Meltdown XLI & Fallout 041 (Jun '24)

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supinesnake Administrator Posts: 1,016	Meltdown XLI & Fallout 041 (Jun '24) Jun 30, 2024 14:01:23 GMT Select Post Deselect Post Link to Post Member Give Gift Back to Top Post by supinesnake on Jun 30, 2024 14:01:23 GMT Contents. Cards. Promos. Meltdown results. Fallout results. Grades.
	Last Edit: Jun 30, 2024 14:40:14 GMT by supinesnake

supinesnake
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Posts: 1,016

Meltdown XLI & Fallout 041 (Jun '24) Jun 30, 2024 14:01:43 GMT

Post by supinesnake on Jun 30, 2024 14:01:43 GMT

XLI: “41//416”.

Live from the Scotiabank Arena in Toronto, Ontario, Canada.
Thursday 13th June, 2024.

FIRST MATCH || 1/20.
Michelle von Horrowitz vs. Xperienx Xtacee.
Singles Match.
Match writer: SS.

Michelle von Horrowitz bounced back from defeat to Chris Peacock in the final of the F1 Climaxxx on Meltdown XL, where she overcame XYZ, albeit needing to go into the ‘four minute warning’ to do so. Xperienx Xtacee, meanwhile, slumped to defeat in his singles match against Gabrielle Montgomery, but he too managed to take this former FWA World Champion and Hall of Famer long, the pair going almost fifteen minutes before Gabrielle got the victory. He’ll have the chance to put this defeat far from memory as he takes on a distracted Dreamer, who has recently been distracted chasing - but unable to catch - an elusive Shawn Summers.

SECOND MATCH || MAIN EVENT || ?/??.
Chris Peacock vs. ??? vs. ??? vs. ??? vs. ??? vs. ??? ….
Gauntlet Match for the FWA North American Championship.
Match writer: Man.

At Carnal Contendership, Chris Peacock overcame Michelle von Horrowitz in the final of the F1 Climaxxx tournament, thus winning the FWA North American Championship. This also meant that Peacock completed his ‘Grand Slam’, having also won the FWA X Championship, the FWA World Tag Team Championships, and the FWA World Championship during his time with the company. Not one to rest on his laurels, Peacock immediately launched a breathtakingly ambitious challenge as part of FTN’s ‘celebration’ segment on Meltdown XL. He announced this gauntlet match on XLI, where any and all former North American champions can challenge him for the belt, one after the other.

Although the field for this unique match-up is as yet unannounced, there are many former champions who would be immediately available to answer this challenge on the roster. Bryan Baxter and Mike Parr held the prize as recently as the F1 Climaxxx in which Peacock took it from them, and Elizabeth Rose and Johnny Johnson both had runs with the belt in 2023. There is also, of course, Cyrus Truth, who has had issues with the current champion over different belts over the past few years. It is also believed that other figures from FWA’s long and storied past are considering Peacock’s challenge – could ‘Disco’s Last Warrior’ have bitten off more than he can chew?

041: “OF MONTREAL”.
Live from the Bell Centre in Montreal, Quebec, Canada.
Friday 15th June, 2024.

FIRST MATCH || 1/20.
Ser Stache and Mejor Amigo vs. Alyster Black and Violet Dreyer.
Tag Team Match.
Match writer: Dubb.

During last week’s Meltdown XL event, it appeared that Krash walked away from the FWA World Championship match that he earned by winning the Carnal Contendership match, instructing officials to give the reward to someone else. Members of his FTN ‘family’ were left flabbergasted by the decision, but Jeremy Best declared the real Krash dead and buried during an interview on Fallout 040. With New York City’s Back in Business main event currently up in the air, members of the Friendship Wrestling Alliance and the FTN Family will go at it as part of 041’s opening contest in Montreal. Alyster Black and Violet Dreyer will get the opportunity to get their hands on Ser Sache and Mejor Amigo, and strike the first blow on the behalf of the reluctant White Wolf.

SECOND MATCH || 1/20.
XYZ and Gino Galucci vs. Brooklyn Steiner and Sawyer Xavier.
Tag Team Match.
Match writer: Tommy.

This contest features four men who all came up short of the Golden Opportunity places at the Carnal Contendership match, and who experienced varying fates in different singles matches during the last cycle. XYZ suffered defeat to Michelle von Horrowitz in a close-fought affair on Meltdown XL, whilst his tag team partner Gino Galucci was successful against Jack the Clipper in his debut singles match on Fallout 040. Now, they are teamed against two people who suffered the same varying fates last time out. Brooklyn Steiner returned to singles action with a victory over Joe Burr on Fallout in Chicago, whilst Sawyer Xavier was unable to win the FWA Television Championship from Kleio De Santos in Meltdown’s opener.

THIRD MATCH || 1/20.
Nate Savage vs. Halloween Knight.
Singles Match.
Match writer: Jimmy.

Nate Savage, alongside tag team partner Jackson Fenix, was unsuccessful in the main event of Fallout 040 in Illinois, where the Undisputed Alliance attempted to become number one contenders for the FWA World Tag Team Championships against FTN. Black and Peacock won that Back in Business opportunity, leaving Savage and Fenix currently without a date at New York City’s mega-show. Perhaps this singles contest against one third of the FWA Trios Champions will tickle Savage’s fancy, especially given his history with that belt as part of the Undisputed Xperienx…

FOURTH MATCH || 1/10.
Trixie Bordeaux, Blair Ravenwood, and Celestia Ravenwood vs. Johnny Johnson, Vengador, and Aaron Harrows.
Trios Match.
Match writer: SS.

The main event of Meltdown XL in Denver saw Trixie Bordeaux overcome Johnny Johnson to defend the FWA X Championship, a prize she won in the final of the King of the Deathmatch, also by defeating ‘the Legend’. The scene around the FWA’s hardcore championship continues to develop: not only does it seem that Johnson is positioning himself for another opportunity at the belt, but Aaron Harrows now holds a pinfall victory over the current champion (albeit under the duplicitous guise of Spooder-Man). Meanwhile, Vengador had interactions of his own with both of those men during Fallout 040 in Denver. Now, those three men must put their differences aside to coexist as they look to take on the unit of Trixie and the Ravenwoods, who have distractions of their own in the form of the imploding Coven and a scorned former leader.

FIFTH MATCH || MAIN EVENT || 1/20.
Gabrielle and Katsu vs. Alejandro Giunti and Trevor Ocean.
Tag Team Match.
Match writer: Dubb.

At the Carnal Contendership in Las Vegas, six people emerged in the positions that qualified them for the upcoming Golden Opportunity. At the upcoming 19th Anniversary Show, those six people will compete in a Steel Roulette match for that infamous briefcase, which entitles them to an FWA World Championship match at a time of their choosing between then and the following Back in Business. Most likely, it means that they will capture the biggest prize in professional wrestling. Before that chamber match at the Anniversary Show, four of those six competitors will face off in this tag team main event as a preview for the Golden Opportunity. Specifically, the team of Gabrielle and Katsu will take on Alejandro Giunti and Trevor Ocean. No doubt, Mike Parr and Cyrus Truth - both of whom are eligible to enter the North American Championship gauntlet match on Meltdown XL - will be watching this one closely from the sidelines.

Promo deadlines:

Sunday 9th June, 23:59PM Pacific Time.
Monday 10th June, 03:00AM Eastern Standard Time.
Monday 10th June, 08:00AM Greenwhich Mean Time.
Monday 10th June, 16:00PM Australian Western Standard Time.

No extensions.

GLHF.

supinesnake
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Posts: 1,016

Meltdown XLI & Fallout 041 (Jun '24) Jun 30, 2024 14:02:31 GMT

Post by supinesnake on Jun 30, 2024 14:02:31 GMT

Originally posted by Cyrus Truth.

[HEADING=2]

Chapter 4: The Shot That Takes You Down

[/HEADING]

Waves lap against the shores and sandy beaches of an island in the Southern Pacific, far and away from civilization and the prying eyes of the general populace.

As the camera pans around, giving us a panoramic view of this little slice of an unblemished world, one could be mistaken for thinking that it’s deserted. That it’s a forgotten hunk of foliage and soil out in the middle of nowhere devoid of humanity and its excesses.

However, even places like this rarely escape the gaze of the powerful, the wealthy, and the eccentric.

Deep in the middle of the island in a clearing hewn from the dense tropical trees by ax and effort is a massive, luxurious compound surrounded by a large stone wall fence. The compound itself is a massive manor, built custom to the whims of the island’s master. Marble pillars and exotic oaks with gilden, golden accents and framework make this building stand out like a sore thumb amidst the wild, untamed nature.

It is glorious.

It is…ostentatious.

Almost tacky in a way.

This…is Casa de Pertinencia.

A rather arrogant name befitting its master.

Our focus changes to inside the manor. A brief tour showcases this manor’s many luxuries and accommodations.

A massive kitchen outfitted with stainless steel appliances, tended to by world-class chefs and servants.

An indoor Olympic-sized pool, perfectly temperature regulated for comfort for anyone who needs a bit of exercise or aquatic relaxation. If not the pool, then the fully stocked Tiki bar and sumptuous Giza Egyptian-cotton bathrobes and towels certainly can soothe and calm even the most obstinate, irritated soul.

Enormous bedrooms with massive Alaskan King-sized beds, dressed with the finest linens and most comfortable pillows. Incredible sanctuaries for blissful rest or…carnal desires.

But the most eye-catching room in the entire estate isn’t the built-in home theater or the immense library with the hand-carved mahogany desk. It’s not even the airport terminal room that connects to a private jet that’s forever maintained and fueled up by a professional, world-class pilot and maintenance crew.

No…that distinction goes to the lounge room that doubles as a repository of trophies and various trinkets accumulated from around the world. The walls are literally lined with golden artifacts, rare and valuable works of art, and world-class taxidermy trophies of all sorts of dangerous animals and vicious predators.

Although…there are some oddities in this trophy room. For example, what’s the mangy pelt of what one can only assume is some kind of disease-ridden vermin doing right above the fireplace mantle?

Regardless, it’s certainly an impressive collection of accomplishments. Impressive, but…very busy. Cluttered. With no order, no care given to their presentation. They exist, they impress…but there’s no indication of how they were acquired, no story as to how they ended up here amongst other trophies collecting dust.

The only thing that stands out in this room in a place of prestige and honor is an old long rifle, mounted on the wall with a plaque underneath that reads “Ego Stroke.”

Sipping brandy in the middle of the room while admiring the vintage rifle is a man in his mid thirties, wearing a rather bizarrely tacky suit with a bushy mustache on his face. There’s an air of smarmy self-importance and arrogant smug superiority. He almost absentmindedly runs his fingers across what appears to be his latest prize, a jewel-encrusted Mayan gold mask that, for the moment, sits on a pedestal in the middle of the room before it, like all the others, will simply be added to the walls as decoration…another trinket to serve as validation of this man’s hubris.

While the man sips his brandy and smiles that smug, self-assured grin, we hear a familiar voice, a narrator tasked with telling the story.

“Nothing in life is so tragic as to see a person, talented and driven, find themselves riding such a wave of success that they fail to see the rocks that threaten to smash them into pieces. Even worse still…are the ones who implement the means and opportunity for their destruction.

“In my world…or worlds, I suppose. It’s all too common. The talented find success, push forward past their rivals and adversity, and accumulate fame, fortune, and glory, accomplishments that are undeniable.

“I am not one who’ll deny talent. And I certainly can’t deny one’s drive and hunger. But perspective is always important, in all things and at all times. And intention…yes. Intention is always key when it comes to the choices one makes.”

There’s a knock at the door to the trophy room, getting the attention of the master of the house. A servant, with a weasley look, a trashy mustache, and a gauche tuxedo, approaches his master with a tablet.

The master of the house takes the tablet and brings it up to his eyeline. He smiles as he swipes through it, looking at the pictures and profiles that his servant has prepared for him.

It’s a collection of thieves, treasure hunters, murderers, and psychopaths. Some of the world’s most dangerous, most cunning, and most ruthless thrill seekers and glory chasers, and from the text on the tablet, it appears they have all arrived at the request of the master of the house.

A challenge. A gauntlet. A hunt for the prize he just recently acquired.

The smile on the master’s face at the roster that’s been assembled against him. Many who are expected. Others who, despite our own view of the dossiers on the tablet, are obscured and hard to see. Not that there seems to be any concerns on the face of the master of the house. After all, why would there be? He invited them to this island, to participate in a hunt where only one can remain standing.

Putting his wealth, his glory, and even his own life on the line.

The invitees are the hunters. And the master of the house?

Prey.

Or perhaps, he thinks himself a hunter of hunters.

The master of the house tosses the tablet back at his manservant, perhaps a bit too callously and recklessly as it slaps the servant in the face before he scrambles to catch it before nearly falling on his ass as his employer struts past him and bumps into him without a second thought.

The master of the house heads to a secure safe room. Not to hide, but to gear up with the finest tactical gear and weaponry money, lies, and underworld dealings can provide. Despite the danger he has put himself in, this wealthy and arrogant scoundrel is not so foolish as to not have a plan to ensure that he’s the one who comes out on top.

Armed and ready for the hunt, the master of the island takes his leave of his manor, his compound, his refuge, leaving behind the treasures and trinkets to prove something…

…or perhaps, there’s another reason.

“What makes a man choose to put himself and his prize at risk in such a manner, hmm? Were it anyone else, I could potentially see this as challenging oneself. Putting your pride and your confidence to the ultimate test to prove that you are every bit the unstoppable force that you believe yourself to be.

“But…that’s not the Truth for some men.

“For some…perhaps more than there should be, it’s about the ego. The intoxicating desire to live up to the hype that you’ve bought wholeheartedly into. This is the story of such a man, who achieved something so few in the world have come even close to and thought it made him a god, an invincible force that could overcome a damnation of his own choosing and design."

The scene cuts to the forest in several different spots. We see some of the hunters that have been invited to this island to participate in the bloodsport.

We see a massive hulk of a man, carrying what looks to be a double-barrel shotgun he happened to find in an abandoned military bunker near where he was dropped off. It seems as if he’s only been provided with a couple buckshot shells for which to go into this battle royale, but the grim countenance on the bruiser’s face shows a wrathful determination, a desire to unleash his rage and frustration out on new victims.

We see a smaller framed man, who was dropped off at the wrecked hull of a speedboat, having scavenged a submachine gun with half a clip of ammo. There’s a look in this man’s eyes that tell a story. A story of a man who has sought the greatest of prizes time and again, has thrown himself into the fire to prove that amongst the rabble, he stood above. But the scars…the scars tell a different story. A story of a hundred victories…and a thousand heartbreaking losses.

Our perspective changes to another part of the forest, where a young man with a cocky air of unearned superiority has rummaged through a nearby wooden chest. He’s found a Desert Eagle pistol, again with very limited ammo. However, he seems unbothered by this, as he simply stows the pistol into the waistband of his pants and heads forward with the confidence of a man whose self-importance is overriding his talents and accomplishments.

Yet again, a new part of the island, deeper into the heart of the jungle. This time, a young woman, with hate and envy in her eyes. She’s standing near a pond of water, alone with nothing but her thoughts and desires to take what was lost and what she believes she is owed. There’s a moment, a fleeting second where she looks into the water…and sees something. It’s her reflection, but for the blink of an eye? It’s an image of a different version of herself, one that wasn’t burdened by dark thoughts and bitter malice…but by earnest joy and excitement. The woman looks away as the water ripples and the vision fades. She picks up a nearby rusted machete and proceeds into the thicket.

We see others as well. A thin and frightened man, troubled by his past traumas. An older man, grizzled but with hungry eyes. Others that are shrouded by the jungle, hunters and killers that the world had forgotten. All of them brought together by the master of the island for a hunt like no other, though the odds have been manipulated in favor of the hunt’s host.

As the master of the house traverses the jungle, using the security system installed throughout the island and GPS tracking software to find his first would-be challenger, his first would-be victim and prey? He has a look in his eyes, a look that says that despite the danger? He holds all the cards, has everything he needs to be the one to come out on top, and wipe out his rivals in one fell swoop. This will be his finest victory.

This will sate his ego, if only for a little while.

“Glory can only be achieved when you throw yourself into the fire to show the world that the hottest flames cannot burn you. But for some men…when it seems as if they throw themselves into the crucible, there’s always…something else. An avenue, a shortcut, an alternative path or manipulation that inevitably leads to victory…but by the easiest path possible.

“A man faces off against two enemies…but only strikes when one has neutralized the other.”

“A man faces off against a dangerous challenger…but succeeds when his supplicant provides the opening.

“A man enters a caged arena to fend off many warriors coming for his head…but only after they have destroyed each other.

“History tells us everything we need to know about the ones who chase for glory, hunger and thirst for validation and the chance to write their legends. And for some…what seems like nobility and bravery? It’s simply a mask that one wears to hide their duplicity and fragile egos.

“But try as such men might? Eventually…they come into conflict with someone that they simply cannot destroy. Fleetings victories give way to the Truth.

“And that Truth? That for every accolade, every prize, every trophy and achievement?

“There is always someone that will be there to ensure that they are ripped away from men of low repute.”

Using the tracking resources available to him, the master of the island tracks down his first target.

But what he finds is nothing more than rent flesh and a pool of blood.

The corpse of the large bruiser lays face down in the dirt, his double-barrel shotgun still clutched in his hands. As the master of the island looks around confused, trying to piece together what happened…he hears something.

Hidden in the gnarled roots of a nearby tree, the hunter finds a cassette player. Reaching in and grabbing it, the master of the island hits the rewind button and plays it back.

It’s the voice of another man. The master of the island immediately recognizes it as the voice of this poor bastard’s closest friend, one he’s sacrificed much for in order to realize his friend’s aspirations and satiate his friend’s greed. An unworthy friend, but one that the dead man could not let go of when it came time to seek and destroy for his own gain.

The master of the island looks a bit…disappointed. Certainly, he had hoped to take advantage of the resources he had available to make it an easy kill, but that was denied him. No glory. Nothing. A kill that should’ve been his, but was robbed of him.

No matter. There was still more prey, right?

Well…

“You should’ve learned from the last time you tried to reach beyond your grasp.”

The master of the island finds another hunter, the reedy one with the submachine gun. Or rather, another corpse, bullet holes in trees sprayed out, all of them missing their target.

“Honestly, for as smart of a champion and trophy hunter as you are, you continue to make stupid mistake after stupid mistake.”

The master’s hunt continues, but all he finds is another dead man. The blowhard has been strung up and tied to a tree with his Desert Eagle laying at his feet, having not been fired once.

“You think that this challenge of yours will prove your superiority. That you’ll show the world that your ego is rooted in legitimacy and talent.”

Another participant in this bloody battle royale. The woman, her throat slit by her own machete, was left lying near a small creek where a picture of another woman with dusky skin and sultry eyes was embedded into a slitted rock.

“You should know better by now. Every time you try to make your name at my expense? It always…ALWAYS comes back to tear at your throat.”

The master of the island, frustration and perhaps a bit of fear starting to replace that blustering arrogance that drove him to invite all these other hunters to this challenge on his domain, continues to spend the rest of the day searching the island for other targets. Trying to find someone that hasn’t already been taken out so that he can claim victory and glory for himself.

All he finds are bodies. Corpses. The broken and bloodied forms of the men and women he wanted to best, to defeat and kill himself to prove that among hunters, he stood alone above them all.

And he’s been denied by a true killer. And it dawns on him in that moment that he’s made a grievous mistake.

There was one person, one hunter that he invited. One that he’s claimed victory over, but has ruined him when he opened the door and let him in.

And at that moment?

The master of the island realizes just how fucked he truly is.

“Everything you think you’re going to achieve with your little scheme is going to end with you having nothing. No victories, no accolades, and your prize will be ripped from your hands as the light leaves your eyes as it has time and again. How many times do I have to teach you that your confidence always turns to toxic arrogance, your facade of proving yourself is easily shattered and proven to be nothing more than yet another stunt where your victory is achieved only through manipulation of the odds to your favor instead of proving your strength outright?

“I suppose it doesn’t matter. As talented as you are, as skilled and driven as you can be? You will never be able to become the legend, the icon you believe yourself to already be, because you will always put yourself in a situation where your glory is easily taken from you. And you’ll always come back to me. Because at the end of the day? Your greatest glories came when you faced me, and yet…those glories are tainted by your willingness to stoop to the lowest of levels, take whatever advantage influence and greed will grant you in order to take whatever challenge you give yourself and make it so you have everything you need to win as easily as possible.

“You should have never opened that door, my friend. Should have never let your ego run wild and allowed me the chance to rip your heart out. But you just. Couldn’t. Help yourself.”

The master of the island, realizing that everyone he wanted to defeat was rendered as nothing more than souls to the call, races back to his compound, his opulent manor housing all of his wonderful little trinkets before the sun sets and the monster he allowed back in emerges from the shadow.

He manages to make it home. He locks the doors, and runs to close the blinds. He tries his damndest to stow away his fear, trying his best to convince himself that everything is under control, that he is stronger than the nightmare that he has time and again continued to haunt him.

There’s a moment as the sun dips below the horizon that the master of the island thinks to himself…he’s safe. It’s fine. Those other hunters might’ve gotten slaughtered, but not him. He’s survived the demon that still haunts his domain before, and kept him from taking his trinkets.

Confidence starts to bubble to the surface, and quickly starts to fester into arrogance as the master returns to his trophy room.

The lights are out as he flips a switch.

…and the room remains in darkness.

The arrogance subsides as fear begins to trickle back in. The master of the island immediately heads to the fireplace and uses a sparker to start a blaze to get some light in.

Eventually, the hearth roars to life.

But…

“I’ve told you before. Your blind arrogance and belief in your unearned superiority will always be your undoing. As I have before, I will take everything from you. And you’ll never hear the shot that takes you down.”

The rifle. The long-barrelled firearm that once was so proudly displayed above the fireplace mantle…

It was gone.

The master turns around.

BANG!

It only takes one shot. One shot, one opportunity, one small opening that seemed so insignificant when it was first given.

And that one shot is what kills a man drunk on his own ego, too eager to stroke it to realize that he had damned himself.

The figure holding the rifle is hidden by shadow. We don’t see his face.

We don’t really have to.

The barrel still smoking, the figure tosses it to the ground next to the now lifeless body of the former master of the island, as a pool of crimson starts to pool.

“The funny thing is? You really should see it coming. You absolutely should’ve expected it. After all…”

The shadowy figure walks over the body of his victim, and without missing a step grabs the Mayan gold mask, the prize that was up for grabs in this little hunt.

“You’re the one who keeps handing me the bullets…and keeps putting the gun in my hands.”

supinesnake
Administrator

Posts: 1,016

Meltdown XLI & Fallout 041 (Jun '24) Jun 30, 2024 14:03:00 GMT

Post by supinesnake on Jun 30, 2024 14:03:00 GMT

Originally posted by AON.

An exception from an edition of PWO Insider June 2004

"...And in Mexico...I mean, it's hardly worth repeating at this stage, but Halloween Knight did defeat Dr Rudo, and it goes without saying that it was another instant classic from someone who seems to churn them out on a nearly weekly basis. I'm really running out of things to say about Halloween Knight at this point. At this point, Halloween Knight's popularity is not a debatable subject: he is the most popular wrestler in Lucha Today, the most popular wrestler in Mexico altogether, and one of the most popular wrestlers in the history of Mexican wrestling. Hell, I would argue Halloween Knight is the best wrestler in the world; Halloween Knight has emerged as one of the most important catalysts for the modern wrestling era. The way he emotes and displays a fiery, resolute determination is distinctly Lucha, but he combines it with American wrestling showmanship. He is paradoxically both inaccessible and engaging, delighting crowds with his famous dance routines to close out shows. Everything this man does seemingly turns to gold, and I can say wholeheartedly that Halloween Knight is one of the most consequential wrestlers alive today

"The most thrilling aspect of Halloween Knight's career is that he's just reaching his zenith, one of the all-time peaks, as he steps into his 30s. Despite injuries marring significant portions of his 2002 and 2003, the anticipation for every moment he graces the ring with his presence is palpable. We can only imagine the heights he will reach in the future."

An excerpt from an edition of PWO Insider June 2014

"...As for Lucha Libre, it's the same old story it feels like it's been for the last few years or so, like it's a hamster on a wheel going round and round, but not going anywhere fast; quite frankly, it feels like Halloween Knight has been having the same match for the last twenty years, which is all well and good, it's Halloween Knight, it's a good match but only now he's ten years older, ten years of bumps, ten years of matches, ten years of injuries, and it shows, he's gotten a lot slower and while the spirit may be willing, but clearly he's not the wrestler he was, and the man should really think about hanging it up before he starts to damage his legacy. "

1 January, 2022 - Mexico City, Mexico
EILL-Empresa Internacional de Lucha Libre

"Why?" It's an annoying question. Halloween Knight has many " whys" that have built up to give him purpose.

He immediately thought back to a few short days ago after his first match of the year. He sat down for some interviewers immediately after getting backstage. Exhausted, he flopped down at the table and, chugged one of the little bottles of water they provided and collected himself. He had to, after all, he was told in no uncertain terms that this would be his last year in wrestling, and the reason for this press conference was to announce a new super card, "The Last Haunt" That was the plan, all the promotional material have been made the card had been booked, the plans have been set to give Halloween Knight a memorable send-off.

"We're going to give you the retirement you deserve; all you have to do is announce it."

All very kind and respectful, yet from Beneth his mask, Halloween Knight could only frown.

Senior Spooky, you started off the year impressively with that victory, but there are rumours that 2020 you might not be feeling the best, and rumours are that EMLL has noted you slowly down.

You'd think by now these idiots would ask real questions—meaningful questions. Halloween Knight sighed. This was the moment, and yet...

" I just went out to the ring and wrestled a really good match and you want to ask me how I feel getting back in the ring? What can I say? I feel great. Perfect. Better than I've felt in years"

There's an awkward silence as Halloween Knight seems to be debating whether he should reach over that table and pop his head like a zit with his bony hands, but it's a new year, a new him.

When I'm not in the ring, I'm at the gym, training with my team. I'm watching tapes of those who came before me so I can continue learning different ways to fight my opponent. There is no ' warming up' if you never stop training. This relentless dedication fuels my passion for wrestling, and it's a testament to my resilience in this sport.

"With respect, you've kind of been known to be someone who wrestled only one match a year."

" I'm not some office worker or a post worker. I don't get holiday pay to sit around the tree with some hot tea and treats to open presents. What I do is I don't take days off. I don't have vacation days. It never stops. We all have the same twenty-four hours in a day, and if I take a break, someone else is better usin' their time than I'd be."

" Apologies then. So, okay, let me ask another question then-"

If it's another stupid question, as God as his witness.

"The new year is upon us. What does 2020 look like for Halloween Knight? What are you looking forward to?"

The EMLL public relations officer throws a sideways glare at Knight as if to say, "Ok, second bite at the apple, time to announce your goodbye tour, but it's only greeted with awkward silence as Halloween Knight stares straight ahead, his face unreadable under that mask.

" Opening eyes. Expanding my horizons."

The public relations officer seems to glare nervously at someone behind him as Halloween Knight once again doesn't announce his retirement, despite having two solid chances at doing just that. Halloween Knight pointed back towards the ring and spoke with conviction in his voice. After all, to be convincing, you have to be convinced.

"What you saw me do just now in that ring is a statement. It's a testimony to what I aim to accomplish in 2020. It's a warning of what's to come for the other 364 days of this year."

"Ok, well, I think that should wrap up this-"

The PR person tries to cut things off as it's clear that Halloween Knight is going off script, but Halloween Knight keeps talking because, of course, he does; after all, he's just had an epiphany.

I've been doin' this for Thirty-One years now. The Sixth of June will be thirty-two years of this. From London to Madrid, to Germany, Greece, America, Mexico, and Australia, I've been everywhere that someone would book me to be. I'm not afraid of a fight, no matter where or whom it's against. There's been something on my mind for a few days now, but I haven't made any official decision. It comes to this: I am STILL the best wrestler in the world, and I plan on provin' as much in 2022. I want to handle as many challenges as I can.

Now was the time to make a statement and go through with it.

That's why I'm leaving Lucha Libre and why I have agreed to a deal with FWA. I report to America in a few weeks.

The PR person's face went white, and his eyes grew wide; Knight could hear swearing and general chaos going on behind the scenes. Silence came over the reporters verbally, but the frantic typing and clicking of their laptops echoed in unison. Halloween Knight guessed his mouth and made the decision for the rest of him.

" Why FWA?"

"Because I ain't dead yet, and I ain't planning to be any time soon."

By now, this press conference is an absolute shambles. This was absolutely not what EMLL wanted this to be, but Halloween Knight had opened the lid of Pandora's box, and there's no going back now,

Does such a huge career decision like this have anything to do with the recent reports of EMLL forcing you into retirement?

" I'm not lookin' for sympathy. Save that for someone else. I'm no attention whore. I make the best decisions for myself and my future. If I want to prove without a shadow of a doubt that I can still go, and if I have to go to America and prove it to everyone. That's what I'm doing. "

Halloween Knight immediately stood up and left the press conference. He was better off taking a long walk off a short pier than sitting there answering those questions. What Halloween Knight does is nobody's business but mine and, to an extent, his family. He tracked on past the curtain, leaving the shockwave he had just dropped in his wake.
--------------

"Hello? Is this thing on?

It's been a hell of a year or two since I took the boneyard over the border.

They told me four years ago. Thanks for coming, but your nine lives are up.

They told me I was done.

They told me spending any more time in the ring would be tearing apart my legacy. That I'd bomb in FWA,

But the Dance of the damned is only moving on to its next beautiful stage, even if it is a duet or whatever the word is for three separate people.

Please believe these words. I have been in this business for most of my adult life, and I never had more fun than I have had in the last year. I will freely admit I'm not as good as I was ten years ago; my reflexes are slower than they were, my body hurts, and I feel the aches and pains more and more; maybe I would be the failure everyone thought I would be in FWA if it wasn't for me Amigos. So any success I have is because of the unit of Tr1ck or Tr4sh.

If anything, it just underlines what I have spent my life trying to prove: that wrestling in all its forms belongs to the misfits, the weirdos and the freaks.

They tell me that I am old and past it.

They told Juan he'd never past a certain point.

They wouldn't let Trash Mammal in the building because...I mean, he stinks the place out, and everyone is confused about his accent, but together? We're better than the sum of our parts, and Nate Savage is going to find that out firsthand."

supinesnake
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Posts: 1,016

Meltdown XLI & Fallout 041 (Jun '24) Jun 30, 2024 14:03:29 GMT

Post by supinesnake on Jun 30, 2024 14:03:29 GMT

Originally posted by SupineSnake.

[volume 122]
MICHELLE von HORROWITZ
in
”DIE ERFAHRUNG.”

Berlin is a strange place to live, especially as a young person. When the years haven't yet conquered the soul, one expects a city to roll out before them like an extension of the playgrounds of their youth. A city should be infinite, even within the finite boundaries of its suburbs, to allow a young person to live and grow and enjoy themselves a little before they are transformed into the old, stifled, and frightfully dull person they were born to be. Berlin, or at least most of it, was smothered and choked by a long-lingering smog of guilt. The old were bent double by the memory of their collective grief. Their respect and nostalgia for the more acutely felt self-loathing of their parents turned them inwards. They expected the same of their children, but such an atmosphere can only sustain itself for so long. A down-trodden creature, even the lowly human, still possesses the remnants of a spirit.

For Michelle, at the age of twenty one, Berlin was the perfect place. The Netherlands, her homeland in only the most literal sense of the word, was not an option. The emotional baggage that she'd left behind there was too much for her to carry. Her mother was still breathing but clinging onto life as she clung to the bottle. She had grown bored and then wary of the pseudo-liberalism of France during her schooling there, tiring of Marseille's airs and Paris’s pretensions long before she failed to graduate. America - where her sister had studied and now plied her trade whilst hunched over a cello - offered Michelle her first taste of freedom, but she drank too long from that particular cup. Too much, too soon. The shadow of her sister’s wings always lay over her, and so she returned to Europe in an attempt to spread her own.

Wrestling was already something to her but it wasn't nearly enough of a something to pay her bills. The Aunt Maude money had dwindled and now, more than a decade after her untimely death in Marienbad, the nest egg was bare. And so, Michelle found herself working a string of bar jobs to subsist in this supremely stifling city. This employment was mostly temporary, so as to accommodate her infrequent tours of Europe to wrestle. She'd even been on one in Japan, although the opportunities that she thought would present themselves following this initial foray had thus far turned out to be only promises. In the Summer of 2001, she found such employment at der Spieler, a small and uninspiring bar in-between a library and a bakery in the Lichtenberg district. And, on this particular night in the Summer of 2001, she stood behind the bar running a rag around the rim of a glass stein, an affection she'd picked up from watching other bartenders in similar settings across three continents.

The bar was quiet most nights and tonight was like most nights. One regular, an accountant named Lars who said nothing except to order his drinks, sat alone in a corner reading a battered old book beneath an open window. A cigarette, still burning, sat wedged between the grooves of his ashtray. She liked Lars. A pair of oil riggers from the Balkans occupied the corner table, as they had on every night of the previous thirty since their arrival from their last dispatch at sea. They had overpowered a young tourist and taken him into their circle this evening, forcing him to listen to tales from the rig, off-colour life advice, and a league table of European countries according to the quality of their women. This sprawling lecture was given loudly and obnoxiously, and was accompanied by many hearty slaps on the tourist's back and triumphant pulls from the riggers’ steins.

And then a fifth and final patron, sitting at the bar with a rum and coke. He'd first asked for a series of cocktails, most of which she'd never heard of before, let alone known how to make. This was the most sophisticated drink she was able to mix. She worked in places with simple menus as a rule. If he was disappointed by her inability to pour a Martini he didn't show it. In fact, a curious smile was upon his face, his eyes were directed at the young woman behind the bar. She was unsure how long he'd been staring at her, but something about the man made his gaze light and easy. She was unharmed by his focus. She couldn't pinpoint why, at the time or at any moment afterwards. Perhaps it was his uniquity, or the comfort with which he occupied his stool, or the attention to detail belied by his carefully cultivated look. He was captivating, and he knew it, and was all the more captivating for this knowledge.

First impressions are important.

“You don’t seem to like them very much,” he said. His accent was compromised by a youth in the countryside (near the mountains if she was pushed to guess), but his keen, piercing, intelligent eyes marked him as anything but a bumpkin. Michelle became aware that she had been mentally enumerating the evening’s customers with a demeanour suggesting discontent. In truth, der Spieler’s patrons had little to do with it. Discontent was her general state of being.

“I like them just fine,” she announced, meeting his gaze happily and with ease. “They don’t try to talk to me. Except to order drinks.”

“The only way to talk to you is to order a drink?” he asked, his inquisitive smile still in position and perhaps even more pronounced. The barkeep shrugged and looked away, as if to confirm the stranger’s suspicions. For his part, his curious and cunning smile slowly faded. It was quickly replaced by a pensive, almost absent expression that she found difficult to not glance back at.

This went on for almost a full minute, until he rather suddenly finished his drink in one long pull and stood from his barstool. Michelle allowed herself that second glance. The sudden, bold, decisive movement demanded her attention.

“I was debating a choice, if you’re wondering,” he declared, whilst adjusting the lapels of his coat. “Between ordering another drink, which would make me late for work, or embarking upon a vow of silence from the moment I leave this bar. If I can’t talk to you, barkeep, I don’t see much point in talking to anyone else.”

He didn’t give her the opportunity to respond, instead turning on his heel and striding with verve and confidence towards the exit. Michelle continued the task of running an old rag around the rim of a glass stein.

The stranger returned during each of her next eight shifts. She imagined he must’ve shown up at der Spieler on the nights that she wasn’t there, too. It was a coarse approach to learning her schedule but it got the job done. On those subsequent visits he would approach the bar and order his rum and coke by nodding at a bottle of Captain Morgan. He invariably sat at the bar and drank in silence, occasionally accompanying the liquor with a vanilla cigarillo. Then, he would leave, ostensibly because he didn’t want to be late for work.

At this stage in Michelle’s brief entanglement with the stranger, she took her leave from the bar for a week to complete a brief tour of Munich and the surrounding area. Unlike most of her previous employers, der Spieler’s owner told her that the job would be waiting for her when she got back, mostly owing to his approval of her generally dour attitude. She disappeared, wrestled a few matches, and returned to Berlin sporting a new array of minor injuries and niggles. But that’s not really what this is all about.

On the tenth evening since her last shift at the bar she embarked on another. At precisely the same time that he had on their mostly silent previous meetings, the stranger entered from a cool night. He removed his coat and scanned the room, the bored, passive look on his face breaking into his familiar, cunning smile as he laid eyes on the barkeep. His favoured stool was empty and waiting.

“A rum and coke, please,” he declared, eliciting a cocked eyebrow and continued inactivity from Michelle. “No ice tonight. Cold outside. Summer’s over, I’m afraid.”

The barkeep begrudgingly unfolded her arms and set herself to work. She poured a short measure of the amber from an optic and, as she filled the glass from the soda fountain, carefully regarded the interloper. She’d wondered if he’d come, wondered if he’d still be silent. She was pleased by the answer to both of these questions. The young man was in the process of removing a battered old copy of a wafer thin book from his bag. L'histoire de l'œil, Georges Bataille. She didn’t know it.

“You gave up on your vow?” she asked, as she placed the drink on the bar in front of him. “Already? It hasn’t even been a month…”

“In your absence, I decided to give being verbal a second chance,” he announced. He sipped his drink, his book abandoned for the time-being in favour of a conversational inroad. “I see you’ve abandoned yours, too.”

“A life in service,” Michelle mused, as if in explanation. She returned to her perch against the back counter with her arms folded in front of her.

“I know it well,” he acknowledged. He lit one of his vanilla cigarillos, a soft scent emanating from the dark brown paper as it burned. He stopped short of declaring himself in the industry, as other less tactful strangers had posited in attempts to conjure kinship. He didn’t seem the industrious type. His lithe frame, unblemished skin, and fine clothing suggested a life of leisure over labour. There was a subtle extravagance about the man that, despite her instinctive reticence to engage with strangers, she found magnetic.

“Where do you work?” she found herself asking, in spite of her apprehensions.

“I don’t really work anywhere, barkeep,” he confided. “Haven’t a day in my life, as people are fond of telling me. But I still serve, in the best way I can. I own a place up in Falkenberg.”

“What’s it called?” she enquired, with genuine curiosity. When she wasn’t sleeping, working, or wrestling, she was generally walking the streets of the city, although admittedly the far north-east remained relatively unexplored. She’d drunk in a good percentage of the city’s bars, including those that lay outside the parameters of her taste.

“You wouldn’t know it,” he said, with confidence. “It’s underground in more ways than one.”

“You’ll show me?” she said. She lamented that her side of the dialogue now consisted of a series of simple questions.

“Maybe,” he afforded. Another pull and his drink was finished. He was elusive and implacable. “One day soon.”

It was three more meetings before they arranged to meet somewhere other than the bar and three more before they fucked. It happened after a walk through Spreebogenpark and a long, silent train ride across the city. She was close to being overwhelmed by the tension on the U-Bahn, but eventually the doors slid open in Lichtenberg and they made for her apartment. She was unembarrassed by the modest scale and shabby state of her dwellings. She imagined his were better but was happy to preserve the mystique.

He was not like the other men she had known, either in America or here in Europe. They were boys really, and that was never so obvious as it was now. Most of them were inexperienced and thus unskilled, and those that had a few more hours between the sheets had seemingly used those hours to learn only how to satisfy themselves. This selfishness was commonplace amongst the male of the species and partially the reason that she frequently sought the company of women instead. The majority of the boys were finished before she could think about getting started. Some were timid and some were overly confident. Some aloof and some intense. But all of them had been disappointments in their own unique way. Until the stranger.

Their meetings over the next two weeks were generally consigned to her small, Lichtenberg apartment, aside from one or two evenings when he’d arrived at der Spieler at his usual time to drink a rum and coke at the bar. The interactions directly following their first carnal encounter were characterised by lengthy periods of silence, at first not awkward but instead comfortable and serene. After one such interlude Michelle smoked a pair of consecutive cigarettes whilst sitting next to an open window with her bare feet upon the ledge. Emboldened by the quiet, she broached a subject which had piqued her curiosity during the stranger’s first visits to the bar.

“Where do you go?” she asked, whilst watching a taxi pull up to the intersection at the end of the street. A young man emerged from the back of it on his hands and knees, crawling across the sidewalk and towards what was presumably his apartment. It was almost sunrise. He gave up at the base of the short flight of steps that led to the front door. There were worse places to greet the new day, she supposed.

“I go lots of places,” the stranger replied, somewhat elusively. Evasion was part of his charm. At least for now. He was supine on the bed with a thin sheet pulled up to his waist, his old Bataille book above his face, held open as he scanned the last few sentences of the text. The whole story couldn’t have been longer than sixty pages. She was surprised it had taken him this long to get through it, but - in his defence - she had conspired to distract him from the task. “You’ll have to be a little more specific, barkeep.”

“Where do you go each evening, after you’ve enjoyed the best rum and coke in Berlin,” she answered. The faux-confidence of her words was belied by her passive expression and general abstraction from the scene. She lit a third cigarette and watched the young man sleeping on the bottom step, next to the deserted intersection.

“I go to my club,” the stranger replied. It was the first time since their second (verbal) conversation that he’d mentioned the business he purportedly owned. He was generally unforthcoming with details and she wasn’t one to press. Not at this time in her life. He was equally uninterested in her ‘professional life’, so much as one existed. He was quite willing to accept bar work as her only vocation. In return, she was happy to encourage this errant assumption, although not a lot of encouragement was required.

“In Falkenberg?” she continued with her inquiries. Concurrently, her counterpart closed his book and placed it down on an already cluttered bedside table. He would forget it when leaving in an hour’s time, leaving Michelle to doze away the morning and waste the afternoon before her evening shift.

“In Falkenberg,” he confirmed.

“The mystery club,” she said, finally turning away from the drunk at the intersection. She flicked her cigarette out of the window and closed it behind her. “That I don’t even know the name of.”

“You think you’re ready?” he asked. He wasn’t looking directly at her but his curious smile had returned to his face.

“Ready for what?”

“That’s exactly the point,” he said. He closed his eyes to block out the first rays of morning light that peered in through the window. “I think you’re ready. But think isn’t enough. Soon, Michelle.”

“You’ve said that before,” she sighed. “What if I get bored of waiting?”

This elicited a chuckle from the stranger. He placed his hands behind his head and made himself comfortable.

“Patience can be an aphrodisiac,” he advised. “Are you coming back to bed?”

She nodded her head. Went back to bed.

That afternoon, she visited a city park alone and read the book that the stranger had left behind. It told the tale of young love in its most sordid guise. The central characters, Simone and an unnamed boy, meet as children and find they share the same set of unusual sexual quirks. One particularly memorable scene sees Simone develop a fetish for inserting hard-boiled eggs into her orifices: memorable for the obvious peculiarity of the fetish itself, as well as the sense of dread that grips the reader when they remember the title of what they are reading and consider the concept of foreshadowing. The protagonists enjoy exhibitionism, with both living and dead audiences, until complicity in a friend’s suicide sees them flee from France to Spain.

The foreshadowing of Simone’s eggs and the novella’s title plays out at the book’s climax, when she seduces a priest in a basilica after masturbating in his confessional. It was not the prolonged depictions of unusual and violent sexual urges but these sequences - of the desecration of Catholic symbols like the booth and the eucharist - that Michelle found most thrilling. The carnal, even in this unique and extreme context, mostly bored her, but in this blasphemy - along with the couple’s eventual escape to Africa and evasion of consequences - she found encouragement and a strange brand of hope.

She didn’t doubt that the stranger had left the book in her room deliberately. Not specifically because he had an interest in omorashi or finding a new, novel use for hard-boiled eggs, but as a vague promise of things still to come. As an assertion, indirect yet clear, that they were only just beginning. Michelle smoked a cigarette and pondered this. She struggled to find any feeling, let alone an answer.

She next saw him the following day, and for once they were somewhere other than Michelle’s apartment or place of work. They walked the banks of the Spree until they became tired, and then they sat on a bench to watch the boats pass by. She said little but thought lots. He seemed to be of a similar disposition, chain smoking his vanilla cigarillos whilst staring with an unknown purpose at the opposite riverbank. She followed his gaze to a young woman sitting alone on an identical bench to theirs, reading a book that she couldn’t make out the title of. She was short and wore glasses and was sort of frumpish in her dress sense. She looked older than she probably was, Michelle thought.

As she made this conclusion, the man sitting next to her shook his head and let out something that resembled a sneer. He dragged his eyes away from the woman on the opposite side of the river and directed them at Michelle instead. His facial expression, which had been pained and dour as he stared across the water, settled into his familiar, curious smile. With each passing day she found it more unbearably smug.

“Loneliness and silence,” he started, obliquely. “The antithesis of life.”

“You can be alone and not be lonely,” she replied. He didn’t specifically say, but she surmised he was talking about the woman across the river. At that moment, she dreamed of switching places with her. Loneliness and silence didn't sound so bad.

“Her eyes are closed,” the stranger asserted, confident in himself and his quick judgement.

“And mine?” she asked, as his flashed with lust and ambition.

“They’re just opening,” he said.

Over the next week, the stranger’s sex became as much of a chore as his conversation. His familiarity with her made him lazy, and although his self-serving nature was less obvious than the boys of her youth it was still there. Her pleasure was not given for its own sake and for her enjoyment, but rather so that he could be the one giving it. It could just as easily be withdrawn. He operated the faucet, doing so deliberately and with a will to dominate. His touch was coarse when it was once tender. His eyes grew angry and wild. He was a beastly thing, submitting in serfdom to lust, the very thing he’d thought his saviour.

He became more adventurous in this period, succumbing to whims and inhibitions that he'd thus far suppressed through unfamiliarity with his partner. Now that he was comfortable there was no need for such suppression, and their sex became characterised by gentle subversions of Freud's pain-pleasure principle. At first this served to heighten the euphoria for Michelle in a fashion that she mistrusted. She abhorred submissiveness in every aspect of her life, but found herself spasming with ecstasy as his teeth or nails sunk into her flesh, or as his fingers tightened around her throat. Doors opened that she immediately wished to close again.

August turned into September, and the stranger continued to push the boundaries: her boundaries and the boundaries of their intimacy. The first time he struck her with any intent was the first night of September. Once across the face when her eyes were closed. It wasn't particularly forceful, especially for someone who made a living receiving physical abuse from strangers, but the sudden and unexpected nature of it brought forth an instinctive reaction. His one open-handed strike across the cheek was met with a closed left to the jaw, and then a right knocked him off balance, the force threatening to throw him off her and off the bed. He clung on by sinking his fingernails into her shoulders and, his mind and all of his restraint overwhelmed by animalistic frenzy, immediately finished inside of her for the first time.

He collapsed under the weight of his exertion and his pleasure, his lithe frame heaving with sharp, laboured breaths on top of her. She could feel the expansions of his ribcage and, underneath it, the beating of his heart. The sensation repulsed her. She placed her hands on his shoulders, pushing him down as she writhed upwards, wriggling out from underneath him. She felt him and then his seed fall out of her, both landing on her already rank bedsheets and sullying them irreparably forever. With one more exertion she forced him onto his back and away from her. He was asleep already.

She left the bed to smoke a cigarette in a high-backed rocking chair next to the window. He was gone before she woke, but had left behind a long, rambling note - one born out of and imbued with lust rather than love - that she read only the very start of.

-----
M (the barkeep),

I had to leave to prepare for a new day, and a new evening afterwards. Tonight I must go to the club. I have been away for too long, held back and held down by your tendrils. It has only been two nights, but that is a lifetime for a place like die Erfahrung. I don't know if you're working tonight, but if not, you are welcome to come along to Falkenberg. The address is 107B Ahrensfelder Chaussee. We open at midnight. You have asked about die Erfahrung before, but not for a few weeks. I hope it is still of interest to you. As I'm sure that you can surmise from the fact that it is owned by me (and as you will find out first hand tonight, if you accept my invitation), it is not a place that just anyone should be able to find. We have no doors that open onto the street. When you arrive, ask for x. You can leave any time you like, but I imagine you'll throw yourself in, as you have this past month.

I can meet you at the real reception, if you wish. Just ask for x again a second time. Or, if you want to explore alone, go ahead. I will doubtlessly be encumbered by the task of hosting the…’
—--

She folded up the letter without reading the rest and placed it inside the stranger's copy of L'histoire de l'œil. She called in sick for work and felt bad about letting her boss down, given how accommodating he'd been of her wrestling commitments. But he could cover it himself and she soon got over it when she began to contemplate the closure of this particular chapter in her life. No more than an interlude, really. Die Erfahrung’s doors were finally open to her, and with them several others began to close.

That evening, she wore the black dress that she'd been given for her sister's graduation along with a scaramouche mask that she'd adorned for a party in her final years of schooling in Marseille. The mask was meant to hide her: from her boss in Lichtenberg, should he decide an evening in Falkenberg was on the cards, but more directly from the stranger. She wished to experience the place alone, even if it was his, and the idea of his eyes upon her as she walked through the doors made her tense. The more she thought about it, the more ridiculous this plan was. He had seen her, all of her, and a small piece of black fabric over her eyes and nose wasn't going to change that. Still, she felt comfortable beneath the guise, and found - for the first time - that hiding from herself was easier than hiding from everyone else.

107 Ahrensfelder Chaussee was a small Vietnamese takeout restaurant. There was no 107B as far as she could tell. The Vietnamese restaurant looked just barely open judging by the solitary lampshade visible through the window, which was turned on and illuminated an elderly (presumably) Vietnamese woman behind the counter. It was already past one in the morning, and initially Michelle surmised that the time was the reason that nobody seemed to be buying any food, but it became clearer as she chain-smoked a pair of cigarettes across the street that all was not as it seemed.

Halfway down the first cigarette, a young and extravagantly dressed couple arrived in the back of a limousine. The car pulled away without them as the man held the woman's hand to help her get up the short flight of steps in front of the restaurant. She walked inelegantly in obscenely high stiletto heels, struggling with balance to the point where Michelle found herself wondering why she bothered with them. They disappeared inside the restaurant and Michelle waited patiently for them to reappear with a bowl of pho or noodles or whatever Vietnamese delicacies took their fancy in the middle of the night. She waited and waited, but the young couple didn't reappear.

This disappearing act repeated itself twice more, first with a middle aged man and then with a girl who looked younger than Michelle. She had a clear enough picture of what was going on to enter the restaurant herself. The elderly (presumably) Vietnamese woman smiled at her knowingly from the other side of the counter.

“I'm here to see x,” Michelle said, as instructed. The woman nodded at her.

“Everyone's always here to see x,” she lamented, in a thick accent and with a hint of mockery. “Popular boy. Through the curtain, down the stairs.”

Michelle followed the directions into a basement, which she assumed was what the ‘B’ stood for. Here was the real reception: a long, black counter, a single piece of stained metal, with a young, sort of wiry man in a tuxedo sitting behind it. He smiled, too, but his grin seemed subtler and less accusatory than the elderly woman’s.

“You must be the barkeep,” he said. It didn't feel good to hear that somewhat derisory and condescending pet name uttered by new, unfamiliar lips. “Would you like me to send for x?”

She shook her head.

“Very well,” he continued. “What are you here to do? Would you like a room, or would you like to watch?”

“I think I'll watch,” she answered. “At least at first.”

“Very well,” the host repeated, whilst seemingly agreeing that this was a good decision with a nod of his head. “If you'll follow me.”

He led the way to a long corridor with white walls before closing the door behind himself and leaving her there alone. Well, not quite alone. Around thirty metres ahead of her were two young men, both crouching down so as to stare through different holes in the wall. The entire hallway was pockmarked by these portals, all the way up to where she was currently standing. She nervously lowered her eye to the nearest one. On the other side was a small, unspectacular room: dimly lit, nicely furnished, and entirely devoid of activity.

She slowly moved along the corridor, the pace of her breathing slightly heightening each time she lowered her eye to one of the peepholes, the next three of which also revealed empty rooms. The two men away up the corridor barely seemed to notice her, instead preoccupied with their own portals and the process of groping one another. She left them to it, determined to find more than empty rooms within this palace, within the stranger's secret.

The fifth hole gave her what she was looking for and she immediately regretted her desires. Inside, a tall and handsome man with blond hair stood at attention in the centre of the room, a quartet of young women - all blonde, too, as if by design - arrayed around him in a horseshoe. He looked like a military man, which wouldn't have been a problem necessarily, but for the eagle on his kepi and the swastika on the breast of his jacket. The women around him groped at his legs and his belt, attempting to pull him down onto their level, but the blond man resisted and continued in his salute. She didn't find out how long he could hold out. She withdrew from the hole and forced herself on to the next one.

After two more empty rooms, she found another that was occupied by a young couple, high and strung out and on a mattress that had been positioned up against the door. A pipe lay discarded by their side. The woman - her skin scorched bronze, suggesting a heritage across the ocean and a kinship with the indigenous peoples she'd left behind - gently stroked the long strands of hair that fell to his shoulders, where a hideous tattoo scarred his pale, white neck. Metres away from the couple, broken shackles were tied around the legs of the deconstructed bed. Master, take the chains off me.

The two men, her only company in the hallway, had disappeared through the door at the other end of it. She was alone again. That gave her comfort and courage. She found another occupied room at the spot in which they'd been standing. An angry and wild creature, more beast than man, pinned a young woman to the floor. He repeatedly called her K., in-between vile groans and shrieks that sounded like a dying animal, despite her constant protestations that this wasn't her name. It made no difference to the beast. He was there only in body.

She backed away from the peephole, scared and thrilled in equal measures, a self-perpetuating cycle. The thrill scared her, and the fear excited her. She became acutely aware of her heavy breathing, her ribcage expanding and shaking with involuntary convulsions. She stepped back once more and hit the door at the other end of the corridor, her hands groping behind her for the handle.

A waitress gave her a glass of champagne on the other side of it. She took a seat on a low, cushioned bench next to an empty stage. Others drank and spoke and laughed around her but she couldn't focus on anyone in particular. She smoked a cigarette to calm her nerves, which only half-worked. She despised champagne but drank three flutes of it in quick succession before she'd regained enough of her wits to ask for a beer instead.

Three men came to speak to her as she reclined and recuperated, approaching one at a time with the intention of sweeping her off her feet. She declined all three, warding them off with only a shake of her head and a thick column of cigarette smoke. Eventually, after an amount of hours in die Erfahrung that Michelle could only guess at, a more appealing proposition came her way. A tall, red-headed German woman held out a hand, silently insisting that Michelle take it. They retreated into a private room and remained there for several hours. But, like bodyslams in Munich, that isn't really what this is about.

She spoke to the stranger twice more. He had called der Spieler when she hadn't been there a number of times, and after a week she finally returned them from a payphone outside her apartment building. Three more days later, they sat on a bench on the banks of the Spree. He was early and she was late. He smoked a vanilla cigarillo and watched the boats pass by. She wasn't interested in them today. She only stared at the stranger, as if doing so for long enough would shed some light on what she'd seen in him in the first place.

“Lucas tells me you're leaving your job,” he said, eventually. “At der Spieler.”

“Who is Lucas?” she asked, sincerely. She wondered how this Lucas was privy to her business and why he felt free to share it with strangers.

“Lucas is your boss,” he replied. ”Or was, I guess.”

“Oh,” she said, as guilt crept in. For all his kindness, she'd never bothered to learn the man's name, at least to the point where she was able to recall it later. “Yes. I'm touring Japan again. Longer this time.”

“Touring?” he asked, with an inquisitive tone. She felt confident enough to reveal more of herself now that she'd decided to never see him again. The question was vague enough to allow for elaboration, but she elected to simply nod her head in response. “So, you'll be back?”

“I'll be back,” she confirmed. There was only a slight pause. She knew she had to be blunt. “Though I don't want to see you again. After today, I mean.”

The stranger's face contorted, his pain worn plainly. There was no suggestion of his smug, condescending smile anymore. The one she'd grown to hate. Now he resembled a wounded animal, sad and pitiful and ready to lash out.

“After all I've given you?” he asked. She couldn't help but flash him a grin of her own, as smug as anything he'd ever mustered.

“What exactly do you think it is that you've given me?” she replied.

“I've shown you a new world,” he said, with equal parts confidence and desperation. ”A world that lives within you. They say that sex is about power, but they are wrong. Sex is a liberation. This is what I've done for you. What I've given you. I've broken down the walls that you've built around yourself.”

Michelle allowed herself time to think. Lit another cigarette. Stared at their disparate reflections in the ripples of the Spree.

“You’re less free than I am,” she asserted, passive in tone. “You're a slave to your own body. Your own impulses. Sex isn't the great liberator. Sex is just something you do. Like reading a book or writing a poem or making a sandwich. But you've made it into what you are. It is your everything. It has a power over you that fills me with pity.”

She sucked on the end of her cigarette and shook her head.

“I had such high hopes for you.”

The stranger didn't reply. He finished his cigarillo, threw the end into the river, and left. She never saw him again.

supinesnake
Administrator

Posts: 1,016

Meltdown XLI & Fallout 041 (Jun '24) Jun 30, 2024 14:04:05 GMT

Post by supinesnake on Jun 30, 2024 14:04:05 GMT

Originally posted by Jimmy King.

Fallout 040 had come to an end, and by the time the main event had come to an end, the fans had already forgotten about The Undisputed Alliance losing the number one contender’s match for the FWA Tag Team Championships to FTN. The fans will now remember the shocking conclusion to the show involving the champions and their next challengers, while Savage and Fenix will go back to the drawing board to find their path to Back in Business.

The Undisputed Alliance is backstage of the Allstate Arena in the trainer’s room where Jackson Fenix is being checked on by FWA medical staff. Fenix had taken a considerable amount of damage to one of his legs during the match with FTN, thanks to both members of said team.

“Jackson, I’m sorry to break this to you, but you’re going to need to take some time off to rest and let your knee heal up.”

Jackson looks surprised by this news, like he knew his leg was hurt but he wasn’t aware of the extent.

“How long will I be out for, doc? 3 months? 6 months? A year?!”

“Oh heavens no, perhaps 2-3 weeks at most is all you need.”

A wave of relief washes over Jackson just as Nate Savage re-enters the room.

“Doc says I should take 2-3 weeks off to let this heal up, so I guess no match for me on the next cycle.”

“That’s unfortunate, and I just got word that I’ll be in a singles match on the next Fallout in Montreal against Halloween Knight.”

“Nice, hey, isn’t he a trios champion along with the numbers guy and the trash panda?”

“Yeah, that’s him. I guess a win over him could put us in line for another trios title match.”

“Too bad we don’t have a third partner, though.”

Nate looks at Jackson confused, and shakes his head.

“Did you forget about The Undisputed Xperienx?”

Jackson takes a second to think, and then a light bulb goes off in his head when he remembers.

“It would be good to get the gang back together again. It sucks how it ended for us last year.”

“The team didn’t end, Jack. We just went on a hiatus.”

“I mean, you said you hated Xtacee after we lost.”

“I did not!”

“Well, it sure did seem like it.”

The doctor has left the room, and it’s just Fenix and Savage by themselves.

“I was upset, but I never said I hated him. Stop making things up, Jack.”

“Alright, alright, I was just messing with you.”

Jackson hops off the medical bed he was sitting on and he winces when he puts weight on his leg. Nate quickly notices and assists his friend out of the medical room, and they walk to their locker room.

“I’m sorry I won’t be there for you when you beat that Halloween guy, but I’ll be there in spirit.”

“Jack, you told me the doctor said it’ll be 2-3 weeks tops, so you should be good to go by then. If you don’t want to be there for me, that’s fine.”

“No! I do want to be there for you! Because you know why?”

“Why is that?”

“We ride together, we die together, bad boys for life!”

There’s an awkward silence between them as they reach their locker room door.

“This is where you repeat the line!”

“What line?”

“Bad boys for life!”

“I don’t understand the reference.”

“Wait, you’ve never seen a Bad Boys movie? Will Smith and Martin Lawrence?”

“Nope, I’m afraid not.”

“Well, it’s time to fix that. In preparation for your match, I need you to watch those three movies.”

“How is that supposed to help me with my match?”

“I don’t know, but what I do know is that those are awesome movies! You need to watch them right away!”

“Fine, I’ll do that; now, let’s get ready to leave Chicago.”

********************

“Where am I?”

Nate Savage asks himself this, but there is no one around to answer.

“Where am I?”

Again, no answer.

Wherever he is, it’s a dark area where he can’t see anything. Suddenly, he does see something in the darkness. Nate starts to move closer, but he stops dead in his tracks when whatever he sees starts moving toward him, and Nate doesn’t know what to do, and before he can react, he’s knocked down to the floor.

Nate looks at whatever is standing above him in the dark, and suddenly, a spooky white skull falls forward as he lets out a scream…

Nate Savage wakes up with a jolt as he sits on the couch, where he had been watching the Bad Boys movies like Jackson had instructed him to. He had finished them and ended up taking a nap.

“Daddy, are you okay?”

Nate looks over to see his daughter Delilah sitting on the floor, playing with her toys.

“Yeah, I’m okay; daddy just had a bad dream.”

“It’s okay daddy, you don’t have to be scared, I’m here for you.”

Delilah says as she gives her father a hug.

“Thanks, sweetheart.”

“Like the movie says, we ride together, we die together, bad boys for life.”

“I don’t think that applies here necessarily but thank you. Besides, I told you that I didn’t want you watching these.”

“I know, but you fell asleep…”

“Well, keep it a secret from mommy, okay?”

“You got it, daddy.”

********************

“Jackson, I get it.”

“What is it that you get?”

“The thing from Bad Boys that you said.”

“We ride together, we die together?”

“Bad Boys for life.”

“I take it you liked the movies?”

“Not really my cup of tea, but I get it.”

“Fair enough, man.”

“Halloween Knight, huh?”

“Yeah, that guy has a spooky mask.”

“That’s true, and we just lost to a bozo in a mask, so there’s no way I’m going to lose to another one…”

“Sounds good to me, bro.”

supinesnake
Administrator

Posts: 1,016

Meltdown XLI & Fallout 041 (Jun '24) Jun 30, 2024 14:04:31 GMT

Post by supinesnake on Jun 30, 2024 14:04:31 GMT

Originally posted by CBK.

It had never occurred to Trevor how dull the finish on his wedding ring had become. He hardly looked at it when putting it on as the act of doing so was so mundane and part of his everyday routine, but something was different about putting it on this time. Maybe it was the fact that he felt the need to remove it when he was cheating on his wife that made him pay attention to the dullness of it. It crossed his mind that the dullness could be a reflection of the state of his marriage. Maybe that was why he spent his lunch hour sleeping with strippers and any woman who gave him a spark of attention.

He turned the faucet and ran water off the ring hoping that a quick polishing would help it regain its luster. It was to no avail. Trevor dared not to look at himself in the mirror as he couldn’t handle the sight. Seeing a man that would abandon his morals a vow that he made before God and his loved ones was too much for him to stomach.

He splashed his face with the water and wondered where it all went wrong in his marriage. As if he didn’t already know. While Trevor loved his wife, she was not his first love – that position was reserved for his job. He loved being an officer. Protecting and serving the community was what he felt he was born to do. He was and would always be a better officer than a husband. It was his first job and his most cherished position in life. Trevor’s wife had often made the mistake of asking him to choose between her or his career; knowing that she would end up hurt when he ultimately chose the former. She was his emotional safe space and gave him what he needed to stay grounded when things began to get a bit rough. But, his job and the women around town were able to provide him with a physical satisfaction that she could never afford.

“I’ve been meaning to ask you; have you all gotten any leads on Rielle?” a woman called out in a hushed, raspy voice that caused him to confront his reflection. He tried to pull away but the attraction was too much. The once clean, smoothed-skinned, rookie who once looked up at him was no longer there. He was replaced with a man with cold blue eyes with dark shadows of restlessness sagging below them. The cleanshaven face was replaced with a trimmed beard that connected to a short mop of wheat-colored hair that could use some attention from a barber.

“No. There aren’t any leads on Rielle because there isn’t a case open for her,” Trevor answered back. “You all say she’s missing, but for all we know she’s just having another one of her manic episodes.”

“So, you’re just going to write her off until she shows up dead or something?” she called out as Trevor adjusted his belt and holster around his waist and reentered the bedroom. He locked eyes with the young woman who stared at him with big eyes that had a watery glaze over them as she clutched tightly to the blanket that covered her bare chest. Bret was her stage name but Trevor knew her as Elizabeth. She saw herself as a protégé to Rielle. Rielle saw her as the daughter she wished that her own would’ve become. They looked out for one another so it was no surprise that she would be concerned about her whereabouts – especially because of her recent mental failings.

He ignored her question as he turned back on his radio. The usually quiet dispatch was filled with overlapping messages and requests for attention. He went to turn down the volume but stopped as he heard his name mentioned amongst all of the chatter.

“Ocean 1 to dispatch.”
“Ocean 1 this is dispatch your presence is needed at the KUN TV station immediately.”
“What’s it for?”
“The captain has requested you down there.”
“10-4”

Trevor exits the room and makes his way down to the bar. The stairs creaked and groaned as Trevor slowly marched down them, taking good care not to run his hand along the railing or wall. The Monaco Pole Position’s cleanliness was similar to that of a small-town gas station’s bathroom. It was best to avoid your skin making contact with anything that it didn’t need to. But no one came for the cleanliness of the club, they knew what they were getting when they came here. Rielle may not have been all the way there in the head, but she kept young, easily manipulated women employed at the club giving them just enough hope that they’d be able to make it on to bigger things if they just did one more dance for a big-time customer – the customer was never big time. Rielle got off on the adoration that the girls gave her as she promised them the fame and success that she once achieved in the distant past.

Trevor pulled out a pack of cigarettes, Camel Reds, and began to pack the pouch as he approached the bar. It was unusual for this many people to be at the club, let alone at the bar huddled around the TV. It was a small television that was redneck engineered to hang from the ceiling in a way that Trevor couldn’t explain. He pushed past the crowd, eliciting some choice words from the patrons as he did so before he was able to get a good view of the television.

There was a static film over the screen that sputtered occasionally as the picture came into view. Trevor assumed the person sitting at the desk on TV was a woman the way their hands were clasped together and the build of their body and shoulders. However, he wasn’t sure as their face was covered by a mask that resembled a Cheshire cat. Though she sits still behind her there is the sound of commotion and chaos as screams and calls for cooperation can be heard. Trevor finally stops packing his cigarettes and takes one out, placing it between his lips and lighting. He takes a deep drag and exhales letting out a sigh as he does so. It had been a while since he had to respond to a situation like this. The usual adrenaline that would be rushing through his veins was anywhere but inside him. He tossed a couple of dollars on the bar and got the young bartender’s attention.

“Give that to Bret,” he said as he made his way out of the darkened club into the blinding gray light.

The gravel road outside of the TV station is lined with police cars all flashing their lights in a manner that would trigger a seizure for an epileptic. The vans of neighboring news stations adorn the street outside of the police blockades. Their lights act almost in synchronization as the reporters begin their live shots of the scene. This moment was the most exciting thing that had happened in this small Iowa town in some time so it came as no surprise to anyone that it would get as much attention as it did.

The TV station was nothing to remark about. It was your typical gray office building with a large satellite dish pointed north that took up most of the back lot. The lights were dim and everything was inactive save for the occasional shadows that moved inside. The growing crowd outside the police barricade noisily speculated each time they saw movement inside much to the chagrin of the officers positioned there. This was truly a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity and everyone wanted to be there to participate in it – except for Trevor.

He shuffles through the crowd, his cigarette, half-smoked, hanging from his lip as he scans the scene. From the moment that he exited his car, his face was bunched up as if something putrid had taken residency within his nostrils and refused eviction. He reached up to grab the cigarette from his mouth and pluck the ashes, glimpsing at the dull shine from his wedding ring. He wondered what the other officers would think of him taking so long to have come to the scene of something as big as this. It was only his second major call since separating from his partner and he needed to prove himself, he’d already dropped the ball once.

Trevor managed a smile and wave to the two officers manning the barricade as he passed by them, making his way toward the white part tent that acted as the command post for this mission. He stopped as he noticed who was already talking to the captain.

Alejandro Giunti had a good-looking face. The slight scruff that adorned his cheeks and framed his mouth was the look that Trevor had thought he had with his facial hair but was sorely mistaken. His brown eyes were filled with passion that drew you in. His hair was a perfect shade of brown and perfectly messy. The pair of aviator sunglasses that hung from his shirt collar were gold-rimmed and the exact pair that Shawn would wear. They had similar tastes when it came to style and grooming.

They had many similarities. The confidence they exuded was so magnetic that you couldn’t help but cling to their every word when they spoke. They were both from well-off families and Trevor often wondered if they may have been related, but there was no chance. Shawn was proud of his pure German heritage and would spit on the thought of being related to an Italian offshoot. The amount of composure compared to everyone else on the scene was another glaring similarity that Alejandro and Shawn shared.

Trevor hated how quickly Alejandro had risen to the rank of corporal. They didn’t know one another outside of a few passing conversations at the station, but Trevor knew that he didn’t fancy Alejandro. It was no secret that with the captain preparing to retire, the job would be up for grabs and Alejandro made it no secret that he wanted the position. It irked Trevor to hear him speak about his ambitions so freely as if he had worked hard to achieve the respect and rank of captain in a shorter amount of time than he had.

Trevor stamped his cigarette into the ground and made his way to the command tent. The captain smiles and shakes Trevor’s hand.

“Things ain’t looking too good, Trev. I’ve been trying to get dispatch to get you down here for over an hour.”
“Sorry. The wife makes me turn off the radio when we have lunch. You know how women get when they aren’t the center of your attention,” Trevor says with a laugh that is reciprocated by the captain who nods in agreement.
“Trevor, you know Alejandro, right?”

Trevor gave a half smile and nodded at Alejandro who put his hand out for a handshake but quickly retreated it once he realized it was not going to be accepted by the sergeant. Alejandro couldn’t help but chuckle to himself as he’d experienced veterans of the police force acting coldly toward him due to his fast ascension through the ranks. He expected more from Trevor and thought that he was less like his former partners Shawn and Noah, but perhaps he was wrong. Trevor always seemed like the good guy out of the trio who was just following his friend’s lead, but maybe that wasn’t the case.

“Glad to be working alongside you on this one, Sergeant. We’ve already got some intel on one of the terrorists.”
“Terrorists? Is that what we’re calling them?”
“Absolutely. I don’t think we should downplay the severity of what they are doing. I’ve suggested to the captain that we label and treat them as terrorists first and civilians second.”

Trevor couldn’t help but nod as his stomach cooked from the inside. The skin behind his ears burned as he heard how Alejandro spoke. Since when were they working alongside one another? Why was the captain taking his suggestions on how they should label the assailants – although, he had to admit labeling them as terrorists was the right thing to do. Alejandro hadn’t noticed or didn’t care that Trevor had spaced out as he went over the intel they’d gathered.

“Rielle was last seen entering the news station about two hours before the takeover.”
“I’m sorry, did you say Rielle?”
“Yeah. She’d been missing and me and my team have been looking into it. Imagine our surprise when it ended up being all of this.”
“How can you be sure that she’s not a hostage? How do you know she’s one of the assailants?”
“I wanted to be sure before accusing her of being one of the terrorists so I had my team bring in a few of the girls from Pole Position and they confirmed that the voice shouting demands in the background belonged to her.”

Fuck he was good. He was thorough. His thoroughness irritated Trevor beyond measure. He felt his eye twitch as Alejandro laid out more details about how they confirmed it was her. Trevor listened, trying to find one flaw, hell, any flaw in his investigation but couldn’t. Alejandro was young, but he was good.

It all made sense why Rielle would choose to take over the news station. It was the one place in the city that would give her the spotlight and attention she desperately craved. Rielle needed the spotlight and couldn’t accept that she was no longer the apple of anyone’s eye.

She wasn’t above pulling outlandish stunts to get everyone to focus on her. Just the other week she had taken stage time away from one of her girls in the club so that she could perform a routine she had been working on. None of the girls argued with her when she would pull these stunts as they knew that she would get her way one way or the other. They just hated seeing her embarrass herself on the stage struggling to climb to the top of the pole that she once gracefully clung to and slid down with lust and seduction. Now, it would take her several attempts to get up there – falling on her ass and refusing help that she desperately needed. She would teeter and totter as she attempted to walk in the shoes that she once could run in. After many failed attempts at replicating her old routine, she would resort to getting naked and performing a tired old grind that no one wanted to see. Trevor had thrown a couple of dollars on stage for her out of pity, but she grabbed them as if she had earned them.

On the night Rielle disappeared she had again bombed her routine, but this time no one had even provided her with pity tips. Her girls had to help her off the stage as she bawled and begged to stay, demanding that they put the spotlight on her. She pushed them away to bathe in the dull sparkle of the spotlight before leaving the stage and out the backdoor. When Trevor had talked to Bret earlier, he reminded her that Rielle was more than likely going through one of her manic-depressive episodes, but he never thought it would end up like this.

“Based on the blueprints, I’ve come up with a plan for us to neutralize the terrorists without harming the hostages.”

Trevor couldn’t help but snap back into reality as he heard Alejandro speak with directness and in a similar cadence as how Shawn would. The similarities between the two persisted but he couldn’t focus on that he needed to figure out how to put this whole thing to bed.

“I’m suggesting a two-pronged approach – one team for a frontal assault, another for a covert back entrance. The front entrance can only be opened through the inside or with a security fob, which our team has so we shouldn’t have any issue with that. The back entrance will have to be kicked in, but I’ve talked with SWAT leadership and they tell me they’re all good with it. The only thing we need is your signoff, Sergeant.”

Trevor doesn’t immediately respond. He looks over the blueprint again attempting to find a flaw but still to no avail. He almost suggests that they use one of the side entrances but with that many people, they would be easily picked off having to enter one by one. The back and the front entrances were brilliant. Hell, everything he had suggested was brilliant. Trevor lights a fresh cigarette, takes a deep drag, and exhales the smoke upwards – stalling, trying to decide whether to acknowledge Alejandro’s competence or go with another plan; one he didn’t have.

“Seems like you’ve done your homework, Giunti. Are you confident in this plan and intel?”

Alejandro nostrils flare as he takes a deep inhale and places his hands on his hips. He exhales, taking a few steps closer to Trevor locking eyes with him

“I’ve already got the support from the captain, sergeant. Getting yours is a pleasantry. Please forgive me for speaking out of turn but we’re wasting precious time with your hesitation, sir. I know you’re not used to working alongside anyone but Shawn and Noah, but you can trust me. I’ve done my homework. I’ve figured out a tactical plan to end this with no casualties. People’s lives are at stake and I do not have time to massage anyone’s ego. We need to act now!”

The directness of Alejandro catches Trevor off guard. He chuckles at the fact that even still he can see the similarities. He takes one last drag from his cigarette before plucking it from his mouth and crushing it underfoot. Alejandro was right, they did need to act now and he would need to put his ambitions and pride aside, at least for now. He nods acknowledging Alejandro’s orders despite something in his gut telling him they are missing something.

“You’re right. You take the lead on the extraction and I’ll follow point. Let’s get the SWAT team over here to go over the plan.”

With no time to spare Alejandro gathers the SWAT teams and begins to go over the strategy. There is no question as to who is in charge as they listen intently to his every word. Trevor watches on as he thinks about Rielle. How the hell did she get herself mixed up in this mess? What the hell did she think would be the outcome of holding everyone at the news station hostage? Of course, the whole town would be watching her but the moment would only last so long. But everyone will always remember the moment. Maybe that’s what she wanted.

“Sergeant, is there anything that you’d like to add?”
“Where is the surveillance footage?”
“They’ve got it over at the command post. Look, we don’t have time to over that again. Teams, get into place. Await my command.”

Alejandro brushed past Trevor, his gaze fixed ahead and his jaw clenched tight. He could care less to know why Trevor wanted to review the surveillance footage yet again. The respect Alejandro once had for Trevor was now but a memory. He may have been a veteran and led operations like this before, but if his last mission was any indication as to where he was now – Trevor Ocean had lost his touch. Alejandro couldn’t afford to deal with this or anything else at the moment. Saving the hostages was critical to him.

Trevor furrowed his brow as his fingers worked the rewind button on the VCR with the surveillance footage. Alejandro’s whipped his sweaty palms against his pants, his gaze ceased to leave the SWAT teams. He scanned the blueprints once more, then slipped on his headset. His hand trembled as he reached for the unopened water bottle on the table and took two large gulps from it. Alas, his throat and mouth remained dry. Clearing his throat he began.

“Teams, in position,” he rasped, the dryness clawing at his throat. He took another sip, willing the moisture to return. “On my mark be ready to move.” He cast a sideways glance at Trevor, who was enthralled with the surveillance footage. The sound of the tape recoiling back to position as he pressed the rewind button coupled with the sound of the play button being mashed down time after time filled his head.

Rielle appeared on the footage repeatedly, her overly tanned hide was practically luminescent on the grainy footage. Trevor squinted at the screen, running the footage back and forth until realization struck him – someone had buzzed her in!

Alejandro cuffed his hand over his open ear, took a deep breath, and issued the commanding order. The two SWAT teams begin their infiltration of the news station coordinating their entrances. Trevor snatches the headset off of Alejandro’s head and barks a standdown command into the microphone but it is too late. Their heads whip toward the buildings as the first explosion pulsates throughout. It’s quickly followed by a second explosion of blinding bright lights. Trevor grips the microphone tightly and places his hand on the table to steady himself.

“Pull back, Rielle has someone within the news team working with her. I repeat pull back.”

Alejandro grabs a handful of Trevor’s jacket, pulling him almost nose to nose. Trevor could feel the warmth radiating off of Alejandro. He pushed away from the corporal and prepared for whatever would come next. Alejandro clenched his jaw and stared at him his eyes no longer showcasing a sense of calm. No, the calm had subsided and was replaced with an eruption of annoyance and fury that could match Vesuvius.

“What the hell was that, Trevor? We’re supposed to be a team! You don’t just call off the operation without talking to me first. Why are you being difficult about this?”

Trevor’s eyes briefly glanced in Alejandro’s direction but failed to meet his gaze. Without a word, he turned his attention to one of the televisions that began to play the news station’s introduction video. Alejandro wanted to demand a response from Trevor but knew he wouldn’t get one. He too turned his attention toward the television joining Trevor in his focus on the flashing images that danced before them. Trevor stepped forward, leaning in toward the television as the broadcast unfolded.

The Cheshire cat-masked woman from the earlier broadcast continued to sit as still as a mannequin staring forward with one hand strategically placed on the mask. The chrome of a pistol flashed on the screen as her other hand rested atop it. She slowly began to pull the mask over her face, but the Cheshire cat-like grin never left as she gawked at the camera. Her hair is matted and unkempt. Dark circles are pinned under her eyes like a badge of honor for not getting enough sleep.

“This is Katherine Su, speaking from inside KUN TV. What happens when a young investigative reporter attempts to reveal the racism, sexism, and corruption that has marred a local town’s police department for years? She is demoted and ostracized from the very community that she tried to help.

23-year-old Katherine Su, also known as Katy Su, had tirelessly investigated former police officer Shawn Summers after he racially profiled her and treated her like a secondhand citizen during a routine traffic stop. He brandished her with racial slurs and questioned her status as a citizen of these United States simply because she was of Asian descent,” Katherine spat the words like venom, her voice steady but charged.

The mere mention of Shawn’s name and the accusations against him sent a jolt throughout Trevor’s body. His back stiffed as Katherine rehashed the same accusations she’d thrown against the department and Shawn. He dug his fingernails into the palms of his hand as he kept his struggled to keep his eyes on the screen.

Katherine had no problem keeping her gaze on the barrel of the camera lens. When Katherine brought these accusations to light, she was told that she was overreacting and that there was nothing to her claims. Investigations showed that Katherine had not overreacted and was right that Shawn was a racist, sexist, homophobic, stain on society. However, as a ‘beloved’ member of the community, Shawn used his influence to ostracize Katherine from everyone and openly mocked her mental struggles until she had to take some time away, but she’s back now. She’s back and all eyes are on me now, aren’t they, Shawn?”

With each of Katherine’s words, his breathing became shallow and he was confronted with a whirlwind of memories long buried.

“In other news, local small business owner Rielle Monaco was found safely after local police officers refused to look into her disappearance blaming it on her ‘need for attention’. The caramel-skinned goddess was found by local investigative journalist, Katherine Su, and nursed through a manic episode. We turn live to my broadcast partner Rielle Monaco. Rielle?”

“Thank you…Katy,” Rielle stammered as the camera focused on her. She was not as polished with her delivery as Katherine. She constantly raked her hands against her dress, attempting to straighten it out. Her words were almost inaudible as she stuttered and stammered through her monologue. It was painful to watch someone who was once a shining beacon in the town become a broken version of herself.

Katherine Su and Rielle droned on, their accusations of wrongdoing and and being disrespected echoed throughout the air. Alejandro’s eyes narrowed, his lips pursed to the side as a mix of frustration and annoyance flashed across his face. Without a word, he approaches the television and presses the power button watching as the screen goes dark abruptly cutting off the latest tirade from Katherine. Trevor’s blinked, his eyes refocusing as silence fills the tent.

“I think we’ve heard enough from those two, yeah?” Alejandro said, his delivery a combination of calm and firmness. He allows his gaze to meet Trevor’s. “Attention whores. That’s what they are. There is no need to feed into it. We need to focus on getting the hostages out.” Trevor nodded, the resolve within him hardening. “You’re right,” he replied as he rubbed his eyes, attempting to shake off the lingering fog of the broadcast.

Alejandro pat Trevor on the shoulder giving him a reassuring squeeze that conveyed a sense of solidarity and urgency that hadn’t been seen since the two met on the site. “Time to regroup. Let’s go.”

With the SWAT team regrouped, Alejandro and Trevor gathered with them around the table with the blueprints of the station laid out before them. Alejandro took his place at the head of the table, as Trevor stood next to him ready to support his decision. “It’s time to get those hostages out of there,” Alejandro began, his tone decisive. “Katherine Su and Rielle Monaco are looking for the time in the spotlight, but their five minutes are up. Here’s the plan.”

Alejandro and. Trevor laid out their plan with clarity and precision, each step calculated to ensure the hostage's safety. The atmosphere in the room had shifted from apprehension and tension to that of determination. As the plan was finalized, the team nodded in unison ready to carry out the plan.

The sun slowly begins to set in the distance as Alejandro, Trevor and the SWAT team begin to get into position. Trevor grips his hands against the straps of his bulletproof vest. His mouth fills with saliva that comes out as a glob as he spits it on the ground. He takes shallow breaths as his grip turns from the straps to that of his pistol.

Alejandro says a prayer to himself, stuttering over his words as they prepare for the extraction. He finishes and notices Trevor. He reaches out to calm him but retreats when he notices his hand shaking. He stamped his feet in place and took a few deep breaths before signaling to the teams. He directs them to get in position before signaling for them to begin the mission.

The SWAT teams, again, flank the building from the rear and the front as flash bangs and explosions go off yet again. Trevor and Alejandro moved silently through the side doors, flanked in the darkness of the television studio. The hallways of the studio were eerily quiet and remained empty – the absence of additional assailants heightening the already tense moment. Trevor’s heartbeat drummed in his ears as he checked down every corner expecting to be face to face with an enemy. Alejandro and him were in sync as if they’d been partners for years, communicating through silent hand signals and an exchange of looks.

As they reached the studio floor, Alejandro raised a clenched fist to signal to Trevor to stop. He points to Rielle who is pacing and muttering to herself off to the side while Katherine continues her manifesto against Shawn Summers. He points at Rielle and signals for Trevor to stay put as he sticks to the shadows allowing him to conceal his movements. Using the shrieking screams of lost composure from Katherine, Alejandro shrouds his footsteps as he closes in on Rielle. In one swift motion, Alejandro lunges, wrapping his arm around her neck, his other hand covering her mouth as he squeezes. Rielle’s eyes bulge from her head as she flounders within Alejandro’s grip. He grips tighter and feels her body begin to stiffen as he pulls her to the ground. She tried once more to struggle free from his grip but to no avail. Alejandro gently lays her limp body down and secures Rielle with handcuffs as Trevor turns his attention to Katherine.

“I’m cutting this segment short, Katherine,” Trevor says as he emerges from the shadows with his gun trained on Katherine who jumps, startled as she fumbles to point her pistol at him. Trevor notices her hands shaking and can see her chest expand and decompress as he aims at her. He puts his gun down and slowly approaches.

“It’s funny Katherine, I’ve been thinking about similarities a lot today. I’ve seen a lot of similarities between people today, but one similarity didn’t become clear to me until now. You and I have a similarity. Do you know what that is? Don’t answer that, I know you don’t. Your mind is so one-tracked that you wouldn’t know the obvious unless someone told you. The similarity that you and I share is – Shawn Summers,” he said with a smirk watching Katherine simmer with anger in her chair as she was forced to turn her attention to him. Trevor didn’t fancy himself a very good talker and usually left interrogations to Shawn or Noah. However, at this moment, he felt more comfortable than ever.

“Shawn Summers is the reason why we’re both here, Katherine. But, that’s where our similarities end. It’s over. I’d rather not disclose our differences, drop your weapon, and come with us.”

“Come with you? DROP MY WEAPON?!? You’re just like him. Thinking that you can tell me what to do because I’m a woman. Thinking that you can control me? I’m still in charge. If you take one more step my squad will open fire and start killing hostages.”

“No, they won’t Katherine. They’re not going to do that. You know that and I know that. But how do I know that? How am I so sure that that’s not going to happen? It’s because I know who you are Katherine. You’re a liar. There is no death squad. It’s just you,” Trevor says as he casts a squinty smile toward Katherine slowly approaching further as she stumbles backward with the gun still brandished and pointed toward him.

“You’ve always been a liar Katherine. It’s why you never made it at any of the other news markets that you were previously in. Luckily for them, they figured that out quicker than KUN TV did. Yep. They figured out that you’re a liar and shit starter that would do anything to be the center of attention. I wonder if they knew that you would stoop to THIS level for attention. Taking over a news station and securing hostages? That’s…crazy, Katy.”

“Don’t call me that,” she barked at Trevor. He smirked and raised his hands as if to say sorry.

“I’m sorry, Katherine. It was wrong of me to speak to you with such familiarity because we’re not familiar with one another. You don’t know me. You only know that Shawn Summers was –“ Trevor pauses as he stops to think about his words. He hadn’t thought about it, but was he still friends with Shawn? Despite the bad that Shawn had done could he still consider him a friend. He shook his head to bring himself back to reality before continuing.

“Forgive me, I had a momentary lapse in clarity. Where was I? Oh yeah. You only know that Shawn Summers is one of my old partners. You think that I need him and his name to remain relevant, but in, actuality it’s you who needs him. You’ve built your entire time in this town around him. Your greatest defeat in life came from him and his words and I can tell you for a fact that he doesn’t even think about you. You were a moment in time for him and he is your justification for existing here. That’s sad. It’s actually pathetic.”

Katherine raises her her gun again to Trevor and a large bang sends her body jerking backward before falling forward and crumpling at the desk. Trevor turns and notices Alejandro with the gun pointed, his stance firm, and his hands trembling. Trevor looks at Katherine and turns to Alejandro helping him lower his weapon as the SWAT team enters the room.

As the members of SWAT approach and congratulate Alejandro on the great shot and subduing both suspects, Trevor smirks to himself. Regardless of who he teams with, he'll still be seen as the backup. That's sometimes how life goes. He lights another cigarette and takes a long drag, exhaling before walking out as the scene fades to black.

supinesnake
Administrator

Posts: 1,016

Meltdown XLI & Fallout 041 (Jun '24) Jun 30, 2024 14:04:55 GMT

Post by supinesnake on Jun 30, 2024 14:04:55 GMT

Originally posted by rawr.

Alyster Black
&
Violet Dreyer
are
A Tag Team That Was Thrown Together
in
An RP That Was Posted on This Cycle

“Fuck, this flight.”

Alyster Black was furious, more so than he had been in months, but not for the obvious reasons. He wasn’t upset about the big Donny Toner identity reveal, he wasn’t upset at Krash’s refusal to partake in the main event of Back in Business. He was furious because his impromptu trip back home to Australia was mired by economy class.

“Every fucking first class seat was taken.” He mumbled to himself, hissing under his breath as he sat between two men resembling Nate Savage and Bryan Baxter, men whose arms were encroaching in his personal space; an indignity he would suffer no further.

“Oi, dickheads, move your fucking elbows. Don’t you know the protocol? Aisle seat gets an arm rest and some leg room, window seat gets a window and wall to rest against, MIDDLE SEAT GETS BOTH ARMRESTS!”

The men were unfazed, or simply not paying attention. Their eyes were glued to the tiny screen in front of them, their hearing preoccupied by the sound of gun fire and incessant unintelligible screaming as they mindlessly consumed the latest gun play shlock to grace the big screen, all tastefully edited down so as not to offend even the least sensitive of viewer.

“You bastards.”

Alyster grit his teeth as he twisted uncomfortably between the two boulders that were slowly suffocating and draining the life from him.

“You unbelievably selfish bastards.”

He wondered what he had done in his life to deserve such treatment. Whatever it was that had incurred the wrath of whatever higher being that may or may not exist, it must have been quite bad. If you asked him after the fact he’d deny it, but at that moment all Alyster Black could do was cry.

And sob he did for the remainder of his flight until finally he arrived in Melbourne. Exiting the baggage terminal, he scanned the gormless crowd for that familiar face, eyes flickering over signs after signs, held by tired, gormless drivers, here to pick up whatever friend, colleague, or passenger they had gotten stuck with.

‘WELCOME HOME FROM PRISON, FRANK.’

One of the brick-build beefcakes shambled past him much like a zombie with only slightly less grace, with a grunt that sounded less like a word of greeting and more of a body protesting being forced to hold up such a sack of shit. Alyster’s gaze moved to another sign.

‘SORRY ABOUT THE FAILED REHAB, KYLE.’

The other beef-build brick shithouse shrugged his way past, openly scratching at his wrist, mumbling something beneath his breath. Feeling suddenly relieved the two fat fucking bozos didn’t hear his protests and adominishments during the plane ride, Alyster moved his eyeline to yet another sign.

‘CONGRATULATIONS ON YOUR PENIS EXTENSION SURGERY, AL.’

“Ha. Wonder what sucker that’s for.”

Alyster’s gaze drifted to the figure holding the sign, and he swore as the painfully recognizable bright green mohawk bobbed, swaying.

“Oh, you shitbag.”

And so, he begrudgingly trailed towards the person with the sign, where he was greeted not by the Carnal Contendership winner as he imagined he would be, but by his friend, and yours (frankly, she’s everyone’s friend) (take notes, Jeremy) (you fuckin’ weirdo), Violet Dreyer. With the kind of smug grin normally seen on those with a hobby of seal clubbing, Violet waved Alyster over, branding the sign a bit too wildly for Alyster’s tastes.

“Sup, dork. Enjoy the flight?”

“Fuck no. You seen the two bozos I got stuck with?”

“What, the obesity twins? They seem fun.”

“Sure, if you don’t like breathing. Loads of fun.”

“Emphasis on loads.”

“Yeah, I-”

“Because they’re fat.”

“Yeah, I got that, thanks.”

The two made their way through the airport, Violet thankfully depositing the sign in a nearby bin (“waste-basket” for those of you who are vernacularly impaired (Americans)). A handful of people seemed to recognize Alyster, but seemed to obey the sacred airline rule of ‘Not Bothering People At The Airport You Fucking Nitwit’. Alyster rewarded them by flipping the bird at them. They seemed happy about it. Better not question it.

“So, where’s Moustache Fuck? Thought he was picking me up.”

Violet shot Alyster a glance, that smug smirk fading into a tight-lipped grimace, and Alyster suddenly felt a wave of awkwardness run over him.

“Whaddya know. Plans change.”

Alyster hesitated, before clearing his throat.

”Is it because of the, uh. The thing…? With me and Chris, and… The Jeremy mention?”

Violet shot him a glare, and Alyster swiftly fell silent. The two moved through the crowd without another word, Violet not offering to help Alyster with his luggage, unsurprisingly. In fairness she wouldn’t have offered either way, and she would’ve likely thrown more luggage at Alyster to carry if she had it on hand. Instead, she quietly led him out of the airport, to her shitty off-white ‘97 Commodore. Brushing away a parking ticket, Violet yanked open the boot (‘trunk’ for those of you who are vernacularly impaired) in the sole helpful motion she had made in at least three weeks, before leaving Alyster to pack his shit in himself.

”You know it wasn’t on purpose, right? It just slipped out.”

“I know.”

”Chris didn’t-”

“Motherfucker, I know, alright? Shut the fuck up and get in, we got places to be.”

”... Your car sucks.”

“Oh, fuck, I’m sorry Mr. California Mansion, Sir High Fuckwads Of Cash Every Week Because I Got That Fat Fucking Money Contract, fuck me for not swimming in cash or having steady employment. You know the economy is in shambles, right?”

”Yeah, no, that’s fair, that was shortsighted of me, my bad.”

“Why do you think I keep bugging you or whiskers for a nepotism contract?”

“I thought you were being facetious.”

“I was being fucking poor.”

“No one likes a nepo baby, Vi. Have you not seen the reaction Jean-Luc gets?”
The two drove in silence, mostly due to the stereo in Violet’s shitty off-white ‘97 Commodore being broken. Alyster aimlessly stared at the roof of the car, eyes closed, not asleep but doing a damn good impression of it. It wasn’t until half an hour later that a thought occurred to him.

“Wait. If you’re driving me around, am I not crashing at Krash’s? No pun intended.”

“Nah. You can sleep on my couch and fuckin’ thank me for it.”

“Do I get to finally see the day-to-day life of FWA’s most popular unsigned wrestler, Violet Dreyer?”

“Rub it the fuck in, why don’t you. Maybe later, we got a pitstop to make. Someone wants to see you.”

Alyster opened his eyes, as Violet’s shitty off-white ‘97 Commodore came to a halt. He let out a groan as his eyes laid rest on a metal warehouse, one he hadn’t seen for a long time, on purpose. Three letters were affixed to the sign nailed to the front of the warehouse, with space for a fourth letter that had long since fallen off.

VCA.

Or, with the missing letter, VCAA. Victorian Combat Arts Association. Aka, Alyster’s training ground that he had long, long since moved on from. Owned and operated by one Murphy Dreyer, who, as luck would have it, had some family ties to Alyster’s companion, Violet.

“You brought me back here?”

“Yup.”

“Fuck you, you’re a monster, why the fuck would you do that?”

“Like I said. Someone wants to see you.”

Without waiting for another word, Violet kicked her door open, getting out and waiting pointedly. Alyster groaned, moaned, and whined, lethargically putting it off as long as possible until he bowed his head, leaving the car and following Violet towards the warehouse. They stepped through the doors, witnessing a small crowd of wrestling students being ‘trained’ rather poorly all things considered. One of the rookies fell right on his head with no-one saying a word, while an old, wheelchair-bound man only shook his head.

Alyster jerked his head towards the old man.

"Cunt?"
Violet rolled her eyes with a huff, quietly shaking her head.

“Cunt."
Alyster paused, before gesturing once more.

"Cunt…?"
Violet squinted, then let out a sigh, relenting.

“... Cunt."
The two nodded, before turning to Murphy Dreyer as one.

"Oi cunt."

The aforementioned wheel-chair bound man turned, a gross smirk on his features as he rolled on over. The cunt (‘treasured associate’ for those of you who are vernacularly impaired) (among other things) (it’s a very flexible term) crushed some poor rookie’s toes underneath his wheelchair as he creaked on over, beaming.

“Alyster, my prized student!”

“I’m… Also here, dad.”

Murphy Dreyer waved a hand flippantly. Alyster glanced around, shifting uncomfortably, noting the large banner with his own visage hanging from the rafters, where he was pretty sure someone else’s banner was hanging there last time he came around.

“I thought Krash was your prized student.”

“Who?”

Alyster cast a side glance towards Violet, who only rolled her eyes.

“Oh. You mean- Ha! That fuckin’ guy? The idiot who ditched a shot at gold because of, what was the reason? Trauma? Ha! Get real.”

Alyster narrowed his eyes, taking a step forward, fist clenching. Violet quickly placed a hand on his arm, quietly shaking her head. Alyster exhaled, letting his fist relax, before facing Murphy Dreyer once more.

“What do you want, Murph?”

“Please. Call me coach.”

“I’d rather saw my dick in half, lengthwise.”

Undeterred, Murphy wheeled his chair around Alyster, circling him in a way that might’ve been intimidating if it wasn’t coming from a shrunken old man in a creaky wheelchair.

“Well, a little birdie told me that you and my daughter-”

“Urgh.”

“-have something of an exhibition match this upcoming Falldown. Or is it Meltout? Whatever. And I just thought, well, the FTN group is so… Varied, but maybe you could do with my expertise too.”

“Are y- Are you asking to join the FTN Family? Are you fucking with me? You gotta tell me if you’re fucking with me.”

“No, I’m not fucking with y-”

“I mentioned the dick sawing thing, right? Violet, did I mention the dick sawing thing?””

“Lengthwise.”

“Yeah, see? Would rather do that. Fuck off Murphy. Our mostly useless wheelchair bound cunt quota is filled.”

Violet squinted, turning to Alyster with her mouth open. Alyster promptly shushed her, quietly begging her not to recap what just happened on Fallout.

“Besides, it’s more of a Chris call than anything.”

“Peacock! Oh, he’d make for a terrific student. Another nepo baby in the industry, just like my daughter here. Give him my regards.”

“I will not.”

“Hmph. Suit yourself. I expect you’ll come crawling back sooner or later. My prize student owes me his care-”

“Shut the fuck up. Jesus. And stop telling people you trained me. Your contribution to my training is akin to a small child’s contribution toward dying of measles. I’m going now. We’re going now?”

Violet shrugged, nodding.

“Yeah, we’re going now.”

“Thank god.”

The two turned, starting to exit. Murphy Dreyer made a halfhearted effort to follow in his wheelchair, but got stuck behind a moderately sized pebble, blocking one wheel.

“Oh, and Alyster? My prized student? Tell that fuckup Krash that I’ll be seeing him soon.”

“No.”

Alyster promptly slammed the door of the warehouse behind him, before following Violet to the car.

“Fuck I’m pissed off. I’m legitimately going to kill one or two people on Fallout. I swear to fucking christ, I cannot fucking deal right now. I am so goddamn angry, I will be tearing genitalia from crotches. That’s how mad I am.”

“Sounds like my kind of party.”

Alyster is seething in the car, watching as the VCA sign behind slowly disappears from view.

“But, now that we’ve got that commitment out of the way. Now what?”

“Now? Now it’s my time to shine! The Violet-portion of the adventure! Everyone loves me, I’m what they’re here for, you get to experience MY day-to-day life now!”

We then cut to black because this ~~promo~~ shitpost is over.

supinesnake
Administrator

Posts: 1,016

Meltdown XLI & Fallout 041 (Jun '24) Jun 30, 2024 14:05:15 GMT

Post by supinesnake on Jun 30, 2024 14:05:15 GMT

Originally posted by TGO.

Sierra walks down the hallway of the cheap motel in Montreal, Ontario, Canada where The Menage are staying. She has uncovered something, but she’s not at all sure exactly what. Her phone is in her hand – unlocked – with an image on the screen.

When she turns the corner, she can hear the voice of XYZ through the walls. He’s sitting in the two-bed room with his mom, Lizzy, Frank, Christian Howard, and Wild Jerry. It’s a tight fit for the seven of them to sleep together in a two-bed motel room, but they make it work thanks to three of them sleeping on the floor every night. They would sleep in the Magic School Bus, but it’s still being repaired.

"When the moons align with the stars, you must chase the rabbit with the purple tail,” XYZ says on the phone, which Sierra hears through the motel room door.

She pushes it open to see XYZ talking gleefully into the phone while his mom gives him a back scratch.

“And the purple tail ... is your blossoming career in the eyes of the world of wrestling demons. My XYZites will be with you in peace as we fight together for the light."

X hangs up the phone before the person on the other end of the line can respond in full.

“Who was that?” Sierra asks.

“That? Oh, that is my tag team partner for Fallout! Gino Galucci. Fine kid. FINE kid. He’d make a good addition to the XYZites, if we have an opening.”

“I think we might be getting a little too crowded,” Sierra says.

“Hmm? Well. I don’t know.”

Sierra has been one of the biggest advocates of X trying to find his mom. She sent out ads, feelers, internet fliers. Anything to send a signal to her. Then, when X’s mom showed up in Paris and joined the group, Sierra felt she finally gave X something. She might have accomplished something for him.

She feels maybe it is time for her and Lizzy to part ways with The Menage. Maybe it is time for them to forge their own path, possibly away from the FWA. There is too much pain from the memory of him, and everyone knows it. Sierra feels lonely. Lizzy is fine, but Sierra cannot fathom leaving her daughter behind.

So she began conceptualizing possibly leaving the group. She hasn’t told Lizzy yet. Only problem is, she had this pit in her stomach. A gut feeling. She felt a pull to stick around and check on this woman. XYZ’s mom. Is there something Sierra could find out about her?

“X, I need to show you something. Can we chat in private?”

Frank, Christian Howard, and Lizzy are sitting on one of the beds watching “Bourne Identity” on a cable channel. They’re gripped to the TV. PacMan Bert is, as you’d expect, playing his handheld PacMan game. X and his mom are the only two giving Sierra any attention at all.

“Can I join you two?” X’s mom asks. “I need some fresh air.”

“I uh … I’d rather show X myself. It’s important for theeeee ... theeee ... match.”

“Well, I’m part of the group now, right? I think I can help! Maybe offer some insight.”

“How about I tell X and then he can tell you if he thinks he needs advice? Sometimes we all start giving advice and it never really goes well. Remember, X, when everyone started talking at the same time in that galaxy that one time when we were trying to save those rabbit-faced people?”

“Ah, yes. Planet Bulbasaur. I remember that. One of Wild Jerry’s not-so-finest moments.”

“Speaking of Wild Jerry,” Sierra says under her breath.

“Huh?” X asks.

“No, nothing. Let’s go outside. I have something you should know about …”

Sierra forgets momentarily who X and Gino Galucci are facing.

“Brooklyn Xavier and Sawyer Steiner.”

“No, no, it’s Brooklyn Sawyer and Xavier Steiner,” X replies.

Frank suddenly looks up from the television.

“I don’t think that’s it, either. I think it’s Steiner Sawyer and Xavier Brooklyn.”

“Are you sure X isn’t facing El Vengador again?” Lizzy asks.

“No, I’m sure of it! And it’s Brooklyn Galucci and Gino Steiner.”

“Then who is your partner?”

“Which partner?” X asks.

“The one you were just on the phone with!” Sierra says, losing her patience.

“Hey! Don’t shout at my son!” X’s mom barks, rising up from the bed.

“You know, I think I should come to your little palwal chat. I don’t like how you’re speaking to my boy.”

“I’m sorry. X, I’m sorry. Please, let’s go chat.”

“Okay, but first, let’s land on who we’re facing.”

“You’re facing Gino Galucci and Brooklyn Steiner. Sawyer Xavier is your partner. It doesn’t matter right now. Come on.”

“Well, I think it may matter a little who he’s wrestling,” X’s mom says.

“Are we sure X isn’t in the North American Championship Open Challenge?” Lizzy asks, stoking the confusion.

“He has never been North American Champion!” Frank barks.

“Ooooooooooh, that’s right,” she says with a smirk.

“Lizzy, stop now,” Sierra remarks. “X, please. Let’s go in the hall.”

“XYZ is teaming with Gino Galucci and he’s facing Sawyer Xavier and Brooklyn Steiner,” Christian Howard says sternly. "We should all know this. ... Ugh, what did I get myself into when I left that marketing job?"

No one replies back for a while. Frank nods his head and returns to the movie. So, too, does Lizzy. X’s mom shrugs her shoulders and offers a “sounds right to me.”

As X walks out of the room and into the hallway, he can sense Sierra’s consternation in her energy.

“Sierra, you are one of my trusted friends. What is going on here?”

“X … I have to show you something I found. This is a picture that was posted on your mom’s Instagram a few weeks ago.”

She hands him the phone.

“Okay?”

“Look at the date.”

“May 14.”

“Now look at the location.”

“Mexico City?"

“Don’t you think that’s a little odd?”

“That my mom was in Mexico City? Not at all. She told me she has been traveling quite a bit.”

“But we were recently in Mexico City.”

“Okay? Maybe she has been following us for some time now.”

“I just find it a bit coincidental. It … I don’t know. Something feels weird about that to me.”

“Sierra … I would not feel any weird in your stomach pits. I at first was hesitant to trust her. But everything she has said … it sounds like my mom. It feels like my mom. She even looks like the person I remember.”

“Maybe you just want to remember her this way, X.”

“Why are you so concerned, Sierra?”

“I don’t want you to be hurt. I’m not saying she is lying. I’m just saying maybe … she has bad intentions. She was gone for nearly THIRTY years, X. Why is she back now?”

“I wondered the same thing, but I have stopped wondering and am just enjoying it. I am getting back the childhood I lost, Sierra. A piece of me is healing. I need you – more than anyone else – to be happy for me. You know more than anyone how difficult this has been for me, not having her. Not having my own mother in my life.”

“I get it, X. I do. I don’t have … you know who … my own husband … Lizzy’s father. It’s painful. I can empathize with you. But … I don’t know …”

“I cannot help but wonder if your own pain is making you subconsciously want me to also suffer in pain with you. I can’t help but wonder if you are subconsciously sabotaging this for me, Sierra. I hope not, but it is in my head.”

“X, I …”

“Please drop it. Just … Mexico City … is Mexico City. It can be a coincidence, or it can be another clue that yes, she was trying to find us for a while. And maybe she just missed us by a few weeks.”

“A month. More than a month.”

“And maybe it’s a coincidence. Sierra, if you do not drop this, then I am not sure I want you to join us for Falldown. I want a united front. I cannot have inner turmoil. There's too much of that with The Coven and Wild Jerry. Can you please just ... put this to a mental resting place? Nothing is afoot in the outer galaxies of the XYZites and bulbasaurians.”

X leaves Sierra in the hallway holding out her phone – which is now locked – and returns to the motel room. Before entering through the door, he gives a dramatic, melancholy look back at Sierra before looking down and walking into the room.

The door then closes behind him, and as Sierra walks by, she peers into the window and sees X sit next to his mom on the bed, his backscratch continuing.

supinesnake
Administrator

Posts: 1,016

Meltdown XLI & Fallout 041 (Jun '24) Jun 30, 2024 14:16:49 GMT

Post by supinesnake on Jun 30, 2024 14:16:49 GMT

Promos posted by PDF.

Bryan Baxter (originally posted by Dubb).

Katsu and Gabrielle (originally posted by Rosie).

Chris Peacock (originally posted by Man).

Aaron Harrows, Johnny Johnson, and Vengador (originally posted by Gip).

The Coven (originally posted by Welsh).

supinesnake
Administrator

Posts: 1,016

Meltdown XLI & Fallout 041 (Jun '24) Jun 30, 2024 14:20:15 GMT

Post by supinesnake on Jun 30, 2024 14:20:15 GMT

XLI: “41//416”.

Live from the Scotiabank Arena in Toronto, Ontario, Canada.
Thursday 13th June, 2024.

Meltdown XLI & Fallout 041 (Jun '24)

Post by supinesnake on Jun 30, 2024 14:01:23 GMT

Post by supinesnake on Jun 30, 2024 14:01:43 GMT

Post by supinesnake on Jun 30, 2024 14:02:31 GMT

Post by supinesnake on Jun 30, 2024 14:03:00 GMT

Post by supinesnake on Jun 30, 2024 14:03:29 GMT

Post by supinesnake on Jun 30, 2024 14:04:05 GMT

Post by supinesnake on Jun 30, 2024 14:04:31 GMT

Post by supinesnake on Jun 30, 2024 14:04:55 GMT

Post by supinesnake on Jun 30, 2024 14:05:15 GMT

Post by supinesnake on Jun 30, 2024 14:16:49 GMT

Post by supinesnake on Jun 30, 2024 14:20:15 GMT

Post by supinesnake on Jun 30, 2024 14:20:53 GMT

Post by supinesnake on Jun 30, 2024 14:39:46 GMT