris states, breaking the silence. He can see she’s nervous. While Gabrielle would always exude so much confidence publicly, privately she could often struggle. Putting so much pressure upon herself, losing was never easy.
“You’ve done this before, you’ve beat him before. This is nothing. Just a match.” Chris tells her.
Gabrielle nods her head. “Just a match…”
“You realise what we did all those years ago, what you did?” Chris asks her.
Gabrielle just looks at him quizzically.
“The Great Siege.” He replies. “We did it. You did it. You changed everything. You were worried this day would never be allowed to come, but look at you four years later…still here, still great, still competing for a World Title.”
Gabrielle beams from ear to ear proudly. He’s not wrong. Those fears that Gabrielle had those years ago that she’d be run off like Jillian and Moira before her didn’t come true. Gabrielle is still here, she’s still at the top.
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…
“Hmmm.” Gabrielle mutters. “Then Executive Excellence happens.”
Executive Excellence. Gabrielle, Princeton, Toner, Quin. They were hated. Gabrielle was hated.
Gabrielle had indeed gotten the best of PAJ, winning her second World Title, and while things were off to a great start, that didn’t last. She was called out by other women for holding them back, and it made Gabrielle feel so disrespected.
It brought out a mean streak in her, and then it saw her align with Thomas Princeton and Executive Excellence. Gabrielle had always been devious and underhanded. But her looks coupled with her flirtatious nature, had protected her from too much hate no matter what she did.
This was different. She became truly hated, despised. She started a riot, she ruined careers, and she did it all with a smile.
“That really went to my head.” She states in the back of the sleek black car. “I did some truly despicable things, and hurt a lot of people just to keep that Title around my waist. It didn’t take long for me to hate what being the Champion again had done to me, how it had consumed me.”
“Do you regret it?” Andrew asks.
“I…I got to win the World Title again in front of my daughter. She stepped in the ring and hugged me after I beat PAJ…everything was worth that one single moment. Everything. I will never forget sharing the ring with Melly like that. I haven’t always been the best Mother to her, but that was for her…”
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Another Airport. So many years after the first. But the nerves and the Fear is still there. This could be a huge mistake.
Gabrielle had retired before her thirtieth Birthday. Not long after her second World Title reign had come to an end. She’d retired as a sure fire first ballot Hall of Famer. Synonymous with Mile High, Trial by Fire, Back In Business and the World Title. The greatest female Wrestler of all time.
She had nothing left to prove, so why is she returning now? Izzy Van Doren called her out.
A new face, a new generation of women. Izzy was trying to make a name for herself by belittling the past. Reducing women like Saddle Sally, Aja Mellissa, Anyanka and Gabrielle herself as being nothing more than T&A. It had worked as intended, Izzy got what she was after; attention.
But she also had an unexpected consequence to her actions; Gabrielle is returning to the FWA after some three years away, promising to teach IVD some respect.
But now, giving up the quiet retired life seems like it could be a mistake. Gabrielle hasn’t competed for years now, she has nothing left to prove. What if she’s rusty, what if she can't hang with the younger girls like Izzy, or the likes of Cyrus Truth? What if Gabrielle isn’t The Goddess anymore?
It would be so easy to just not board the plane, and never have to face the answer to those questions.
But she does, she says her goodbye to the few close friends there to see her off…
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“That one, might be the one.” Gabrielle tells Andrew. “I think it is, I still regret that decision…”
Andrew goes to interject, wanting to lift her spirits which have suddenly slumped. But she cuts him off.
“I came back and sure I had some success early on. I won the Quest for the Best, I took Cyrus Truth to the limit, I won a Trial by Fire match…finally. I won the Golden Opportunity…but then what?”
“I lost and I lost and I lost. Every match that mattered from there until it broke me.” For a moment there's a sad glimmer of Broken Gabrielle in her eyes. “I suffered so much, I lost so much…”
So Andrew slows the Car, and pulls over in a side street, he needs to stop her dwelling on this. “No…you know what you did? You showed us all the strength of your character. You didn’t give up, you just kept fighting. You kept trying, you kept going out there and giving it your all no matter what happened. You didn’t quit…that's what everyone else see’s from you at that time.”
“Gabs…you should be proud. That was hard for you, but it didn’t stop you. It didn’t really break you, you’re still here, even now, and look at you now. Another World Championship is in your reach. You would not be here right now if you didn’t board that plane back in 2019.”
A smile has grown back across Gabrielle’s lips as she sits there silently, soaking in his words before replying. “I…Andrew…thank you…”
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Gabrielle closes the door behind herself with a wicked grin upon her lips. She’s done this before, countless times even. Making it somewhat of a regular habit that if someone caught her eye out there she’d bring them in here. Nearly every night she worked she’d find someone like him, dance for him and then bring him back here.
But this time might be different than almost anytime before. She loved working back at the strip club. She enjoyed the dancing, she loved working the pole, there was an indescribable rush in stripping out of her clothes, and certainly she enjoyed taking someone backstage. The attention, the lust, the feeling of being so wanted was invigorating. She even felt powerful, every man out there wants to be the one who gets to go backstage with her, but it was all up to her.
So she’s done this before, and in fact he’s even done her before. Over the years he was one of the people who would occasionally approach her with an offer to star in a porno. He’d wine and dine her, then even fuck her. But she’d always turn the offer down. But Once again mirroring the past a lapdance had turned into discussions of more lucrative money, and a different but similar enough line of work.
It all felt like a natural progression, Gabrielle was already fucking strangers for whatever money they had left on them at the time, so why not get paid much more for it? Desmond Matthews grins back at her, as she saunters towards him. “How many dicks you sucked back here?” He asks in regards to this quiet room backstage that she’s made her own. He looks her up and down, admiring her glistening and glitter covered body. Just 4 inch stiletto heels, stockings and a little pink g-string are all that adorns her body.
She closes the distance between them, feigning deep thought as she ponders his question. “Yours will be the biggest.” She playfully states with a smile so absent of any nerves. She’s been here so regularly before.
They embrace sinfully, no sweet thoughts in either of their heads. Desmond runs his hands across her skin, his hands finding her breasts. She kisses his neck, but knows that after she’s spent much of the past half an hour grinding in his lap and taking off what little clothing she had on before he’s desperate for more. She slides a hand down his pants, softly caressing him. She’s not here to make out or take things slow.
She’s here because she’s a whore.
He runs a hand through her hair, and with her eyes locked on his she drops down to her knees excitedly. Desmond chuckles as she quickly undoes his fly, her eyes lighting up as his ‘member’ is free from his pants. She knows exactly what to do now as he palms the back of her head.
“Ugggggghhhhhhh” He groaned as she had greedily swallowed him, his hand on the back of her head not even having to pull her down onto himself.
Desmond relaxes his grip and lets her bob her head up and down with a frankly impressive ease. This is her leaping back into something that will define her from this moment on, as Desmond will record her tomorrow night for her big debut.
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“You know what that was?” She asks, though she continues before getting a response. “A rush, excitement, a thrill. It's almost impossible to replicate the insanity that is Pro Wrestling, and the way it makes you feel to stand in the middle of the ring being cheered on by thousands upon thousands of people.”
“But this was as close as anything else. I felt like the centre of the Universe…everyone looking at me, talking about me, focused on me. To be in a room surrounded by people and they’re all only there because of me, they’re all staring at me, they’re all focused entirely upon me. That's the only thing that compares to the exhilaration of a packed arena chanting your name.”
“I had tried other things, I tried acting thinking that could be my new buzz, but it wasn’t. I tried commentating for smaller shows, but being so close to what had enticed me for so long, yet not being the Star just wasn’t the same.”
“I needed a rush after I retired, and Andy…this was just something I was good at. I don't think most people can understand that. They want me to feel degraded or embarrassed…but I found purpose and value in what I was doing. I had so many friends with so many benefits.”
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She’s cut all of those friends with those benefits out of her life. It's late 2023 and once again Gabrielle is in an airport preparing to hop on board a plane and change her life again. This is the third time she’s been here in this situation. It would be easy to turn around and run away and never know if she was good enough, or if she simply didn’t have it.
Stepping aboard that plane means she’s taking a great risk, and could embarrass herself, or she could make herself proud.
Possibilities were endless. Crash and burn. Rise to the top once again. But she’ll never know if she doesn’t just get on the plane. This time there’s no one to see her off, she’s alone. She wanted it that way. The people she had surrounded herself with in recent years were not the people that she wanted in her life anymore. She wanted to be the Caramel Coated Goddess again, not the Cum Coated Goddess.
She wanted to do everything she had failed to do in her last run. But what if she fails again? She doesn’t know if she’d be able to deal with it. But this all goes beyond just her and her desires, Lizzie Rose is in this as well. A bright young woman that Gabrielle had taken advantage of and let down. Now other were people were doing the same thing and Gabrielle couldn’t just stand idly by.
She boards the plane not for herself, but for Lizzie. Who knows in time to come the favour may be returned…
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She’s smiling in the back of that Caddy. Debut’s, returns, whatever they are they’re always nerve wracking. There’s always a temptation to not go through with it. Life is easier not taking that risk, not taking that chance. She’s always glad she did though. Especially that one no matter what happened. It's hard to say if she had made up for the way she had mistreated and even attacked Lizzie in the past but regardless it all felt worth it.
“I dont always directly help other people…I’ve been selfish. But that was one of the most selfless things I’ve done. It wasn’t all about me, it was about her, about Lizzie. About recognising that I had mistreated her, and now someone else was doing the same to her. She deserves better than having to deal with all of that. Over and over again.” Gabrielle states, just wanting to get her thoughts out.
“Hey, I was on my feet cheering when Lizzie came out and helped you fight off the FWA. What a moment.” Andrew chimes in with.
“What a moment indeed. I think I actually did some good for Lizzie, getting her away from Eternal and letting her become herself again, not needing to be defined by others. Just herself; Lizzie Rose.” Her smile grows wider and she talks about her ‘friend with benefits’. “She’s one of the few people I can truly count on. She’s got my back, and I will always have hers now. I can't think of anyone better to stand behind me against Jeremy Best.”
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The Gentleman closes the door behind himself with an eager smirk. He’s been here countless times before, but yet his excitement hasn’t faded one bit. This business arrangement he had struck up with XperienX Xtacee several months ago now had provided an unexpected perk. He’s made the absolute most of it as well. Whenever Gabrielle came here, the Gentleman would get to experience ecstasy with her.
But tonight is a different scenario than he’s used to. As much as Gabrielle loved working at a strip club again, she’s here for what goes on backstage, instead of out there in front of everyone. The Gentleman would pay her to dance on stage, to work the pole, to give out a lapdance or two, or just mingle with the Clubs patrons and make them think she’s just a drink or two away from fucking them. In reality her coming here was always more about The Gentleman getting her out of her clothes in his or her office. Something about that gave her a real rush.
This is a first though (for him), The Gentleman after entering the room is instantly greeted by the sound of Gabrielle moaning and groaning sinfully, as the sound of someone’s hips smacking into her ass echoes in her Office. With her FWA World Championships hanging on the wall behind her she’s bent over on all fours on the floor with an unfamiliar (to us) man behind her, both his hands locked around her hips firmly, and a huge grin upon his face.
Nothing new for Gabrielle though, hardly the first time she’s been bent over with one man having his way with her from behind as another man approaches her. Not even the first time this particular man has had her on all fours and moaning like this either. They know each other from her time in Hardcore Pornography where he had produced such classics as Friends With Benefits; His new Best Friend. So he was eager to answer the Gentleman's call, come here, get a free private lapdance and then get her down on all fours like this.
It all felt so natural for her, Gabrielle was already still fucking several men in the Hardcore Pornography industry. She’s still dancing, stripping, and giving out lap dances at The Right Side of the Bed, so the prospect of filming her first professional porno in over a year was something she accepted easily. She manages to glance upwards at him, grinning wickedly as he approaches her. “So good to see you two catching up like this.” He states almost proudly as that sound of body slapping into body gets even louder. He looks her up and down, admiring her glistening and glitter covered body. Just 4 inch stiletto heels, stockings and that pair of hands are all that adorns her body.
He approaches her with a smile as he looks down upon her. Admiring the ecstasy upon her face, as her body is continuously jolted forwards. Once again The Gentleman feels that sense of pride towards Gabrielle.
He sweetly cups the side of her face as he stands before her. Their eyes locked on each other for a moment. It's almost romantic, but they’re not here for romance.
They’re here because she’s a whore.
Gabrielle reaches a hand out, quickly undoing his fly and then sliding his pants down his legs. The Gentleman all smiles as he grasps a handful of her hair firmly. Gabrielle smirks gleefully before she lowers her head towards his member.
“UOOOOOOOuuuhhhhhhh” He groaned as she had easily taken him in, his hand in her hair helping to guide her up and down as all three people built up a rhythm together.
The two men avoid eye contact with each other as they both firmly grip one end of her. Gabrielle in the middle maybe just a few days away from once more leaping back into something that has forever changed her identity. Time will tell if she saunters back into that…
“Is there something you’re not telling me?” Andrew asks?
Gabrielle pauses, but only ever so briefly. “Andy, I know you’re only looking out for me, I know you only want good things for me and you think this is all beneath me. You’re protecting me, thank you for that by the way. But Andy you don't have too.”
Andrew sighs, loudly.
“You’re not going to slut shame me are you Andrew?” Gabrielle interjects with.
He doesn’t know what to say back to her.
“Andrew…” She begins. “If I win at Lights Out…I might be making my first movie in over a year. Before you say anything, I want to do this…if it feels right I’ll do it. I’m not ashamed of it, I can imagine the rush I’d feel. Ruling Wrestling and Porn at the same time…the two things that have given me so much…”
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There’s no flashback this time. Just the Cadillac coming to a stop at the Airport. Andrew throws it in park, and then turns around to face Gabrielle. Everything is all coming together. Possibly her third venture into porn, amidst her third run in the FWA. Her third pre match talk with someone she loves, and possibly her third World Championship.
“Gabs, everything you have ever done has led you to this moment. Every up and down has brought you here to face Jeremy Best for the World Championship. Nearly a decade after the last time you held that Championship. I hope you know how incredible that is.” He tells her proudly, and sincerely.
Gabrielle nods her head. “I don't regret any of it anymore. Who else gets to say they won the FWA World Championship a decade apart? No one ever. So many people burn so bright for a short time, racking up so many accolades in a few years, but to do what I am going to do across essentially two decades. I wouldn’t change anything I’ve done.”
“Win, lose or draw I don't even care. Nor do I care about dethroning Jeremy or getting one back at him after he and the FWA jumped me, I’ve been jumped like that so many times before, it all just blends into distant memories.I don't even care that its jeremy who is opposing me, I just care that I’m in the match. That after I’ve been written off, by everyone at times, even myself, that I can still get here after all these years and be so damn close to greatness again.”
“But yet I want this win so badly, it will validate every decision I have made in my entire life. None of it was wrong if it brings me here. Yet I won't crumble if I lose, just getting here will be enough.”
Andrew chimes in. “Kick the FWA’s ass, you’re going to take Jeremy Best down!”
“This has been my entire life leading to this one single moment…I cant wait.” With that said she hugs Jeremy, and then exits the car on her way to history. No matter the outcome it will be historic.
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Post by Jimmy King on Nov 5, 2024 3:09:26 GMT
“I can’t believe I did that.”
Those are the words uttered by Jackson Fenix as he exits the Kaseya Arena in Miami, Florida. Fenix is feeling a wave of emotions run over him right now while he stands outside with the cool Miami night air on his face as he runs his hands through his hair.
“Did I do that? Did I actually do that? I can’t believe I did that.”
Fenix is feeling some kind of way at this moment after being duped by NTR and taking out his frustrations on Christian Quinn. Jackson was requested for some interview time by Christian Quinn, and Jackson agreed because he thought it would be a serious interview and a good way to promote himself entering the Fallout Eliminator.
Boy, how wrong he was about that!
It was a ruse in order to humiliate Jackson, but in the end, it was Jackson who got the last laugh after laying Quinn out with a superkick, but not before kicking out Quinn’s crutch from underneath him.
“It’s about time you grew a pair, Jackie boy!”
Jackson does his best to ignore his old, evil self. That’s all he can do these days, even though his old self refuses to leave him alone, especially at the worst times.
“You can ignore me all you want, but you know I’m right!”
“You’re not real, leave me alone!”
Evil Fenix smirks at that and chuckles.
“You know, as many times as you say that, maybe you’ll start to believe that eventually.”
“I don’t care how many times I have to say it in order to believe it.”
“Sure, kiddo, keep telling yourself that to help you sleep at night.”
Jackson covers up his ears and acts like he’s not listening.
“The fact that you’re acting this way like a petulant kid who doesn’t listen to their parents makes me believe that not only do you believe I’m actually real, but you also know that I’m telling you the truth. The way you stood up for yourself in there and kicked the crap out of that bum, it’s about damn time you started showing that aggression and letting the old you, yours truly, creep out for the world to see.”
Evil Fenix gets close to Jackson and starts to almost whisper in his ear.
“No matter how much you want to deny it, you know that it felt good to get that out. I can see it on your face and in your body language. It was a near-orgasmic feeling for you to let that out after trying to hide it for so long. Trust me, sooner or later, you’re going to have to give up this goody-two-shoes facade you’re trying to keep up because the cracks are starting to show.”
Jackson slowly backs away from Evil Fenix and hangs his head low, not even acknowledging Evil Fenix.
“Judging by this reaction, you know it’s all true. You might as well embrace it now and get it over with.”
Jackson shakes his head while still not looking at his other self.
“Okay then, but if you’re not going to listen to me about that, you might want to listen to me when I tell you to check your voicemail.”
Jackson looks at his evil self and heeds the advice as he retrieves his iPhone from his pocket and listens to the most recent voicemail from Nate Savage.
“Hey Jack, I don’t know if you know or if you saw what happened to Xtacee, but it was pretty bad. He, Monica, and Antonio were all attacked by Keres backstage tonight. I was able to get a hold of Monica, and she let me know that Xtacee is in pretty bad shape right now. I know you have a lot on your plate right now, but I figured I’d let you know.”
The voicemail ends, and Jackson stares blankly at his phone. He almost feels like throwing it against the wall of the arena but he thinks better of it and heads back inside of the arena.
********************
Monday, October 21st, 2024 Havana, Cuba
Jackson Fenix is back at his hotel after Fallout, standing in the bathroom of his hotel room. Jackson looks at himself in the mirror in silence; not even the slow drip of water from the faucet breaks the trance that he’s in. Jackson looks at his Xperienx Xtacee t-shirt in the mirror’s reflection and then hangs his head low.
“I’m sorry, Xtacee, I should’ve been there for you.”
“You weren’t there for him, though.”
Jackson looks up, and Evil Fenix stares back at him in the mirror.
“You let him get beat up by a little girl because you were too busy getting all dolled up for that talk show with Christian Quinn.”
“Shut up.”
“Hey, it was nice of you to dedicate your match to him, though; I’m sure that meant a lot to him.”
“I won, didn’t I?”
“Yeah, you did, congrats.”
Jackson looks at Evil Fenix in the mirror and shakes his head.
“What? Do you want me to throw you fucking parade because you won a match? Big whoop!”
“I beat the X Champion; that has to mean something.”
“Yeah, but now you have bigger fish to fry, bucko. You have to deal with Danny Toner at Lights Out. Now you have a chance to earn the biggest win of your career over a former world champion and bonafide future hall of famer. Yeah, you beat the X Champion, and things are looking up, but maybe try to continue this momentum instead of squandering it like you always do.”
Jackson knew that was right but didn’t want to give Evil Fenix the benefit of being right.
“Hey, remember what you did last year at Lights Out? You lost to Big Bozo Baxter. You had a North American title shot right in front of you and let it slip away.”
Jackson remembers that like it was yesterday. He had wanted that win so badly, but he just couldn’t get past Baxter. He won’t let that happen again this year at Lights Out; he’s going to do whatever he can to beat Toner.
Jackson checks his iPhone and sees a missed voicemail again, but this time, it’s from his Dad.
“Hey, kiddo, I just wanted to say congratulations on beating that country bumpkin. Maybe now you can get a shot at his championship. Also, way to go on showing some aggression against those NTR guys at Meltdown. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you to do, so I’m glad you’ve been listening to me. Keep it up, and you can wipe the floor with that bum Toner.”
As if Jackson didn’t have enough pressure riding on him, now he has to win to make his Dad proud.
Jackson is beginning to second guess himself now.
Does he have what it takes to beat Toner?
Does he deserve to be in this spot?
Jackson closes his eyes and tries to block out any negativity floating around his head amongst his thoughts.
“Hey, Jackie boy, maybe this is a bad time, but there is still time to do what I said and just embrace it…”
Jackson ignores Evil Fenix and shakes his head while keeping his eyes closed. Eventually, Jackson opens his eyes and looks right into the mirror.
“You know, it sounds funny, but I used to look up to Danny Toner.”
“You what? No, you didn’t!” Evil Fenix says with a scoff and tries to brush that off.
“It’s true; he was someone I used to look up to. He was one of the reasons why I signed with FWA when I did. I don’t know why, to be honest, but there was something about him that I admired. Maybe it was because he was someone who didn’t pretend to be like anyone else and was just himself.”
“Which is ironic considering you act like someone you’re not.”
“It is kind of ironic now that I think about it, I guess.”
“What are you getting at?”
“I don’t know, to be honest. I don’t know anymore.”
“You better figure it out if you want to beat Danny Toner.”
Jackson doesn’t know if he can beat Danny Toner, but what he does know is that he’s going to try. He’s going to give it his all; he’s going to fight until his very last breath if he has to. He’s going to do what he has to do in order to beat Toner. Even that means embracing his old self just for one night.
“You know what?”
“What?”
“I’m going to kick the living shit out of Danny Toner at Lights Out, and do you know why?”
“Because I’m Jackson fucking Fenix, and I’m not going to take this shit anymore. It’s about time I remind everyone just exactly who the fuck I am, and Danny Toner is going to find out that I’m not some pushover when I kick his teeth down his fucking throat!”
“Jackson Fenix is back, baby.” |
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