Post by Killian King on Oct 18, 2014 9:17:59 GMT -5
“A wretched hive of scum and villainy...”
One would only imagine with an opening line as such, that we'd find our protagonist in the midst of an underhanded business dealing, surrounded by a plethora of bloodthirsty, remorseless, and emotionally starved killers for hire while he, by all appearances, keeps a cool and calm profile, and yet remains all too ready to flip the table between them and fight his way out. You'd be close... real close.
PMN lawyers.
We find “The Crucible” seated not behind his desk where he should be, but on top. He sits in a such a way that one foot is touching the ground, the other pulled up at the knee, a finely-pressed solid black suit covering his powerful frame. His matching black coat has been tossed over the back of his office chair.
“Why wouldn't I have read it?-- Of course I've read it, riveting content, truly. I mean I feel like a better individual after reading it, I couldn't even put it down once. It's as if God Himself spoke through those pages and straight into my soul,-- shall I go on?”
Killian watches the group of “suits”, all huddled in together, their faces honestly blending in amongst one another, until only their voices make them distinct.
“Mister King, we simply inquired if you had read and signed the forms located in the back of The Piercing Media company handbook... ”
His dark brow arches as a heavy exhale escapes his lips.
“But now we have to consider that you may not have even glanced at it...”
Killian sneers. “You would...”
The assemblage of lawyers sigh in unison, before casting a disapproving frown at the newest associate of The Piercing Media Network family. “The Arbiter of Violence” responds with his own look of disdain. He keeps a red foam stress ball clenched in his grasp, tightening with every word from their nasalized voices.
“Sir, if you're not being entirely truthful--” One of them pipes up, attempting diplomacy.
A new voice breaks the tension from behind them.
“If that man ever tells you 'Good morning', he's already lied to you twice.”
With the synchronized shuffling of feet, the grouping of PMN's lawyers spins around to catch a glimpse of Alan Wallace standing in the door.
“Ah, such a pity guys, but I'm afraid we're out of time here. So why don't we, as you say, 'put a pin in it', and we'll revisit this whole issue again another time?”
Formed as a question, it was still extremely telling that he had not meant it as such. The gathering of legal expertise known as “Legion” around the office begins their objections.
“But... but Mister King, you would be advised to...”
Killian stands up to his full height, towering over everyone in the room besides “The Vain One”. He begins ushering the party toward the door, the stress ball's shape changing quickly in his palm.
“And I'd love nothing more than to continue this assembly gents, and learn exactly what it is you'd advise me to do, but sadly Wallace and I have a meeting to attend...”
“Vain recalls no such itinerary...” echoes his colleague, before catching a red foam stress ball to the side of the head at a high velocity. Killian glares at “The Money Maker” as Vain's hand raises to massage the injured area.
“Ah yes. Vain suddenly recalls this meeting. Best we hurry, Killian,” he grits out, Killian giving him an approving nod over the heads of the assembled.
Unfortunately, lawyers are not a group easily dissuaded, and as a group without even having to speak, they had decided to take Vain's first reaction over his second, as many could make the allegation that it was given under duress. The group places their collective feet firmly on the ground, black leather shoes of either gender description digging in and indicating their determination in this matter. The act of defiance falls short, however, as Killian still heralds them toward the direction of the door, his body acting as a wall. In the absence of space between them, one of them women amongst the body of suits finds herself extremely close to Mr. King. Close enough, in fact, to smell him.
“Relax... we'll come back to this,” his words softly spoken but in his deep and gravelly voice, brooking no disobedience. The grouping starts to move forward, the female at the back trying to turn and gaze at Killian. Her breathing becomes more rapid, pupils dilating as she watches him over her shoulder, her voice coming throaty and soft.
“He...he smells like the woods, cinnamon, vanilla and... mmm musk.”
She trips over the last parts of her words, her eyes meeting Killian's before falling backwards into the others, full state of swoon in effect. The other lawyers all look at Killian, who raises an eyebrow, as if daring one of them to accuse him of anything deliberate. Several of the other women in the small gathering try to inch their way forward as Killian pushes them out the door.
“No, no, no stopping. I'm afraid our time has come to an end. No worries, I trust you.” Killian closes the door behind them, his head resting upon the back of the door as we hear it click.
“I trust you...” Vain repeats in a voice dripping with sarcasm. “'The Vain One's' sure that Jet and Travis told Miss Morgan the same...” Killian's attention turns toward his accomplice, the glare not quite resolved from his face.
“No doubt with that dumbfounded look of Jet's, and that 'you-just-kicked-my-puppy' voice of his as well.”
“Need I remind you of who brought us to this current dance, and what actions transpired to make that happen?” Vain asks Killian, his voice on the cusp of incredulous.
“Need I emphasize why I had to come here in the first place?” Killian responds, loosening his tie just a bit.
Vain watches him for a moment, a perplexed look grasping his face.
“Why must you answer 'Mr. Ego's' questions with yet another question and bring up matters that 'The Vain Lord' wishes not to dwell on anymore?”
Killian gives a gravelly chuckle.
“It's very simple Alan, and I know you would agree if you weren't still smarting from that stress ball to the side of the head” Vain glares at Killian as he continues, “... Miss Morgan is exceedingly wealthy, excessively intelligent, unarguably alluring beyond all reason, and powerful in a manner that Dirge only pretends to be, especially now.”
Killian watches his old friend out of the corner of his eye, Vain standing silently, apparently listening to Killian's explanation.
“She's also spot-on manipulative, highly aggressive, exceptionally vicious...” Killian steps back toward his desk, noticing his partner has ceased in his attentions.“And for fuck's sake, you haven't listened to any of this, have you?”
'Vanity at its Finest's' eyes shift toward Killian.
“'The Vain One' moved past this conversation some time ago, Killian...” Vain responds, leaving Killian to contemplate the present disadvantages of prematurely throwing one's stress ball. Again.
“'The Vain One' is currently considering our level of friendship in the face of your lack of hosting skills, when you've clearly yet to offer him a drink before such a lengthy discourse.”
A dangerously smug look moves over Killian's face as he smirks.
“Wallace...” Killian queries.
“...Yes?” Vain replies in a perfectly polite response.
“Deer Park water... would you care for one?”
The face of 'Arrogance Personified' turns to one of disdain, as if insulted by his host's words. Vain's lower lip trembles as if fighting back the need to vomit, raising a hand as if to stave off just such an occurrence.
“'The Vain One' does not drink such trash as Deer Park brand bottled water, bottled in its toxic plastic containers, like your everyday Joe would drink from. No sir, 'The Vain One' deserves the best that planet Earth has to offer him, not her backwater urine samples... No! 'The Vain One' only quenches his thirst with God's ambrosia, with Veen brand water, bottled in glass, just as Mother Nature intended for water to be.”
“What... in the fuck.. is the difference?” Killian growls back.
“'The Vain One'... is bloody well worth it, right, mate?”
Vain turns around to find his associate's mouth gaped open with his brow arched. A look one would feel warranted only if someone were to defecate on sacred grounds.
“What was that?” Killian asks directly.
“British... slang?” answers Vain, more questioning then actually answering.
“Are you absolutely positive about that?” Killian holds up his hand as to stop him from answering, before he continues.
“When's the last time you heard me actually call someone 'mate', refer to a woman as a 'bird', or tell someone to 'bugger off?' You yourself hail from the States, but when's the last time you dropped a dude, or perhaps a yee-haw? You're as bad as Eden, spending two hours arguing with me over how I pronounce aluminum.”
Sometime later in the day, we find Killian King strolling through a random floor of the building, surrounded by a maze of cubicles. The sleeves of his pitch dark shirt are unbuttoned and rolled up to his elbows, revealing his tattooed arms. His black tie remains tucked into place neatly inside his black vest, at war with the sleeves of his button-down. Killian walks alongside the man who most often handles his day-to-day affairs as his agent, assistant, and representative. Vain addresses the gentleman as Killian's “manservant”, but his name is Richard Nottingham, and his preferred title is 'steward', a fact that Vain has been told many times, and just as many times ignored.
“So you're telling me that the girl at the coffee shop withheld your beverage, until you sated her need to hear you pronounce the word 'strawberry'?” Killian asks, trying to keep the laughter from his voice as they continue their path through the labyrinth of desks and three walled prisons.
“Like a fucking dog expected to dance for show... What can I say? I must be a fucking scholar compared to her usual stock of peons she serves.”
Killian arches an eyebrow. “You said it again, didn't you?”
Killian pauses for a moment and looks to his attendant. Richard sighs and shrugs.
“Of course I bloody well fucking said it. The girl had tits the size of my head, dear boy.”
Killian exhales, but hides a sneer of laughter tracing over the corners of his pressed lips. Richard continues.
“She could have asked if I was Doctor fucking Who, and I would have said yes,” the aged gentleman waves his fingers about in light of his last comment.
“You're fucking despicable...” Killian states, his admiring tone belying his words.
“I am...” Richard nods.
“You're a swindler...”
“I am...” answers Richard affably.
“A miscreant...”
“Call me what you will, my dear boy, but at the end of the day...” Richard Nottingham pats Killian on the cheek, as he grasps the large man's shoulders. “At the end of the day... you still make me look like a saint. I'm but your humble servant... “
Killian gleams slyly as he reaches into the coat pocket of the man's jacket and produces a single cigar. Running the cigar under his nose slowly as he inhales, and nods in approval.
“Cuban... Lusitanias... 2008?” Killian inquires as he rummages through Richard's coat pocket before procuring a single-bladed cutter that he uses to cut a small section out of the end of the cigar.
“There's a fucking twenty spot in my other pocket if you're not quite done feeling me up,” Richard grouses good naturedly, their banter having drawn the attention of a few workers who were previously typing away before peering over the tops of their respected cells, as Killian pulls out a set of matches.
“Nothing to see here folks...” Richard responds about the area. His eyes land on one particular brunette having a gander over the top of her cubicle. “Hello, how are you?” he flirts. As she smiles bashfully, he furthers his questioning. “So... you like Harry Potter? Oh for fucks sake, boy, are you going to smoke that or molest me longer?” Richard barks at Killian. Killian gently pushes him away as he lights his cigar, puffing slowly, dragging on it to keep it lit evenly.
“Thank God... took you long enough I think Stockholm Syndrome was setting in, and I was starting to enjoy it.”
Killian rolls his eyes at what he has to consider the worse steward in history.
“When the carpenters are done building my walk in humidor, feel free to stop in and pay yourself back” he finishes, as he's already walking once more. Killian shakes his head as he glances behind him to see his steward getting the one girl's number. When footsteps sound behind him, he begins to slow his pace as to let him catch up.
“Carpenters you say...” Richard says with a certain amusement as he tucks the number into his coat pocket. “So whose office did you get then?”
Killian pauses for a moment, a satisfied smile playing upon his lips. “The PMN poster boy himself, and former resident sucker, Travis Pierce's” he remarks, pulling the cigar from his teeth and letting a cloud of smoke dissipate from his mouth.
“Alan has acquired the uses of his buddy Jet's office and Zane took a certain satisfaction, if any changes in his face could pass for something of a smile, in taking over the office of Eden's brother, Cypress.”
Nottingham butts in at this point with a small cough, his eyes fixated upon a tablet that he's currently scrolling through.
“See... to be honest, there, that was someone I was hoping we could have been friends with. This Cypress Morgan, his lot, that includes but should I remind you is not limited to scantily clad women with loose, if any morals, daddy issues, and lots of alcohol. I mean sure, this KvK guy is a few soap bars shy of a sock party but we've dealt with worse.”
His words draw a blank expression from Killian as his eyes peer up from his tablet.
“Well being as you're in such a wonderful mood, I suppose I should ask if you've had the opportunity to gander at the lustrous brilliance that is an Ezekiel Pax promotional?”
Killian's features form a grimace. He sighs heavily. “I've had a chance to take a gander at it.”
Nottingham chuckles softly, as he watches the video. “This... This is sheer fucking magnificence, and by sheer fucking magnificence, I mean complete and utter shit.”
Killian's teeth grit aggravatingly, as he pauses for a moment and looks out the wall of windows before him. The LA skyline on the horizon. His fingers loosely hold on to his cigar. He speaks softly.
“What stands between myself and introducing the western market of professional wrestling to a level of violence they haven't thought plausible outside the realm of a Quentin Tarantino film, is a grown man who still tragically lives with his mother, suffers from anorexia although he supposedly partokes, as well as ADHD... ”
Richard chuckles again. “Funny you should mention movies...”
Killian cuts him short, his face one of disdain and utter disgust.
“I saw...” he says in a low gravelly voice. “Perhaps if the insignificant cunt, would have picked up a dictionary and a history book instead of defiling the back room of a video outlet, then he would know more about the world other than shitty cinema titles. And I won't be forced to endure the discussion that is damned near a tragedy that he considers himself, if his constant verbal declaration is any indication, of being greater than Red Fusion, when they're near equal in skill, and I use the term 'skill' loosely. Regardless of what he considers 'of the now' and so not worth noting, and I'm sure the masses are hanging on to the word of Pax for what he deems worthy and unworthy, he'll still be on the receiving end of a 'trendy' footstomp.”
Killian watches the sun begin to set over LA, another day drawing to a close. Richard shrugs at his employers stance on the subject.
“It seems more and more like Pax is in a frenzy lashing out at anyone within ear shot, and for what? More fights he couldn't possibly hope to overcome? The boy has an underlying Napoleon complex, his days have faded whether he knows it or not, and any further chances at success were taken violently when the likes of Eden, Alan, and Zane broke loose onto the scene. And now myself. At the end of the day, he's just not good enough to remain a threat anymore, so rather he spends his days nipping at the heels of greater athletes who walk over him. No longer a threat, more an annoyance.” Killian places his cigar back into his mouth, slowly taking a drag from it, the cherry chasing his breath as contents give way to ash. What was once rich and flavorful, now turns gray and sifts away to make room for new flavors to burn bright. Thus is life.
