Post by Killian King on Oct 24, 2014 22:33:00 GMT -5
Splinters of light slowly scratch away at the darkness of the room as they trip through the closed blinds and dance along the large ebony stained wooden desk of "The Crucible" Killian King as he sits in office. He had turned the lights out at some point this morning, hoping to ease the scratching, burning, scab of dry discomfort that blanketed his bloodshot eyes, but in the absence of any relaxation and in the midst of his mind trying desperately to hold together, Killian King couldn't soothe that never ending irritation that seemed to radiate from behind his eyes. His hands straddle the arms of his chair as he stares off into the void of oblivion, hoping that somewhere in the abyssmal post failure he'll find his solution. He sighs heavily pressing his lips together to blow out, his breaths as worn and exhausted as are his responses.
At the front of the desk opposite him sits his “right hand” Richard Nottingham, poised with the light of his tablet illuminating his age worn face. Every so often Richard's eyes ascend from the object of his attention and cast a perplexed look of emotions toward his companion. Soft music hums from the faces of several speakers scattered in various locations of the office. The somber blues filled notes of The Dead Weather's “So Far From Your Weapon” linger heavily as a once proud, arrogant bastard, wallows in the shame that is the coat of bleak mortification he has draped himself in.
There's a bullet in my pocket burning a hole
It's so far from your weapon and the place you were born
There's a bullet in my pocket burning a hole
You're so far from your weapon and you wanna go home...
"Pain or damage don't end the world. Or despair, or fucking beatings. The world ends when you're dead. Until then, you got more punishment in store. Stand it like a man... and give some back." Richards' voice is rough, grating, even to his ears, as he's forced to bark over the music.
The two men look at one another, Richard however drawing the conclusion that his words perhaps fall on deaf ears, as he shrugs and shakes his head. Killian's right hand opens and closes in repetition, as he squeezes and releases his stress ball. His eyes slowly slipping from the face of his associate back to his own computer screen.
I tried to give you whiskey but it never did work
Suddenly you're begging me to do so much work
Right away from the get go the bullet was cursed
Ever since I had you every little thing hurts...
Killian shows little to no diligence as Richard leaps quickly to his feet and snatches from his grasp the object of stress appeasement, flinging it against the wall. Caught up in his own actions, Nottingham pauses for a moment, perhaps apprehensive even as he looks toward the man staring across the desk at him and thankful for the massive piece of office furniture between them.
"It's not the fucking company we keep! It's not the fucking vantage of the opponent! It's you, that's changed the level of your attitude somehow. That's the fucking sum and substance of it!!!” Richard shakes his finger at Killian, as he begins to pace back and forth in font of his desk.
You wanna get up, let go, I said no
You wanna get up, let go
You wanna get up, let go, I said no
You wanna get up, let go...
“You lost to the cocksucker, so change your fucking angle. For fuck's sake, the goddamned network could make a killing just by putting together a new show with your incessant whining and melancholy. A self-help show where no fucking helping actually occurs!" Killian doesn't even look up as the man before him expounds upon him his philosophy. Instead the once proud villain’s gaze fixates upon his computer screen once more, pictures of his loss, and articles describing such a horrendous debut canvas the screen like litter.
You dream of seeing fire in them hills
But you better wipe that smile from your lips
Which of us will be the one to go?
He who hits the road's the one who lives...
“You got too goddamned lippy for your own damned good... the cocksuckers in the stands didn’t know if you were a fucking politician or a fucking salesman. But, one thing they sure as shit didn’t think you were was the bloody fucking butcher of a brute that they heard about. So take to heart these words my boy... Announcing your plans is a good way to hear God laugh in your face; and Christ Almighty did he ever bust a fucking gut at your expense last week.”
Killian glances around the room, his eyes touching on different sights, bringing with them memories of things accomplished by him, or at least everything he had considered to be an accomplishment. In the end, it still was, but just now none of it meant shit to him. Nothing mattered but that nagging, wrenching, affliction that trudged around the back his head.
“I'll tell you what, you don't even need to worry about the Pay Per View. Let those cocksuckers like Dirge, and Hastings deal with Roberts and that gallivanting aberration, Deimos... you nurse your fucking wounds.” Richard's eyes lighting up as he sees the crack in The Crucibles demeanor.
You wanna get up, let go, I said no
You wanna get up, let go
You wanna get up, let go, I said no
You wanna get up, let go...
Killian shoves away from the desk angrily, getting to his feet.
"Shut the fuck up!!! This isn't about a paycheck anymore. This isn't about championship belts. This is personal on levels you've never imagined. This has no happy ending, at least not to any of those parties. I'll meet them in that goddamned ring at Battlegrounds if for no other reason than to give me the satisfaction of breaking someone's fucking limbs at this point.”
He paces back and forth like a caged animal, his voice gravelly.
You wanna get up, let go, I said no
You wanna get up, let go
You wanna get up, let go, I said no
You wanna get up, let go...
He stops before his desk and takes notice of an elongated black box, usually reserved for the delivery of flowers. The ebony box wrapped with a crimson ribbon, and accented with a bow.
“Came for you earlier, from Miss Morgan... said it might help you pull your head from the depth of your own ass.” Richard smirks.
There's a bullet in my pocket burning a hole
It's so far from your weapon and the place you were born
There's a bullet in my pocket burning a hole
You're so far from your weapon and you wanna go home...
Killian takes a few more steps around the room, a contemplative look on his face.
You wanna get up, let go, I said no
You wanna get up, let go
You wanna get up, let go, I said no
You wanna get up, let go...
The Crucible runs a hand over the surface of the onyx container slowly, letting his finger tips slip over it.
You wanna get up, let go, I said no
You wanna get up, let go
You wanna get up, let go, I said no
You wanna get up, let go...
Slowly he lets the ribbon slip between his fingers as he pulls on it. The ribbon unwinds and falls over the surface of his desk. Killian opens the box hesitantly, its contents exposed to only himself. But an unnerving smile begins to slither over the surface of his lips.
"Are you done playing Pulp Fiction, or are you going to show me what's in the box?"
Killian gives a lighter sigh as he looks to his mentor and steward, and then closes the box, tucking it under his arm as he heads toward the exit. King stops in the doorway, pausing for a moment.
“Change Nottingham... change is in the box.”
Killian promptly walks out leaving his butler in a half lit room muttering to himself.
"Don't I yearn for the days when a quick motivational speech made for fucking resolution... and perhaps a thank you. "
Nottingham shakes his head again as he sits back in his chair, his mood foul as he yells after Killian.
“...And get a fucking haircut. Looks like your mother fucked a monkey!”